"He came from silence.
And now stood at the heart of a world that had forgotten how to listen."
Elai sat at the viewport, eyes wide—not with awe, but quiet attention.
The ship had entered Coruscant's upper orbit over an hour ago, but Eno Cordova took the long way down.
The scenic way.
They skimmed past the high spires of city-towers so tall they disappeared into haze. Lights glitter across the hemisphere like constellations set in steel. Speeder traffic moved in endless layers, woven like river currents.
Elai said nothing. But he watched.
Not with a child's wonder.
With something more measured.
Like someone judging the breath of the world.
Behind him, Seryth stood beside the glass. Her reflection shimmered in the hull—a ghost made of light and fur, untamed in a place so heavily ordered.
"That's Galactic City," Eno said, glancing back from the controls.
"It's older than most of the buildings. And deeper than it looks."
Elai tilted his head.
"How many people live here?"
"More than you could count. Maybe a trillion."
Elai didn't respond. Just stared.
Something moved behind his eyes. A thought. A sensation.
But no fear.
Just breathe.
The ship eased toward a landing platform nestled against one of Coruscant's many upper terraces—not the Jedi Temple, but a private pad attached to a neutral tower. Waiting near the edge, arms calmly behind his back, stood Qui-Gon Jinn and the others just arriving.
As they descended, Eno placed a hand briefly on Elai's shoulder.
"They are the ones I told you about."
Elai didn't nod.
Didn't shrink.
He just… went still.
As if preparing to listen more than speak.
The ramp hissed open.
Cold light from Coruscant's upper stratosphere spilled into the chamber, casting long shadows across the floor of The Dantari Hope. The air inside the ship held its usual quiet hum—steady, like breath held beneath thought.
Elai remained seated on the floor, legs folded beneath him. His hands rested palm-up on the low table, still from his last word. Seryth lay curled beside him, silver-white fur rising and falling in rhythm with the child's breath.
The presence that entered was not loud. It did not announce itself. But it filled the room all the same.
Qui-Gon Jinn stepped onto the ramp.
He paused at the threshold—just long enough for the moment to recognize itself. His robes caught faint movement from the air systems, but his frame stood completely still.
Elai looked up.
Their eyes met.
Not recognition.
Not even curiosity.
But reflection.
Like two rivers glimpsing the same star mirrored on their surface—silent agreement that the sky was watching.
"Finally meeting you in person, Elai," Qui-Gon said.
Elai blinked once, then answered with soft steadiness:
"Hello… there."
A flicker of a smile passed through Qui-Gon—not performance. Memory. He stepped forward and knelt—not to lower himself, but to remove weight from the space between them.
"I asked to see you before the Council did," he said, voice even. "To meet you without questions circling your name. To feel your presence without their voices crowding it."
Elai tilted his head, the motion as natural as breath.
"Do I have to be theirs?"
It was not a fearful question.
Only precise.
Qui-Gon took a breath—not from surprise, but care.
"No," he said. "But they may ask you to be."
The words settled between them like dust in light—quiet, but unshakable.
Behind Qui-Gon, the others entered.
Coleman Kcaj, slow and silent. His long eyes scanned the room with the patience of water flowing around stone.
Tera Sinube followed, leaning gently on his cane, gazing attentively beneath lined lids.
Depa Billaba walked with her usual grace—neither hesitant nor forceful—choosing to remain just outside the circle, where clarity often resided.
And Jaro Tapal, last, arms folded, face unreadable but focused—his presence grounding, like gravity given form.
They did not speak.
They simply waited.
And in that waiting, Qui-Gon asked:
"This ship. These consoles. The language. Do they feel familiar to you?"
Elai turned his head slightly, looking toward the panels lining the wall, then at the ceiling above.
"No."
"Do they feel advanced? Primitive?"
Elai blinked, eyes shifting back to Qui-Gon.
Then, softly:
"Wrong."
That stopped even Tapal's breath for a moment.
Qui-Gon frowned—not in doubt, but in understanding unformed.
"Not strange," Elai clarified. "Just… not how the Force sings."
