Chapter 21: How To Train Your Apprentice
Korriban dawns red.
Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Just—red. The sky bleeds into the horizon like the planet itself is remembering something ugly, and the heat settles in early, thick and suffocating, clinging to my skin before I'm even fully awake. Sweat beads along my spine as I step out onto the cracked stone of the Central Training Complex, boots crunching against sand that looks more like powdered bone than earth.
I hate this planet.
Which, apparently, makes me exactly the right kind of idiot to be here.
Maris is already outside, leaning against a half-collapsed pillar with her arms crossed, looking irritatingly awake. She hasn't bothered tying her hair back. Red mascara striking against pale skin, like some kind of female Kratos, eyes sharp and alert like this is exactly where she's supposed to be at this hour.
I resist the urge to throw a pebble at her.
"Morning," I said, because I was raised by Jedi and apparently politeness is a hard habit to kill.
She snorts. "It's barely a morning. This planet doesn't do mornings. It does 'impending doom' and 'worse impending doom.'"
Fair.
We stand there in silence for a moment, the heat crawling higher, the ruins looming around us—jagged obsidian ridges stabbing up from the ground like broken teeth. The Central Training Complex isn't a single building so much as a graveyard of ambitions. Ancient Sith architecture layered over itself, rebuilt, collapsed, rebuilt again. Doors that don't line up with hallways. Stairs that lead nowhere. Walls etched with carvings so eroded they look like screaming faces if you squint.
I don't squint.
I've seen enough screaming faces lately.
The air shifts.
That's the only warning we get.
The temperature drops—not enough to be pleasant, just enough to feel wrong. The shadows stretch unnaturally long, pooling together in the center of the courtyard, and then he's there.
Wrath.
The holocron's projection is solid enough to cast a shadow, armored and imposing, face hidden behind a Sith mask that has never once shown us anything resembling humanity. Cloak hanging heavy from his shoulders, lightsaber unlit at his side. He stands with the casual authority of someone who has never, in his entire existence, questioned whether people would listen when he spoke.
I straighten instinctively.
Maris doesn't. Of course she doesn't.
"About time," she said. "I was starting to think you forgot we exist."
Wrath does not react.
Not a flicker. Not a breath.
"Acolytes," he said, voice distorted and resonant, echoing against stone that has heard worse. "You are late."
I blink. "We're not—"
"You arrived when summoned," he continues. "That does not make you punctual. It makes you adequate."
Maris grins. "Wow. Starting strong."
I shoot her a look. She ignores me.
Wrath turns slightly, the movement slow, deliberate. Calculated. "This is your orientation."
I brace myself. Some part of my brain—the part that has watched holovids, read archives, consumed every scrap of Sith history I could get my hands on without screaming—expects… something. A speech. A creed. A dramatic explanation of suffering and power and the Dark Side as liberation.
Instead, Wrath gestures toward the open desert beyond the complex.
"There is no schedule."
…Okay. That's new.
"There will be no instruction."
Less okay.
"There will be no rescue."
Actively concerning.
He pauses, letting the words settle, sink in, rot where they land.
"The lesson is simple," Wrath said. "Live. Or die."
I stare at him.
Internally, my brain does that record-scratch thing where everything halts, as I try to process the sheer stupidity of what I just heard. You know, I actually think I saw this in the Ahsoka series. It didn't make sense then, either. Liveor die.
Yeah, what a complex, and thoughtful principle. Not.
No wonder, Anakin Oneliner thought of it.
I don't say that out loud. I'm not suicidal.
Maris, however, tilts her head. "You know, when you phrase it like that, it sounds less like training and more like a poorly thought-out HR policy."
Wrath turns his masked gaze to her.
"If you were trained under the Old Sith," he said calmly, "you would already be dead."
She raises an eyebrow. "Because I asked questions?"
"No." His tone doesn't change. "Because you are an alien."
The air goes very still.
I feel something cold coil in my stomach, an old, ugly understanding clicking into place. I knew this, academically. I'd read about it. But hearing it said so plainly—no malice, no apology, just fact—hits differently. I forgot how common racism was in this galaxy.
Specism? Doesn't matter, it still sucks.
Wrath continues, unbothered. "They were… less than accepting of aliens among their number. Your presence here would have been an anomaly. A mistake corrected with blood."
Maris bares her teeth in something that might be a smile. "Good thing you're not them."
"No," Wrath agrees. "I am not."
That, somehow, is more unsettling.
He turns his attention back to both of us. "You are not apprentices."
I feel that one like a slap.
"You are acolytes," he continues. "You will earn the right to be called more. As I did."
I swallow my sarcasm, nodding slowly. In my head, I can't help categorizing it, slotting it into something familiar. Initiates, but worse. Same branch transfer, no promotion. Jedi Youngling to Sith… intern.
Fantastic. I crossed moral event horizons for an unpaid position.
Wrath lifts one gauntleted hand, and the ground moves.
Stone slabs slide aside with a grinding roar, revealing a descending path carved directly into the bedrock. Heat pours up from below, thick with the smell of iron and old dust.
"Training begins now," Wrath said. "Follow."
We do.
Because what else are we going to do? Argue? Run? Ask for a refund?
The path leads us out of the complex and straight into the surrounding wasteland. The sun climbs higher, turning the sky from blood-red to blistering orange. Almost immediately, my lungs burn. The gravity here feels heavier somehow, pressing down, dragging at my limbs.
Wrath does not slow.
He leads us to the base of an obsidian ridge that rises sharply, jagged and sheer. No clear handholds. No path. Just black stone that glints like glass.
"Up," he said.
Maris looks at it, then at him. "You couldn't have started with, I don't know, stretching?"
