Chapter 12: The Wager in the Sparring Ring
The air in the sparring ring tasted of ozone and heated durasteel. Bultar Swan bounced on the balls of her feet, the familiar adrenaline surge thrumming through her veins. It was a different buzz than the Echo Chamber’s liquid gold intimacy; this was public, sharp, competitive. The small observation balcony above held a scattered audience: Rey, leaning on the rail with a knowing grin; a couple of Padawans Bultar didn’t know by name; and Knight Rael Averross, who was watching with arms crossed and a smirk that made Bultar’s teeth ache.
Rael was the problem.Or rather, the memory of Rael was.
It had been three days since Barriss had beaten her in that kata duel. Three days since Rael, proud and defiant, had stripped to her shorts and taken that spanking over the meditation stool. The sharp, rhythmic cracks had echoed in Bultar’s head ever since. She hadn’t been shocked by Barriss’s choice—after the Chamber, nothing should shock her—but by the hot, uncomfortable twist in her own gut as she watched.It wasn’t jealousy, exactly.It was more proprietary. An itch she couldn’t scratch.
And now, here she was, paired with Rael for a standard sparring session.No bets this time.Just drills.But the air was charged.
“Ready to dance, Swan?” Rael called, twirling her practice saber in a lazy arc. The bruise-colored hilt was a match for her smirk.
“Just remember the steps,” Bultar shot back, igniting her own blue blade.The hum was a comfort.
They began, a series of prescribed engagements—Shien to Djem So, parry, riposte, disengage. Rael was good, aggressively competent, her style a brash hammer to Bultar’s sharper scalpel. They moved across the polished stone, the scuff of their boots and the crackle of clashing energy the only sounds.Then Rael overextended. A tiny flaw, a reach just a centimeter too far. A week ago, Bultar would have capitalized with a simple disarm, a touch to the shoulder, a point scored.Today, something else took over.
As she deflected Rael’s blade wide, she didn’t step back.She stepped in. Her free hand shot not for a scoring touch, but for the back of Rael’s training tunic. She grabbed a fistful of fabric at the waistband of Rael’s leggings and yanked upwards with all her Corellian strength.
The tactical wedgie was instant, brutal, and profoundly undignified. The tough fabric of Rael’s leggings, already snug, became a punishing vertical seam.Rael’s eyes bulged. A choked, surprised squeak escaped her lips as she was hauled onto her tiptoes, her balance utterly compromised.
The observation deck erupted.Rey’s laughter rang out, clear and bright.One of the Padawans snorted.
Bultar released her hold, stepping back smoothly as if she’d performed a perfect Ataru flourish.Rael stumbled, her face flooding with a deep, mortified red. She adjusted her leggings with a frantic, discreet tug, her bravado shattered into a million prickling pieces.
“What the hell was that?” Rael hissed, her voice low enough that only Bultar could hear. “That wasn’t part of the drill.”
“You left an opening,” Bultar said, her tone cool, though her heart hammered against her ribs. “I exploited it.”
“That’s not an exploit, that’s a… a juvenile prank!”
Bultar tilted her head, the ghost of Kilea’s lessons in her mind.“It was effective. You’re disoriented.Your focus is broken. In a real fight, you’d be dead.” She let her blade dip slightly. “Do you yield the point?”
Rael stared, fury and humiliation warring in her expression. After a long, taut second, she deactivated her saber.“I yield,” she muttered, the words tasting like ash.
From the balcony, Rey’s voice floated down, light and teasing.“Nice technique, Bultar! Very… comprehensive.”
Bultar didn’t look up. She gave Rael a curt, formal nod and turned on her heel, walking away from the center of the ring with her spine straight. The victory felt hollow and sharp-edged. She had wanted to reclaim something, to assert a dominance that had felt slippery since the Chamber.Instead, she just felt like a bully.
She was almost to the archway leading out when Barriss fell into step beside her. Bultar hadn’t even seen her arrive.“That was interesting,” Barriss said, her voice as calm as a still pond.