The room held still.
Even Seryth lifted her head slightly.
Qui-Gon's voice lowered.
"And how does the Force sing?"
Elai closed his eyes.
The silence that followed wasn't emptiness—it was listening.
Then:
"Like music without sound. Like stone remembering water. Not machines."
He opened his eyes again.
"I don't need tools to feel it. I just need to not be told how to."
Tera Sinube's cane tapped once against the floor, soft but certain.
Depa looked at Qui-Gon—then at the boy.
Tapal's jaw tensed faintly. But he said nothing.
Kcaj finally spoke, voice low as rain on metal.
"And if we do not tell you how to?"
Elai looked at him.
Then, after a pause, offered a single word:
"Then I'll listen."
And somehow, it was the most radical answer any of them had heard.
Qui-Gon sat back slightly, one hand resting against his knee.
"You sense the intent behind technology?" he asked, voice low.
Elai gave a faint nod.
"It speaks," he said. "Not in words. But in shape. In what it's trying to do."
Qui-Gon tilted his head.
"A transmission. Not function."
Elai looked toward the nearby console, then back.
"Most machines want something. This ship tries to protect. The ones in the Temple… they want to decide."
That answer settled over the gathering like falling ash.
No challenge.
Just quiet recognition.
Then Qui-Gon's tone shifted.
"May I see your crystal?"
Elai stilled.
His hand moved toward his chest—fingers brushing the fabric near his heart, where the twin-core kyber crystal rested against skin. He did not move quickly. Not defensively. Just… thoughtfully.
Seryth lifted her head. Her eyes fixed on Qui-Gon—not aggressive, not afraid. Just watching.
Qui-Gon opened his palms and set them gently on the floor between them.
"No harm. I'll only look. I promise it will return to you as it came."
Another pause.
Then Elai reached beneath his tunic and withdrew the crystal.
He placed it in Qui-Gon's hands without ceremony—without fear.
The Jedi Master accepted it like one might accept a story passed down generations.
He did not speak.
The kyber lay across his palms like a held moment.
One side glowed a soft, unmarred white—clear, radiant, steady.
The other shimmered with a moving darkness—not corrupted, not veiled. Like the space between stars when nothing interrupts.
They pulsed together.
Not opposites.
Not war.
Harmony—made visible.
Qui-Gon closed his eyes.
The Force stirred.
No pull of allegiance. No call to light or shadow.
Only potential.
Like the pause before a question no one has ever asked.
His voice came soft.
"It didn't just choose you."
He opened his eyes.
"You met in the middle."
Elai nodded once.
Qui-Gon returned the crystal without hesitation.
Elai accepted it without possessiveness.
He tucked it away as one would restore a part of themselves—not hidden, only returned.
Qui-Gon looked at the wolf.
Seryth was standing now, slow and deliberate. Her posture was neither guarded nor submissive. She moved between Elai and the others—not as a barrier, but as a statement.
A presence that would not be named by them.
"She doesn't follow you," Qui-Gon observed.
Elai looked at her.
"No," he said. "She walks with me. That's what she is."
He didn't explain further.
He didn't need to.
Qui-Gon turned his full attention to her now. He did not reach through the Force. He did not test.
He simply witnessed.
And Seryth allowed it.
She did not speak in thought or image—but the message was clear in the stillness of her gaze.
I am not commanded. I am known.
The other Jedi watched silently.
Tera Sinube's cane tapped once, soft against the floor.
Depa Billaba's brows drew inward, not with doubt—but wonder.
Jaro Tapal folded his arms more tightly, but did not interrupt.
And Coleman Kcaj murmured, "That is not a bond we have seen before."
"No," Qui-Gon agreed. "It isn't a bond."
He looked at Elai.
"It's a choice."
Elai met his gaze without flinching.
"Everything worth keeping is."
Just then, the comm panel on the ship chimed—three soft tones, measured but urgent, pulsing like the ripple of a pebble dropped in still water.
Eno moved to the console and checked the readout. He frowned.
"They've called the meeting," he said quietly.