Wrath is already moving, scaling the ridge with efficient, powerful motions. No rope. No hesitation. To be fair, he's a hologram. It's not like he's actually putting any physical effort in.
I sigh. "Of course."
Climbing obsidian is a special kind of hell. The stone is sharp enough to slice skin, smooth enough in places to offer no grip at all. Every mistake costs blood. Every slip punishes you immediately. My palms are scraped raw within minutes, arms shaking as I force myself higher.
I'm painfully aware of the Force-reactive sand below us—how it shifts when emotions spike, how a fall wouldn't just hurt, it would respond.
Fear feeds it.
That's deliberate.
Halfway up, my muscles scream. I grit my teeth, forcing my breathing steady, reaching for the Force instinctively—and immediately feel resistance. Not blockage. Just… indifference. Like the planet itself is watching, unimpressed.
No safety nets, I think grimly.
No Master calling encouragement. No calm Jedi mantras. No rules to lean on. Just gravity, stone, and consequences.
At the top, Wrath waits.
He does not congratulate us.
He hands us relic weights.
Again, not physically. They were already there. He just gestures to them.
Ancient, dense objects that look like chunks of carved metal and bone fused together, etched with Sith runes that pulse faintly as soon as I touch one.
The thing gets heavier the angrier I feel.
I laugh breathlessly. "Oh, that's just rude."
Wrath inclines his head. "Control your emotions. Or be crushed by them."
Maris snorts. "That's ironic, coming from a Sith."
"Only if you misunderstand us," Wrath replies.
We move on.
Through Force-reactive sand that tugs at our boots when doubt creeps in. Across broken terrain that seems to shift subtly when frustration spikes. Every step is a lesson that no one explains, because explanation would make it easier.
And this isn't about easy.
By the time the sun reaches its apex, I'm exhausted, bleeding, and very aware of how much I relied on the Jedi structure I used to complain about. The rules. The schedules. The certainty that someone was watching my back.
Here?
If I fall, I fall.
Wrath finally stops, turning to face us fully.
"This is not about breaking you," he said, as if reading my thoughts. "It is about removing what you hide behind."
His masked gaze lingers on me for half a second longer than on Maris.
"No Masters," he continues. "No doctrine. No absolution. You will succeed or fail on your own merits."
I straighten despite myself.
For the first time since arriving on Korriban, something settles in my chest. Not comfort. Not confidence.
Clarity.
...
The Valley of the Dark Lords smells like old blood and hot stone.
Maris notices this immediately, because she has good instincts and because Korriban doesn't bother hiding what it is. The valley stretches wide and uneven beneath a sky the color of an infected wound, tombs carved into the cliffsides like open sores. Statues of long-dead Sith loom over the terrain, half-buried and eroded, their expressions frozen somewhere between wrath and triumph.
She loves it.
This place doesn't pretend to be holy. It doesn't dress violence up in philosophy or insist that power is only acceptable when politely framed. It is what it is, and if you don't like that, the planet will kill you and move on.
Wrath stands at the edge of a ridge overlooking the valley, cloak unmoving despite the hot wind that claws at Maris's hair and tugs at Ben's robes. He looks carved into the landscape rather than projected onto it, like Korriban itself decided he belonged here.
"You will hunt," Wrath said.
Maris perks up immediately.
Ben stiffens beside her.
Wrath gestures downward. "A lesser predator. Native to this world. It stalks the carrion fields along the valley floor."
"What kind of predator?" Maris asks, already scanning the terrain, eyes narrowing as she takes in tracks, broken stone, disturbed sand.
"One you can kill," Wrath replies.
She grins. "Excellent."
Ben clears his throat. "There are… rules, I assume."
Wrath turns his masked gaze to him. "There are conditions." He raises one gauntleted hand, ticking them off without ceremony. "No lightsabers. No Force attacks beyond physical augmentation. Speed. Strength. Awareness."
Maris rolls her shoulders, already feeling the familiar hum of anticipation settle into her bones. "So basically don't be boring."
"Hesitation," Wrath said, ignoring her, "will be punished."
Ben exhales slowly. Maris can practically feel the tension spike off him, sharp and uneasy. She resists the urge to poke him immediately, mostly because she wants to see what they're hunting.
Wrath steps back. "Begin."
And just like that, they're alone.
No dramatic countdown. No signal flare. No reassurance that this is a controlled exercise and nothing will go wrong.
Maris drops into a crouch at once, fingers brushing the ground. The Force here is thick and heavy, like wading through warm oil. It presses against her awareness, humming with old violence, but it's alive in a way the Temple never was.
"Tracks," she said quietly, already moving downslope. "See how the sand's disturbed? Heavy gait. Quadruped. Claws."
Ben follows, slower, more cautious. "You're assuming it's recent."
"I'm assuming it's hungry," she replies. "Big difference."
One just meant their target was strolling through. Another meant it was on the prowl. Both meant that it was here, and not that long ago. Just a lot more alert than either of them would like.
She lets her senses stretch—not reaching, not grabbing, just listening. The valley answers. A low, predatory resonance pulses faintly through the Force, like a heartbeat out of sync with everything else.
There.
She angles left without explanation. Ben hesitates, then adjusts course to follow.
The creature reveals itself gradually.
At first, it's just movement at the edge of perception. A shape slipping between stone outcroppings. Then they get a clearer look: long-bodied, low to the ground, with sinewy limbs and a ridged spine. Its skin is a mottled gray-black, shot through with veins of dull crimson light that pulse faintly beneath the surface, like embers trapped under ash.
It hasn't noticed them yet.
Ben stops.
