The Lightsider Duelist: A ToV Tale

The cell's chill gnaws at my bones like Dantooine's frost after a storm, seeping through the thin mattress and into my weary frame. Sixty-three years of scars and survival, and sleep still comes in fragments, haunted by the day's farce—Thalor's venomous accusations, the judges' heated whispers during recess, Aurelia's crumpled form on Chandrila's durasteel floor. The ysalamiri's null field presses like a shroud, smothering the Force's hum to a hollow ache, leaving only the erratic pulse of the overhead lumas, its dim glow flickering across scarred durasteel walls etched with faint, forgotten marks. Tionne's silver melodies whisper in my mind, a fragile thread against the void, her voice weaving with Saria's quiet resolve and Kalia's fierce spark, anchoring me in this buried cage. But exhaustion pulls me under, dreams blurring into memories of Yavin's humid vines, until a sharp hiss slices the silence—the cell door's hydraulic release, followed by the measured thud of boots on stone. My eyes snap open, grey and honed by decades of ambushes, the lumas' stutter casting elongated shadows across the threshold. A robed figure stands there, dark fabric swallowing the faint light, flanked by two others, their hoods deep voids, lightsaber hilts clipped at their belts like silent sentinels. The central one—the male judge from the platform, the one who leaned in to Kaelith twice, halting the proceedings with urgent murmurs—holds still, his posture rigid as a Praxeum stone. No words pass; he simply motions with a gloved hand, a curt gesture toward the corridor beyond, his shadowed gaze unreadable but insistent. The hooded pair at his sides shift faintly, robes whispering like korva leaves in Ossus's wind, their presence a coiled threat. My pulse quickens, old instincts flaring—trap or opportunity?—but the void where the Force should guide me yawns empty, forcing reliance on flesh and gut. I rise slow, council robes creaking with Noghri leather, my white braid falling loose over my shoulder, boots scraping the cold floor as I step forward, meeting the judge's silent command.

The corridor swallows us, its duracrete walls pressing close at first, the air stale and laced with a faint ozone hum from hidden conduits snaking overhead. My boots echo against the smooth floor, each step a deliberate grind as we veer right, the passage widening into a broader hall lined with sealed doors, their reinforced panels humming faintly with security fields—more like an Imperial detention block than any Jedi sanctum I've known, though the runes etched into the frames whisper of a twisted tradition. The judge leads without pause, his stride purposeful, the hooded flanks mirroring in lockstep, their silence thickening the tension. We turn left, the corridor angling upward now, shallow ramps giving way to a set of durasteel stairs that ascend in a tight spiral, the air growing cooler and drier as we climb one level, then another, my breath steady but the burn in my legs a reminder of the ysalamiri's drain, sapping even the echo of endurance. The lumas here are brighter, recessed in the ceiling like interrogation spotlights waiting to blaze, casting stark shadows that play across the walls, where faint holocam lenses glint from hidden alcoves—surveillance nodes, cold and unblinking, feeding into some central chamber for overseers to watch and judge. At the top of the second level, we pivot right again, the hall straightening into a sterile stretch of polished duracrete, doors spaced evenly like holding cells in a Coruscant precinct, but with that same rune-etched austerity, as if the old Jedi Code had been warped into a tool for enforcement rather than enlightenment. The judge halts at a reinforced slab midway down, its viewport a one-way transparisteel pane streaked with faint energy residue, the kind that hums with recording tech or restraint fields. He presses a concealed panel, the door hissing open with a pneumatic sigh, revealing the chamber beyond: a compact room dominated by a durasteel table anchored to the floor, flanked by restraint-ready chairs under a focused lumas array, the walls lined with subtle holoprojector nodes and a mirrored panel that screams observation post, the air humming with the low thrum of active surveillance dampeners. He motions again—sit—his hand slicing toward the chair facing the mirror, then waves dismissively at the hooded pair. They withdraw without a sound, the door sealing behind them with a final thud, locking us in, the lumas' glare sharpening the isolation.