A subtle stir passed through the gathered Jedi. Not alarm—just recognition.
Jaro Tapal's brow lifted.
"Already?"
His voice was low, skeptical.
Depa Billaba folded her arms gently, eyes narrowing in thought.
"They rarely move this fast. I expected days… not hours."
Even Tera Sinube leaned heavier on his cane, murmuring,
"They must have felt something. Or someone is pressing behind the veil of formality."
Coleman Kcaj gave no expression—only a subtle narrowing of the eyes, unreadable.
Qui-Gon exhaled once and turned toward Elai, who sat still near the low table, hands resting lightly in his lap. Seryth, alert, pressed close beside him.
He stepped forward, his tone calm and steady.
"No matter what they say in that room," Qui-Gon said, "remember something."
Elai looked up.
"You are not their question," Qui-Gon said. "You are your own answer."
Before silence could settle again, Coleman Kcaj spoke—soft, deliberate.
"Child," he said, "do not show them your crystal."
Elai blinked.
Kcaj continued, without urgency but with absolute clarity.
"Do not speak of it. Do not think of it. Let it rest far from their notice."
A hush followed.
Even Jaro Tapal turned his head slightly in acknowledgment.
Tera Sinube gave a small, grave nod.
Depa's eyes softened, though her shoulders grew more still.
Seryth tilted her head—sensing the shift without knowing its name.
Elai's voice came softly, but steady.
"Why?"
Kcaj's gaze did not waver.
"Because that crystal is not like theirs. It was not assigned, or chosen in the caves. It did not answer their call. It was made with you."
He paused. "That kind of bond is outside their structure. And outside their comfort."
Elai looked down, quiet for a moment.
"Do I need to hide forever?"
Kcaj's eyes softened, just slightly.
"No. Not forever. Just for this moment. Until they stop looking for something to fear."
He stepped back.
"And when they name you apprentice," he added, "if that day comes… then the crystal may rise beside you—openly. Proudly. When your truth outweighs their caution."
No one contradicted him.
Qui-Gon placed a hand gently behind Elai's shoulder—not guiding, just present.
"The Force does not ask you to deny yourself," he said. "Only to understand when others are not yet ready."
Eno moved to the ramp controls and glanced back.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
Elai stood.
Not in defiance.
Not in fear.
But with stillness wrapped around him like a second skin.
"I already was," he said.
Seryth rose beside him.
[System Update: New Location Logged — Galactic Core | Planet: Coruscant]
The center does not sleep.
It watches. It balances. And now, it has seen you
[Stat Gain:]
.Perception +1
The shuttle moved quietly across the skyline, its shape gliding between towers of glass and durasteel as the morning sun painted long gold streaks across the city's edge. Traffic lanes shimmered below like veins of light, weaving between the skyscrapers of Galactic City—ancient Coruscant wrapped in its eternal storm of motion.
Inside the shuttle cabin, Elai sat in stillness beside Qui-Gon Jinn, legs folded neatly beneath him, hands resting on his knees. He didn't shift. Didn't fidget. His breath moved soft and even. Seryth lay curled at his feet, tail wrapped close, eyes half-lidded, unbothered by the muted hum of repulsorlifts or the steel heartbeat of the world around them.
Across from them sat Depa Billaba and Tera Sinube, their robes drawn in, silence settled over them like old cloth. Fyress Dand remained standing near the door frame, hands clasped behind her back, eyes sharp but not unkind. Jaro Tapal sat in the far corner, arms folded across his broad chest, his gaze steady but unreadable.
Only Coleman Kcaj stood, gazing out the side viewport, silent and still as mist.
The Jedi Temple approached in slow grandeur. It did not rise like the spires around it. It anchored. Pale stone layered with quiet golden inlay caught the light without glittering, rising through the clouds not with defiance—but with memory. Its towers pressed skyward in concentric reach, like fingers in meditation, not grasping.
"This place was built before almost everything else," Qui-Gon said, voice calm but distant as the shuttle descended.
"It's meant to honor silence. Meditation. Harmony."
Elai didn't respond.
But his attention was not absent.
