M O B I U S
SHIRAYA TEMPLE GARDENS
The Force shimmered here.
Not just in the breeze or the blossoms—but in the bones of the place. In the way the light bent through the garden’s canopy, in the hush that followed each breath, in the quiet that wasn’t empty but full. This place was sacred in a way Seth couldn’t explain. Like standing in the echo of something ancient and infinite.
And then she stepped into view—and the rest of the galaxy faded.
Briana Sal-Soren.
Grandmaster of the Order of Shiraya. Founder. Flame. Her presence hit like sunlight after a long storm—warm and blinding and impossible to ignore. Her brown hair caught Naboo’s gentle light. Her blue eyes seemed to see, not just look. The Light clung to her like it belonged to her. Radiant. Absolute.
And Seth? He had never felt smaller.
He’d been with the Royal Naboo Republic for a few months now. Flown with aces who rewrote battle doctrine. Studied alongside Jedi who were more poetry than people. Even the Padawans—fresh, wide-eyed, barely older than kids—walked these halls with a grace that felt untouchable. Like they were meant to be here. Like the Force had whispered their names into the temple stone long before they ever arrived.
He hadn’t heard any whispers.
He’d only ever known how to survive.
Nar Shaddaa had made sure of that. Raised in shadows. Taught to trust no one. To move fast, hit first, keep your back to the wall and your cards close. He wasn’t born into peace. He’d carved his way toward it with dirty hands and instincts that didn’t quite fit into the pristine world of the Light. Every time he reached for serenity, part of him flinched—waiting for the rug to get yanked, the blade to come out from behind a kind smile.
And now, with the sun incarnate standing before him, those doubts roared.
The Force practically screamed with them—laced through with his shame, his fear, his sense of unworthiness.
He dropped to one knee.
Not as an offering. Not as tradition.
As surrender.
His head bowed low, his hand pressed flat against his chest. He didn’t look up. Couldn’t.
“I…I don’t belong here.”
The words were cracked glass—careful, but broken all the same.
“I’ve flown with heroes. Walked among legends. Even stood beside Padawans who speak with the Force like it’s a second language. And still, I feel like I’m just pretending. Like they’re all playing a song I don’t know the words to.”
He exhaled, shaky.
“And though I’ve said this—felt this—everyone says the opposite. That this is home. That I belong.”
A pause. His voice dropped, not out of fear, but raw confusion.
“…Why doesn’t it feel that way?”
And in that moment, all the bravado peeled away. No soldier. No student. Just a man—lost and tired—kneeling in the garden of the Light, asking for an answer he wasn’t sure he deserved.
Not just in the breeze or the blossoms—but in the bones of the place. In the way the light bent through the garden’s canopy, in the hush that followed each breath, in the quiet that wasn’t empty but full. This place was sacred in a way Seth couldn’t explain. Like standing in the echo of something ancient and infinite.
And then she stepped into view—and the rest of the galaxy faded.
Briana Sal-Soren.
Grandmaster of the Order of Shiraya. Founder. Flame. Her presence hit like sunlight after a long storm—warm and blinding and impossible to ignore. Her brown hair caught Naboo’s gentle light. Her blue eyes seemed to see, not just look. The Light clung to her like it belonged to her. Radiant. Absolute.
And Seth? He had never felt smaller.
He’d been with the Royal Naboo Republic for a few months now. Flown with aces who rewrote battle doctrine. Studied alongside Jedi who were more poetry than people. Even the Padawans—fresh, wide-eyed, barely older than kids—walked these halls with a grace that felt untouchable. Like they were meant to be here. Like the Force had whispered their names into the temple stone long before they ever arrived.
He hadn’t heard any whispers.
He’d only ever known how to survive.
Nar Shaddaa had made sure of that. Raised in shadows. Taught to trust no one. To move fast, hit first, keep your back to the wall and your cards close. He wasn’t born into peace. He’d carved his way toward it with dirty hands and instincts that didn’t quite fit into the pristine world of the Light. Every time he reached for serenity, part of him flinched—waiting for the rug to get yanked, the blade to come out from behind a kind smile.
And now, with the sun incarnate standing before him, those doubts roared.
The Force practically screamed with them—laced through with his shame, his fear, his sense of unworthiness.
He dropped to one knee.
Not as an offering. Not as tradition.
As surrender.
His head bowed low, his hand pressed flat against his chest. He didn’t look up. Couldn’t.
“I…I don’t belong here.”
The words were cracked glass—careful, but broken all the same.
“I’ve flown with heroes. Walked among legends. Even stood beside Padawans who speak with the Force like it’s a second language. And still, I feel like I’m just pretending. Like they’re all playing a song I don’t know the words to.”
He exhaled, shaky.
“And though I’ve said this—felt this—everyone says the opposite. That this is home. That I belong.”
A pause. His voice dropped, not out of fear, but raw confusion.
“…Why doesn’t it feel that way?”
And in that moment, all the bravado peeled away. No soldier. No student. Just a man—lost and tired—kneeling in the garden of the Light, asking for an answer he wasn’t sure he deserved.
