Chapter 2: A Master's Mantle
The light didn’t fade so much as it was absorbed—into the gleaming durasteel of the platform, into the deep violet of the Coruscant sky, into the very fabric of his being.It left behind a profound silence, hollowed out and waiting to be filled. Jacob blinked.Rael Aveross and Master Zin were gone.Vanished. As if they had never been.He was alone.But not as he had been. The weight on his shoulders was different.He looked down. The familiar fabric of his jeans and jacket was gone, replaced by the rough, comfortable weave of Jedi robes. Browns and creams, layered, with a utility belt at his waist where his pockets used to be. A cloak hung from his shoulders, brushing against the backs of his calves.He moved his hand, and the sleeve fell back just right.He knew this outfit. He had sketched it, imagined it, Halloween-costumed it.This was the real thing. It smelled of clean linen, of ozone, of a distant, rain-washed stone.
He breathed in, and the air itself seemed to change. Before, on the platform with the Jedi, the Force had been a scream—a terrifying, deafening alarm.Now, it was a river. Vast, deep, and utterly responsive. He could feel it flowing through him, around him, in the durasteel under his boots, in the whisper of the high-altitude wind. He felt attuned. He reached out a hand, not with his body, but with his mind, toward a discarded hydrospanner left near a service hatch ten feet away.
It leapt into his palm, smooth as butter.
A laugh erupted from him, sharp and bright against the city’s hum.He tossed the tool, and it hung in the air, spinning lazily. He guided it with a thought, sent it weaving in a figure-eight around a support strut. It obeyed like a trained pet.He let it clatter to the deck.The power was intoxicating. It felt like stretching a muscle he never knew he had, a muscle that was already strong, already toned.Prodigy’s edge, the thought came, unbidden and welcomed. This was what it meant.The chosen one.
He turned, and there, resting gracefully on the platform where no ship had been, was a vessel. It was sleek, a matte gray with angular lines, reminiscent of a Lambda-class shuttle but smaller, more aggressive, unmistakably personal. Its landing ramp was down, an open invitation.His ship. He knew it, the same way he knew the robe on his skin belonged to him. It was his, as the lightsaber now clipped securely to his belt was his.The journey had been rewritten. No more confusion, no more fear, no more being herded by concerned strangers.This was his advantage.His pleasure.
He strode toward the ship, his cloak swirling with a confidence that felt both alien and deeply earned. The ramp led into a compact but efficient interior: a pilot’s chair, a co-pilot’s station, a small living area, a hatch to what he presumed were sleeping quarters. It was pristine, but it felt lived-in.His.A datapad rested on the pilot’s seat.He picked it up. The screen flickered to life, displaying a star chart. It was centered on Coruscant, but the notations were in Basic—his Basic now, he realized, as he understood it effortlessly. Routes were highlighted, potential destinations marked. He scrolled, and the map shifted, showing sectors he recognized from lore: the Mid Rim, the Outer Rim, mysterious clusters in the Unknown Regions. The galaxy was literally at his fingertips.He slid into the pilot’s chair. It conformed to his shape.The controls were intuitive; he placed his hands on them and knew their functions. Engine ignition, repulsorlift, navicomputer.This was a dream.This was the dream. He was the hero, powerful, equipped, free.
“Welcome aboard, Master,” a calm, androgynous voice emanated from the console.“All systems are nominal. Course is plotted per your last entry.Shall I initiate launch sequence?”
The voice was pleasant, helpful. It should have been comforting.A tiny, cold needle of unease pricked the balloon of his euphoria. Your last entry.He hadn’t entered anything.
“Where is the course plotted to?” he asked, his voice sounding older, more assured to his own ears.“The Helska system, Outer Rim. As you specified.”
He knew the name.A remote, insignificant system. Why would he…?Because it’s a place to start, the thought surfaced, smooth and plausible. A place where you can test your power, away from the Core’s eyes.It made sense. Of course it did. It was his own plan, from a version of himself he couldn’t quite remember, a version that had already been living this life.“Okay,” Jacob said. “Initiate sequence.”
