Corran’s mission terminal didn’t look like much.

  That was part of the point. A simple list in pale green light. A few scrolling lines. A tier header. A timestamp. Names attached to requests and locations that most of the Temple couldn’t place on a galactic map without thinking hard. But the hall around it felt different now. Students slowed as they passed, pretending they weren’t reading, then reading anyway. Like there was a gravity to those lines that hadn’t existed two days ago.

  ? ? ?

  Tier One had three entries when I arrived.

  ? Wetyin’s Colony: Geothermal generator instability / maintenance request

  ? Luthen’s Drift Outpost: Supply shipment, resolve distribution dispute / escalation risk

  ? Korrin Vale Clinic Run: Medical shipment escort / local interference reported

  Under each: a short description, a contact frequency, a recommended response, and a line Corran had insisted on adding: If conditions escalate beyond Tier One: withdraw and call.

  Toran was already there, hand on his hip, eyes narrowed at the generator entry like he could fix it by glaring.

  “That’s mine,” he said without looking at me.

  “Of course it is,” I replied.

  He pointed at the coordinates. “Lava flow. Heat cycling. They’ve got a field casing that keeps warping. They want a Jedi because they think we can wave our hands and make physics stop.”

  “You can,” Meral said, appearing at my shoulder.

  Toran glanced at her. “I can’t.”

  Meral tapped the medical shipment entry. “That’s me.”

  I looked at the third line—the supply dispute.

  “Then I guess I’m going to Luthen’s Drift,” I said.

  Toran finally looked up. “What even is Luthen’s Drift?”

  “A small mining outpost in a nearby system,” I said. “Somewhere people argue over crates like they’re heirlooms.”

  Meral’s mouth curved. “Try not to start a war.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said.

  We didn’t make a ceremony out of splitting up. That was new too. Two weeks ago, we would have moved as a unit by default. Now the work itself pulled us apart in small, practical ways.

  ? ? ?

  Corran was across the hall, talking to a tall Duros with a clipboard like he’d been born with it in his hands. Corran’s face was neutral, but his eyes were sharp. He looked up as we approached, then flicked his gaze down to confirm what he already knew.

  “Assignments?” he asked.

  Toran lifted his datapad. “Geothermal. Wetyin.”

  Meral raised hers. “Clinic run.”

  I lifted mine. “Luthen’s Drift.”

  Corran nodded once. “Tier One rules apply. You check in on approach. You check out on completion. If it turns into something it’s not, you leave.”

  Meral grinned. “Yes, sir.”

  Corran’s expression didn’t change. “Don’t ‘yes, sir’ me.”

  “That wasn’t ‘yes, sir,’” she said. “That was respectful acknowledgment.”

  Toran snorted. “That was ‘yes, sir.’”

  Corran pointed at him. “You especially. Don’t get cute around lava.”

  Toran’s grin flashed, brief and boyish. “It’s not the lava I’m worried about. It’s the idiot who put the generator casing too close to it and thought ‘that’ll do’.”

  Corran’s mouth tightened like he wanted to smile and refused. “Check in.”

  We left in three directions. The Praxeum garage smelled of warm metal and damp jungle air. Shuttles sat in neat rows, patched and repatched, each one more practical than pretty. Mine was small, reliable, scarred from old use. The kind of ship that didn’t pretend to be heroic.

  I ran a hand along the hull as I climbed in, more out of habit than affection. The metal was cool under my palm. The cockpit seat creaked when I settled into it. The comm panel lit. I keyed the frequency Corran had assigned.

  “Luthen’s Drift run,” I said. “Ready for departure.”

  The tower controller’s voice came back a second later, crisp. “Copy. You’re clear to go. Maintain open channel. Local contact is Outpost Administrator Talsk. He’s expecting you.”

  “Understood.”

  I launched into the humid Yavin air and angled up through green canopy breaks, the jungle falling away into a textured blanket below. The Temple shrank behind me, stone walls dark and its rectangular arches reduced to pale lines against the darker forest.

  ? ? ?

