The Lightsider Duelist: A ToV Tale

My eyes flutter, gritty as if dusted with Dantooine's plains, the kind of dust that clung to my boots as a boy running from shadows. Pain lances through my skull, a dull throb like a hammer striking durasteel, pulling me from the black. The air is heavy, sharp with a metallic bite, pressing against my chest like a shield generator's hum gone wrong. My wrists burn, bound by durasteel cuffs, their cold edges digging into calloused skin, the kind hardened by decades gripping a lightsaber. I try to shift, but my shoulders are pinned, the ache spreading like fire through old bones. My boots scrape polished stone, smooth and unyielding, its chill seeping through worn soles. My vision blurs, the world a haze of dim light and stark shapes, sharpening into a chamber that feels eerily familiar, like the holos of Coruscant's Jedi Temple I studied as a boy, before the galaxy shattered. The room is circular, its polished stone floor gleaming under soft lumas recessed into the ceiling, their glow steady but cold, like the kyber-lit dome on Ossus. Walls of dark stone rise, etched with geometric runes, their lines precise, pulsing faintly with a light that feels wrong, too sharp, like a kyber crystal misaligned. Tall, arched transparisteel panels, not quite windows, line the upper walls, letting in a dim, filtered glow, as if we're buried deep. The air carries a strange tang, not just stone or metal but something that stifles my senses, a silence where the Force should hum, like the quiet after Tionne's songs fade. My gut twists—ysalamiri, their null field smothering the light, leaving me raw, stripped to flesh and bone.

My council robes, now frayed Noghri leather creaking, hang heavy, catching on the scar across my brow. My grey braid, damp with sweat, snags on the cuffs' edge, a sharp tug that grounds me. My lightsaber's gone, its matte black hilt no longer a weight at my thigh, a loss that cuts deeper than the durasteel biting my wrists. Sixty-three years, and I walked into Seraphine's trap. Tionne's voice, steady as a saber's hum, whispers in my mind—but it's faint, drowned by the chamber's oppressive hush. A semi-circular platform of durasteel rises before me, polished to a sheen, holding three high-backed chairs, their design stark, echoing the Jedi Temple's High Council room but stripped of warmth. Three figures sit there, robed in dark, heavy fabric that swallows the lumas' light, their faces shadowed, hands folded. The one in the center, broad-shouldered, sits rigid, his presence heavy, like the weight of Yavin 4's Praxeum stones. The other two, leaner, mirror his stillness, their robes pooling like spilled ink. The center figure speaks, voice low, cutting through the hush like a vibroblade's whine. "The accused stands before the Master's Council," he says, words deliberate, weighted with authority. "Let this trial begin." The words hit like a blaster's snap, and my chest tightens, my mind racing to place this—accused, a trial? I scan the chamber, searching for Aurelia, her steady nod. But she's not here—not bound beside me, not in the shadows, not on the platform. My heart lurches, a pang like when Kalia's training saber scorched her hand, when Saria's cheek bled in the Yuuzhan Vong War. "Where's Aurelia?" I growl, voice rough as Yavin's timber, echoing off the stone. The center figure's eyes, barely visible, narrow, but he doesn't answer, his silence sharp as durasteel. The other two shift, robes rustling, a faint sound like korva leaves drying in Ossus's sun. I lean forward, cuffs clanking, my grey eyes locking on the one leading. "Where's my Jedi Knight?"

The chamber stays quiet, the lumas' hum the only sound, the ysalamiri's field pressing harder, like a disrupted Force bond. Is Aurelia alive, bound elsewhere, or worse? The thought claws at me. Tionne's songs, silver and soothing, flicker in my mind, urging calm, but they're distant, like starlight through the Council Dome's kyber glow. I need answers, but the robed figures' silence is a barrier, one I've faced before—Byss's cold halls, Nespis VIII's ruins, the wars that scarred my family. A flash of silver catches my eye, a glint of silk on tiered benches to my left. Seraphine. Her robes shimmer under the lumas, her posture relaxed, one hand resting on the bench, the other smoothing her hair with deliberate grace. Her lips curve, a smirk sharp as a vibroblade, cutting through the chamber's solemnity. She's no bystander—her betrayal on Chandrila was no whim but a thread in this weave. My fingers twitch, aching for my lightsaber, its scratched hilt a ghost in my palm. Her eyes meet mine, unyielding, her smirk deepening, and I see it—she believes in this, whatever this is, tied to these robed figures who claim authority. The benches hold others, a handful, their faces blurred in the dim light, robes plain, some whispering. catch a name—"Kaelith," muttered by a hooded figure near Seraphine, nodding toward the one leading on the platform. Toren Kaelith, the name stirring a faint echo, like a voice half-heard in Yavin 4's Praxeum halls, a shadow from training days long past. I don't know the others, not yet, but their whispers, their stares, turn this into a spectacle, meant to weigh me down, to break something in me. Saria's diplomacy would cut through their murmurs with a word, but I'm no diplomat, just a Jedi Master with scars and a family to protect.