The judge settles opposite, his movements deliberate, gloved hands folding on the table's scarred surface. Then, with a slow pull, he draws back his hood, revealing a face weathered by wars I know too well—Kyp Durron, his features scarred and intense, eyes hardened like the boy from Yavin's Praxeum turned Master, a brother in redemption I thought lost to the Vong's fire or the temple's fall. Relief surges through me, a sigh escaping my lips, raw and unbidden. "Kyp—my old friend. I thought the galaxy claimed you long ago," I say, my voice gruff but warm, carrying the weight of shared darkness, Byss's chains and Exar Kun's whispers binding us once. Kyp leans in closer, his scarred features catching the lumas' harsh glare, eyes steady and unyielding. His gloved hands rest flat on the table, fingers splaying slightly as if to brace against the words he's laying out, his voice low and measured, smooth as a deal struck in shadowed halls. "Thalor's pushing hard, Kam. He sees you as the symbol—the face of these reforms that's splintering what we rebuilt. Not just chains or exile. Execution. Public, to send a message to every Jedi who's strayed toward your path. Kaelith's holding the line for now, but the tide's turning. They're set on making you the lesson." I shift in the chair, the durasteel frame creaking under my weight, my scarred hands curling into loose fists on the table's edge. My grey eyes lock onto his, narrowing as confusion boils into a growl, rough as gravel from Dantooine's plains. "Execution? By what authority, Kyp? You ghosts from the Praxeum's ashes—you think you can claim judgment over the New Council? Rey's Order stands with the galaxy's light, not buried in some forgotten code that failed us all. What the kriff is this, really? Thalor's venom I get—he's always been a zealot—but you? Leaning in during recess, halting the farce... you're part of this shadow play?" He doesn't pull back, his posture unchanging, shoulders squared beneath the heavy robe, one hand lifting slightly to trace a faint rune on the table's surface—a absent gesture, echoing the etched walls around us where the symbols pulse faintly, drawing from some hidden power source in this structure's depths. His tone remains even, that veiled precision rolling out without a crack, no hint of his stance on the fractures tearing at the Jedi's heart. "It's not about sides, Kam. Not for me. We shared the dark—Byss for you, Kun's whispers for me. I pulled through because someone saw the flicker worth saving. Now I'm extending that to you. The tide's against you; Thalor's arguments carry weight with too many. But there's a way out, if you take it. Turn away, and it's not just your legacy that crumbles. It's everything."

I lean forward, the table's edge biting into my palms, my white braid shifting against my neck with the motion, a faint tug like the pull of old traditions. My voice drops deeper, a gravelly edge honed by years of council debates and battlefield commands, pressing against the silence that hangs between us like the stifled air in Byss's halls. "A way out? You've chained me here, stripped the Force like some Imperial interrogator, and now you talk mercy? Spill it, Kyp. If this is redemption you're offering, it smells like a trap wrapped in old friendship." His gloved fingers move with deliberate care, delving into a fold of his robe to produce a small holo-puck, the device compact and scarred from use, placing it on the table with a soft click that echoes in the room's hum. His hand lingers a beat before activating it, the puck whirring to life, projecting a holographic veil that shimmers blue and invasive, slicing the lumas' glow into fractured patterns across the mirrored panel behind him. The images unfold intimate, stolen breaths that no distant observer could capture—glimpses ripped from Ossus's heart, angles too precise: Tionne in our private quarters, silver hair unbound, humming a Rindaoan prayer over a hidden locket with strands from Saria and Kalia, her voice cracking with unspoken fears; Saria in the Healing Center's restricted alcove, slumped against EV-9T9 after hours, confiding hushed doubts about a diplomatic failure, tears tracing her scarred cheek as the droid nods; Kalia in her bunk at dawn, curled under a rune-etched blanket, murmuring in sleep about Yuuzhan Vong scars, hands clutching her training saber's hilt like a shield. These are sanctums breached—hidden cams in kyber fixtures or a turned ally, the betrayal woven from within our ranks.