  For a few minutes, with the engine note steady and the stars ahead, the mission board felt like an idea someone else had invented. Then the comm pinged again. A holofeed request. I hesitated, then accepted.

  Meral’s face appeared in the small projection, slightly grainy. Her hair was tied back. A strap crossed her shoulder. Behind her, the interior of a cargo shuttle, boxes stacked in neat rows with bright medical markings.

  “Guess what,” she said.

  “You’re going to get shot at,” I replied.

  Meral’s grin widened. “Probably.”

  Toran leaned into frame from her left, close enough that their shoulders touched in the projection. His shirt collar was open, and there was already a smear of soot on his cheek like he’d argued with an engine.

  “Why are you in her shuttle?” I asked.

  Toran held up a small tool kit. “I borrowed a part. She let me.”

  Meral snorted. “He stole it.”

  “I requisitioned it,” Toran corrected.

  Meral adjusted the holofeed so I could see the crates behind her. “Clinic supplies,” she said. “Vaccines, painkillers, a couple of portable beds. The kind of stuff people get stupid about when they think they can sell it.”

  “You’re alone?” I asked.

  Meral shook her head. “Two local escorts. They’re nervous. They keep looking at the crates like the crates might bite.”

  “Be careful,” I said.

  Meral’s eyes softened for a moment, then hardened again in that practical way she had. “Always.”

  Toran made a face at the camera. “Don’t let anyone guilt you into ‘just one more thing.’ If the dispute looks like a spark, step away.”

  I blinked. “Did you just give me advice?”

  “I’m evolving,” Toran said.

  Meral laughed, then the holofeed flickered as someone shouted off-screen.

  “Gotta go,” Meral said, and cut the feed.

  The cockpit went quiet again.

  I flew for a while, letting the stars shift. I could feel the faint thread of the Force around me, not dramatic, not loud, just the steady fabric of being alive. Only the memory intrusion from the terrace two nights ago remained in my chest like a thorn.

  ? ? ?

  Luthen’s Drift appeared on scanners as a cluster of metal structures bolted together like someone had tried to build a town out of spare ship parts. It sat on the edge of a barren moon with a thin atmosphere that made the horizon look bruised. Dust swept in long sheets. The outpost’s landing pad was cracked and patched, beacon light blinking with a tired rhythm.

  I checked in again as I approached.

  “Luthen’s Drift on final,” I said. “Visual.”

  Corran’s voice came back. “Copy. Administrator Talsk is on frequency. I’m staying live.”

  A new voice joined, rough and strained. “Jedi, thank the stars. This is Talsk. Bring it in. Bring it in quick.”

  I landed and shut down engines, then sat for a second with my hands on the console. Breath in. Breath out. A habit from training. A way to step into whatever came next with steadier feet.

  When I climbed down, the thin wind hit me hard — dry and cold, carrying dust that scraped at skin. The outpost smelled of metal and old fuel. People were already gathered at the pad edge, not a welcoming crowd, more like a group that had been standing too long with too much anger and nowhere to put it.

  Administrator Talsk pushed through them. He was thin, middle-aged, face carved into permanent stress. A badge on his jacket looked official in a way that suggested it had been printed yesterday.

  “Jedi,” he said. “You brought it all, right?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Have your people take stock of the cargo but leave it here until we’ve addressed the other thing.“

  He exhaled like he’d been holding breath since the last supply ship left. “Good. Good. Come on.”

  He didn’t offer a handshake. His hands were busy, gesturing, pulling me along. We moved into the main distribution hall — if you could call a long shed of corrugated plating a hall. Crates were stacked along the walls. Some had been opened. Others were still sealed with New Republic markings. Two groups faced each other across the center space: one cluster of outpost residents, rough clothes, tired eyes; the other cluster of uniformed local security, rifles slung but hands too close to grips.

  A woman on the resident side had a blaster on her hip and the look of someone who hadn’t slept in three days. A man on the security side had his jaw clenched so tight his cheek twitched.

