The message arrived at breakfast. A small courier droid rolling across the refectory floor, pale casing catching the morning light, its holoprojector unit tucked into its chest like a folded note. It moved with the careful confidence of something that knew it was carrying importance and didn’t want anyone to pretend otherwise.

  Luke looked up from his cup when it stopped beside his table. Most of the room pretended not to watch. That, too, had become a habit. New students learned quickly that Luke could sit at a table like anyone else, but the air still shifted when he received a sealed message.

  The droid chirped, extended a small cylinder, and waited. Luke took it. His thumb traced the seal, not breaking it yet. He glanced once toward Tionne, then toward Kam. Kyle was already watching with that faintly sour look he wore when he suspected politics was about to enter the room and start rearranging furniture.

  Luke broke the seal. A short holo-flare rose above the cylinder. A crest. The words New Republic and Office of Liaison in neat, official fonts. A voice followed, measured and smooth, as if it had been trained to sound reassuring while delivering demands.

  “Master Skywalker,” it said. “On behalf of the Provisional Council and the Office of Civic Security, we extend our gratitude for the continued presence of the Jedi on Yavin IV and the steady growth of the restored New Jedi Order. Public confidence in the New Jedi Order remains… significant.”

  Significant. Not grateful. Not relieved. Significant.

  The voice continued, politely patient, like it had all the time in the galaxy.

  “In light of recent destabilization across several sectors, the Council requests a framework by which the New Jedi Order may assist local authorities with targeted relief and security tasks. We emphasize that public visibility of such assistance is considered beneficial to civilian morale and to confidence in the Republic’s ability to protect its citizens.”

  I sat close enough to hear, not too close to appear like a part of their group. While the Masters and instructors didn’t try to create a sensation of gap between themselves and us students, they also made sure to not be seen as playing favorites. Keeping my head down, I watched Luke’s face. He listened like someone reading the weather by smell. The holo went on. It mentioned properties. Old sites. Deeds and custodianship. A list of words that sounded harmless until you knew how they were used.

  “Further,” the liaison said, “the Council remains committed to the restoration and preservation of historic Jedi holdings previously maintained under Republic stewardship. We propose immediate administrative measures to facilitate return of select properties, pending the establishment of cooperative operational protocols between the Order and Republic agencies.”

  Cooperative operational protocols.

  In the refectory, someone laughed at a joke too loudly. Someone else scraped a plate as if the sound mattered. The room was pretending it wasn’t listening, but the Force hummed with attention. Luke ended the holo with a small twist of his wrist. The light vanished. For a moment, the normal noises of breakfast returned like a wave finally allowed to land.

  Kyle exhaled through his nose. “That’s one way to say ‘we want you on a leash.’”

  Tionne’s eyes stayed on Luke’s hands. “They’re offering returns,” she said quietly. “Sites. Archives. Holdings.”

  “And tying them to ‘visibility,’” Kyle replied, the word coming out like he’d found a bad taste in his mouth.

  Luke didn’t answer immediately. He looked down at the cylinder, as if it might have weight beyond its grams. Then he placed it on the table with careful precision.

  “We’ll meet,” he said.

  Just that. No speech. No performance.

  Breakfast continued, but it didn’t continue the same.

  I ate without tasting much. Around me, everyone spoke in lower voices, and older students watched Luke and pretended not to. Jaden sat with a group that had formed around him without anyone naming it as a formation. He listened more than he spoke, posture relaxed, eyes alert. Rosh sat close enough to be part of the same orbit, but his attention kept sliding away, as if he needed to check whether the room was looking at him.

  Meral nudged my foot under the table, a silent question. I gave her the smallest shrug before quietly relaying the conversation to her. The New Republic was far away. It always had been, for most of the people here. Yavin had a way of making the galaxy feel distant until the galaxy decided it was done being ignored.

  When I left the refectory, the Temple corridors smelled of damp stone and warm air. The jungle outside pressed against the open arches like a living wall. A breeze carried the sound of distant training, the familiar rhythm of practice blades meeting.

  ? ? ?

  Later that day, I passed the Council chamber doors and felt the shift before I saw the guards. They weren’t guards in armor. They were students stationed at the corridor junction, there to redirect anyone who wandered too close. No weapons. Just presence. A quiet line drawn across the stone.

  I didn’t intend to intrude. I was heading to the training yard, but the corridor narrowed there, and the Council doors sat like a mouth at the end of it, carved stone worn smooth by Massassi hands long dead. The doors were closed.

  Voices leaked through anyway. Luke’s, steady. Kam’s, low and measured. Tionne’s, soft but firm when she needed it. Kyle’s, sharp enough to cut through stone. Kirana Ti’s calm tone, the kind that didn’t rise because it didn’t have to. Streen’s voice, airy and uncertain at the edges, like he still felt odd speaking in rooms that weren’t desert caves.