“Don’t start,” Bultar grumbled, not breaking stride.
“I wasn’t going to.I was going to say it was inefficient. You used significant physical force for a temporary psychological disruption. The energy expenditure outweighed the tactical gain.”
Bultar stopped and turned to face her. “Is that your analysis, Master Offee?”
“It’s an observation.” Barriss’s dark eyes were unreadable.“You looked like you were trying to prove something. To her?Or to yourself?”
“Maybe I was just having fun.” The lie was brittle.
“Were you?” Barriss asked simply.“It didn’t look fun. It looked angry.” She paused.“The Chamber… it changes the rules.But only inside. Out here, a wedgie is just a wedgie. It doesn’t mean the same thing.”
“What does it mean out here?” Bultar snapped, frustration boiling over.“It means you’re frustrated. And you took it out on a convenient target.” Barriss glanced back toward the ring, where Rael was stomping off in the opposite direction.“She didn’t deserve that. Not like that.What happened between her and me was a consensual agreement following a lost bet. What you did was an ambush.”
The words landed like slaps. Bultar’s defensiveness crumbled, leaving a cold pool of shame.Barriss was right. The intricate, shared context of the Chamber had spilled out into the stark light of day and curdled. She’d used their secret language to commit a public mugging.
“Kriff,” Bultar muttered, shoving her hands into her hair.“Indeed.” Barriss’s lips quirked. “The good news is, she’ll probably challenge you to a proper duel now.With a real bet. And you’ll have to decide if you want to play by those rules.”
“What’s the bad news?”
“The bad news is Rey saw the whole thing, and she’s currently formulating what she calls ‘poetic justice.’ Expect your boots to be filled with a non-Newtonian fluid by tomorrow morning. Or your practice remote to target exclusively the seat of your pants.”
A reluctant, grim smile touched Bultar’s mouth.That, at least, was a language she understood. A prank war.Something with rules, even if they were unspoken.
“I can handle Rey.”
“Can you?” Barriss asked, turning to leave.“She learned from us. And we,” she added, throwing a glance over her shoulder, “have recently expanded our curriculum.”
Bultar watched her go, the shame slowly shifting into a new, more familiar resolve. She had messed up.She’d broken their unwritten code. That meant she had to make amends, not with an apology—that would involve explaining the inexplicable—but with action. She had to re-establish the balance.
She looked toward the hallway that led deeper into the Temple, toward the forgotten sectors, toward the chamber of golden light. Maybe she didn’t need to start a prank war out here.Maybe she just needed to suggest a return trip.A properly structured environment. Where the rules were clear, and the humiliations were consensual, and the laughter didn’t leave a bitter aftertaste.Rael Averross’s flushed, furious face flashed in her mind. No, she couldn’t invite Rael.That bridge was smoldering. This was for the core group.The ones who understood.
She headed for the fresher, planning to douse her face in cold water. As she walked, she replayed the moment her hand had snapped forward, the grab, the pull.The sheer, un-Jedi-like pettiness of it. Barriss was right.It had been anger. Anger at her own confusion, at the lingering sensation of the crop on her thighs, at the way the Echo Chamber had rearranged her insides without her permission.She pushed the door open. The fresher was empty, silent except for the drip of a tap.She leaned on the sink, staring at her own reflection in the polished permacrete. Sharp eyes, stubborn mouth. A Jedi Knight who’d just given a fellow Knight a wedgie in the middle of a sanctioned drill.A slow grin spread across her face, shocking her. It wasn’t a happy grin.It was fierce, acknowledging the absurdity. She had crossed a line.Now she had to figure out which side of that line she actually wanted to be on.
The door hissed open behind her.She expected Rey, ready with a quip. Or Barriss, with more serene analysis.It was Rael.
She’d changed out of her training gear into simple tunics.Her eyes met Bultar’s in the mirror. The anger was still there, but it had cooled into something harder, more determined.
“Swan,” she said, her voice flat.“Averross.”