Maris keeps moving.
She glances back at him, eyebrow lifting. "What are you doing?"
"It hasn't attacked," Ben said. His voice is low, controlled, but she can hear the conflict buzzing underneath it. "We could avoid it."
She straightens slowly, studying him instead of the beast. "We could. And then it hunts something else. Or us. Or the next idiot who wanders into its territory."
"That's not the same thing," he insists. "We're choosing to kill it."
"Yes," she agrees calmly. "That's the point."
He frowns. "It feels wrong."
Maris considers him for a moment, then looks back at the creature as it prowls along the edge of a carrion pit, sniffing the air. She tilts her head, thoughtful.
"Okay," she said. "Reframe."
Ben sighs. "Maris—"
"It's a creature almost entirely shaped by the Dark Side," she continues, unfazed. "It exists because Korriban exists. The only reason it hasn't attacked yet is because it hasn't seen us." She meets his gaze again. "This is preemptive self-defense."
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
"I… maybe? That's not how the Jedi would—"
"I know," she cuts in gently. "That's why they're not here. They can't be bothered with actually taking out the monsters lurking out of view. We can."
The beast lifts its head suddenly, nostrils flaring.
Too late.
It sees them.
The Force snaps taut as the creature lets out a low, reverberating snarl that rattles the stones around them. It lunges.
Maris moves first.
She doesn't think. Thinking is slow. She surges forward, Force pouring into her muscles—not as lightning, not as a shove, just enhancement. Faster. Stronger. Sharper. She rolls beneath snapping jaws, coming up behind it as it whips around with terrifying speed.
"Ben!" she shouts. "Left flank!"
He reacts on instinct, darting to the side, barely avoiding a swipe that would have taken his head off. He stumbles, recovers, grabs a chunk of broken stone and hurls it—not to hit, but to distract.
It works.
The creature turns, just long enough.
Maris leaps, landing on its back, fingers digging into the ridged hide. It bucks violently, slamming her against a rock face. Pain flares white-hot through her ribs, but she holds on, teeth bared in something like laughter.
"Rude!" she snarls, driving her heel down into a sensitive joint.
The beast howls.
Ben doesn't hesitate anymore.
He rushes in, using the Force to propel himself upward, slamming both feet into the creature's shoulder. It collapses sideways under the combined assault, crashing into the dirt with bone-jarring force.
For a split second, everything goes still.
Then the creature surges up again, thrashing, tail lashing wildly. It clips Ben across the chest, sending him skidding across the ground. He rolls, gasping, scrambling to his feet as the beast turns on him fully now.
Maris doesn't think.
She decides.
She grabs a jagged shard of obsidian from the ground and drives it into the creature's neck with all her strength, twisting hard. Dark blood sprays hot across her hands as the beast convulses, collapsing at last in a heap of twitching limbs and fading crimson glow.
Silence crashes down around them.
Maris stands there, chest heaving, hands slick with blood, heart pounding with exhilaration.
Ben staggers over, staring at the corpse.
"…Wow," he said faintly.
She looks down at the creature, then back at him, grin slow and satisfied. "I'm naming it."
He blinks. "You're what?"
"Sir Bites-a-Lot," she declares solemnly.
Ben snorts despite himself.
Maris straightens, brings two fingers to her brow, and salutes the corpse. "You fought bravely. Poorly, but bravely."
Behind them, the temperature drops.
Wrath's presence settles over the valley like judgment made manifest.
"You hunted well," he said.
Maris turns, unrepentant. "We did."
"No. You hunted well." Wrath corrected, before shifting his gaze to Ben. "You hesitated."
Ben squares his shoulders. "Yes."
"And then?"
"And then I acted."
Wrath inclines his head a fraction. "Acceptable."
Maris glances at Ben, studying him as Wrath fades back into the Force. He's quiet now, thoughtful, eyes lingering on the fallen beast.
She nudges him lightly with her elbow. "You okay?"
He nods slowly. "I think I get it."
"Get what?"
"This isn't about right or wrong," he said. "It's about choosing. Sith training doesn't reward morality. It rewards decision."
She smiles, sharp and approving. "Look at you. Learning."
He meets her gaze, something darker and more resolute settling behind his eyes. "Hesitation is the only sin."
Maris claps him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit!" A Dark Side spirit to be specific, but she's just so proud of her friend for finding his way.
The Valley of the Dark Lords watches them in silence, ancient and satisfied, as two new predators walk away from their first kill.
...
The Diplomatic Hall of Sundari is designed to impress without threatening.
Obi-Wan notices this immediately, because Mandalorians understandintimidation and have deliberately chosen not to use it here. The ceiling arches high and wide, crystalline panels filtering the pale Mandalorian sky into soft, even light. Banners bearing the sigil of House Kryze hang along the curved walls, not as declarations of dominance, but as statements of continuity.
We are still here, they said. We always will be.
Obi-Wan walks at Padmé Amidala's side, hands folded into the sleeves of his robes, posture serene in the way the Jedi Temple drills into you until it becomes second nature. Outwardly calm. Inwardly… attentive.
Satine waits at the far end of the chamber, flanked by members of the Mandalorian Council. She wears white and silver today, lines clean and sharp, her expression composed enough to pass for peace if one does not know her very well.
Obi-Wan knows her very well.
He feels her before he meets her eyes—a tight, coiled tension in the Force, controlled with iron discipline. Not fear. Not doubt.
Anger.
Padmé inclines her head respectfully as they approach. "Duchess Satine. Thank you for receiving us."
"Senator Amidala," Satine replies smoothly. Her gaze flicks briefly to Obi-Wan. Just a fraction of a second too long to be accidental. "Master Kenobi."
