Ziost had gone from gray to black.

Azix stood on the edge of the collapsed wall looking out into the courtyard. The pounding rains had gathered all the ash and washed it away, exposing the glassy planes of volcanic rock that marked the nearby cliffs. Soot-dark puddles lay between the paving stones, reflecting the gray sheet of the sky like scrying mirrors. The air stank of char, but at least it was clear.

"There's going to be NO foraging," he said to Rye's holo, which was currently being projected from his droid chassis. Several hovering maintenance droids followed in his wake. Rye flickered as he 'walked' across the rubble and made a show of peering outside, even though his droids had already swept the entire area surrounding the temple. "You said five days?"

"Assuming nothing delays us, yes. And I wouldn't hazard to make that assumption." Rye's droid climbed the rubble, clanking loudly, and descended on the other side. The holoprojection of Rye stood still, aside from flickers due to the changing perspective. "I'm afraid there's no point lamenting the lack of supplies. Whether we stay or go, what we have is what we have."

What they had was a rucksack full of the kind of food teenagers would pack for a road trip: crisps, crackers, candy, a little dried fruit that Azix was determined to ration, and so much soda that the cart's anti-grav thrusters strained under the weight of it. Every decorative cup or thermos with a lid that Azix could loot from the gift shop had been filled with water for the trip, and his condensers had been tied down to continue collecting while they traveled.

"New Adasta is due west from this position," Rye said, and Azix snorted - he'd been traveling south by southeast from the shuttle crash. If he hadn't stumbled (literally) across Rye's temple, he would have been lost in the wastes and dead by now. He reached out and dragged his fingers through Rye's holoprojection.

"Then let's go."

"Not so fast." Rye smirked at him, but Azix was learning how to find the affection hidden under affectation of Imperial superiority. "The terrain won't allow us to take a straight path. We'll start heading north." He gestured, and a map shimmered into view, etched in the same crimson as Rye's own form. He showed Azix the wavy lines that demonstrated the topography of the region. They were clustered close together like amoebas under the microscope, sharp up-thrusts broken by narrow, winding canyons. Rye's finger traced the lines gracefully, sketching a path that wound north of the temple, then west over a plateau. "Especially with the cart, we'll have much easier going this way, and we'll move faster over better terrain. These canyons will serve as a buffer against severe weather, as well, since the prevailing winds in the area usually travel from south to north – dropping into the valleys should steal the strength from them before they reach us. Granted," he added, "that analysis is based on my records of the weather in this region prior to the disaster. Force only knows what will happen now, as the cataclysm's effects settle."

"Understood." Azix unwrapped a salted, spiced sausage shrink-wrapped in foil, one of the snacks from the gift shop, and chewed through the tough outer casing. Getting a good start was important. He'd taken one last shower and made it last as long as he could, had drunk as much water as he could hold, and had used the last real toilet he would likely see for about four-hundred kilometers.

A clawing, babbling fear had taken up residence in his belly, writhing against his ribcage – he didn't want to leave the temple. A more primitive part of his brain insisted the temple represented safety, warmth, comfort, all things he wouldn't find in the blasted wasteland of Ziost. Like an animal, or perhaps like his ancestors, he wanted to crawl back into the deeper reaches of the temple's shelter and try to survive there like some kind of cave-dwelling goblin. The flat, gray light of the Ziost day turned that fear into near-frenzy, and he doggedly chewed on the too-spicy sausage as he tried to get his blood pressure to subside.

/The food won't last. The shelter won't last. I can't stay, that's just reality. Besides…./ He looked over at Rye, who appeared to be studying his projected map. /Rye's coming with me. He has to leave too, to survive./

Rye caught him looking. The corner of his mouth quirked upward, and the droid approached, reaching out in tandem with Rye's holoprojection so that when Azix's fingers closed around Rye's crimson fingers, there was something substantial for him to hold.

"Ready?" Rye asked more gently. "You look like you're having difficulty."

Az nodded, taking a long, deep breath and letting it hiss out. "Yeah. It's… since I came to this planet, I haven't been able to control my fear."

Rye considered that, then said, "In New Adasta, any building still standing can provide everything you're leaving behind and more. A real bed, a real tub, canned and dried food that isn't snacks. Vending machines full of tea and juice, not just soda. Stores full of clean clothes free for the taking, since no one else needs them at present. Soft blankets, warm coats."

Az smiled. "Yeah, but once we make it to New Adasta, I won't need most of that. We'll be able to get off-world."

"That too," Rye agreed gamely. "All the comforts you need AND an exit strategy. Everything you want," he said, pointing west, "is that way. Let's go claim it."