Outside, the ship’s engines whined to life, a low, powerful thrum he felt in his bones.Repulsors engaged, and the ship lifted smoothly from the platform. The view through the transparisteel canopy expanded, the cityscape falling away, becoming a breathtaking tapestry of light. He guided the ship with instinctive, slight movements, merging seamlessly into a stream of outgoing traffic.No one hailed him.No clearance codes were requested. The ship—his ship—blended in, its ident codes broadcasting something benign and authoritative.He was a ghost with perfect papers.
He sat back, watching Coruscant shrink into a glittering jewel against the black.This was it. He had done it.He was a Jedi.He was powerful.He was free.
The needle of unease returned, sharper.It was the smell. Not the ship’s clean, recycled air.A memory of a smell. The acrid, ugly scent of burnt birthday tablecloth, melting synthetic fibers. It was there, just for a second, tickling the back of his sinuses.Then gone.He shook his head, dispelling the phantom. He looked at his hands, resting on the controls.They were his hands, but… calmer.No bitten nails. A faint scar across the knuckle of his right index finger he didn’t recognize. A callus on his thumb from… from what?Lightsaber training?Real training?He unclipped his lightsaber. His.The metal was warm, familiar.He ignited it. The blue blade snapped forth, its hum steady and strong in the enclosed space. He swung it in a slow, defensive Form III pattern, the one he’d practiced for months with painted PVC. His body moved with a precision and grace that was beyond practice.It was memory.Muscle memory.But it wasn’t his.
He deactivated the blade.The silence in the cabin was suddenly loud. The only sound was the steady drone of the hyperdrive preparing to jump.He was alone.Profoundly alone. Rael and Zin had been real.Their concern had been real. The armored speeder, the hunter’s gaze—that had been real. Now, they were all erased, replaced by this… this perfect narrative.This chosen-one fantasy served on a platter.
He got up abruptly, the pilot’s chair sliding back.He paced the short length of the main cabin. “This isn’t right,” he muttered to himself.
“Is there a malfunction, Master?” the ship’s voice inquired.“No,” Jacob said, too quickly. “No malfunction.”
He opened a small storage compartment.Inside was a standard Jedi field kit: medpac, ration packs, a glowrod. Beneath it, something else.A flat, rectangular object.He pulled it out.
It was a comic book.A real, paper, 21st-century comic book. Star Wars: Republic #78.The cover was slightly worn, the colors faded. He remembered buying this from a back-issue bin at Comic Den just last month. He’d read it in his bedroom, surrounded by model kits and posters.His breath caught.This was a piece of his world. The world before.The world of make-believe. It was here, in this perfect ship, in this perfect reality.A flaw in the matrix.He flipped it open. The pages smelled of old paper and cheap ink.The panels showed Jedi in battle, clones fighting droids.Fiction.A story. His story now.But holding the physical artifact, he felt a surge of something true and desperate. This was his anchor.This proved the before was real.
A proximity alarm chimed softly from the cockpit.He dropped the comic back into the compartment and slid into the pilot’s seat. The sensor display showed a small contact, clinging to the shadow of a larger freighter in the adjacent traffic lane.It was a simple blip, anonymous. But it was matching his course, his speed, with a precision that felt intentional.“Could be a coincidence,” he said aloud.
“Probability is low,” the ship’s voice responded.“The vessel has no active transponder. Its trajectory adjustments mirror ours with ninety-seven percent accuracy.”
A tail.The hunters. They hadn’t been erased.They’d just changed tactics.
The earlier fear, the cold clarity from the quarry, returned, cutting through the artificial confidence of the robes and the ship. This perfect advantage was a bubble, and something was pressing against it from the outside.
“Can we lose it?”
“Attempting evasive maneuvers in Coruscant traffic is dangerous.Recommend proceeding to hyperspace. Once in the Helska system, we can assess.”