"Duchess," Obi-Wan said, allowing himself a small, polite bow. Nothing personal. Nothing that could be read into.
Satine's lips curve in a smile that fools absolutely no one in the room.
The Republic delegation settles into their seats. Senators, aides, legal advisors. Security concerns given flesh and voice. Obi-Wan notes the subtle repositioning of guards along the perimeter.
Clones.
They stand in crisp white armor that hasn't yet been marked by war, helmets tucked beneath their arms. They look—young. Not in the way Padawans do, with softness and potential, but in the way something newly made looks, unsure of its place in the world.
Across from them, Mandalorian soldiers stand at ease in blue-gray armor, beskar plates polished but unadorned. Neutral. Defensive.
The distance between them is measured in meters.
And in futures.
The session begins with the usual formalities, acknowledgments, carefully phrased affirmations of respect. Obi-Wan listens, nods when appropriate, and lets the current carry him until they reach the heart of it.
Clone citizenship.
A Republic senator—a man Obi-Wan vaguely recognizes as having strong opinions and weak follow-through—leans forward. "The Republic appreciates Mandalore's humanitarian instincts," he said, tone carefully neutral. "However, granting citizenship to a military asset of this magnitude raises… concerns."
Padmé turns her head slightly. Just enough to look at him.
"Concerns," she repeats.
"Yes," the senator continues. "Security concerns. These clones were engineered for combat. Allowing them to integrate into Mandalorian society could—"
"—lead to what, precisely?" Padmé asks mildly.
He hesitates. "Instability."
"Instability," she echoes again, voice warm and curious. "Senator, if I may—are you suggesting that the clones are inherently unstable?"
"Well," he said, flushing, "they were created for war."
"So were many of the Jedi in this room," Padmé replies pleasantly.
Obi-Wan almost smiles.
The only Jedi in the room was him. Senator Amidala's statement was not lost on him.
The senator splutters. "That's—that's not the same thing."
"No?" Padmé tilts her head. "The clones did not choose to be created. They did not choose their purpose. And yet we are prepared to deny them basic rights on the assumption that they might one day behave exactly as they were designed to?"
She folds her hands on the table. "That sounds less like a security concern and more like preemptive punishment."
A murmur ripples through the chamber.
Satine's jaw tightens.
Another senator interjects quickly. "With respect, Senator Amidala, the Republic must consider the broader implications. Mandalore has just declared its independence. Taking in a population of trained soldiers—"
"—who would no longer belong to the Republic," Padmé finishes calmly. "Unless, of course, the Republic is claiming ownership over sentient beings."
Silence.
Obi-Wan feels the weight of that land, heavy and undeniable.
Satine's fingers curl slightly against the armrest of her chair.
"Senator Amidala is correct," Satine said, voice precise, controlled. "Mandalore's sovereignty allows us to determine our own citizenship policies."
Her gaze sweeps the Republic delegation. "We are not requesting permission."
"And yet," the first senator said carefully, "such a move would inevitably draw attention. The Republic cannot ignore a concentration of military potential on a world outside its jurisdiction."
Satine's eyes flash. "That is not my concern."
"It becomes one," he counters, "when it threatens regional stability."
Padmé leans back, considering. "Senator, may I ask you a question?"
He nods warily.
"If Mandalore were to accept these clones," she said, "as citizens—not soldiers—what exactly would the Republic do?"
He hesitates again. Too long.
Obi-Wan feels Satine's anger spike, sharp as a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.
Padmé smiles gently. "Would you sanction them? Occupy them? Reassert control over a system that has lawfully declared independence?"
The senator shifts. "That's a hypothetical."
"So are your concerns," Padmé replies smoothly. "Yet you seem comfortable acting on them."
Obi-Wan watches Satine carefully now. The way her shoulders tense. The way her eyes flick—not to Padmé, but to the Mandalorian councilors beside her.
Padmé is winning.
And that is precisely the problem.
Satine exhales slowly, then stands.
"Mandalore has spent generations clawing its way back from endless war," she said. Her voice carries, steady but charged. "We chose pacifism not because we are weak, but because we are tired of being defined by violence."
She turns her gaze to the clones standing guard. "These men did not choose to be weapons. If they wish to become something else, Mandalore will not deny them that chance."
The Republic senators exchange glances.
"But," Satine continues, and there it is—the edge, the warning—"we will not accept Republic oversight. Not now. Not ever."
The chamber holds its breath.
Obi-Wan feels it then—something quiet, fragile, and deeply human.
Hope.
He sees it on the clones' faces, flickering and uncertain as they watch Mandalorian soldiers not as enemies, but as… possibilities. A life beyond orders. Beyond purpose assigned at birth.
It hurts to look at.
Padmé inclines her head respectfully toward Satine. "Duchess Kryze," she said, "the Republic does not wish to undermine Mandalore's independence."
Satine meets her gaze, cool and unreadable. "Then it must learn to accept the consequences of that independence."
Their eyes lock.
Two women standing on opposite sides of the same truth.
Obi-Wan understands then—Padmé is right. Entirely, unequivocally right.
And Satine knows it.
That's what makes her furious.
Because if the Republic pushes too hard, Mandalore becomes a target. Not for invasion—no, nothing so crude—but for pressure. Sanctions. Political isolation. Quiet, suffocating control.
Freedom, offered with strings.
The session adjourns without resolution.
As they rise, Satine turns to Obi-Wan, her expression composed once more, the anger banked but not gone.
"Walk with me," she said quietly.
It is not a request.
Obi-Wan inclines his head. "Of course."
Padmé watches them go, something thoughtful in her eyes.