Az nodded and squeezed the droid's hand. /Everything I want is that way. No choice but to go forward./ The fear settled a little under that line of reasoning. Azix took up the handle of the anti-grav cart and let one of Rye's hovering droids lead the way. They made an interesting convoy, one hovering droid flying ahead to scan the terrain, followed by Rye's chassis, followed by Azix, followed by Rye's other two droids guarding the rear with their sensors. The chassis walked heavily, clanking against the wind-scoured stone, and the constant hum of the other droids' lifters faded in and out as they swooped in scanning patterns. Rye's holoprojection 'walked' next to Azix.

Azix still hated everything about Ziost, but having Rye's company staved off the maddening isolation and disorientation he'd experienced on his first journey. They didn't talk for the first few hours, but Azix found he didn't need conversation – Rye's presence was enough to soothe the squirming unease that strengthened the further they got from the temple.

The path Rye had sketched out was easy enough to follow, especially since Azix didn't have to focus on navigating. He just plodded along behind the droids and guided the cart around obstacles.

Around noon, Rye insisted they park the cart and take a half-hour rest. He instructed Azix to eat and drink water, and Azix was so relieved to be cared for that he didn't put up even a token resistance for pride's sake. He stretched his calves and thighs while chewing on another piece of jerky. Rye surprised him when one of his hovering droids buzzed over and, after a thoughtful series of chirps, began to play a recent pop hit. Azix hadn't had any particular feelings about the song before, but hearing it here, in this wasteland, made his heart swell and his throat thicken. He forced it back, unwilling to cry over something as stupid as a bubblegum tune sung by a cute Zeltron pop star, but he couldn't resist the urge to give the droid's round exterior casing a hug when it was time to get moving again.

The droid booped softly in bewilderment, and Rye laughed.

His injured knee had had plenty of time to heal at the temple, and it withstood the journey without complaint until after the second break in mid-afternoon, when it began to ache again. They had nothing to heat or cool it with, so he rubbed some of the salvaged arthritis cream into it and pressed on. They got in another three hours of travel before Rye dispatched two of his hovering droids to scan for caves and crevices they could spend the night in. The gray sky was turning to black, but the last hovering droid used its flashlight to guide Azix's feet. He was bone-weary by the time Rye announced he'd found a suitable shelter, but even as he dragged the cart into the meandering crack in the cliff face and wedged it against the walls, stacking the supplies to lessen any light spillage that might reveal their presence, he could feel the difference. He'd been walking, putting in hard labor, all day long and his body hurt, but even the constant presence of the Dark Side no longer chafed his mind. He spread his bedroll far enough into the cave that even a monolith's arm couldn't reach – he'd learned that lesson well – and settled down with Rye's holocron on his chest to get some well-earned rest.

Even better, he could rest his mind in his bedroom in Rye's mindscape while his body was resting on a thin bedroll on Ziost. The comfort of the bed Rye had provided might not have been real, but it FELT real, and that allowed him to truly relax. Especially since Rye's hovering droids were currently patrolling outside, making sure they would have plenty of warning if danger approached.

In the holocron's mindscape, Rye came to him lean and naked, hungry for contact and kisses. Azix was too tired for more, but he was perfectly happy to wrap himself up in his lover and sleep like the dead until dawn.

Nine hours later, Rye woke him up so they could do the same thing all over again.

His knee started the day stiff and degenerated from there, slowing their pace. Rye fussed and theorized, but since his scanners weren't medical-grade, he couldn't verify any of his diagnoses. Azix just took it slow and tried to keep to the easiest possible terrain.

This became much easier once the canyon opened up as Rye had promised it would, spreading into the flat plateau. The ground was still hard, unyielding in a way that punished his feet and his joints, radiating pain up into his back as the day wore on. Azix wore a piece of old cloth over his face to keep the ashes out of his mouth, took slow, even breaths, and just focused on moving forward. The Dark Side swelled with every breath, filling him with heat and strength. He could feel the slight burn in his eyes when he drew on it too hard. His conscience nagged at him, but instead of guilt, he found himself responding with irritation that curdled slowly into anger. He was just trying to SURVIVE. He was tired of feeling wretched and worthless just because he valued his own life more than the people who raised and trained him did.

Rye was right. They should have to walk a mile in his boots before they presumed to judge him.

"What do they listen to in the Empire?" he wondered when they stopped for lunch and Rye's droid began playing cheerful top-40 music again. "Not this, I assume."

"Why not this?" Rye wondered. "The Empire is even more modern and advanced than the Republic. Certainly we produce plenty of our own music, but Imperial teenagers have their thumb on the pulse of the galaxy."

That made Azix snort, but he let it pass. "Okay, what kind of music does the Empire produce?"

"What type of music does the Republic produce?" Rye shot back. "Your question is too imprecise for me to answer. There's a thriving underground music scene producing the harsher, angrier varieties of music: your kaasi grind, your industrial, your sithwave. Of course, several styles of classical music are always in vogue with the upper class, echoing human and ancient Sith themes. Opera and theatre are popular. Few Imperials actually become pop stars, but plenty of Imperials listen to industry standards, and artists whose work doesn't subvert or criticize the empire in any way are often given dispensation to tour."