  And Corran Horn’s voice, practical and unromantic.

  “We don’t have the bodies for open-ended,” Corran was saying. “We don’t have the infrastructure. If we accept missions, they need tiers. Clear criteria. Clear oversight.”

  Kyle replied, “Oversight turns into orders.”

  Corran didn’t flinch. “Lack of oversight turns into funerals. There’s a difference between ‘the Senate tells us what to do’ and ‘we decide what we can handle.’ The Republic’s going to try to push. That’s what governments do. We need a structure that doesn’t break when they lean on it.”

  Streen murmured something I didn’t catch.

  Kirana said, “And if we refuse outright?”

  Silence for a beat. Then Luke, quiet.

  “Then they will find a way to make refusal sound like abandonment.”

  The words weren’t angry. They were simply a fact.

  I kept walking. Not because the conversation wasn’t mine to hear, but because it was. Every word in that room would land on us whether we listened at the door or not. As I rounded the corner, I nearly collided with Tionne coming out of a side corridor, arms full of datapads and thin flimsiplast folders. She looked up, hair escaping its tie, and managed a small smile.

  “Kae’rin,” she said.

  “You look like you’re carrying the Senate,” I replied.

  A short breath of tired laughter escaped her. Not joy. Relief at being allowed a human moment.

  “Not all of the Senate,” she said. “Only the parts of it that want forms filled out.”

  She shifted the stack and glanced toward the Council doors. Her eyes were tired, but there was a steadiness beneath it. Tionne’s steadiness didn’t come from strength. It came from the refusal to drop something just because it was heavy.

  “Corran’s trying to build a system,” she added, as if that alone might keep the Temple from cracking.

  “I heard him,” I said, and regretted it instantly.

  Tionne didn’t scold me. She just nodded once, acknowledging the reality that walls didn’t always keep sound to themselves.

  “It will be… limited,” she said. “At first. That’s what Luke wants. That’s what we all want.”

  “What the Republic wants is not limited,” I said.

  Tionne’s mouth tightened, then relaxed.

  “No,” she admitted. “But we can choose what we accept.”

  She adjusted the datapads again. “Walk with me?”

  We moved together down the corridor, quiet footsteps on stone.

  Outside, a flock of small jungle birds swept past an open arch like a thrown scarf of color.

  “Are they going to make us… report?” I asked.

  Tionne’s eyes flicked toward me. “You already report,” she said. “To Luke. To your own conscience. This will just add a layer. Names on paper.”

  I imagined my days reduced to neat lines in a ledger. Mission accepted. Mission completed. Casualties: none. Confidence: maintained.

  “I don’t like it,” I said.

  “I don’t either,” Tionne replied.

  That was all the comfort she offered. It was enough.

  Tionne didn’t lie to make the air softer.

  By evening, Corran’s system had become real. It wasn’t a literal board nailed to a wall, like a farmer posting notices for lost livestock. It was a holoterminal set in a side hall near the training wing, where anyone passing would see it. Corran had insisted on visibility. If the Republic wanted the Jedi seen doing work, then the Jedi would see the work too. No hidden assignments. No whispered favors.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  The terminal projected a simple list. No flashy graphics. No propaganda. Just categories and entries.

  [Tier One] — Local Aid / Low Risk

  [Tier Two] — Escort / Investigation / Moderate Risk

  [Tier Three] — Active Threat / High Risk

  And below that, a line that made Kyle snort aloud when he read it:

  [Tier Four] — Council Approval Only

  “Tier Four,” Kyle said, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “That’s ‘no.’ He made a category for ‘no.’”

  Corran stood near the terminal, hands on his hips, looking like he’d rather be flying than doing paperwork, but doing it anyway because someone had to. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp, scanning faces, measuring reactions.

  “It’s a category for ‘not unless we’re suicidal,’” Corran corrected.

  Kyle’s mouth twisted. “We used to just say ‘no’.”

  “And now the Senate will ask why,” Corran replied. “So the answer is built into the structure. Council approval. Limited distribution. Clear criteria.”

  Mara Jade stood in the shadow of a pillar, watching the crowd like she was counting exits. She didn’t speak, but her stillness had the weight of agreement. When Mara approved of something, it wasn’t loud. It was quiet and dangerous. Kirana Ti walked past the terminal, eyes moving down the list. “And who decides tier placement?”

  “Initial filter is me and Tionne,” Corran said. “Then Luke, Kam, Kyle. Council final say on anything above Tier Two.”

  Streen hovered at the edge, looking mildly alarmed at the entire concept. His life had been too long without institutions. Forms made him itch.