“I want a rematch.A real one. No drills.First touch wins.” Rael took a step closer.“And we reinstate the terms. The loser submits.One humiliation. The winner’s choice.”
Bultar turned to face her, the sink digging into her back. The hollow feeling was gone, replaced by the clean, sharp edge of a challenge.This was a language she spoke fluently.“When?”
“Tomorrow. Dawn. Training Ring Four.”
“You’re on.”
Rael gave a single, curt nod and left, the door swishing shut behind her.
Alone again, Bultar let out a long breath.The path was clear now.She had a duel to win. And after that, depending on the outcome, she might have an apology to make—or a punishment to design. The thought sent a unexpected, guilty thrill through her.This, at least, was honest.
She splashed water on her face, the cold shocking her back into the present. One way or another, dawn would bring clarity. She just had to make sure she was the one holding the light.
The echo of her own resolve felt thin in the sterile fresher air. Bultar studied her reflection a moment longer, then pushed off the sink. The duel was set. The terms were clear. Now she needed to not lose.
She found Rey not at the training grounds, but in the Temple’s main hangar, half-inside an access panel of a battered-looking U-wing. Her boots stuck out, and the sound of frustrated muttering floated from the opening.
“It’s the motivator again, isn’t it?” Bultar said, leaning against the ship’s hull.
Rey slid out, a smudge of grease on her cheek. “It has a personality. And that personality is stubborn.” She sat up, wiping her hands on a rag. Her eyes narrowed, scanning Bultar’s face. “So. A public atomic. That’s a statement.”
“It was a mistake.”
“Looked pretty intentional from the balcony.”
Bultar sighed, the sound swallowed by the vast hangar. “It felt intentional in the moment. Now it just feels… cheap. Barriss already gave me the lecture.”
Rey tossed the rag aside, her expression shifting from teasing to thoughtful. She’d always been able to read the spaces between words. “The Chamber made things… fuzzy. The lines moved. Out here, the lines are painted on the floor, and you jumped over one.”
“I know.”
“So why’d you do it?” Rey asked, not accusing, just curious.
Bultar looked at the high ceiling, searching for the answer in the crisscross of girders. “I saw the way Rael looked after Barriss was done with her. That mix of shame and… I don’t know, pride? Like she’d passed some test. I wanted to put that look on her face myself. But I didn’t earn it.” She looked back at Rey. “I just stole the move without understanding the game.”
Rey nodded slowly, picking up a hydrospanner and turning it over in her hands. “You challenged her to a new game. Dawn duel. First touch. Same terms.”
“You heard already?”
“Temple gossip travels at lightspeed. Especially when it involves Averross and humiliation clauses.” Rey gave a small smile. “You gonna win?”
“I have to.”
“Wrong answer.” Rey pointed the spanner at her. “You have to fight. Winning’s a separate thing. If you go in there just to avoid losing, you’ll tense up. She’ll feel it. And she’ll beat you.”
Bultar crossed her arms. “You sound like Master Unduli.”
“I’ve had a good teacher.” Rey stood, stretching her back. “Also, if you lose, what’s she going to ask for? You humiliated her publicly with a basic, no-frills wedgie. She’s going to want to top that. Spectacularly.”
A cold trickle, unrelated to the hangar’s chill, went down Bultar’s spine. She hadn’t considered that. The terms were ‘any single humiliating act.’ Rael’s imagination, fueled by spite, could go anywhere. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
“Start thinking.” Rey’s commlink chirped. She glanced at it. “Meditation session with Master Unduli. Which, given the day’s events, should be fascinating.” She clapped Bultar on the shoulder. “Don’t overthink the fight. But maybe overthink the aftermath.”
Rey walked away, leaving Bultar with the groaning ship and a fresh layer of dread. The fight itself was simple. It was the seconds after, the moment of standing over a defeated Rael—or worse, kneeling before a victorious one—that now loomed like a event horizon.
She spent the afternoon in a remote training salle, running through forms until her muscles burned and her mind went quiet. The blue plasma of her practice saber painted arcs in the dim light. She focused on precision, on economy of movement, on the first touch. Not on what came after.