He was already listening.
Not to Qui-Gon. Not to the words.
To the Temple.
To its breath.
And it was... strange.
Not silent. Not still.
Just distant.
A rhythm that echoed structure, not spirit. Like a song sung from memory, not from presence.
The shuttle touched down on the main landing platform with a whisper of pressure and hiss of decompressing air. The doors opened to early daylight and the muted hum of activity.
The great entrance to the Jedi Temple rose before them—arched and flanked by twin statues, each of a hooded Jedi in silent vigil. Their hands folded, their faces blank. Their presence… unmoving.
Elai stood. Seryth rose with him.
The others followed—no formation, no announcement.
But already, Jedi were watching.
From the high walkways, from the inner courtyard, from the steps leading upward, robed figures paused. Some turned and kept walking. Others stood, curious. A few younglings leaned out from behind columns, wide-eyed at the sight of a barefoot boy with a white Loth-wolf at his side.
Fyress moved beside Elai, a silent escort without command. Tapal brought up the rear, his footsteps heavy but deliberate.
They crossed the wide platform slowly.
Elai's eyes didn't linger on their faces.
They traced the stone beneath his feet. The way it held sound. The way the energy diffused—not like a heartbeat, but like echoes in a long hall.
He glanced at the marble pillars.
The gold-rimmed glass.
The etched phrases in Old Tongue along the entry arch.
He felt all of it.
But he did not feel presence.
Not the kind he knew.
The Force was here.
It was strong.
It was structured.
But it did not breathe.
Not like the temple that had listened to him. Not like the one that had whispered his name back to him in stone and sky.
Here… the Force was arranged.
Not living.
Like music memorized, not sung.
He paused at the threshold, Seryth halting beside him. The wind passed softly through the courtyard, catching his tunic and brushing through the Loth-wolf's white fur.
From within, a chime sounded.
A signal.
The Council was waiting.
And so were their questions.
They passed through the entrance arch.
The interior hall stretched wide, carved from pale stone veined with silver. The ceiling arched high above like the ribs of a great starship, casting the space in soft light that came from no visible source. The air inside was still—but not peaceful. It was held. Like sound had been pressed down, waiting to rise.
Elai's footsteps were soft against the polished floor. Bare soles met smooth stone in rhythm, quieter than the footfalls of the Jedi beside him.
No one spoke to him.
But they looked.
[System Update: New Location Logged — Jedi Temple | Tower of Harmony]
Where silence once taught,
Now the Force listens through you.
A place of pillars, doctrine… and waiting.
[Stat Gain:]
Force Sensitivity +1
Jedi Knights crossing the hall turned their heads, robes brushing the edges of the walkway. Young Padawans slowed their pace, watching him pass with wide eyes. A few Masters, meditating near the central pillars, opened their eyes—not to intrude, but to confirm.
And then came the whispers.
Low. Not cruel. Not loud.
But piercing nonetheless.
"Is that the one Cordova found...?"
"A child from the unknown sectors?"
"No… he's Vaelori , a new race?
"That's a Loth-wolf beside him…"
"Why is he barefoot?"
Seryth walked beside him unfazed, her paws nearly silent on the stone. Her presence didn't invite challenge. She simply was—like snow that did not need permission to fall.
Elai's face remained calm. Still. Unreadable.
But inside, something shifted.
This place wasn't quiet.
It was watching itself.
It wasn't a temple of meditation.
It was a palace holding its breath.
The Force here didn't feel silent.
It felt measured.
As if it had been convinced to behave.
They reached the final corridor—a long, curving path that led to the doors of the High Council Chamber.
The doors were immense, carved with symbols older than Republic records—etched depictions of balance, harmony, the rise and fall of civilizations. The Jedi who walked with him—Qui-Gon Jinn, Coleman Kcaj, Depa Billaba, and Tera Sinube—paused before them.
"Take a moment," Depa said gently.
Elai looked up at her.
Her voice wasn't commanding. It was offering space.
Beside her, Kcaj turned slightly toward the others.
"I wasn't expecting to be in this council," he muttered, low enough for only those nearest to him.