A figure emerges from the platform's shadow, robed in dark cloth, his steps precise, a Soresu stance refined in Yavin 4's training halls. His sharp features and zealous eyes stir a memory—a youngling from the Praxeum, perhaps, watching Tionne sing under Yavin's vines. His voice cuts through the chamber, addressing the platform. "Honored ones, I accuse Kam Solusar of desecrating the Jedi way, betraying our sacred code." The central figure—Kaelith, I gather from a murmur—nods, and another whisper names the speaker: Zevran Thalor. That glint in his eyes, a boy I might've trained, now hardened into something cruel. Thalor faces me, the chamber's weight pressing—the runes' faint glow, the ysalamiri's stifling silence, the stone cold beneath my boots. "Kam Solusar," he declares, voice rising like a prosecutor's indictment, "you've corrupted the Order with your attachments, your reckless reforms, and your alliance with Je'daii heretics who flirt with darkness." He activates a holoprojector, its blue light revealing Ossus meetings—Rey, Ahsoka, Cal, and me, Revan's ambitions. The benches murmur disapproval, Seraphine's smirk sharpening as Thalor paces, his tone sharp, relentless. "Your courtship pavilions mock our discipline. Your decentralized councils weaken our strength. You heal when we should enforce, and your Je'daii pact invites the dark side's return to the galaxy."

My jaw clenches, cuffs biting, Tionne's songs a fleeting anchor—love as strength, not weakness. "Where's, Aurelia?" I growl in a forceful tone, voice rough as durasteel. The chamber hushes, but Kaelith's gaze remains stone, unyielding. Thalor smirks, dismissive. "Your Poser Knight's fate is irrelevant. Answer for your crimes." My gut twists, picturing Aurelia's saber falling on Chandrila. I lean forward, cuffs clanking. "I will not ask again so politely." Kaelith's hand rises, silencing Thalor's accusations. "Enough," he intones, heavy as Yavin's stones. "The accused will now address the charges." I straighten, the runes pulsing. Thalor steps closer, holoprojector casting stark shadows. "Yes, your honor." Then he turns to drill into my eyes, "Your family, your reforms—they echo Anakin's fall. The old code protected us; your balance is folly." I glare back, voice low, steady. "The old code crumbled with Luke's temple at the hands of his own kin, then failed the Order by driving him to exile, cursing us until his stand on Crait's red salted sands. Then the Jedi of old died with him on Ahch-To, its pursuit of total purity blinding us to our flaws." Thalor's eyes flash, but Kaelith's stare holds, a Praxeum ghost judging me now. The chamber's tension coils, my past and their dogma clashing in the silence. Thalor leans forward, his voice dropping, sharp as a saber's ignition. "You speak of adaptation, Solusar, but your heart was forged in darkness. On Byss, you knelt to Palpatine, served Sedriss QL, your hands stained with the dark side's taint. Your reforms are but a shadow of that corruption, threatening to drag the Jedi back into chaos."

The memory of Byss's durasteel halls lingers, cold and unyielding, Sedriss QL's voice a lash in my ears, the weight of my choices a chain that binds me still. Thalor's accusation—burns like a blaster's bolt, and my breath catches, the chamber blurring as the holorecording's blue glow flickers. He steps forward, his dark robes whispering, his stride precise. His eyes, once a youngling's catching Tionne's silver melodies, now blaze with zeal. He adjusts the holoprojector on the durasteel platform, its blue glow flaring anew, and the tiered benches stir, their murmurs a low drone, like wind whistling through Nespis VIII's corroded spires. The audience—hooded figures in plain robes—leans forward, whispers of "Kaelith" and "heretic" weaving a net to break me, their stares heavy as Bast Castle's stone halls. Toren Kaelith, centered on the platform, sits rigid in his high-backed chair, broad shoulders cloaked in fabric that drinks the light. His scarred hand, a faint echo of Yavin's sparring fields where we once clashed as brothers, twitches, his presence a weight like a Praxeum stone. The other two figures, leaner, mirror his stillness, robes pooling like spilled ink, faces shadowed in the dim glow, their silence a judgment of its own.