As evening bled into night, she found herself outside Barriss’s quarters. She raised her hand to chime, hesitated, then pressed it.
The door slid open. Barriss stood there, already in simple sleep robes, a datapad in her hand. She looked unsurprised. “I wondered if you’d come.”
“Can I come in?”
Barriss stepped aside. The room was meticulously ordered, save for a single cushion on the floor by the window. “You’re preparing for the duel,” Barriss stated, moving to a small counter to pour two cups of tea.
“Trying to.” Bultar remained standing, restless energy keeping her from sitting. “Rey thinks I’m going to lose if I only focus on not losing.”
“Rey is often correct about the emotional dimensions of conflict.” Barriss handed her a cup. The steam carried a scent of mild herbs. “Your conflict is not with Rael’s blade. It is with your own intent. Why are you fighting her?”
“Because I challenged her. Because she challenged me back.”
“No.” Barriss sipped her tea, her dark eyes steady over the rim. “That is the circumstance. The why is what you want from her. Submission? Apology? To see her flustered again, but properly this time? You must decide. The goal dictates the strategy.”
Bultar stared into her tea. “I want it to be square. What I did was unfair. I want a fair win, or a fair loss. So we’re even.”
“A noble sentiment.” Barriss’s tone was neutral, not mocking. “And if you win ‘fairly,’ and you have her at your mercy, what then? Do you repeat my performance? Bend her over and redden her backside for the crowd?”
The image was vivid, immediate. Bultar’s face grew warm. “I don’t know.”
“You should. Before the first blade ignites.” Barriss set her cup down. “The power in the Echo Chamber was mutual. It was a shared language. What you did on the sparring ring was a shout in a language she doesn’t speak. This duel is your chance to either teach her that language… or to speak hers.”
“What’s her language?”
“Dominance. Simple, clear, public dominance. She would likely ask for something blunt. A swirly in the fountain. Being forced to walk the Temple halls in her underwear. Something that establishes a clear hierarchy.” Barriss tilted her head. “Is that what you want?”
“No.” The answer came quickly, surprising her. She didn’t want to break Rael; she wanted to… include her. The realization was unsettling. “No, I don’t.”
“Then you must decide what you do want the moment to say.” Barriss picked up her datapad again, a gentle dismissal. “The fight is the easy part, Bultar. The conversation after is what matters.”
Dawn arrived cool and pale. Training Ring Four was empty save for two figures. Rael stood at one end, already warmed up, her expression a mask of focused intensity. Bultar walked to the opposite end, her own calm feeling fragile, thin as a layer of ice.
No spectators. Rael had insisted.
They ignited their sabers in unison—Rael’s a seething magenta, Bultar’s a steady blue. No bow was offered. The air crackled with silent anticipation.
Rael moved first, a blistering offensive of Djem So power attacks. Bultar gave ground, parrying, letting the fury wash against her guard. She focused on the feel of the fight, the minute tells in Rael’s footwork, the slight hitch in her breath before a lunge. This was the language she knew.
She saw the pattern after a minute. Rael, fueled by humiliated anger, was strong but predictable. Every third strike had a slight over-rotation on the follow-through, a tiny opening on her lower left side.
Bultar waited. She let Rael drive her toward the edge of the ring, a tactic meant to fluster. As the magenta blade came down in a heavy overhead chop, Bultar didn’t fully block. She deflected, just enough, and spun inside Rael’s reach.
It was not a killing move. It was not even a disabling one. It was pure, simple precision. As she spun, Bultar’s free hand shot out, not for clothing, but for contact. Her fingers tapped, light but definitive, just over Rael’s heart.
First touch.
Bultar was already leaping back, saber deactivated, as Rael’s killing strike swept through the space she’d occupied a second before. Rael stumbled, off-balance from hitting nothing. She stared at the spot where Bultar’s fingers had brushed her tunic.