Qui-Gon glanced at Elai. "He's ready."
Kcaj gave a slight nod—reluctant, but accepting.
Then, with a breath shared between them, the Jedi turned.
And entered first.
The doors to the Council chamber opened slowly, golden light spilling outward like sunrise through stone.
Elai stood still for a beat longer.
Then followed.
The Loth-wolf stepped silently behind him, not as an escort.
As a witness.
The polished floor beneath their feet reflected the city's light through the high arched windows. The tall doors of the Council chamber stood ahead—ancient wood wrapped in inlaid metals that hummed faintly with embedded conduits.
Elai stood before them, flanked by Qui-Gon Jinn to his right and Eno Cordova to his left. Behind them, the others from the earlier assembly had joined—Tera Sinube, Depa Billaba, Jaro Tapal, and Fyress Dand. Their presence was quiet, but intentional.
A show of unity.
It broke protocol.
Guards stationed at the corridor's edge exchanged uneasy glances. Jedi did not approach the Council chamber in groups unless summoned. And yet here stood six masters and knights in full silence, accompanying a child none of the Council had formally requested.
Tension flickered in the air—not hostile, not fearful. Just uncertain.
The chamber doors remained closed.
They waited.
A minute passed.
Then two.
Voices murmured faintly behind the doors. The Council was unprepared.
Depa glanced toward Qui-Gon, raising one brow.
"They were hoping we'd be unprepared," Jaro said. "And that the child would come alone."
"Then they misread the Force," said Tera Sinube gently.
A low chime sounded. The inner panel blinked.
Permission granted.
The doors parted with a deep mechanical sigh.
Qui-Gon glanced toward Elai—not with instruction, but with quiet permission.
Elai stepped forward.
He did not hesitate.
He walked barefoot into the heart of Jedi power with a calm that did not belong to defiance, nor obedience. Just presence. The Force sang with him—not loud, not boastful. Just enough to shift the chamber's tone.
Seryth followed, silent and alert. Her paws made no sound on the polished stone. She paused only once—eyes locking with Mace Windu's. There was a moment where neither yielded. Then, quietly, she turned her gaze forward again and continued.
The Council Chamber was vast, circular, its seats tiered in a crescent of twelve. Above them, the skylight bathed the room in pale gold.
All twelve Council seats were filled.
And now, unexpectedly, six more Jedi entered behind the boy.
They did not speak.
They took positions along the walls—not intruding, not defying.
Simply… witnessing.
A murmur rippled through the Council. Not alarm—but unease. The unity of arrival was a message without being a challenge. It broke tradition. It disturbed expectations.
Elai stepped into the center.
And then stopped.
He did not bow.
He did not speak.
He listened.
Not to words.
To the Force itself.
And in this place, it did not hum.
Yoda leaned forward in his seat, ears angled slightly. "Found, you were. Not summoned. Untrained, yet aligned. Unclear, your path is."
Silence followed.
Mace Windu spoke next. "We've reviewed the reports from Masters Cordova and Jinn. What we saw was… compelling."
"And troubling," added Ki-Adi-Mundi, arms folded. "The child displays high sensitivity, but no known origin. The species is unregistered. His methods are unorthodox."
"Because no one taught him," Eno said evenly. "He aligned with the Force without doctrine. Without training."
"Or without structure," Mundi countered.
The room shifted again. Uncertainty. Consideration.
Depa Billaba leaned forward. "And the wolf?"
"She is not a pet," Qui-Gon answered. "She walks beside him. Not as a servant. As a companion."
Windu's gaze remained unreadable. "And yet allow him to lead."
Elai spoke—voice quiet, but unshaken.
"No. We walk together. She is the song that steadies mine when I lose rhythm."
The chamber stilled.
Even Yoda's ears twitched slightly.
Coleman Kcaj, silent until now, finally leaned forward. His gaze was focused, deep—not evaluating. Listening.
"The Force sings differently around you," he said, voice low.
Elai met his eyes.
And for the first time in the room, nodded.
"It sings with me."
Kcaj inhaled slowly.