Politics, Obi-Wan reflects as he follows Satine toward a side corridor, is very much like combat.
You don't always know you've been wounded until much later.
And sometimes, the most dangerous strikes are the ones that land exactly where you know they must—and cannot afford to defend against.
...
The sparring ring was older than the Republic.
That wasn't hyperbole. The stone beneath my boots felt ancient in the way only things that have outlivedcivilizations can—smooth in places where thousands of feet had worn it down, jagged where repairs had been abandoned because whoever owned the place next didn't care enough to fix them. The ceiling arched high overhead, ribbed with black stone supports that reminded me uncomfortably of a skeletal cage.
There were no observation windows. No safety fields. No instructors standing close enough to intervene.
Wrath stood at the far edge of the room, arms folded into his robes, mask unreadable, presence heavy enough in the Force that it pressed against my senses like a hand between my shoulder blades.
"Begin," he said.
No countdown. No salute.
Maris ignited her lightsaber instantly.
Blue light flared to life, sharp and clean against the dark stone. It painted her features in cool contrast—eyes focused, posture loose, ready. She looked comfortable. Excited, even.
I ignited mine a heartbeat later.
Green light answered hers, strong and steady. The familiar hum grounded me, muscle memory snapping into place. Temple drills. Forms practiced until my arms burned and my instructors nodded with approval.
For a moment, we just circled.
I could feel her through the Force—not aggressive, not restrained. Curious. Like a predator assessing how interesting the hunt was going to be.
"You ready?" she asked lightly.
"Always," I said, which was a lie, but a useful one.
She attacked first.
No warning. No flourish. Just a sharp forward step and a diagonal slash that would have taken my shoulder if I hadn't already been moving. I parried instinctively, blade ringing against blade, the impact jarring but familiar.
Form III, Soresu. Defensive. Controlled.
Her response was immediate—she flowed around my guard, spinning low, saber flashing in a tight arc aimed at my knees. I jumped, Force-assisted, twisting midair to bring my blade down toward her shoulder.
She blocked, grinning.
"You're thinking too much," she said, voice calm even as our sabers locked.
"And you're enjoying this too much," I shot back.
She disengaged with a sharp shove, sending me skidding backward across the stone. I recovered quickly, feet finding purchase, Force flaring to keep me upright.
We clashed again.
Blue and green light blurred together as we traded blows—her attacks aggressive and creative, mine precise and reactive. She shifted between forms seamlessly, Makashi into Ataru, pressing me, testing my defenses, forcing me to adapt.
And I did.
I always did.
That was the thing the Temple praised about me. Adaptability. Control. The ability to respond without giving in to impulse. I learned my lesson from Skywalker. Sometimes you have to react more than you act.
Overcommit to a single attack, and it leaves you completely exposed, the one time it fails.
Defense is the best offense.
Here, it felt… insufficient.
Maris fought like she didn't care what the room thought of her. Like there were no invisible lines she wasn't supposed to cross. Her strikes came from odd angles, footwork unorthodox, Force use subtle but constant—enhancing, redirecting, leaning into momentum instead of resisting it.
I caught her blade on mine and twisted, disarming maneuver smooth and practiced.
She laughed as she jumped back, barely avoiding it. "See? You're good. You just don't trust it."
I pressed the advantage, stepping forward, forcing her back toward the edge of the ring. My strikes grew faster, sharper. I let myself push, just a little—speed increased, reach extended, the Force humming brighter under my skin.
For a moment, it worked.
I drove her to one knee, blade locked against hers, power straining between us.
And then she headbutted me.
Hard.
Stars exploded behind my eyes as she shoved off me, rolling to her feet in one fluid motion. Insult to injury, I'm pretty sure her horns cut into something or other that I really wish they hadn't.
"Never assume I'll play fair," she said cheerfully.
I wiped blood from my lip and laughed despite myself. "I should've known."
Wrath hadn't moved.
I could feel his attention, sharp and focused, like a blade pressed flat against my back. He wasn't judging who was winning. He was cataloging how we fought.
We came together again, faster now.
I shifted forms, letting go of strict defense, allowing myself to press. Not reckless, but assertive. I reached for the Force—not to strike, not to shove—but to read. Her balance. Her intent. The moment before she committed to a movement.
She felt it.
Her grin sharpened. "There you are."
Our sabers locked again, energy crackling between them.
"Come on," she said quietly. "Show me what you can do. I can take it."
I shoved her back, harder than I meant to.
She slid, boots scraping stone, and then—
"Enough."
Wrath's voice cut through the room like a blade through silk.
We froze.
I disengaged immediately, breath coming fast, sweat cooling on my skin. Maris straightened, saber still ignited, eyes bright.
Wrath stepped forward.
"The purpose of this exercise was not victory," he said. "Competition will come later."
Maris tilted her head. "Aw. I was just getting warmed up."
Wrath ignored her.
"This was evaluation," he continued. "Baseline. Ability. Instinct."
His masked gaze turned to me. I felt it like pressure against my chest.
"You are disciplined," he said. "You value control. You seek reaction, over action."
Then to Maris.
"You are decisive. You value momentum. You act and adjust."
He paused.
"Both are strengths," he said. "Both are liabilities."
Maris deactivated her saber and rested it on her hip. "So what's the verdict?"
Wrath turned slightly, pacing a slow circle around us.
"The Jedi fear corruption," he said. "They build rules to keep themselves pure."
Point.
"The Sith fear stagnation," Wrath continued. "We do not ask whether an action is permitted. We ask whether it leads to growth." His gaze returned to me. "Hesitation is decay."
Message received.