  Luke arrived with Kam beside him, and the corridor quieted without being told to. He studied the terminal for a long moment. The list reflected in his eyes, pale green light on tired skin.

  “This is what we’re doing,” Luke said, not asking. He looked at Corran. “You’re comfortable with it?”

  Corran lifted one shoulder. “I’m not comfortable. I’m prepared.”

  Luke’s mouth curved faintly, the closest he came to humor today.

  “That will have to be enough.”

  He turned then, scanning the gathered students.

  “Senior cohort,” Luke said. “This way.”

  We followed him into the smaller hall adjacent to the terminal corridor, a space used for briefings and lectures. The stone walls held echoes. The air smelled faintly of old dust and newer polish.

  Not everyone was invited. It wasn’t based on age. It was based on something harder to define. Experience. Control. The ability to hold yourself steady when the room tilts. I saw Jaden step in without surprise. Rosh followed, chin lifted as if he’d expected to be called, and would have been offended if he hadn’t.

  Meral and Toran entered beside me, and I felt the smallest tightening in the Force as people registered it. Unsupervised. Trusted. A word that sat heavy on shoulders. Kyle stood near the back, arms folded. He looked like a man about to enjoy being disagreeable for practical reasons. Luke waited until the door sealed, then spoke plainly.

  “The New Republic has asked for our help,” he said. “Not in theory. In practice. They want the Jedi active. Visible. Useful.”

  No one laughed. No one spoke. Luke didn’t wait for permission to continue.

  “We will accept missions,” he said. “Curated. Limited. We are not a military. We are not Republic Security. We will not become a tool that can be pointed.”

  Kyle made a soft sound, approving and skeptical at once.

  Luke’s gaze moved across us. “If a mission is beyond your current ability, you will not take it. If you think you can handle something because you want to prove yourself, you will stop and ask whether wanting is the same as being ready.”

  Rosh’s jaw tightened. I felt it in the Force like a muscle clenching.

  Luke continued, “Corran and Tionne will filter incoming requests. The Council will approve anything above moderate risk. Tier structure is posted outside. You will check in. You will report back.”

  A pause, just long enough for the words to settle into bones.

  “And supervision,” Luke said.

  Kyle’s eyebrows rose slightly, as if he’d been waiting for this like a man waiting for a punchline. Luke gestured toward Jaden and Rosh.

  “Jaden Korr,” he said. “Rosh Penin. You’re eligible for Tier One and Tier Two missions. You will be supervised by Kyle.”

  Rosh opened his mouth.

  Luke’s gaze held him without heat.

  “This is not punishment,” Luke said. “It’s oversight. It’s safety. It’s training.”

  Rosh swallowed. The words stayed behind his teeth, but they didn’t stop existing. Jaden nodded once, calm acceptance. If he felt insulted, he didn’t show it. He looked toward Kyle briefly, expression neutral, then back to Luke.

  Luke turned to us.

  “Kae’rin,” he said. “Meral. Toran.”

  Toran’s posture shifted half a fraction, attentive. Meral’s eyes stayed steady.

  “You’re cleared for Tier One missions without instructor supervision,” Luke said. “Local aid. Mediation. Repair. Escort work that doesn’t involve known active threats.”

  Kyle’s mouth quirked. “So you get the boring jobs.”

  Meral’s grin flashed. “I like boring.”

  Luke didn’t smile. “If a mission changes,” he added, eyes on all of us, “if it escalates, you call. You retreat if you need to. You don’t turn a Tier One into a Tier Three because you don’t want to look weak.”

  Toran nodded, more serious than he looked most days. Meral’s grin faded into something steadier. I simply said, “Understood.” Luke’s gaze lingered on me for a beat longer than the others, carrying something like worry. Then he moved on.

  “There will be rules,” Luke said. “Not because the Republic demands them. Because we need them. We’re rebuilding. That means we don’t get to pretend we’re ready for everything.”

  Kyle let out a low harrumph that might have been agreement.

  Luke finished without ceremony. “That’s all. Corran will post the first assignments tomorrow. Get some rest. We start small.”

  The meeting ended. We filtered out into the corridor, and the holoterminal’s pale green light washed faces in a thin glow. Corran was already tapping at the interface, inputting criteria, setting access permissions. He looked like someone assembling a lock while watching the door.

  Tionne stood beside him, datapads still in hand, eyes moving between the terminal and the students leaving. Rosh walked past them with his shoulders stiff, trying to look like he didn’t care. His presence in the Force spiked and dipped, like a wave slapping rock. He didn’t look at Kyle. He didn’t look at Luke. He looked straight ahead as if the corridor itself had insulted him.