  Talsk leaned close to my ear. “They’re going to shoot each other over protein packs and water filters,” he hissed. “We’re behind schedule. The next delivery’s delayed. The locals think security’s hoarding. Security thinks the locals are going to storm the storage and take everything. I’ve been shouting until my throat’s raw.”

  I looked at the crates. Then at the faces. I didn’t need the Force to feel how close the room was to snapping. It was in the way people stood. Weight forward. Hands half raised. Eyes that darted to weapons and then away as if ashamed to be tempted.

  I stepped forward into the open space between them. The movement alone shifted attention. Some heads turned. The security man’s eyes narrowed, then flicked to my saber hilt. The woman with the blaster tilted her chin up like she’d decided she wasn’t going to be impressed.

  “Everyone,” Talsk started, voice rising, “this is—”

  I lifted a hand slightly, not to silence him, but to slow the momentum. He caught it and stopped.

  I spoke to the room as if it were one group, not two.

  “I’ve brought supplies on behalf of the new Jedi Order. I’m not here to arrest anyone,” I said. “I’m not here to take sides. I’m here because if you start shooting, you don’t get more supplies. You get fewer.”

  A few people laughed harshly. It wasn’t humor. It was disbelief.

  The woman with the blaster spoke first. “We’re already getting fewer.”

  Her voice was rough. Not theatrical. She sounded like someone whose anger had been boiled down into something dense.

  “We rationed,” she continued. “We did what they told us. Then the security boys started locking the storage. Saying it’s ‘for order.’ You know what order looks like out here? It looks like a child drinking dirty water because the filters are in a crate we can’t touch.”

  The security man stepped forward half a pace. “Because you stormed the hall last month,” he snapped. “Because you ripped open crates like animals and then complained when the inventory didn’t match. Because someone’s been selling sealed packs on the side. Don’t pretend you’re innocent.”

  The room tightened again. A hand went to a rifle strap. Another went to a blaster grip.

  I let my awareness widen. Not reaching. Not pushing. Just listening. Fear had different textures. The security side had fear sharpened into order, into rules, into “if we lose control, we die”. The resident side had fear turned into hunger and resentment, into “if we wait politely, we die”. Both sides were right in their own way. That didn’t make them compatible.

  “Who has the inventory list?” I asked.

  Talsk blinked. “I do.”

  “Bring it,” I said.

  He hurried to a small desk and rummaged through datapads, hands shaking. He held one out like it might explode. I took it, scanned the lines. Supply quantities. Expected shipments. Distribution schedules. A list of sealed crates marked “reserved.”

  Reserved for what?

  I looked at Talsk. “Why are these reserved?”

  He swallowed. “Medical. Emergency.”

  The woman scoffed. “Emergency for who? Your friends?”

  Talsk’s face flushed. “Med bay. We don’t have a clinic. For—”

  “Show me,” I said.

  He hesitated. Then nodded, and led me toward the back.

  We passed the stacks. The air got cooler near the rear wall, where a portable refrigeration unit hummed. A smaller compartment had been locked with a cheap metal bar. Talsk unlatched it, hands fumbling. Inside were medical supplies: antibiotics, sterile packs, nutrient gel, a few sealed cases marked with emergency symbols.

  Nothing excessive. Nothing luxurious. The kind of supplies that made sense to hold back if you’d ever watched someone die from infection. I turned back to the main hall and saw eyes tracking us. The security man looked relieved. The woman looked unconvinced. I didn’t drag everyone into the back to inspect. That would have felt like making them beg for proof.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Instead I held up the datapad.

  “These reserved crates are medical,” I said. “They’re not being sold. They’re not being hoarded for comfort. They’re being held because if someone gets sick out here, you don’t have a hospital.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “And the rest?”

  “The rest,” I said, “is being handled badly.”

  That got a ripple of reaction, offended on both sides.

  I kept my voice level. “Security is locking storage without transparency. Locals are accusing without checking. Someone has been diverting sealed packs, because that claim isn’t coming from nowhere.”

  Talsk looked like he wanted to protest.