Thalor's voice rises, wielding evidence to shatter a man's spirit, his words honed to break resolve. "Kam Solusar," he declares again, pacing before the platform, his tone relentless, a vibroblade's edge tempered by zeal. "Your Glass Mountain massacre is no mere stain—it is the root of your corruption, poisoning your reforms, threatening to unravel the Jedi Order." The holoprojector flares, conjuring Byss's durasteel halls, their green-tinted air thick with the dark side's suffocating weight, a shroud that clings like Vjun's acidic mists. I'm there, younger, my red lightsaber blazing, its crimson hum a death knell as I strike down Kell Nones, his throat collapsing under my invisible grip, his body crumpling as my blade sears through his chest, cauterizing flesh in a flare of agony. Crystal halls explode, shards glinting like stars in a supernova, and Yaka defenders—Talus Skub, his brutish face steaming red—dissolve under turbolaser blasts, their blood pooling on the crystalline floor. Sedriss QL's voice barks through the recording, "Eliminate them, Solusar!" and stormtroopers' boots clatter, their black armor gleaming like obsidian under Byss's eerie glow. The audience gasps, a tide of disapproval rippling through the benches, and Seraphine's fingers tap a rhythm, her smirk widening, as if my shame is her winning sabacc hand.

My chest tightens, a dull ache like the weight of Anoth's windswept crags, where I buried my family after Vader's saber took them. The holorecording shifts, zooming on my red blade slashing through a Yaka's chest, blood steaming on crystal shards. Thalor's voice cuts through, sharp as a saber's ignition, his words a magistrate's verdict meant to break me. "Your reforms—courtship pavilions, scattered councils, healing obsession, Je'daii pact—carry the taint of this slaughter, Solusar, a legacy of chaos that threatens us all." The benches murmur louder, their plain robes shifting, eyes glinting with condemnation, a chorus of judgment that presses like the ysalamiri's silence, heavy as a starship's hull groaning under hyperspace strain. Kaelith's stare pierces, unyielding, a Praxeum ghost judging a brother who fell, his scarred hand still, a reminder of sparring fields where we once stood as allies. The runes hum, their faint shimmer a cold mockery of the Force's light, and I'm a Jedi Master, scarred by wars—Byss's darkness, the Yuuzhan Vong's screams, Ben Solo's betrayal—but this spectacle, this betrayal by those I trained with, cuts deeper than Vjun's torture chambers, where scarab droids burrowed and Leth's Mind Splitter tore my will.

Thalor leans closer, his voice dropping, a low hiss like a blaster's charge building, his eyes alight with the zeal of a youngling turned accuser. "Your fall was no mere lapse, Solusar," he says, each word deliberate, peeling back my past like a magistrate exposing a liar's heart. "On Vjun, scarab droids tore into your flesh, their chrome beaks glistening with your blood, and Umak Leth's Mind Splitter shattered your will, forging you into Palpatine's weapon, a Dark Jedi who led his butchers at Glass Mountain." The holorecording shifts, showing my red blade cutting through a Rebel, stormtroopers marching at my command, their boots echoing in Byss's sterile halls. Sedriss's voice rings out, "The Emperor's will be done, Solusar—You must enforce it!" and crystal halls shatter, explosions blooming like plasma grenades, shards scattering like stars in a dying system. I hesitate in the footage, my eyes flickering before a killing blow, a crack in Palpatine's chain, a moment of doubt Thalor seizes like a predator. "Even then, you wavered, Solusar," he says, his tone rising, a prosecutor driving a verdict's edge, "but your hands are stained. Your pavilions, your councils, your Je'daii heresy—they echo that weakness, inviting chaos to consume all of us." The audience's gasps swell, a chorus of condemnation, and Seraphine's smirk holds, her eyes glinting with triumph, as if my disgrace is her victory.

Memories flood—Vjun's torture chambers, scarab droids burrowing, their metal beaks slicing nerve endings, Umak Leth's Mind Splitter sparking, its diodes dancing as rage consumed me, a red monster waking in my soul. Sedriss's voice, "Welcome to the Dark Side," echoes in my mind, cold as Bast Castle's stone halls, but Tionne's songs flicker, a silver thread weaving through the darkness, urging calm, love as strength, not weakness. I clench my fists, cuffs grinding against calloused skin, and force the memories down, my resolve a fragile shield against this spectacle. The chamber's weight presses—the runes' hum, the ysalamiri's silence, the stone's chill under my boots—but I've faced worse, endured worse, risen from worse.