The silence was absolute. The hum of the deactivated sabers faded into the morning quiet.
Rael straightened slowly. Her face was unreadable. She deactivated her blade, the magenta light dying with a sigh. She clipped it to her belt, the movements stiff.
“You win,” she said, the words flat.
Bultar nodded, her mouth dry. This was the moment. The power was hers. She could ask for anything. The image of Rael bent over the meditation stool flashed again. She heard Barriss’s voice: What do you want the moment to say?
“The terms,” Rael prompted, her jaw tight. She was braced for impact, for a humiliation to eclipse her own.
Bultar took a deep breath. “I want you to come with me.”
Rael blinked. “What?”
“Somewhere private. Now.” Bultar turned and walked toward the archway, not looking back. She poured every ounce of will into making it sound like a command, not a request.
For a terrifying second, she heard nothing. Then, the sound of boots on stone followed her.
She led them through the waking Temple, down lesser-used corridors, into the older, silent sections. The path to the Echo Chamber was complex, a series of turns and hidden triggers she’d committed to memory. Rael followed in silence, her confusion a palpable heat at Bultar’s back.
Finally, they stood before the unmarked wall. Bultar pressed her palm to a specific stone. With a whisper of ancient machinery, the door slid open, revealing the soft, golden glow within.
“What is this?” Rael asked, her voice hushed.
“A place where the rules are different,” Bultar said, stepping inside. “Come on.”
Rael followed, the door sealing behind them. She stopped, staring at the vast, golden chamber, the floating holographic mirrors, the air humming with latent energy. “I’ve never… this isn’t on any map.”
“I know.” Bultar walked to the center, turning to face her. “This is where my forfeit is claimed. You strip. Everything.”
Rael’s eyes widened, then hardened. This was a language she understood. A cruel, private degradation. A sneer touched her lips. “Fine.” Her fingers went to her tunic clasp.
“No,” Bultar said, and the word echoed softly. “Not like that. Not with anger.” She forced her own voice to soften, thinking of Kilea’s tearful smile, of Luminara’s serene authority in a velvet gown. “You do it because you lost. And because I won. There’s a difference.”
Rael’s hands paused. The sneer faltered, replaced by genuine confusion. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, she began to undress. The movements were not defiant, but deliberate. Tunic, boots, leggings, underclothes. She stood naked in the golden light, her skin prickling in the cool air, proud and vulnerable.
“Now,” Bultar said, her own heart hammering. “Kneel.”
Rael knelt. The submission was absolute, and somehow, in this room, it didn’t feel like defeat. It felt like an offering.
Bultar approached. She circled Rael once, a slow appraisal. Then she stopped behind her. “The forfeit is a spanking. Ten. Count them.”
Rael drew a shaky breath. “One.”
Bultar’s first strike was firm, measured. The sound was a sharp report in the quiet space. Rael flinched, but held her position.
“Two.”
The second was identical. And the third. Bultar wasn’t trying to hurt her, not really. She was trying to communicate. Each strike was a punctuation mark, rewriting the crude sentence she’d written on the sparring ring.
By the fifth, Rael’s breath was hitching. By the eighth, tears of frustration and something else were tracking through the dust on the floor. The tenth was the hardest, a final, definitive period.
It was done.
The silence pooled around them again, deeper now. Rael stayed kneeling, her head bowed, shoulders trembling slightly.
Bultar crouched in front of her. She didn’t touch her. “What I did yesterday was petty. It was beneath me. And beneath you.” She waited until Rael’s wet eyes met hers. “This… this is square. Do you understand?”
Rael stared at her. The anger was gone. The shame was transforming. She gave one slow, shaky nod.
“Good.” Bultar stood, offering a hand. “Get dressed.”
As Rael gathered her clothes, moving with a new, thoughtful slowness, Bultar looked around the golden chamber. She had brought someone new into their secret. She had spoken the private language, and for the first time, she felt she might have translated it correctly. The light here felt different now, holding this new, fragile understanding.
She just had to hope the others would see it that way.