  I raised the datapad slightly. “Inventory doesn’t lie as easily as people do. I’m going to go through the list with you. Out loud. In front of everyone. Then we’ll agree on distribution and on who handles the keys.”

  The security man started, “We can’t—”

  “You can,” I said, and met his eyes. “Unless you’re hiding something.”

  He stiffened. Then said, “We’re not.”

  “Then prove it,” I replied.

  The woman with the blaster watched me for a long moment. Then she said, “Fine. Read it.”

  The hall settled by a fraction, not peaceful, but paused. The kind of pause where people choose whether they’re going to keep escalating or let something else take over.

  ? ? ?

  I stood at the center and read. Crate by crate. Item by item. Water filters. Protein packs. Fuel cells. Basic med supplies. I made Talsk confirm quantities, and I made the security man confirm the seal counts. I asked the resident woman to name two people she trusted to verify distribution.

  She hesitated. That was telling. Then she named them anyway. One of them was a teenager with tired eyes. The other was an older man whose hands shook slightly as he stepped forward, not from age, but from rage barely contained. We formed a small cluster in the center: me, Talsk, one security rep, two residents. The rest of the room watched.

  “We distribute this by schedule,” I said. “And the schedule is posted in the hall where everyone can see it. No more ‘come ask the right person.’ No more keys held by one group alone.”

  The security man said, “If they storm—”

  “They won’t,” the resident woman snapped. “Not if you stop acting like a jailer.”

  I held up a hand, stopping the argument before it grew teeth.

  “The keys,” I continued, “are held by two people. One from security. One from residents. The storage stays locked, but it’s locked by both, and opened by both. If one refuses, the other calls Talsk. If Talsk refuses, you call the New Republic liaison. And if the liaison refuses—”

  I paused, and felt the room lean in despite itself.

  “You contact the Jedi,” I finished. “You post on the mission board. That’s what it’s for. If it’s urgent, you call Jedi Master and CorSec Colonel Corran Horn directly.”

  There was a quiet shift at the mention of a system bigger than this room. It didn’t solve hunger. It did give people a direction for anger besides each other’s throats.

  I looked at Talsk. “Now. You have a diversion problem,” I said. “Someone’s been selling sealed packs.”

  Talsk’s eyes widened. “I don’t—”

  I didn’t accuse him. I watched the security man’s reaction instead. His gaze flicked too quickly toward a side door. That was enough.

  “Who has access to the seals?” I asked.

  Security man’s throat bobbed. “Only authorized—”

  “Names,” I said.

  He hesitated.

  The resident woman stepped forward, voice sharp. “Say it.”

  He exhaled, defeated by the room more than by me. “Dash,” he said. “He runs night watch.”

  A murmur ran through the hall. Someone cursed.

  Talsk looked sick. “Dash’s— he’s—”

  “Find him,” the resident woman said. “Now.”

  I didn’t let it become a mob.

  “Not a beating,” I said. “Bring him here. If he did it, he returns what he can. He’s removed from access. Then you decide whether you send him off outpost or keep him under watch. But you do not kill him over food.”

  The security man stared at me. “Why not?”

  Because you’ll become the thing you’re afraid of, a voice in my head said. I didn’t speak it. Instead I said, “Because you’re all just trying to survive.”

  The words landed. Not soft. Not moral. Just a simple statement that didn’t give anyone a heroic excuse. Two security officers moved toward the side door quickly, rifles still slung, hands visible. The room held itself, tense and watchful. While they were gone, we wrote the schedule. Talsk printed it on sheet of flimsi because the outpost’s holo projectors were unreliable. The resident woman taped it to the wall herself with shaking hands, like she didn’t trust anyone else to make it real.

  When the officers returned, they brought Dash between them. He was younger than I expected. Early twenties. Eyes darting. Sweat on his brow despite the cool air.

  He saw the crowd and tried to smile. “Hey—”

  The resident woman stepped close enough that he flinched.

  “Where are the packs?” she said.

  Dash’s smile collapsed. He glanced at Talsk as if hoping for rescue. Talsk looked away.

  Dash swallowed. “I — some are gone.”