"Where's Aurelia?" I growl, my voice rough as a starship's patched hull, raw with the ache of loss, cutting through the audience's murmurs. Kaelith's scarred hand rises, a gesture final as a temple gate slamming shut, his presence heavy as the Praxeum stones where we once stood as brothers. "Speak only to the evidence, Solusar," he intones, his voice a deep rumble, laced with a zealot's edge, like the old Jedi Council's dogma. The silence about Aurelia is a vibroblade, meant to unbalance me, and my pulse races, her steady nod lost to me. I lean forward, cuffs clanking, grey eyes burning into Kaelith's, but he doesn't flinch, his stare unyielding, and the benches fall silent, their whispers stilled by his authority. Thalor paces, the holoprojector's glow casting his sharp features in stark relief, his eyes alight with purpose, a youngling's gaze hardened by betrayal. "Your Byss sins prove your unworthiness," he says, his voice rising, a magistrate sealing a verdict's edge, each word a hammer on durasteel. "Your reforms unravel the Jedi, as your Glass Mountain slaughter unraveled lives, leaving blood and ash in your wake." The holorecording loops, its light flickering across the chamber, showing my red blade slashing, Rebels falling, crystal halls bursting into shards that glint like dying stars. He leans closer, his voice a low hiss, like a blaster's charge building, his words cutting deeper than the cuffs' cold edges. "Your past is a warning, Solusar—your reforms will lead us to chaos, as you led those Rebels to their graves." The audience murmurs swell, their stares a weight meant to crush me. The holorecording's final image—my hesitation, eyes flickering with doubt—burns in my mind, a crack in the darkness. A different light stirs, faint but sharp—A memory tugs, drawing me toward my moment of salvation, where a Jedi Master saw hope in a broken man.

Thirty-two years ago, on Nespis VIII, I stood in a cavernous waiting room, its corroded durasteel walls creaking under the weight of centuries. The air was stale, thick with the tang of rusted metal and decay. Lumas flickered overhead, their glow faint, casting shadows like a derelict cruiser's wreckage strewn across a void. Through towering viewports, the Cron Drift's green-purple expanse shimmered, a ghostly reminder of a supernova's wrath, its light dancing on a multi-colored crystal frieze scarred by blaster burns—ancient spacers and Jedi, their faces half-melted by vandals. Scattered furniture, overturned and blast-charred, littered the floor, mingling with shattered war droids and the skeletal remains of Jedi archaeologists, their lightsabers still clutched in bony hands, relics of a lost era. My black armor, fretted and heavy, weighed on my shoulders, the dark side's fire coursing through me, a red monster of rage stoked by Umak Leth's Mind Splitter and Sedriss QL's cruel initiation. My red lightsaber hung at my belt, its kyber hum a constant lash, and behind me, Zill and Ormeg, black-armored stormtroopers with scarred faces, gripped their blasters, their boots echoing on the durasteel floor. The DIS-M12 interrogator droid, its chest sensors gleaming, wore a golden head, a grotesque mockery of a protocol droid, its voice rasping as it taunted Artoo-Detoo, who burbled nervously near a lone X-wing parked in the hangar beyond.

I sensed him before I saw him—a Jedi presence, sharp and clear, cutting through the dark side's fog. He then emerged from the shadows, Luke Skywalker, his dark cloak swirling, his green lightsaber igniting with a snap-hiss that pierced the stale air. His eyes, young but weathered, locked onto mine, seeing the darkness I carried, the taint of Palpatine's will. I masked my aura, projecting a false Jedi idealism as Sedriss had ordered, my mission to capture the son of Vader, dead or alive. "Put your blasters away, men," I said, my voice rough as Vjun's acidic mists, gesturing to Zill and Ormeg. "He's alone. I'll handle this." They lowered their weapons, stepping back, their scarred faces tense under their helmets. The DIS-M12 hissed, "Stop your insane twittering, you mechanical hodgepodge," its distorted voice grating as Artoo beeped mournfully. Luke stood firm, his blade's green glow steady, his presence a quiet strength that stirred something buried—my father's teachings, Ranik's calm voice, lost to Vader's saber.

"You are the son of Vader," I said, my voice thick with rage, the dark side's fire flaring in my chest, fueled by memories of Anoth's windswept crags. Luke flinched, his eyes narrowing, but his voice was steady, resolute. "I am Luke Skywalker, Jedi Knight, son of Anakin Skywalker." He waited, his blade angled, probing the darkness behind my gaze. I stepped forward, the durasteel floor cold under my boots, and surveyed the room, my eyes catching the tantalite game board on a blast-charred table, its kyber crystals glinting—red, blue, set in a mosaic of green, violet, and onyx, a map of the galaxy's heart. "Lightsider," I said, a shadow of a smile crossing my lips, memories of my youth flickering, games played with Ranik before the Purge. "Do you play?" Luke's eyes flicked to the board, wary but curious. "Who are you? Why are you here?"