"That surprises me," Azix confessed. "I didn't think the Empire encouraged anybody to have fun. Let alone to write rebellious music."

Rye just smiled. "You'd be surprised how much fun we have around here. New Adasta was a vibrant population center, which only makes its destruction that much more tragic. Imagine if someone did this to Corellia," he suggested. "Then you'll have an idea what a psychological blow this is to the Empire."

Az sighed. "With respect, Rye, I'm trying not to think about it. I've got plenty of my own problems. And the things I saw there were…." He trailed off, chewing on a cracker as he tried to organize his thoughts.

Fortunately, Rye was keeping up. "You have enough trauma to deal with, without letting yourself feel the deaths of billions of civilians," he concluded. "I understand that." His hologram came and sat on a crate next to Azix. "How are you feeling?" he asked more softly, hair falling across his brow spurs at his head tilt. "I noticed you're channeling. Is it because of tiredness, pain…?"

"Both." Az rolled his shoulders and washed his meager ration down with some water. That, at least, he had plenty of. "It's okay, Rye. We just have to get there. Jedi training means I can tough it out through a lot worse pain than this."

"But there's no need when we have some resources available. Take some painkillers," Rye suggested, "And I brought the brace. I can help apply the topical, if you need help with your back or shoulders."

He smiled, reaching out and brushing his knuckles through the light etching of Rye's cheek. "Thanks."

Rye's color didn't change, but by the way his eyelashes lowered and his head ducked, Az got the strong impression of a blush. "Well. I'd prefer it if you didn't collapse halfway to our destination. We're safe for the moment – the probes are getting excellent visibility. Take off your shirt."

He complied, and sat with his elbows on his knees, head hanging down, while Rye's chassis rubbed medicine into his skin. It bruised as much as it helped, but soon the numbing effect began to sink in. When Rye was done with his lower back, he moved to his neck and shoulders, and Azix let himself drift for a while under the pressure of his hands, listening to a young hearthrob with a crooning falsetto sing about how much better his new speeder would look with a pretty girl in the front seat.

Despite all of Rye's efforts, Azix hit his limit early that evening. He tried to push on, but the strength leaked out of him like someone had pulled his plug, and he found himself unable to even lift his feet, let alone navigate the slopes and variations of their winding path. He breathed deep, pulling on the Dark Side with more intention, and won a brief surge of strength, but a sensation like heartburn sizzled along his veins and that strength, too, drained out of him after only a few steps.

Injury and improper nutrition were taking their toll. He stopped, swaying, too sluggish and muddled to figure out what he was supposed to do now.

"Az?" Rye ducked his head so he could catch his downturned gaze, fingers grazing his cheek.

"S… sorry," he mumbled. "I've… got nothing."

Rye straightened, and his probe droids flew in different directions. "Sit down," he said. "I'll find us shelter for the night. Drink some water, eat something; we'll turn in early."

"Fuck." He stumbled when he tried to take a step, and new bruises blossomed when his limbs smacked against Rye's chassis as it caught his fall. "Sorry… I don't know why…."

"It's no problem. We'll set aside some heavy proteins and carbs for your breakfast tomorrow. That will sustain you far better than sugar."

The chassis set him on top of the supply crates, and he slumped gratefully, elbows digging into his knees. A moment later, lukewarm water spilled over the back of his head, wetting his shirt and bringing some clarity back to his addled mind. He sighed gratefully, and when he was able to lift his head he took the thermos from the droid and guzzled it dry.

"The closest shelter is an overhang half a kilometer from here. Can you make it?"

"Just an overhang?" Az blinked at him, using the bandana to wipe soot off his face.

"I'll keep watch all night," Rye reminded him. "I'm not sure how fast the sithspawn can move, but I'll set a wide perimeter so we'll have plenty of advance warning. And frankly, I'm not sure you could make it any further."

"You could take a turn pulling this thing," Azix suggested a little acidly, but Rye didn't rise to the bait.

"I'll need to swap out some power cells as it is, but I will if I have to," he replied. "Try to make it. The floor looks nice and smooth. Should give you some decent rest."

Azix heaved a sigh, but he forced himself to get up and put one foot in front of the other. To his mild surprise, Rye's chassis came over and pressed its three-fingered hand against his lower back. It wasn't really support, in the physical sense, but in some indefinable way it helped to know someone was there.

He made the half kilometer walk, though it took much longer than any Jedi would have admitted to. The overhang was a deep recess like a gouge carved into the side of the mountain, doubtless the product of an ancient river. Grit and gravel had piled up in front of the overhang, creating a rounded crevice. It wasn't nearly as deep as he would have liked, but would prevent anything at a monolith's height from seeing him, so at least it was some protection. He'd have to leave the lights off, but as tired as he was, he couldn't imagine anything he'd want to use them for.