Then nodded.
Not to obey.
To accept.
The Council had not spoken their judgment.
But the Force already had.
The chamber remained heavy after Elai's words.
"It sings with me."
The phrase lingered—not as an echo, but as something the room now had to hold.
No one questioned it.
But not all welcomed it.
Mace Windu leaned forward, fingers steepled, voice measured.
"The child's connection to the Force is undeniable. But what concerns me is how that connection formed. Without a Master. Without order. Without boundaries."
Ki-Adi-Mundi gave a slow nod.
"Without structure, even clarity can distort. Power unshaped is not balanced—it's a risk. Especially someone so young."
"He is not dangerous," Eno Cordova said, voice firm.
"Not now," Adi Gallia replied, her expression unreadable. "But instinct without training can feel like harmony. Sometimes it's an illusion. Sometimes… worse."
A ripple passed through the Council. Murmurs, shifting postures.
Not fear.
But caution, tightening like a wire.
Qui-Gon stood still, arms behind his back, his voice low.
"You fear what you do not understand."
Windu's gaze locked with his.
"We don't fear it—we measure it. That's our responsibility."
"And sometimes," Qui-Gon said, "you measure the wrong things."
That silenced the room more fully than any outburst could have.
No rebuttal came.
Not yet.
Yoda remained quiet.
Watching.
Eyes half-lidded, ancient mind moving deeper than the words around him.
Beside him, Coleman Kcaj leaned forward at last.
His voice was even. His gaze did not waver.
"I will take him."
The chamber shifted like a wave cut by wind.
All eyes turned to him.
Windu frowned.
"You've never taken a Padawan."
Kcaj did not flinch.
"And may never again. But this one does not need shaping. He needs to listen."
Depa Billaba tilted her head slightly. "You're proposing we bypass formal trials?"
"I'm not proposing anything," Kcaj said. "I'm stating what is already in motion. The Force has chosen. I'm merely volunteering to walk beside what it's already begun."
Yoda stirred at last—eyes opening fully, fingers tapping his cane once against the floor.
"Hear him, I do."
Windu looked around the circle.
Some nodded slowly.
Others remained still.
No one openly objected.
Because no one could answer the one unspoken truth:
Why not?
The Force had already moved.
The child would be trained.
Not because the Council was ready.
But because the Force was.
And they were too late to stop it.
And then—just as the silence threatened to close again—
Elai spoke.
"Do I have a say in this?"
The words fell like a stone into a still pond.
Every head turned.
Even Qui-Gon's.
"I didn't ask to be trained," Elai continued. His voice was soft, but not uncertain.
Not defiant.
Just… true.
"What happens if I say no?"
That question cracked the chamber more deeply than any Force tremor could.
Even Master Yoda's brow lifted—his gaze sharpening.
No one answered at first.
The pause was not hesitation.
It was heavy.
Then Mace Windu's voice filled the space, even and clipped.
"The Jedi Order doesn't compel service. But if you walk with the Force, you must learn its path. Without training, that path can become dangerous—to yourself and to others."
Elai looked at him.
"So if I say I don't want to become a Jedi… you'll just let me go?"
The silence that followed wasn't confusion.
It was uncomfortable.
A few of the Masters shifted.
Some avoided his eyes.
Because the answer wasn't simple.
And none of them wanted to speak about what might follow.
Qui-Gon moved then.
Stepping beside the boy—not looming, not shielding.
Just close enough.
He knelt slightly, voice quiet enough that it didn't challenge the room—but strong enough that the Council had to listen.
"You're asking the right question, Elai. Not everyone does. But this path isn't a chain. It's an offering."
He paused.
"You don't have to stay forever. You don't have to become what they expect. But if you walk away now—without understanding what it is you're walking from—you'll carry a weight you never chose to name."
Elai didn't flinch.
"Then teach me what it is. Not what I must be."
There was no argument in his tone.
Only invitation.
The boy did not demand a trial.
He asked for the truth.
And none of them could deny that.
Yoda finally leaned forward, staff tapping once against the floor.