I unhitched my lightsaber, holding the unignited hilt in my left hand, a red crystal in my right, its warmth pulsing like a living thing. "Forgive my manners, son of Vader," I said, my voice a low growl, laced with the dark side's venom. "I'm Kam Solusar, a Jedi for thirty-five years, trained by my father, Ranik. Recently… empowered by the Emperor's Executor." I gave him a sharp look, testing his resolve. "I'm here to kill you, Skywalker, but I'll give you a chance to best me. The sword or the game?" Luke's eyes held mine, searching for a crack in my darkness. "I don't know this game," he said, his voice calm but firm. "Put down your weapon and surrender. The Alliance will treat you well. My sister and I can help you." I laughed, a harsh bark that echoed in the chamber. "A fair fight, Skywalker—saber or game. Choose." He nodded, lowering his blade slightly. "Show me the game." I stepped to the table, the crystals glowing under my touch, their Force-driven hum stirring memories I'd buried—Ranik's laughter, F'heela's smile. "We start at the outside, work inward," I said, placing a red crystal on a green cup, its click sharp in the silence. "Alderaan system. I claim it." The Force surged, a vision flooding my mind—ornate warships, thousands strong, raining laser blasts on Alderaan's cities, leveling spires in fiery ruin. Luke closed his eyes, then placed a blue crystal atop mine. "I destroy your fleet," he said, his voice steady. "Alderaan is free." The vision shifted, Republic ships clashing with mine, their hulls bursting in fiery arcs, but my dark side strength overwhelmed them, my crystal capturing his. "You didn't listen, Skywalker," I said, grinning darkly. "The game's more than wishful thinking. You need the Force to guide you."

His eyes narrowed, but he took another blue crystal, hesitating, then placed it on a white cup. "You're on Dagobah," he said, "with Master Yoda." The Force shifted, a jungle's damp heat enveloping me, dripping trees and strange calls echoing. Yoda sat on a log, his wrinkled face smirking, eyes glinting. "A Jedi, he is… once great, now dark," he said, his voice a croak. "Belongs to the dark side, he does, seeking revenge." I ignited my lightsaber, its red blade humming, and lunged, snarling, "Don't taunt me!" But the blade turned to gnarled wood, sprouting blue flowers, and Yoda vanished, reappearing on a rock. "Anger is not the way," he said, then faded. Fury surged, my grip tightening on the hilt, but a flicker of doubt stirred—Ranik's teachings, buried deep.

I slammed a red crystal onto a violet cup, my voice a growl. "Ottethan system, where rancors run wild. Your ship's crashed, Skywalker, blood on the air. Survive, if you can." The vision shifted—a red sun squatting over a rugged plain, a wrecked blockade runner smoking, rancors charging. Luke stood on a boulder, his lightsaber humming, but he didn't strike. "There are no rancors," he said, his voice calm, and the beasts morphed into tauntauns, their forms shifting under his will. I countered, the vision darkening, red needles piercing him in a lightless void, but Luke's resolve held, the needles fading. He was learning, his light piercing my darkness, and my rage faltered, a crack widening in Palpatine's chain. I took a red crystal, my hand trembling, and placed it on another violet cup, my voice thick with grief. "You're on Anoth, Skywalker, seeking Jedi Master Ranik Solusar and his family. You find them—his wife, F'heela, his sons, Jaxor and Tev." The Force surged, azure skies blooming over Anoth's rocky hills, an Imperial shuttle descending. I saw myself as Luke, cloaked in Vader's armor, my breath rasping through a mask, stormtroopers aiming blasters at my family. Ranik stood before them, unarmed, his voice steady, weathered. "Darth Vader, you were Obi-Wan's student, a great promise lost to darkness. Strike me down, but spare them. The Light cannot be murdered." My heart lurched, the rage of their deaths—F'heela's scream, Jaxor and Tev's cries—flooding me, the dark side's fire roaring. I wanted Luke to feel that pain, to break under it, to join me in darkness.

Luke's eyes held mine across the table, his voice cutting through the vision. "I am not Vader, Kam," he said, his tone resolute, a Jedi Master's calm. "I am Anakin Skywalker's son, released by the Light." He dropped to one knee in the vision, bowing to Ranik, and the Force shifted, the stormtroopers vanishing. F'heela, Jaxor, and Tev appeared, their faces tear-streaked, and I was no longer Vader but myself, standing before them. F'heela cried, "Kam, you're back!" and embraced me, her warmth piercing my rage. Jaxor and Tev clung to me, their voices a chorus of hope. Luke's voice echoed, "Your love for them never died, Kam. The Dark Side cannot touch that Light." The vision shattered, and I was back in the waiting room, the game board's crystals dimming, my rage draining like air from a breached hull. I looked at Luke, my voice raw, trembling. "Have I… lost, then?" He stood, his green lightsaber hooked to his belt. "Can we stand together, Kam?" he asked, his eyes steady, seeing light where I saw only shadow. I nodded, the weight of Palpatine's chain lifting, my Jedi past stirring awake. "Yes," I said, my voice breaking, "we can." The waiting room's silence enveloped us, Artoo beeping softly, the Cron Drift's glow a faint promise through the viewports. I was no longer a Dark Jedi, but a man reclaimed by the Light.