  “Where,” she repeated.

  Dash’s eyes flicked toward an external service hatch. He didn’t answer, but the direction was a confession. The security man beside him tightened his grip. “You idiot.”

  I kept my voice level. “How many?”

  Dash’s shoulders sagged. “Two crates. I thought — I thought I could trade for fuel. I thought—”

  “You thought you could profit,” the resident woman said, voice flat.

  Dash’s face crumpled. He looked like someone realizing that the room he’d always lived in had walls he hadn’t noticed until now. I didn’t arrest him. I didn’t have cuffs. I had presence, and the room had consequences.

  “Return what you can,” I said. “Now. With them.”

  Dash nodded quickly, eyes wet, and the officers dragged him toward the hatch. The hall loosened, slowly. People didn’t smile. They didn’t forgive. They stopped gripping weapons. That was enough for Tier One.

  ? ? ?

  When it was done, Talsk approached me with hollow eyes.

  “I didn’t know,” he said.

  “You did,” I replied. “You just didn’t want it to be true.”

  He flinched like he’d been slapped. I didn’t soften it. I didn’t need to. The outpost didn’t need comfort. It needed the next day to happen without blood on the floor.

  I keyed my comm.

  “Corran,” I said. “Resolution in progress. Joint control of resources. Schedule posted. Dual-key system. Diversion identified and what can be recovered, is. No shots fired.”

  Corran’s voice came back, brisk but with a thread of relief he didn’t bother hiding. “Copy. Good work. Get out clean.”

  I looked at the hall one last time. The resident woman caught my gaze. She didn’t thank me. She nodded once. A warrior’s nod, acknowledging that the fights that didn’t happen were more important than the ones that did. I returned it and left.

  ? ? ?

  On the flight back, the cockpit felt quieter than it should have. The mission had taken hours, but it felt like it had taken a piece of my attention and kept it. Not fatigue. Something like disappointment. People didn’t need Sith to become dangerous. They only needed hunger and fear and one person willing to sell trust for fuel.

  Yavin’s jungle came into view, green swallowing horizon. The Temple’s pale stone rose from it like a shipwreck that refused to sink. As I descended, my comm pinged again.

  This time it was Toran. His holofeed flickered on, jittery with motion and heat. Behind him was orange light. Not sunlight. Lava glow. The image shimmered with heat distortion, and the sound was a constant low roar like an ocean that had decided it was fire. Toran’s hair was damp, face streaked with soot and sweat. He looked pleased in a way that made him look younger.

  “Good news,” he said.

  “You’re not dead,” I replied.

  “Not even slightly,” Toran said. Then he tilted the camera down.

  A geothermal generator stood on a platform anchored into black rock. Thick conduits ran into the ground. The casing around the core was warped and cracked in one place, metal bent like someone had hit it with a hammer.

  “A genius,” Toran said, voice full of affection and contempt at once, “built a casing that can’t handle the thermal cycling. The metal expands, the seam opens, the whole thing starts to vibrate like it wants to walk off the platform.”

  “You’re going to fix it by glaring,” I said.

  Toran laughed. “No. I’m going to fix it by not being an idiot.”

  He swung the holofeed toward the edge of the platform. Below was a river of lava, slow and thick, glowing like a wound. Heat rose in waves. Even through the holo, it made my skin prickle.

  “There’s your reason they asked for a Jedi,” Toran said. “Because normal mechanics don’t like doing this while their eyebrows burn off.”

  He panned to show a crude maintenance arm extended over the lava, shaking slightly.

  “I welded a temporary brace,” Toran continued, “and I’m installing a new expansion joint that can breathe. Also I told them if they insist on cheap casing again, I’ll throw their administrator into the lava personally.”

  “Diplomatic,” I said.

  Toran’s grin widened. “I’m learning from you.”

  I snorted, then realized how good it felt to hear him laugh.

  A second call joined, and Meral’s face appeared suddenly in the corner of the projection, breathless.

  “Update,” she said. “We’re landing. Two idiots on speeder bikes think they’re going to ‘claim’ our medical crates. I’m going to disappoint them.”