The navicomputer’s countdown to jump glowed: 00:00:47.The blip held position.
46… 45…
Jacob’s hands tightened on the controls.The Force flowed around him, clear and strong. He could feel the other ship now—a cold, focused intent, like a needle pointing directly at his back. It wasn’t Jedi.It wasn’t friendly.“What is it?” he asked the ship.
“Configuration matches an N-321 surveillance probe.Lightly armed. Often deployed by private security corporations or… bounty hunters.”
A probe droid. Sent to track, to identify, maybe to test his defenses. The man in the quarry had talked about “signatures.” This thing was here to get a final reading.30 seconds.He had a choice. Jump to Helska, lead this thing to a remote system where anything could happen. Or deal with it now, in the crowded, lawful space around Coruscant.
The heroic fantasy version of himself, the one the robes seemed to whisper about, would jump.Confront the enemy on his own terms, in open space. But the Jacob from Beaverton, who’d just been holding a comic book from his bedroom, thought differently. Crowds were safety.Witnesses were a deterrent.Here, if he was attacked, it would be a scandal. Out there, it would be a private execution.“Cancel hyperspace jump,” Jacob said.
“Master?That is not advised. The probe will—”
“I said cancel.”
The countdown froze, then vanished.The blip on the sensor stuttered for a second, as if surprised. Then it began to move, edging out from the shadow of the freighter, accelerating toward him.
“It’s powering weapons,” the ship’s voice intoned, a hint of urgency bleeding through its calm.
Jacob swung the ship hard to port, diving down two traffic tiers in a move that would have shredded his stomach in a normal life. The g-forces pushed him into his seat, but the inertial dampeners absorbed the worst of it.Alarms blared from other vessels. The probe skimmed over the top of a lumbering freighter, its spherical body now visible through the canopy—a dark, polished orb with hidden blaster ports.
A single, precise red bolt lanced past his viewport.“It’s firing warning shots. Attempting to disable our engines,” the ship reported.Warning shots.They wanted him alive, or at least his ship intact. For a signature.For confirmation.Anger, hot and sudden, boiled up in Jacob. This thing, this drone, was treating him like a specimen.It had shattered his perfect, rewritten day. It was pulling him back into the fear, the chaos.He was done being a target.
He didn’t think.He felt. He reached into the river of the Force, and it answered with a torrent.His perception expanded. He could feel the probe droid’s electronic heart—a pulsing, crystalline core protected by layers of armor and reactive shields. He could feel the nervous systems of the pilots in the nearby ships, their irritation, their fear.He could feel the space between molecules.
He yanked the control stick, bringing his ship into a steep, climbing turn. The probe matched him, faster, more agile. Another blaster bolt grazed his starboard deflector shield, sending a shower of sparks across his console.“Shields at eighty percent.”
Jacob closed his eyes. Just for a second.He didn’t need to see.
He felt the probe’s position, ahead and to the right, lining up for another shot. He felt the delicate lattice of its guidance systems. He reached out, not with a hand, but with will, and twisted.Outside, the probe droid jerked violently. A cascade of blue energy rippled across its surface as its internal stabilizers fought the external pressure. It fired, but the shot went wild, vaporizing a decorative spire on a passing luxury yacht.
Jacob opened his eyes, focused on the physical.He thumbed his weapons control.A targeting reticle swung over the flailing droid.
“Master, firing within a Coruscant traffic lane is a severe violation of—”
He fired.
Two green bursts of laser fire erupted from his ship’s wing cannons. They lanced through the probe’s compromised shields and struck its central orb. The explosion was brief, a silent flowering of orange and white in the vacuum, followed by a expanding cloud of shrapnel that pinged harmlessly off his reinforced hull.Silence, save for the hum of his own engines.
The sensor screen was clear.He was breathing hard, his heart hammering against his ribs. The adrenaline was his own, familiar, human.The power he’d just wielded was not.It had been effortless. Instinctual.Terrifying.