  Jaden paused briefly near the terminal, scanning the tier list with quiet interest. When his eyes met mine, he nodded once, not as a challenge, but as acknowledgment. Like: This is the game now. Then he moved on.

  Meral leaned toward me as we walked. “Kyle supervising them,” she murmured. “That’s going to be… fun.”

  Toran made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Kyle’s going to enjoy it too much.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Kyle doesn’t enjoy much.”

  Toran’s grin flickered. “He enjoys being right.”

  We reached the corridor junction, and Luke and Corran stood close enough to speak quietly. Their voices were low, but the way Corran’s hand moved—sharp, precise gestures—made the conversation visible even without sound. Tionne shifted her stack of datapads, then paused, watching them, expression careful. She looked like someone already calculating how to keep this new system from becoming a fire.

  Luke nodded once at something Corran said, then replied briefly. Corran’s jaw tightened. He nodded back. Agreement reached, or at least accepted.

  Mara stood a little apart, still shadowed, eyes on the corridor beyond as if she expected trouble to walk in wearing a smile. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her presence was a reminder that careful choices didn’t stop people from choosing badly.

  I kept walking.

  ? ? ?

  The Temple quieted as night arrived. The jungle outside never truly went quiet, but the Praxeum’s internal noise softened. Footsteps became fewer. Training shouts died. Lights dimmed in corridors.

  I ended up on the terrace without intending it, the same place I’d stood too many nights now. Stone beneath my palms, warm from day heat, cooling slowly. The sky over Yavin was clear, stars sharp as cut glass. Below, the jungle was a dark mass threaded with faint movement, insects flashing their small lights like scattered thoughts.

  I leaned on the railing and let my breath find its own pace.

  Missions.

  It should have been simple. Help people. Do what the Jedi were meant to do. But the word sat differently now. It came with tiers and filters and check-ins. It came with a Republic seal. It came with the knowledge that someone far away cared less about the work than about being able to point at it.

  I tried not to let that sour something inside me. The galaxy didn’t owe us clean motives. The galaxy was messy. People asked for help for reasons that weren’t noble. Help still mattered.

  Somewhere behind me, a door opened and closed softly. Footsteps crossed stone, then faded. I didn’t turn. The terrace belonged to whoever needed it.

  The Force around me felt ordinary. Warm. Full. A familiar weave of presences: sleeping students, late-night wanderers, Luke’s steady glow somewhere deep in the Temple, like a hearth you could always find if you listened.

  I let my eyes drift half shut.

  Then the world slipped.

  Not into darkness. Not into a vision.

  Just… out of alignment.

  My breath caught on the wrong beat. The world stretched along the edges as if the Force texture had gone thin for a blink. The terrace railing under my palms felt both closer and farther away, a distance measured wrong.

  Gravity tilted by a fraction. Not enough to make me fall. Enough to make my stomach tighten.

  For a heartbeat, I felt pulled in two directions at once. Not like being tugged physically. Like being asked, quietly and insistently, to stand somewhere else. Somewhere with different weight. Different time. Different rules.

  There was no image. No sound. No voice speaking in my ear. Only sensation. A cold clarity sliding under the skin. A moment of being displaced, like stepping down a stair you thought was there and finding air.

  Then it passed.

  The Force rushed back into place, full and warm again, as if nothing had happened. The terrace railing was solid. The night air smelled of wet leaves. Insects buzzed. Somewhere below, something small moved through brush.

  I remained still, hands gripping stone until my fingers ached.

  My heart beat hard once, then steadied.

  I inhaled slowly. Exhaled.

  The intrusion left no picture to hold, no scene to examine. Only the aftertaste of wrongness, and the faint sense of having been near something ancient without seeing it.

  I could have gone inside. Found Luke. Found Tionne. Said: Something happened again.

  I didn’t.

  I knew the looks I’d get. Concern. Questions. A circle of careful adult faces deciding what parts of me were dangerous and what parts were merely strange. I wasn’t ready for that.

  So I did what I’d learned to do when the world didn’t make sense. I made it ordinary.

  ? ? ?

  I went back into my room, moved quietly so my steps didn’t wake anyone, and poured myself water from the carafe on the table. The cup was cool against my fingers. The water tasted faintly of stone.

  I drank half, set the cup down, and watched the surface settle.

  Then I opened my travel pack and checked the clasp, even though it didn’t need checking. I ran my thumb along the seam, feeling the stitching, counting the tiny imperfections like they were proof of something real.

  Outside, the jungle hummed. Inside, the Temple breathed.

  I closed the clasp. The click sounded too loud in the quiet, sharp as a pin in cloth.

  I sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting on my knees, and waited for my pulse to match the room again. When it did, I lay down.

  Sleep came eventually, but it felt like slipping into water you didn’t fully trust.