M O B I U S
ORDER OF SHIRAYA TEMPLE, NABOO
Main Hallways → Archives
The stone beneath his boots gleamed like still water.
Every step echoed back at him—quiet, deliberate, a little too loud for his liking. The halls of the Order of Shiraya Temple weren’t cold, exactly, but they had a kind of polished stillness to them. Like the place was holding its breath. Gilded arches stretched overhead, catching the Naboo sun in soft halos of gold, and murals whispered down the corridors in stories he still didn’t know how to read.
Seth kept his hands loosely clasped behind his back, doing his best to look like he belonged. He was getting better at that. At pretending.
The summons hadn’t come with much detail. Just a message delivered with a smile: a Jedi Master had asked to meet with him. In the Archives, of all places. According to the Knight who passed it along, this wasn’t just some casual introduction—this was it. His assignment. His teacher.
Finally.
Not that he blamed them for the delay. Between the chaos of the Planeshift and the scramble to secure what remained of the Southern Systems, the Order had its hands full. Everyone was rebuilding. Reorganizing. Figuring out what the galaxy looked like now—and who they were in it. He couldn’t exactly expect them to prioritize a lone, quiet Padawan with a notable last name and no one left to wear it.
Still, it felt like something was changing.
Maybe it was the way people had started greeting him by name. Maybe it was how the training sessions didn’t end with sideways glances and “we’ll find you a proper assignment soon.” Or maybe it was just that, for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like a shadow taking up space in someone else’s home.
The Archive doors opened without resistance. Inside, the light dimmed—filtered through high windows and tall shelves lined with holobooks, scrolls, and ancient cylinders sealed in crystal. The air smelled of old paper and sun-warmed stone. Familiar now.
He moved through the stacks in no particular hurry, scanning titles. The silence here wasn’t empty; it was alive. Living memory, bound and cataloged.
Seth drifted instinctively toward the “D” section. He didn’t expect to find anything. House Denko wasn’t exactly the kind you carved statues for. But maybe a footnote. A record. A mission log from one of his father’s campaigns. A speech from his uncle. A name etched into history, however small.
If it was here, he wanted to see it.
Not to be proud. Not even to remember.
Just to understand.
Every step echoed back at him—quiet, deliberate, a little too loud for his liking. The halls of the Order of Shiraya Temple weren’t cold, exactly, but they had a kind of polished stillness to them. Like the place was holding its breath. Gilded arches stretched overhead, catching the Naboo sun in soft halos of gold, and murals whispered down the corridors in stories he still didn’t know how to read.
Seth kept his hands loosely clasped behind his back, doing his best to look like he belonged. He was getting better at that. At pretending.
The summons hadn’t come with much detail. Just a message delivered with a smile: a Jedi Master had asked to meet with him. In the Archives, of all places. According to the Knight who passed it along, this wasn’t just some casual introduction—this was it. His assignment. His teacher.
Finally.
Not that he blamed them for the delay. Between the chaos of the Planeshift and the scramble to secure what remained of the Southern Systems, the Order had its hands full. Everyone was rebuilding. Reorganizing. Figuring out what the galaxy looked like now—and who they were in it. He couldn’t exactly expect them to prioritize a lone, quiet Padawan with a notable last name and no one left to wear it.
Still, it felt like something was changing.
Maybe it was the way people had started greeting him by name. Maybe it was how the training sessions didn’t end with sideways glances and “we’ll find you a proper assignment soon.” Or maybe it was just that, for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like a shadow taking up space in someone else’s home.
The Archive doors opened without resistance. Inside, the light dimmed—filtered through high windows and tall shelves lined with holobooks, scrolls, and ancient cylinders sealed in crystal. The air smelled of old paper and sun-warmed stone. Familiar now.
He moved through the stacks in no particular hurry, scanning titles. The silence here wasn’t empty; it was alive. Living memory, bound and cataloged.
Seth drifted instinctively toward the “D” section. He didn’t expect to find anything. House Denko wasn’t exactly the kind you carved statues for. But maybe a footnote. A record. A mission log from one of his father’s campaigns. A speech from his uncle. A name etched into history, however small.
If it was here, he wanted to see it.
Not to be proud. Not even to remember.
Just to understand.