“The authorities will have detected that discharge,” the ship’s voice said, blandly. “Coruscant Security Force patrols will be dispatched.”
The bubble was popped.The fantasy was over. He was a Jedi who had just blasted a probe droid in the middle of a galactic capital’s airspace. The “chosen one” narrative was looking a lot more like a “wanted fugitive” narrative.He looked at the star map. Helska was still an option.A remote place to hide.To figure this out.
He thought of Rael Aveross’s grim face. The Temple is the only place you’ll be safe.But the Temple hadn’t found him.This perfect ship had.This easy power had. The Temple felt like part of a story he was supposed to be living, a story that had conveniently removed his guides.Who had rewritten the journey?The comic book in the storage compartment. The smell of burnt plastic.The cold fear in the quarry.Those were his.Real.Unedited.
He made a decision.“Plot a new course,” Jacob said, his voice firm.
“Destination, Master?”
He didn’t know the coordinates.But he knew the feeling. The sense of that vast, serene, and ancient presence he had felt bleeding through the city’s chaos when he first arrived.A mountain of light amidst the neon.“Find the Jedi Temple. Navigate to its public landing platform.”
A pause.“That course is available. However, following this incident, your arrival may prompt… questions.”
“I’m counting on it,” Jacob muttered. He wasn’t going to be the puppet of this convenient fantasy. He wasn’t going to run to the outer rim with a bounty on his head. He was going to walk into the lion’s den, throw his flawed, confusing, real self at their feet, and demand some gods-damned answers.
The ship rotated, pointing its nose back toward the planet-girdling city. Below, a thousand lanes of traffic pulsed. Somewhere down there, in the mountains of durasteel, was the truth. He pushed the throttle forward, and dove back into the light.
He pushed the throttle forward, and dove back into the light.
The descent was a punishment. Traffic lanes converged, a frantic hydraulic press of ships all governed by unseen protocols. His vessel, for all its intuitive design, was now a glaring anomaly. Alerts flickered across his comms display—official CorSec frequencies buzzing with inquiry codes, demanding his ident and immediate vector explanation. He ignored them. The Force, that wondrous river, was choppy here, muddied by the sheer psychic noise of quadrillions of lives and the sharp, clarifying spikes of alarm from the security forces now tuning their attention his way. He felt them like needles pricking his skin.
He wove through the traffic with a desperation that edged into recklessness. A bulky freighter’s port shield grazed his starboard wing, sending a shudder through the frame and a shower of sparks from the console. “Minor hull breach in compartment three,” the ship’s voice reported. “Atmosphere is contained.”
“Just get me there,” Jacob gritted out, his hands slick on the controls. The robes felt absurd now, a costume in a crash he hadn’t rehearsed. He could see it now, the Temple, not as a glowing symbol in a holofilm, but as a physical fact. It rose from the endless city-scape, a colossal ziggurat of stone and transparisteel, ancient and imposing amidst the sleek towers. It emitted a tangible calm, a deep, slow pulse in the Force that made the chaotic noise around it seem like static. It was a mountain. And he was heading for its base.
A new voice, stern and modulated, cut through his internal comm. “Unidentified vessel on vector seven-niner-gamma, this is Coruscant Security. You are in violation of multiple flight codes. Power down your engines and prepare for tow. Immediate compliance is required.”
Jacob’s mouth was dry. He opened a channel, his voice cracking. “I’m… I’m seeking asylum. At the Jedi Temple.”
A pause, filled with the crackle of encrypted bandwidth. “Your transponder ident is flagged for weapons discharge in a regulated lane. Asylum requests do not override judicial protocol. Cut your engines.”
Ahead, the Temple’s primary public landing platform sprawled, vast and dotted with ships of various designs. It was so close. Between him and it, two sleek, arrowhead-shaped CorSec interceptors slid into formation off his bow, their running lights flashing an authoritative crimson.