Kyp's posture holds steady, hands folding once more as he leans in a fraction, the table reflecting the hologram's flicker across his scars, his voice that same veiled smoothness, delivered with the inexorable calm of a man stating inevitabilities, no triumph or condemnation, just the lifeline cast across the void. "The past has a way of echoing for those who stand unyielding, Kam. You know it—the loss on Anoth, Ranik's stand against Vader, F'heela and the boys cut down in a moment's shadow. Patterns like that... they circle back when you least expect it. The New Council's era is waning; alignments are shifting to ensure the Order's purity endures without further fracture. But you could bridge it—serve as our conduit within, relay what guides the transition smoothly. It's not surrender; it's preservation. Refuse, and the cell becomes permanent, with Thalor's intent closing in. For their sake, Kam—choose the path that spares repetition." The hologram's glow dances across my clenched fists, knuckles straining white against the table, the old scars from Ossus's rebuilding pulling taut. My chest constricts, a deep ache resonating like the phantom burn of Sedriss's tortures, the weight bearing down: Tionne's healing hands stilled, Saria's compassionate voice silenced, Kalia's bold spirit crushed. The galaxy's fractures mirror my own, the grief of lost kin flaring as a living scar, forcing the words from my throat in a reluctant growl, thick with the resolve of a warrior cornered yet unbroken. "For them," I mutter, the agreement bitter as cauterized flesh, unyielding as my green saber's core. "I'll walk your path. But mark this, Kyp—it's a tether, not a chain. Not the end." His lips curve into a thin smile, practiced and shallow, as he extends a hand across the table in the old Jedi manner—a firm clasp of forearms, his grip steady like the duels we'd shared on Yavin's scarred grounds. "Welcome back, brother," he says, the words carrying a forced warmth, a nod to the Force's enduring weave, "as in the Praxeum's halls, pulling one another from the brink. The light holds." I release the clasp, the contact lingering a moment too long, my grey eyes probing his for the fracture that eludes me. "Then it's settled? I'm to return to Ossus to play the part of your shadow?" He nods once, the smile lingering as he gestures toward the door with an open palm, his voice projecting steady and clear. "Guards—open up. We're done here." The door responds with a hydraulic grind, sliding open to reveal the corridor's sterile glow spilling in like a deceptive dawn. I stand, boots heavy against the duracrete, my mind already racing to the Roamer, mapping the deception ahead, stepping toward the threshold when a cold sting pierces my neck—sharp and unforeseen, the syringe plunging in with Kyp's abrupt shift behind me. The chamber spins, toxin coursing like Vjun's acid rains, the guards' barked orders muffling to distant thunder, Kyp's silhouette blurring as darkness surges, the floor rushing up to claim me in its unyielding embrace.

The void wraps me tight, a suffocating black that swallows even the faint echoes of battles long faded, and for a fractured instant, I think this is the end—the dark finally dragging me under after decades of defiance. But a steady vibration pulses through the deck beneath me, mechanical and insistent, rousing my senses. My eyes crack open to the Roamer's subdued interior, the lounge's dim emergency lumas casting a soft, erratic glow across the patched synthweave couch and the carved Yavin timber table, its surface scarred with fresh gouges that whisper of unseen turmoil. Pain stabs at my neck, a lingering bite where the syringe struck, but breath fills my lungs—I'm alive, sprawled against the lounge bulkhead, council robes tangled and heavy, the ship's subtle drift tugging at my equilibrium like a misaligned hyperdrive. The air hangs familiar, laced with the recycled tang of life-support filters and the subtle earthiness of Tionne's korva herbs wafting from the nearby hold, a grounding scent that clashes with the disarray swirling in my skull. How in the stars did I end up here? Kyp's meeting, the veiled pact sealed in that sterile glow, the cold plunge of the needle—snippets collide like debris in an asteroid field, but I shove them aside, leveraging against the bulkhead to rise, boots grinding the deck plates, joints protesting with the creak of age and abuse, sixty-three years weighing heavier in this haze.