It still hurt. Not enough to make me cry, but enough to make me mad. Which had already done more to offset me than any of the blows Maris landed.
Wrath stopped in front of us. "Tomorrow's trial will not test your individual skill."
Maris perked up. "Oh?"
"It will require mutual survival," Wrath said simply.
She considered that for half a second. "Is that code for a team-building exercise?"
Wrath's mask tilted just enough to suggest interest.
"Not at all," he said. "If one of you dies, the lesson simplifies."
Wrath faded, projection dissolving into the ambient darkness of the room, leaving us alone with the echo of his words.
I exhaled slowly and deactivated my saber.
Maris nudged my shoulder. "Hey. You did good."
"Did I?" I asked.
She shrugged. "You didn't die. Apparently that's the bar."
Not a high one.
But I'll take it.
...
Padmé decides, not for the first time, that if this was a vacation, she deserves a refund.
Chancellor Palpatine had phrased it so endearingly, when he suggested it. In hindsight, she should have known it wouldn't have been that simple. Why else would he have sent her, in the first place?
She always did like a challenge. Though, sadly, it didn't leave much time for relaxing.
The residence Duchess Satine has provided is elegant in that distinctly Mandalorian way—clean lines, cool colors, restraint elevated to an art form. The walls curve gently instead of looming, the lighting is soft without being dim, and the view beyond the wide transparisteel windows overlooks Sundari's domed skyline, glowing faintly as evening settles in.
It should be peaceful.
It is not.
Padmé sits at the long dining table, posture impeccable out of long habit rather than necessity, hands folded neatly in her lap as she watches steam curl upward from her untouched tea. She has changed out of her senatorial attire into something less formal but no less deliberate: simple Naboo silks, muted tones, nothing that could be read as a challenge.
She learned very young that diplomacy begins before anyone speaks.
The doors slide open with a soft hiss.
Satine Kryze enters alone.
No guards. No councilors. No advisors hovering at her shoulder. She wears a pale blue gown tonight, cut sharply at the collar and shoulders, severe enough to read as armor if one knows what to look for. Her blond hair is pinned back, precise, immaculate.
Composed.
Padmé rises immediately. "Duchess."
"Senator," Satine replies, inclining her head just enough to be courteous, not submissive. "Thank you for accepting my invitation."
"Thank you for extending it," Padmé said sincerely. "I'm aware how… busy things are."
Satine's lips curve in something that might be a smile, if one were feeling generous. "Busy is one word for it."
They sit.
The table is set for two. No servants hover nearby. Whatever this meeting is, it's meant to be private.
Padmé waits.
She has learned that letting people choose the opening move often tells you more than forcing one.
Satine pours tea for them both, the movement practiced, almost ritualistic. "I wanted a setting without an audience," she said at last. "Too much has already been said in rooms designed for performance."
Padmé nods. "I couldn't agree more."
They sip in silence for a moment. The tea is strong, herbal, unfamiliar but pleasant.
Satine studies her over the rim of her cup. "You're younger than I expected."
Padmé smiles faintly. "I get that often."
"And yet," Satine continues, "you speak in the Senate as if you've been tired of it for decades."
Padmé allows herself a soft huff of amusement. "That would be because I have."
That earns her a real smile this time—brief, sharp, gone as quickly as it appears.
Satine sets her cup down. "You were very effective today."
Padmé meets her gaze steadily. "That was not my intention."
"No," Satine agrees coolly. "Your intention was to be right."
Padmé does not flinch. "Yes."
There it is. The first blade, slid neatly between ribs without raising a voice.
Satine leans back in her chair, fingers lacing together. "Do you know what the Senate will do if Mandalore proceeds with this?"
The question was loaded, but the Duchess's tone was more inquisitive, than accusatory.
"I know what some of them want to do," Padmé replies. "They'll call for investigations. Hearings. Sanctions framed as 'protective measures.' Quiet economic pressure designed to make your independence… uncomfortable."
"And if that fails?"
Padmé hesitates, just for a breath. Honesty, she's learned, is a calculated risk.
"They'll look for justification," she said carefully. "Any sign of instability. Any excuse to reassert influence."
Satine's jaw tightens. "So you admit it."
"I acknowledge it," Padmé corrects gently. "And I'm trying to prevent it."
Satine's eyes sharpen. "By what method, exactly? Standing beside me in chambers while warning me what happens if I don't bend?"
Padmé exhales slowly.
The absolute worst vacation, she thinks dryly.
"I'm warning you because I respect you," she said. "And because if you move too quickly, the backlash will not be aimed at the senators who argue policy. It will be aimed at your people."
Satine stands abruptly and turns away, pacing toward the windows. Sundari's lights reflect faintly in the glass, blurring her reflection.
"My people have survived worse than the Senate," she said quietly.
"I know," Padmé replies. "That's what worries me."
Satine turns back, eyes blazing now. "You think I don't see what this costs?" she snaps. "That I don't understand the danger? Mandalore declared independence because we refused to be pulled into another Republic war. And now you tell me that offering citizenship—not weapons, not alliances, but homes—to men who have known nothing but obedience is too provocative?"
Padmé rises as well, matching her stance. "I'm telling you the Senate is afraid."
"Of what?"
"Of losing control," Padmé said without hesitation. "Of admitting they created something they don't know how to put down. Of acknowledging that these men are people. And of a foreign entity holding the threat of these men over their heads."
Satine's shoulders sag just slightly. Not in defeat. In exhaustion.
"They are soldiers," Satine said. "And Mandalore has sworn off war."
Padmé steps closer, lowering her voice. "They are men who have never been allowed to be anything else. You are offering them choice."
"That choice may cost us everything."