He was out of options. He either surrendered, or he tried something profoundly stupid. The river of Force energy surged within him, agitated by his panic. He didn’t think. He reached out with it, not toward the ships, but toward the minds of the pilots. He didn’t try to control them. He simply pushed. A wave of pure, urgent need—a wordless, psychic scream of LET ME PASS.
The effect was instantaneous and visceral. One interceptor suddenly veered hard to starboard, its pilot seemingly distracted by a critical systems alert that didn’t exist. The other shuddered, its flight path wobbling as if caught in a sudden turbulence pocket. The comm channel erupted with confused, truncated shouts. Jacob didn’t wait. He punched the throttle, and his ship shot through the gap, engines screaming. He crossed the threshold of the Temple’s airspace.
The change was immediate. The CorSec comms traffic vanished, replaced by a blanket of silence. The interceptors pulled up sharply at the invisible boundary, circling like frustrated raptors denied their prey. The Temple’s atmosphere was different. The light seemed softer. The relentless hum of the city faded to a distant murmur. His ship’s alarms quieted.
“You are being scanned,” his ship informed him. “Landing coordinates are being provided. Please follow the guidance beam.”
A gentle, blue light emerged from the platform floor, designating a landing spot. The ease of it, after the chaos, was unsettling. He followed it, his ship settling onto the polished deck with a soft thump. For a long moment, he just sat in the pilot’s chair, listening to the engine cool, to the sound of his own ragged breathing. He unclipped the lightsaber from his belt. The real lightsaber. The one that had scorched his mother’s tablecloth. It was the only thing that felt entirely his.
He stood, his legs trembling slightly, and moved to the ramp. With a hiss, it lowered. The air that washed in was cool, dry, and carried a scent utterly alien to Coruscant’s exhaust and industry: ancient stone, clean water, living wood, and a faint, ozone-like energy that was the signature of the Force itself, concentrated here. It was the smell of peace. It made the memory of burnt plastic sharper.
He stepped out. The platform was bustling, but with a quiet, purposeful energy. Beings of a dozen species moved about, some in Jedi robes, others in civilian attire. A pair of younglings, their heads shaved except for neat braids, trailed behind a solemn-looking Togruta, her montrals swaying gracefully. No one screamed. No one attacked. They glanced at him, his ship, his robes—a mixture of mild curiosity and silent acknowledgment. He was expected. Or at least, not a surprise.
He had made it. The relief was so profound it felt like weakness. He took a step forward, then another, leaving his ship behind. He didn’t know where to go. He just followed the flow of bodies toward a grand, arched entrance that led into the heart of the mountain.
The Hall of Convergence was immense, a space designed to dwarf ego and inspire reverence. Vaulted ceilings vanished into shadow high above. Soft, natural light filtered down from hidden sources, illuminating floating meditation walks and tranquil pools. The sound here was a hushed echo of footsteps and murmured conversation. It was breathtaking. It was everything he’d ever imagined. And it felt completely hollow.
Because this wasn’t a tour. This wasn’t a dream. He was here to confess, to unravel the knot his wish had tied. A figure detached itself from the flow of traffic and moved toward him. It was a human man, older than Rael, with a close-cropped gray beard and eyes that held a deep, patient stillness. He wore simple robes, but an air of quiet authority surrounded him.
“Jacob Miller,” the man said, his voice a low rumble. It wasn’t a question. “I am Master Kincaid. We felt your… arrival. And your recent altercation in our skies. Come. The Council is convened.”
No fanfare. No welcome. Just a blunt acknowledgment of the trouble he’d brought. Jacob nodded, unable to find words. He fell into step beside Master Kincaid, their footsteps echoing in the vast space. They didn’t speak as they walked through grand corridors, past libraries humming with knowledge, training salons where the snap-hiss of training sabers provided a rhythmic percussion to the Temple’s melody. Every sight was a piece of his childhood longing made manifest, and each one stabbed him with a deeper sense of fraudulence.
They reached a bank of turbolifts. Kincaid selected a level. The ascent was swift and silent. The doors opened onto a quiet antechamber, and then, a pair of massive, circular doors, engraved with motifs of balance and unity. They slid open without a sound.