The memory fades, the trial chamber's plastcrete walls rushing back, their pulsing conduits glowing like a holocron's failing lattice, Thalor's accusations a distant echo. My heart thuds, Luke's words—"There's still light in you, Kam"—anchoring me against their judgment, a beacon to face the fight. Lumas flare overhead, their light stuttering like a holonet relay's dying spark, casting shadows like wreckage strewn across Corellia's shipyard haze. The air bites with the sharp ozone of overworked vents, heavy in this sealed vault, a warped echo of a Jedi Temple's sanctity. Ysalamiri cages, nullifying the Force, their silence a kyber crystal's shattered hum, pressing on my chest like Kessel's spice-dusted tunnels. Durasteel cuffs chafe my wrists, calloused from decades wielding a saber now lost, but Luke's belief burns bright, fueling my defense at sixty-three, a Jedi Master scarred by wars yet unbowed. Zevran Thalor stalks before the durasteel platform, his cloak snapping like a banner in a Coruscanti storm, his movements honed with precision. His gaze, once softened by Praxeum's past, now cuts like a lightsaber's edge, a betrayal that stings sharp. His voice booms. "Speak, Solusar," he demands, pacing with pointed gestures, his cadence rising. "Answer for your Glass Mountain sins, where you led Palpatine's butchers, your hands stained with Rebel blood, your reforms a poison to our Order." My chest tightens, memories of crystal halls shattering, Kell Nones crumpling under my grip, Sedriss's voice barking. The weight of that darkness presses, like Kessel's tunnels choking with spice dust, but Luke's words, thirty-two years ago, hold me steady—his belief in my light a shield against this farce of a trial's condemnation.

I rise, cuffs clanking, my voice rough as a starship's patched hull, raw with the ache of wars survived. "Luke saw light where you see shadow, Thalor," I say, grey eyes burning into his, my tone weathered, carrying the weight of Nespis VIII's derelict halls. "I was Palpatine's pawn, my soul torn by scarab droids, Leth's Mind Splitter forging rage on Vjun. But Luke faced me on a crumbling space city, not with a saber, but with a simple game, its kyber crystals alive with the Force. He saw my grief—my father, Ranik, my late wife, F'heela, my late sons, Jaxor and Tev, lost to Vader's blade—and broke Palpatine's chain, proving the light's strength." The benches hiss, a ripple of surprise like static over Corellia's shipyards, and Seraphine's smirk falters, her fingers stilling. Kaelith's gaze pierces, but I press on, my voice a low growl, laced with conviction. "My reforms—courtship, councils, healing, the Je'daii alliance—build on that light, Thalor. They mend what your dogma broke." The conduits pulse, their eerie glow a mockery of the Force, but Luke's belief anchors me, Tionne's songs a silver thread weaving through my words, love as strength, not weakness. Kaelith slams his fist on the platform, a gavel's crack, his voice a deep rumble. "You fail to defend the actions of the accusations, Solusar. This isn't about how you suddenly changed your mind to play good guy," he intones, his tone final, a zealot's edge twisting Jedi formality. The audience's hisses swell, their stares a weight like Kessel's spice-heavy air, but I've faced worse.

Thalor whirls, his cloak snapping, his voice rising like a magistrate sealing a verdict, his gestures sharp as he jabs a finger at the holoprojector. "You speak of your redemption, Solusar, but your betrayal of Luke's light proves your unworthiness," he declares, his tone a blaster's charge, theatrical and unrelenting. "You bound yourself to Tionne, defying the Jedi Code, spurning the trust Luke placed in you at that crumbling space city." The holoprojector flares, its blue glow conjuring a fleeting image of Yavin 4—"Marriage to Tionne, 18 ABY," Thalor proclaims, his voice a hiss, like a prosecutor exposing a defendant's fatal flaw. "Zevran condemns your marriage as heresy, Solusar, a betrayal of Luke and the Order." The audience hisses, a chorus of condemnation rippling through the vault, and Seraphine's smirk glints, her eyes gleaming like a sabacc dealer's winning hand. Tionne and I's vows on Yavin 4, her voice a melody that held me through countless wars, stirred a memory, drawing me toward that moment of light. The trial chamber's oppressive weight dissolved, and I slipped into the past, twenty-five years ago, to a humid night where love defied an ancient code.