  Toran groaned. “Don’t do anything too fun without me.”

  Meral’s grin was sharp. “Too late.”

  Her feed cut.

  Toran looked back at me, eyes bright despite the heat. “You good?” he asked, and the question was casual but real.

  I hesitated for a fraction. “Mission went fine,” I said.

  “That’s not what I asked,” Toran replied.

  I exhaled slowly. “I’m good,” I said. “Just… tired.”

  Toran nodded like he understood the difference.

  “Get food,” he said. “I’ll be back before dinner.”|

  Then his feed cut too, and the cockpit went quiet again.

  ? ? ?

  I landed, checked out with Corran, filed the brief report that would now exist as a line in a system, and walked back into the Temple with dust still on my boots.

  The refectory smelled like stew and bread by the time evening settled. Students talked louder again, the day’s tension spent. The mission board had already become routine for some of them. For others it still felt like an invitation to prove something.

  Meral arrived before Toran, dropping into the seat beside me with a satisfied sigh.

  “No one died,” she announced.

  “Good,” I said.

  “They tried to play tough,” she continued, pulling a small wrapped bar from her pocket and biting into it. “Two boys with cheap blasters and too much confidence. They thought ‘medical shipment’ meant ‘easy score’.”

  “And?” I asked.

  Meral’s eyes glittered. “They learned what it feels like to be pinned to the ground by their own belt buckles.”

  I stared at her.

  Meral chewed thoughtfully. “Telekinesis,” she explained, as if that made it polite.

  “You didn’t hurt them,” I said.

  Meral shrugged. “I didn’t break anything that won’t heal. I did break their pride.”

  She spoke lightly, but there was something else under it. A gruff seriousness that hadn’t lived in her voice back when we’d first met, when her jokes were effortless and her grin came easy. I didn’t press. Meral would offer what she wanted to offer. Anything else was a shove.

  Toran arrived just before dinner, like he’d promised, smelling faintly of heated metal. He looked tired and satisfied, and there was a new burn mark on his glove. He slid into the seat across from us and started eating like he’d been starved.

  Meral eyed his glove. “You almost fell in.”

  Toran swallowed and said, “I did not almost fall in.”

  “You absolutely almost fell in,” Meral replied.

  “I leaned,” Toran corrected. “For leverage.”

  Meral leaned toward me and whispered, loud enough for him to hear, “He almost fell in.”

  Toran threw a bread crust at her. Meral caught it and ate it, triumphant.

  After dinner, we drifted back to the terrace. The air was cooler now, jungle breathing damp around the stone. Insects hummed. Stars hung over Yavin, indifferent and sharp. We sat the way we always did: me on the railing edge, Meral cross-legged on the stone, Toran sprawled with his back against a pillar like gravity was optional.

  For a while, none of us spoke. It wasn’t awkward. It was the quiet you earned after a day that required your attention to stay pointed outward. Meral broke it first, not with a joke, but with a small breath like she’d decided something.

  “I’ve been talking to Talon,” she said.

  Toran’s eyes flicked toward her immediately.

  I kept my gaze on the jungle, letting her have space.

  Meral pulled out her datapad and tapped it. A short holo clip flickered above her palm: a young man laughing mid-run along a rocky ridge, wind whipping his hair back, a bright ridiculous grin on his face. He jumped a gap like the ground had insulted him and he wanted to prove it wrong. Behind him, an open sky and a horizon that looked too wide to trust. The clip ended with him leaning close to the camera, breathless, and saying something I couldn’t hear over the terrace wind.

  Meral’s expression softened in a way I didn’t see often anymore. “He’s… a lot,” she said.

  “A lot is good,” Toran replied without hesitation.

  Meral blinked at him, surprised. I stood up from the railing and sat down with her.

  Toran shrugged. “You’ve been serious,” he said. “For a while. Like you’re carrying a weight you don’t want anyone else to see.”

  Meral’s mouth twitched. “I am.”

  Toran didn’t argue. He simply continued, “Maybe you need someone who reminds you that you’re allowed to be loud.”