The Council Chamber was a hemisphere of transparisteel and stone, looking out over a breathtaking vista of Coruscant’s endless day. The city was a galaxy of its own here, spread out in silent majesty. In a ring around the room sat twelve beings. Some in chairs, some on meditation mats. Humans, near-humans, aliens. Their species were less important than their presence. Each one was a calm, deep well in the Force, but the collective atmosphere in the room was tense, coiled, like a string pulled too tight.
All eyes turned to him as he entered. The doors sealed behind him with a final, soft click. The silence was absolute, heavier than any he’d experienced. It was the silence of profound assessment.
Master Kincaid took a seat among them, leaving Jacob standing alone in the center of the circle. He felt microscopic, a bug under a lens. He fought the urge to fiddle with his sleeve, to shift his weight.
A woman with sharp, intelligent features and silver hair cropped close to her skull spoke first. Her voice was clear, cutting. “You carry a weapon that does not belong to you, Jacob Miller. And you have wielded it with dangerous ignorance.”
Jacob’s throat tightened. He fumbled for the lightsaber, holding it up. “It… it came to me. On my birthday. I wished for it.”
A murmur, almost imperceptible, passed through some of the Councilors. A thick-necked, bearded man with a weary face shook his head slightly. “A child’s wish does not summon a focused kyber crystal from the deep places of the galaxy. The provenance of that crystal is unknown. Its registration is non-existent. It is a ghost.”
“It only works for me,” Jacob said, his voice small in the vast space.
“We are aware,” said a Ithorian, its translated voice a soothing, melodic chime that contrasted with its words. “The bonding is profound, and perplexing. Our archives contain no record of a spontaneous, deep-force bonding with an unowned crystal in a non-sensitive. It is an ontological anomaly.”
The terms washed over him. He clutched the hilt tighter. “The man in the quarry. Rael Aveross. He and Master Zin found me. Then they were just… gone. And I had these robes.This ship. Everything was different. Like the story changed.”
A new Councilor, a Mirialan with green skin and intricate facial tattoos, leaned forward. Her eyes were intense. “Describe the transition. Precisely.”
Jacob did. The light. The absence. The sudden, perfect familiarity of the robe’s weave, the ship’s controls, the feeling of the Force as a honed tool rather than a screaming riot. He told them about the comic book in the storage compartment. He told them about the smell of his mother’s burning tablecloth that sometimes haunted him.
When he finished, the silence returned, deeper and more troubled than before.
The sharp-featured woman, Master Cova, steepled her fingers. “You describe a localized reality rewrite. A manipulation of perception and memory so specific it borders on the obscene. This is not Jedi power. This is something else. Something that treats the fabric of consciousness as a document to be edited.”
The weary-looking man, Master Renn, grunted. “Or it is the desperate rationalization of an untrained, powerfully psychic mind experiencing severe traumatic displacement. The human brain, under extreme duress, will craft narratives to survive.”
“The comic book,” Jacob insisted, a spark of defiance rising. “It was from my room. From my world. How did it get there if it’s all in my head?”
“A focal point,” the Ithorian chimed. “A psychic anchor your consciousness used to tether itself to a fading reality. It proves only that your previous life was real, not that your current circumstance was crafted by an external hand.”
“Then who sent the probe droid?” Jacob’s voice rose, echoing slightly. “That was real! It was trying to tag me, or kill me! The man in the quarry said I was a ‘target.’ That wasn’t my brain making that up!”
“We acknowledge the external threats,” Master Kincaid said, his rumble calmative. “The forces that hunger for unregulated power are always watching. Your signature, when you arrived, was a lightning strike in the Force. Many felt it. This ‘probe’ was likely one of many feelers sent to investigate. By destroying it so publicly, you have likely drawn more direct attention.”
A cold dread settled in Jacob’s stomach. He’d walked into the Temple to escape hunters, only to be told he’d essentially rung a dinner bell.