The jungle canopy of Yavin 4 stretched above, its emerald fronds dripping with mist, swaying in the warm, heavy air. Bioluminescent vines curled around the Massassi temple's base, their glow like kyber shards pulsing faintly, casting silver flecks across a moss-covered platform where Tionne and I stood. Yavin's moons hung low, their light weaving through the canopy, bathing us in a soft, ethereal glow. The air carried the scent of damp moss and blooming korva flowers, their sweet tang mingling with the distant chirp of insects, a chorus like a starship's idling hum. The Praxeum's stone ziggurats loomed in the twilight, their weathered edges softened by vines, a testament to the Jedi's rebirth under Luke's guidance. I was forty-four, my face scarred from Byss's tortures, my heart still raw from Nespis VIII's redemption seven years prior, but Tionne's presence steadied me, her silver hair catching the moonlight like a beacon. She wore a simple robe, pale as a star's glow, her eyes warm with empathy, her voice a melody that had anchored me through shadows. A New Republic officiant, a wiry Bothan with fur streaked grey, stood before us, her voice steady as she recited vows of unity, her words a bridge between Jedi tradition and our defiance of the old Code. Luke Skywalker stood to my left, his dark cloak blending with the jungle's shadows, his calm presence a quiet strength, his eyes reflecting the moons' glow, a witness to our bond. Chewbacca loomed beside him, his towering frame adorned with a ceremonial sash, his fur rippling as he let out a low, supportive roar, his loyalty to Luke and the Jedi palpable. Streen, Kirana Ti, and other Praxeum Jedi gathered around, their robes rustling, their faces alight with cautious hope, witnesses to a moment that challenged centuries of dogma. My hand found Tionne's, her fingers warm, steady, her empathy a tide that washed away the echoes of Vjun's scarab droids and Leth's Mind Splitter. My heart thudded, not with the rage of my Dark Jedi days, but with a love that felt like the Force itself, unbound and fierce.

"Tionne," I said, my voice rough as a starship's patched hull, raw with the weight of my past, "you're my light, my anchor. Through wars, through darkness, you've held me to the Jedi path." Her eyes glistened, her smile soft, and she squeezed my hand, her voice a melody curling through the humid air, silver as the moons above. "Kam, our love is our strength," she said, her tone warm, unwavering. "Together, we'll rebuild what was lost, a Jedi Order rooted in hope." The Bothan officiant raised her hands, her fur catching the vine's glow. "By the will of the Force, you are bound as one," she declared, her voice echoing off the ziggurats. Luke's nod was subtle, his eyes warm with approval, and Chewbacca let out another roar, softer this time, a Wookiee's blessing that rumbled through the jungle. The Jedi murmured, their voices a quiet chorus, and I felt Tionne's song weave into my soul, a silver thread that held me through the years ahead, a promise stronger than any chain Palpatine forged. As her voice lingered, a memory stirred, her melody shifting, hardening into a cry of defiance. The jungle's mist faded, replaced by acrid smoke, and Yavin 4 transformed, seven years later, into a battlefield scarred by war. The Praxeum's duracrete walls stood scorched, their once-smooth surfaces pitted by blaster burns and slashed by bioorganic Vong growths, pulsing like living scars across the jungle. Smoke choked the air, thick with the stench of charred vines and molten metal, as the hum of lightsabers clashed with the hiss of Yuuzhan Vong amphistaffs. The training grounds lay shattered, their stone tiles cracked, strewn with debris and the twisted remains of Vong coral ships. I was fifty-one, my face lined with battle scars, my blue lightsaber blazing in my hand, its hum a steady anchor against the chaos. Tionne fought beside me, her silver hair tied back, her own saber a blur of green, her courage a beacon as we shielded a cluster of younglings huddled behind a toppled statue of a Massassi warrior.

The Vong warriors advanced, their armor pulsing with biotech, their amphistaffs snapping like living serpents, spitting venom that sizzled on the duracrete. A youngling, a Twi'lek girl no older than ten, clutched my robe, her lekku trembling, her eyes wide with fear. "Stay behind me, younglings—hold fast!" I shouted, my voice hoarse, cutting through the screams and explosions. Tionne's saber slashed, deflecting an amphistaff's strike, her movements fluid despite the smoke stinging our eyes. "We'll protect them, Kam—together," she called, her voice steady, her courage a melody echoing our wedding vows, binding us in battle as it had in love. Anakin Solo, barely sixteen, fought nearby, his purple blade a whirlwind, his face set with determination, a shadow of Luke's resolve. The jungle canopy above burned, flames licking the emerald fronds, and Vong bioforms pulsed, their grotesque shapes twisting like living wounds across the Praxeum's grounds. A Vong warrior lunged, his amphistaff whipping toward the Twi'lek girl. I spun, my saber slicing through the air, severing the weapon's head, its venom splattering harmlessly on the duracrete. Tionne's blade met another, her green light clashing with biotech scales, and she pushed the warrior back, her empathy now a fierce shield for the younglings. "Keep them safe, Kam!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos like a song through darkness. I grabbed the Twi'lek girl, pulling her behind a shattered pillar, and deflected a blaster bolt from a Vong plasma cannon, its heat searing the air. The younglings huddled closer, their sobs mingling with the distant roar of a collapsing ziggurat, and I felt Tionne's presence beside me, her love a steady pulse, grounding me as we fought to protect the innocent. The Vong pressed forward, their war cries guttural, but Tionne's courage steadied me, her saber a green arc that held the line, our bond unbroken by the chaos of war.