The lounge unfolds around me, its confines intimate yet now laced with unease—the fold-down galley table tucked in the corner, still bearing remnants of our last meal, a scattered datapad flickering with half-loaded nav charts; the recessed pockets along the walls, etched with Dantooine runes I'd carved myself during long hyperspace jumps, now seeming like wards against an invisible foe. Aurelia's form catches my eye first, slumped in the corridor hatch leading aft to the hold and medical bay, her lithe frame crumpled against the durasteel frame, chest rising in shallow, even breaths—no visible gashes, no scorch marks from blaster fire, her blue-green saber hilt secure at her belt, untouched. I drop to a knee beside her, calloused fingers finding her pulse at the wrist—strong, rhythmic, a faint red prick at her neck mirroring my own, the mark of whatever toxin bound us in unison. Relief washes through me slow, a quiet tide against the storm in my chest: She's intact, no sign of the betrayal that felled her on Chandrila, her calm presence a reminder of the alliance we've built under Rey's banner, yet the vulnerability here stings—the way this shadow play spared her, only to dump us adrift. Pushing upright, the bulkhead's cool durasteel steadying my palm, I move aft first, mind churning with the bargain's bitter aftertaste—for Tionne's healing touch, Saria's diplomatic poise, Kalia's unquenchable fire, I'd bent, agreeing to be their eyes within our sanctuary. The hold looms through the open hatch, its 100-metric-ton expanse dim under standby lights, the V-65 Landspeeder secured in its cradle, angular nose and repulsorlift thrusters untouched, retractable canopy sealed—no intruders, no sabotage evident, but the emptiness gnaws, a void where the Force should whisper warnings. Turning forward, boots thudding deliberate on the deck, I pass the workshop's alcove, tools scattered as if mid-repair, the small forge cold; the medical bay's bacta tanks bubbling faintly, empty but humming life, a small mercy that no one needed them yet. The training dojo's padded walls show fresh dents, perhaps from the same unseen scuffle that marked the table, stirring a flicker of unease—the Roamer, our family's rugged haven, violated like Ossus's inner chambers in that hologram, the betrayal's reach extending even here.

Varn Kessar comes into view as I near the cockpit, his broad form draped over the pilot's yoke, terse features slack in unconsciousness, breath coming in deep, rumbling draws. I grip his shoulder, shaking firm—pulse solid under my thumb, that needle mark glaring at his neck, no other harm beyond the shared stupor; relief tempers with a grudging respect for the man, his unyielding hands that've guided us through nebulae and blockades, now limp against the controls. Sylar Voon slumps at the nav station beside him, lekku trailing across the console like forgotten data cables, her fingers curled near the keys as if calculations halted mid-thought; I check her vital signs, pulse steady, the mark there too, her analytical mind silenced for now—the toxin binding us all, a uniform stamp of the shadows' grasp, but her breath steadies my resolve, a vow to unravel this before it claims the light we've sworn to protect. We're marked as one, cast adrift like salvage in uncharted black, the ship's J-77 engines idling low, hyperdrive dormant. I ease Varn aside, sinking into the seat, the synthweave molding to my frame as I stare through the viewport, the endless black dotted with alien stars, no familiar beacons to chart a course home. Thoughts churn slow, the double agent's veil heavy as Noghri leather—feed them scraps to buy time, protect the light we've rebuilt, but the cost... Tionne's face in that hologram, Saria's hidden doubts, Kalia's restless sleep—they're the tether, the reason I bent, the fire that keeps me from breaking. The abduction's puzzle fades against it, a lingering fog, but the path ahead sharpens: Return, warn without shattering my cover or compromising my position, hold the storm at bay at all costs. A sharp ripple then cuts through the quiet—the comms panel lighting up, the identifier from Ossus pulsing insistently like a lifeline through the dark. My hand extends, fingers reaching to accept the incoming hail.

THE END