A new voice spoke, quiet yet heard by all. It belonged to an older human man, his face a landscape of wrinkles, his eyes a milky blue. He had seemed to be asleep, but now he focused on Jacob with an intensity that felt physical. “The more pressing question is not who hunts you, young man. It is what you are. That crystal.” He pointed a gnarled finger at the lightsaber. “It sings to you. But its song is… altered. Listen to it. Not with your ears. Listen.”
Jacob, unsure, closed his eyes. He reached for the river, and through it, to the pulsing heart of the weapon in his hand. The kyber crystal. He felt its connection to him, a brilliant, warm cord of energy. But beneath that, deep within its resonant frequency, he felt something else. A faint, discordant vibration. A harmonic that was slightly off, like a piano string ever so slightly out of tune. It wasn’t wrong. It was… modified.
He opened his eyes, alarmed. “It’s different.”
The old man, Master Whelm, nodded slowly. “It has been tuned. Not to the Living Force, nor the Unifying Force as we understand them. Its frequency resonates with a… a narrative force. A potentiality. It is a key, Jacob, attuned not just to power, but to story. To the latent desire for a specific kind of heroism. Your wish did not create it. Your wish activated its preconditioning.”
The chamber seemed to tilt. The pieces, ugly and bizarre, clanged together in his mind. A lightsaber that only worked for him. A sudden, perfect proficiency. A ship waiting. A journey pre-plotted. It wasn’t a gift. It was a script. And the crystal in his hand was the device delivering his lines.
“Who would do that?” he whispered, horror seeping into his bones. “Why?”
Master Cova’s lips were a thin line. “We have theories. Entities that dwell in the deeper, stranger currents of the Force, for whom beings like us are characters in a drama. Factions within the Republic, or outside it, that engineer archetypes to serve political ends. The Sith, though thought extinct, were always masters of corruption and manipulation. Any of these could see the value in crafting a ‘Chosen One’ to their specifications.”
“You are an intervention,” Master Renn said, bluntly. “A living, breathing intervention into the natural order. Your very presence here is a confounding variable. Your power is real. Your connection to the crystal is real. But its origin, and the purpose of its tuning, are shadows.”
The Mirialan, Master Vhen, studied him. “Your actions, however, demonstrate a capacity not written in any script. You chose to return here. To face judgment, rather than flee to a predetermined sanctuary. That impulse is yours. It is perhaps the only untuned thing about you.”
Jacob stood there, in the center of the most powerful beings in the galaxy, feeling completely unraveled. He wasn’t a hero. He was a tool. A pre-programmed weapon that had somehow developed a glitch—a conscience.
“What happens now?” he asked, his voice hollow.
Master Kincaid exchanged a look with the others. A silent communication flowed between them in the Force, a swift river of debate and decision. He turned back to Jacob. “Now, you stay. You cannot be released into the galaxy; you would be consumed by the forces you have attracted. You will be trained. Not as a Jedi initiate—your age, your nature, precludes that—but as a unique ward of the Order. We will seek to understand this tuning, to see if the discord in your crystal can be… corrected. And you will learn control. The power you wielded in the traffic lane was a blast wave. You must learn to be a scalpel.”
“And if you decide I’m too dangerous?” Jacob asked, the question clawing its way out. “If you decide this… this tuning makes me a threat?”
The old Master, Whelm, let out a soft sigh that seemed to carry the weight of centuries. “Then we will face that darkness when we come to it, child. For now, you are in the light. Imperfect, enigmatic, and fraught with peril. But here.”
It wasn’t comfort. It was a statement of fact. He was a specimen, a patient, a problem to be solved. The grand Jedi Temple was now his gilded cage. The dream was ash. The reality was a bewildering, terrifying puzzle. He looked down at the lightsaber in his hand, the blue blade he’d yearned for his entire life. He saw it for what it was now: a beautiful, deadly instrument, its core slightly out of tune, a gift from a ghost with an unknown agenda.