The memory fades, my heart thuds, those moments—our vows under Yavin's moons, our stand against the Vong—forging my strength, a shield against the Syndicate's judgment. The trial chamber surrounds me. Lumas hum overhead, their light sizzling like a reactor's dying pulse, casting erratic shadows across the floor, like Alderaan's ghost-lit haze after its fall. The air bites with the tang of scorched relays, sharp as Bespin's storm-wreathed spires, sealing this high-tech bunker in a cold, oppressive grip. Durasteel cuffs chafe my wrists, calloused from decades wielding a saber now lost, but Tionne's melody and Luke's trust burn brighter than this chamber's condemnation, fueling my stand at sixty-three, a Jedi Master scarred by wars yet unbowed. I stand, cuffs clanking, my voice rough as a blaster-scorched hull, raw with the ache of battles fought and won. The chamber's tension coils, a charged stillness like a starship before a hyperspace jump, and I face the platform, ready to counter Thalor's venom. "Luke stood as my best man, Thalor, blessing my bond with Tionne," I say, my grey eyes scanning the benches, my tone weathered, carrying the weight of Yavin's moonlit nights eighteen years ago. "In 18 ABY, under the Massassi temple's vines, he saw love as strength, not heresy, his presence a testament to the light we rebuilt. Tionne's songs wove hope through my darkness, anchoring me as we vowed to defy the old Code's chains, to forge a Jedi Order rooted in connection, not isolation." The audience stirs, their hisses a chorus like Dathomir's night howls, a ripple of surprise cutting through the chamber's hum. I press on, my voice a low growl, laced with conviction. "Seven years later, in the Yuuzhan Vong War, Tionne and I stood together, our sabers blazing to shield younglings from amphistaffs and coral ships. Smoke choked the Praxeum, but our love was a shield, guiding those children to escape through Yavin's jungles, proving our duty to the innocent is the Jedi's core, not a flaw."

Zevran Thalor emerges from the platform's shadow, his presence coiled like a Manaan ocean current, his dark mantle still, his eyes glinting with restrained intensity, a predator poised but leashed. His silence is deliberate, a magistrate's pause before a verdict, his intensity palpable as he grips the holoprojector's edge, its blue glow ready to conjure more of my past. The glyphs flicker, their eerie pulse a mockery of the Force, but Tionne's courage and Luke's trust anchor me, their light weaving through my words like a melody through chaos. "My reforms—courtship, councils, healing, the Je'daii alliance—build on that light, Thalor," I continue, my tone rising, a Jedi Master's resolve against this bunker's oppression. "Luke's blessing at my wedding, our stand to save the younglings—they prove I'm a beacon for the galaxy, not its ruin. Your dogma failed when Luke's temple fell to his kin's betrayal, when he walked Crait's red salted sands and faded on Ahch-To's cliffs. My path strengthens the Jedi, where the old way blinds us to hope." The audience's hisses swell, a chorus of condemnation like Kashyyyk's jungle roars. The lumas sizzle, their drone sharp like a starship's failing shields, and my scars burn with the weight of battles won, my love for Tionne a fire no farce of a trial can extinguish. Toren Kaelith looms at the platform's center, his authority sharp as a Dathomiri blade, his broad frame rigid, his jaw set with a tension that betrays no emotion. His silence weighs, heavy as an Alderaanian monolith, and I feel the chamber's eyes on me, their disapproval pressing like Bespin's storm-wreathed spires. I open my mouth to press on, but a shadow moves—one of the robed figures flanking Kaelith leans forward, their hood a void under the lumas' flickering glow, their silhouette a mystery as impenetrable as Dathomir's cliffs. They whisper to Kaelith, their words inaudible, a soft rustle like static lost in the chamber's hum. I strain to hear, my senses dulled by the ysalamiri's field, but the figure's identity eludes me, a riddle carved in shadow. Kaelith's eyes narrow, his hand rising, a gesture as final as a temple gate slamming shut. "A recess has been called," he declares, his voice cutting through the chamber like a saber's ignition, "The court is now adjourned for the next hour."

The audience murmurs, a low tide of surprise like ripples in a Manaan sea, and Thalor's coiled intensity falters, his gaze flicking to Kaelith with a flash of frustration. He paces back to his desk, his steps measured as a Kuati engineer's calculations, a predator restrained but poised to strike. The three who sit in judgement rise, their robes trailing like coolant vapor, and glides toward a shadowed chamber beyond the platform, their movements silent, their identity a void in my mind. Seraphine's presence surfaces, her silks glinting like Manaan's waves, her keen glance tracking the figure's retreat, a flicker of calculation in her eyes. The benches empty slowly, more robed figures filing out, their hisses fading like Alderaan's ruins settling under a ghost-lit haze. I stand, cuffs heavy, my heart steady with Tionne's songs and Luke's trust, those memories a shield as I face the hour ahead.