"Yes," Padmé agrees softly. "It might."
Silence stretches between them, taut as a drawn wire.
Then Satine laughs—a short, humorless sound. "You know," she said, "the irony is almost unbearable."
Padmé tilts her head. "Oh?"
"You're warning me about radicals in the Senate," Satine said. "While I'm preparing to warn you about radicals on my own world."
Padmé's stomach tightens. "Death Watch."
Satine's expression hardens. "They've been quiet. Too quiet. My intelligence suggests they're watching this situation closely."
"Waiting for an excuse," Padmé murmurs.
"Waiting for proof," Satine corrects. "Proof that pacifism is weakness. Proof that independence invites chaos. Proof that Mandalore needs to be reminded who we used to be."
Padmé folds her arms, processing. "If violence breaks out—"
"—they will blame the clones," Satine finishes. "Or the Republic. Or both. Whichever serves them best."
"And you'll be caught in the middle," Padmé said. "Again."
Satine meets her gaze, something raw flickering beneath her composure. "I am always in the middle."
They stand there, two women shaped by systems that expect them to absorb impact without cracking.
Padmé breaks the silence first. "If I may be blunt."
Satine gestures sharply. "Please."
"You're standing between a Senate that fears losing power and a faction that wants to reclaim it through blood," Padmé said. "If you misstep, either side will use it to justify war."
Satine's smile is thin. "And you, Senator Amidala, are standing between a Republic that wants obedience and a conscience it keeps trying to bury."
Padmé allows herself a wry smile. "It seems we have that in common."
They return to the table slowly, the earlier tension cooling into something more dangerous: understanding.
Satine sits, steepling her fingers. "You believe the Senate can be swayed."
"I believe it can be stalled," Padmé replies honestly. "Long enough for alternatives to take root."
"And if they can't?"
Padmé meets her eyes. "Then history will remember who tried to prevent the fire."
Satine considers her for a long moment. "You're very young," she said again. "To be carrying this much."
Padmé shrugs lightly. "I was elected at fourteen. Perspective comes early when innocence is optional."
That earns her another sharp laugh. "You would have made an excellent Mandalorian."
Padmé arches a brow. "Is that a compliment or a warning?"
"Yes," Satine said dryly.
They share a brief, genuine smile.
Then Satine sobers. "There is something else."
Padmé straightens. "Go on."
"My nephew," Satine said carefully. "Korkie. He's… been asking questions."
Padmé's heart skips. "About the clones?"
"About his family," Satine replies. "About loyalty. About what Mandalore stands for. Did you know that his brother is a part of the Jedi Order?"
Padmé nods slowly. "Ben Kryze, yes? We met briefly, in passing. I don't think your nephew has anything to worry about. Whatever decision we reach, the Order has been ever impartial."
"Not to Mandalorians," Satine counters. "And Death Watch knows it."
Padmé exhales. "Then we're not just preventing war between governments."
"No," Satine agrees. "We're preventing one within my people."
They sit in the quiet aftermath of that admission.
Outside, Sundari glows on, serene and oblivious.
Padmé lifts her cup again, takes a measured sip, then allows herself a small, dry smile. "You know," she said, "when I agreed to this posting, I was told Mandalore was beautiful. Restful. A chance to step away from constant crisis."
Satine snorts. "I assume you've revised that assessment."
"Thoroughly," Padmé replies. "This is the worst vacation I've ever had."
That earns a genuine laugh—soft, tired, but real.
"Welcome to Mandalore, Senator Amidala," Satine said. "We specialize in beautiful disasters."
Padmé raises her cup slightly. "Then I suppose we'll have to make sure this one doesn't end in blood."
Satine lifts her own in return, eyes sharp with resolve.
"To impossible balancing acts," she said.
Padmé clinks her cup lightly against Satine's.
"And to stopping wars," she adds, "before they start."
...
The doors seal behind us with a sound that feels final.
Not dramatic. Not explosive.
Just a deep, grinding thoom as ancient stone meets ancient stone, dust shivering loose from the ceiling and drifting down in slow, lazy spirals. The kind of sound that said: whatever happens next, you're not leaving until it's finished.
I swallow.
The arena is circular, carved directly into the bedrock of Korriban. The floor slopes gently downward toward the center, etched with Sith glyphs worn smooth by time and blood and feet that stopped caring whose they were. Jagged pillars rise at uneven intervals, broken in places, like ribs from some long-dead god.
Above us, the ceiling disappears into shadow.
Wrath stands across the arena, unmoving, mask unreadable, presence heavy enough in the Force that it presses against my spine. Not just a projection this time.
He's here.
"Position yourselves," he said.
Maris and I exchange a look.
No bravado. No jokes. Just a mutual understanding that whatever this is, it's not a sparring match.
We move toward the center instinctively, backs not quite touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat of her through the Force. She ignites her saber with a snap-hiss of blue light, blade steady, posture loose but ready.
I ignite mine a heartbeat later.
Green light floods the arena, painting the glyphs in harsh contrast.
Wrath lifts one gloved hand.
The far wall opens.
Not slides. Splits.
Stone peels back like a wound reopening, and something massive moves in the darkness beyond. I feel it before I see it—a surge of rage, hunger, and old, old hate crashing into my senses like a wave.
Maris sucks in a sharp breath.
"Oh," she said. "That's… big."
The terentatek steps into the light.
It's enormous. Easily three times my height at the shoulder, all muscle and scarred hide, its thick limbs ending in claws that gouge furrows into the stone with every step. Its head is low and wide, maw full of teeth meant for tearing Force-sensitives apart, eyes glowing with feral intelligence.
A predator bred to hunt us.