  Meral stared at the datapad. “He’s wild,” she said, and there was a faint amusement in it, like she could already hear him getting them into trouble.

  “Good,” Toran repeated.

  Meral’s eyes lifted toward me. “You noticed,” she said, not accusing, just stating a fact.

  “I noticed,” I admitted.

  “I didn’t want you to think I was… leaving,” Meral said.

  “I didn’t,” I said, and it was true. I’d felt distance, but not abandonment.

  Meral’s shoulders eased by a fraction. Then she looked down again, fingers turning the datapad edge over and over as if she needed the motion.

  “Hearing objects speak to you,” she said quietly, “can do that. Make you serious. Make you… tired.”

  She didn’t look at either of us as she said it. She didn’t need to. We both knew what she meant. Her psychometry wasn’t a cute trick. It was a constant background noise of things that had happened, pressed into metal and cloth and stone. Toran’s expression shifted, something softer moving through it. He nodded once.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I get that.”

  Meral let out a breath that might have been a laugh in a different life. “Sometimes I touch something and it’s like—” She stopped, searching for words. “It’s like the world won’t shut up.”

  I felt my throat tighten slightly. Not because I didn’t understand. Because I did. Toran pushed himself up from the pillar without making a big deal of it. He moved behind Meral and me, then dropped down, arms sliding around both of us in one motion.

  It was awkward for a second—three bodies, two different heights, stone cold under us. Then it settled. Meral’s shoulders stiffened, then eased. I leaned back slightly into the pressure, surprised by how grounding it felt.

  Toran’s voice came quiet, close to my ear.

  “Don’t lose yourself in that noise,” he said.

  Meral’s laugh came out small, half broken.

  “You’re not one of the Darrun monks.”

  Toran tightened his arms a fraction.

  “No,” he said. “Those guys were terrifying. Like your father.”

  Meral snorted, wiping at her eye like something had gotten in it. “He’s not terrifying. He’s—”

  She stopped. The word didn’t come. Maybe because it was too many words.

  Toran didn’t force it. He just held.

  The three of us stayed like that for a moment, listening to the jungle hum and the Temple’s distant quiet. A simple shape. A simple proof. Meral leaned her head against my shoulder briefly, then sat up and shoved Toran’s arm away with exaggerated annoyance.

  “All right,” she said. “Enough of this. I’m going to go before I start acting sentimental.”

  Toran made a wounded sound. “You’re already sentimental.”

  Meral pointed at him. “You didn’t see anything.”

  Toran saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Meral threw her datapad at him lightly. Toran caught it and tossed it back. Meral caught it and stood, stretching. She looked at me for a beat, eyes steady.

  “Goodnight,” she said.

  “Goodnight,” I replied.

  She left.

  Toran stayed on the terrace, shoulders slumped against the pillar again, gaze on the stars. The soot from earlier still shadowed the edge of his jaw. He looked tired in a way I’ve seen Luke be tired — quietly, with determination.

  “You’re pushing hard,” I said.

  Toran shrugged. “Someone has to.”

  “Not alone,” I said.

  His eyes flicked toward me, and for a moment something almost like gratitude crossed his face. He covered it fast with a grin.

  “You’re getting sappy,” he said.

  “I’m tired,” I replied.

  Toran nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

  We sat in silence for a while, not touching, but close enough that it didn’t matter. When I finally stood to go, Toran didn’t stop me. He only said, quietly, “See you in the morning.”

  “See you,” I replied. Then I walked back inside.

  ? ? ?

  The Temple corridors were dim. My footsteps sounded too loud on the stone. I passed the mission terminal hall and saw the list updated already, new lines replacing old ones. Work never stopped. It only changed names and locations.

  In my room, I washed dust from my hands and stared at my reflection in the small mirror above the basin. My eyes looked the same. My face looked the same. The intrusion from two nights ago stayed silent. The galaxy had not stopped being the galaxy.

  I lay down and let the bed take my weight. Sleep came easier tonight not because I felt safe. Because I felt held.