Eyes not narrowed in judgment—but lit by something else.
"Understand the song, before you refuse the melody.
Know what it offers—before choosing silence."
Behind Elai, Seryth sat without a sound.
But her eyes were steady.
As if she, too, was listening.
And for the first time in the chamber's long history—
A child had asked for a choice.
And the Force itself did not rebuke him.
Only watched.
Only waited.
Coleman Kcaj stood.
Robe settling like falling paper.
"Walk with me, Elai.
Not as a student. Not as a soldier.
But as a listener."
Elai turned to him.
Looked long.
Then nodded.
But his final words didn't go to Kcaj.
They went to the Council:
"I'll walk.
But if I learn what I need to without being a Jedi…
I won't stay."
No one stopped him.
But none of them smiled.
The Council chamber doors opened without sound.
Elai stepped through them alone.
The stillness of the high hall fell behind him like a curtain closing on something ancient and unfinished. Seryth padded beside him, her fur catching the soft ambient light in a way that made her seem half-shadow, half-moonlight—a presence rather than a figure.
Behind them, Qui-Gon and Eno lingered just within the circular chamber. They did not move.
Not in protest.
In witness.
Outside, the Temple corridors had quieted with the hour—but not with peace.
Word had already moved ahead of them.
A child. A Loth-wolf. A Force-user untrained, unclaimed.
A crystal no one mentioned, but everyone sensed.
Not quite Jedi.
Not quite a stranger.
Elai noticed every pair of eyes that did not look directly.
He did not feel seen.
He felt measured.
Judged by minds that did not speak aloud.
He let the tension settle in his chest for a moment.
And then released it—gently.
As if letting go of something that was never his.
Seryth leaned into him for a single step.
And the silence loosened its grip.
Waiting in the corridor beyond was Coleman Kcaj.
He stood unmoving—long-robed and still, like something carved from the Temple walls themselves. Pale green skin caught only the thinnest edge of corridor light, casting his presence into partial shadow. But his posture bent ever so slightly forward, like a man who had spent his life listening to what others ignored.
His voice was low.
But it carried like the Force itself had chosen to speak through silence.
"You asked if you had a choice.
That was the most honest thing anyone's said in that room in years."
Elai didn't speak.
Didn't nod.
But he looked at the Jedi Master directly—not with awe.
With understanding.
Kcaj didn't smile.
But something in him settled.
And he turned, gesturing down a quieter passage—off the main corridor, away from the center.
They walked.
"You'll stay here a few days," Kcaj said, his steps unhurried. "They'll run tests. Some out of protocol. Some out of pride. Ignore what you must. Observe what you can."
The hallway narrowed, ceilings arched like the throat of an old song no longer sung.
Dust lingered in the corners. The walls hummed faintly with old energy, untended but alive.
"Will you teach me?" Elai asked.
He didn't whisper.
He didn't beg.
It was simply a question.
Like a note placed into open air, waiting for harmony.
Kcaj stopped walking.
Turned.
"No."
Elai blinked.
Seryth paused beside him, ears half-lowered.
Not tense. Just alert.
Kcaj's expression didn't shift.
But his tone did.
Softer.
More deliberate.
"Not yet."
He crouched—not in a teacher's pose. Not in a warrior's stance.
Just low enough to be human.
"I don't want to teach you anything, Elai.
Not until I see what still sings in you.
Then I'll show you how to forget it—just enough to hear the Force more clearly."
Elai watched him.
Didn't answer.
The question had already served its purpose.
They walked on.
No guards.
No escorts.
No instructions.
Only stone corridors grew too old for ceremony, and a wolf whose footsteps made less sound than thought.
Ahead, the chamber opened—small, spare, forgotten.
A room outside the structure of the Temple.
Built not for function, but for waiting.
Waiting for someone like him.
Kcaj stood in the doorway.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we begin with nothing."
Elai glanced up at him.
"Is that a lesson?"
Kcaj stepped aside, letting him pass.
"No," he said.
"It's how we listen."
And for the first time since stepping into the Temple,
The Force did not speak to Elai.
It sang with him.