My heart starts hammering.
Wrath's voice carries easily across the arena.
"Live," he said.
I rolled my eyes.
"Or die."
Still so stupid.
The wall slams shut behind the beast.
For half a second, no one moves.
Then Maris said, brightly, "I call the left one."
I blink. "Maris. There's only one."
"Yeah. I can count. Dibs."
The terentatek roars.
It's not just sound—it's pressure. The Force ripples outward with it, raw and violent, slamming into my senses hard enough that I stagger back a step. The creature charges, stone cracking beneath its weight, claws tearing up chunks of the arena floor as it barrels straight for us.
"Okay," Maris said, voice sharp now. "Plan?"
"Don't die?" I offer.
"Great," she said. "Love that plan."
We split instinctively, diving in opposite directions as the beast crashes through the space we occupied a second earlier. I roll, come up on one knee, and reach for the Force—
—and nearly choke on it.
The terentatek pushes back.
Not consciously. Not with technique.
Just sheer mass and hatred, a gravitational well of fury that resists my grip like trying to lift a mountain with one hand.
Maris slashes at its flank as it passes, blue blade carving a glowing line across its hide. The cut is deep—but the beast barely reacts, tail lashing out and forcing her to leap clear as it smashes into a pillar, reducing it to rubble.
"Yeah," she mutters. "That didn't do much."
"Distract it!" I shout.
She grins ferally. "With pleasure."
Maris darts forward, fast and aggressive, saber flashing as she strikes at its legs, its joints, anywhere she can reach. The terentatek roars again, swiping at her with claws the size of speeders, every miss cracking stone and throwing debris into the air.
I plant my feet and commit.
No hesitation. No half-measures.
I reach deep into the Force and push.
The terentatek stumbles as invisible pressure slams into its side, forcing it off-balance for half a second—just enough.
Maris takes it.
She vaults off a fallen chunk of stone, flips over the creature's back, and drives her saber down between its shoulder plates. It bellows in pain, thrashing violently, and she barely manages to wrench her blade free before being thrown clear.
She hits the ground hard, rolls, comes up swearing.
"Okay," she pants. "That got its attention."
The beast turns toward me.
Its eyes lock on mine.
I feel it then—not just rage, but recognition. A hunter identifying prey that matters.
My breath stutters.
Focus.
I raise both hands, fingers splayed, and the Force answers.
The air around the terentatek compresses.
It rears back, roaring in fury as I lift—inch by inch—thousands of pounds of muscle and hate off the ground. The strain hits immediately, pressure building behind my eyes, my vision blurring at the edges.
Size matters not, I remind myself through clenched teeth.
The beast thrashes mid-air, claws gouging furrows into nothing, tail lashing wildly. Each movement sends shockwaves through my grip, threatening to tear it free.
"Maris!" I shout. "Now!"
She doesn't hesitate.
She moves.
Blue light flashes as she sprints straight at the suspended terentatek, Force-assisted leaps carrying her impossibly high. She runs up the beast's side, boots finding purchase on muscle and bone, saber carving deep as she goes.
I slam the terentatek down.
Hard.
The impact shakes the arena, cracks spiderwebbing across the stone floor as the creature is pinned beneath my will, flattened against the ground by crushing Force pressure.
It fights.
Stars explode behind my eyes as it pushes back, raw instinct and fury slamming into me like a tidal wave. My knees buckle, blood trickling from my nose as the strain threatens to tear my concentration apart.
"Ben!" Maris shouts.
"I've—got it!" I lie.
The terentatek's head lifts an inch.
I scream—not in rage, but effort—and push harder.
The Force roars through me, bright and terrible, pinning the beast flat once more. My arms shake. My vision tunnels. This is too much. I know it is.
But I also know I can't let go.
Maris lands beside its head.
She doesn't look at me.
She trusts me.
Her saber ignites brighter as she raises it high—and brings it down.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Blue light cleaves through bone and muscle, severing limbs, splitting armor-thick hide. The terentatek convulses, roars cut short as Maris drives her blade straight through its skull.
The creature goes still.
The Force snaps back into place.
I drop to one knee, gasping, hands shaking as the weight vanishes all at once. My head pounds, every muscle screaming in protest.
Maris stumbles, then steadies herself, chest heaving. She looks down at the corpse, then at me.
A slow grin spreads across her face.
"Team-building," she said hoarsely. "Ten out of ten."
I laugh weakly. "Never again."
The arena is silent.
Then Wrath steps forward.
His presence fills the space like gravity, heavy and undeniable. He looks at the corpse, then at us, mask tilted slightly as if considering a particularly interesting problem.
"You did not flee," he said. "You did not compete." He turns to me. "You exerted control beyond comfort." Then to Maris. "You trusted another's strength without reservation."
I can feel the judgment.
"These are not Jedi instincts," Wrath said.
He raises one hand.
The air changes.
Power coils around us, ancient and deliberate.
"Kneel."
We do.
Stone bites into my knees, but I barely feel it.
Wrath looms over us.
"You will train," he said. "You will struggle. You will suffer."
His gaze fixes on me.
"You will learn when to restrain—and when to unleash."
Then Maris.
"You will learn when to strike—and when to wait."
He straightens.
"From this moment," Wrath intones, "you are no longer acolytes."
The word lands like a thunderclap.
"You are my apprentices."
The arena seems to breathe.
Maris lets out a low, incredulous laugh. "Wow. So this is official, huh?"
Wrath does not respond.
But I feel it.
The shift. The weight of it settling into place.
I glance at Maris, and she looks back at me—eyes bright, fierce, alive.
We survived.
Together.
And somehow, I know—
This is only the beginning.