He crawled into the crevice like a burrowing animal and laid out his thin bedding on a pile of slightly softer grit, then dragged over some water. His aching bones sagged into a heap as he pulled the thin emergency blanket and the tobacco-scented sweater around his shoulders and guzzled the water until his arm ached too much to support the bottle. Then he set it aside and curled up with an exhausted sigh.

Rye's chassis came and sat next to him, powering down until the holocron was the only activity. Az felt the soft, steady thrum of it like someone was gently tapping a tuning fork against his bones. His stomach curdled a little, but barely, and a hint of effervescence raced through his veins in response. He reached, and felt Rye's welcome as the dark, blasted world around him faded away.

He came to in the library, reclined on one of the well-padded couches. He chose to lie there for several ticks, enjoying the back support and the quiet, the distant trickle of water, the scent of greenery. He soon came to realize the silence wasn't perfect - familiar sounds echoed far away, the clack of training swords and cries of effort. Someone was sparring. That noise was so familiar to him, a constant background in most Jedi temples, that at first it didn't occur to him to wonder who.

But he wasn't in a Jedi temple, despite the ambience. The wooden sounds filtered into his consciousness, followed by a shout of triumph, then a familiar laugh - Darth Virul. Taking the opportunity to spar Darth Krazzk, maybe? While Azix didn't feel comfortable around either of them, he wouldn't have wanted to miss an opportunity to see that fight. He swung his legs off the couch and padded barefoot toward the descending spiral stairs, cut from the rock like the rest of the temple. He was wearing a lightweight jacket and pants, no shoes. But his feet didn't hurt anymore, and the cool floors felt good. The cuffs of his pants whispered as they dragged across the polished stone.

On the lower level, the hallway opened into large, airy gymnasiums with soft grip-mats laid across the floor and rattan weapons mounted on the walls. Rye had added large paper wall hangings with ornate wooden rods, with graceful combat forms etched across them in ink. They fluttered slightly as a twilight breeze filtered in through floor-to-ceiling windows overgrown with vines.

On one of the pale mats, Darth Virul was clashing, not with Darth Krazzk, but with Lord Zihuratt. The pureblood had dressed down for the occasion, in a much simpler, but still voluminous robe of textured black fabric. Her hair was tightly bound to the back of her head, with only one decorative pin that looked like it could double as a dagger thrust through the coiled mass. She held two wooden practice blades as if they weighed nothing, though her own real weapons were probably lighter. With her statuesque posture and cool elegance, she dwarfed Darth Virul, who wore a sturdy but pretty athletic dress and leggings in shades of dark brown shot through with gold, her own hair bound back in a similar clip but coming loose in sweat-slicked locks that plastered against her skin. More sweat soaked the back of her dress where it followed the curve of her spine, and her face was flushed bright red in mottled patterns, but she was grinning as she went through a series of vigorous exchanges with Lord Zihuratt. They had very different styles; Darth Virul was forceful and energetic, and her stance was deeply rooted. She gave huffing cries of effort as she pressed her half of the sequence, generating power with her breath and torque from her wide hips. Zihuratt was contained and effortless, channeling that power with efficient parries and tight, circular footwork, her weight always centered and her posture erect. Between her sleeves fluttering like banners and Virul's skirt flaring like the petals of a flower, their exchange had a whirling quality that reminded Azix of leaves caught on a spiral of wind.

He was drawn in despite himself. He'd seen too many practices and duels not to want to analyze this one, stealing glimpses when the masters and knights errant tested one another at the temple, looking for ways to gain a deeper understanding of the principles of combat. In his heart of hearts, he knew where he stood, and it was solidly in the middle of the pack. Nothing he did seemed to change that - as hard as he worked to gain an inch of ground, the front-runners were doing the same hard work to stay ahead of him. He'd even resented them for it at times. He'd also spent long hours in the gyms, working and training and pushing himself in the hopes of accomplishing even an ounce of the power the two Sith in front of him were demonstrating. Envy curled in his chest. Each of them seemed to embody a different kind of power - Darth Virul had the power to assert herself on her environment, an unstoppable force. She was making an obvious effort, but the work was movement and energy and joy, with all the inevitability of a falling asteroid. With each clash of weapons, the roundness of her arms jiggled, the fat dimpling as muscles flexed beneath, and her chest heaved. Every inch of her seemed human, mortal, but full of vivaciousness.

By contrast, Lord Zihuratt embodied the immovable, the untouchable. Not a hair out of place, no sign of effort, though Azix could tell reading the duel that Virul was giving her a good fight. All her movements seemed light and graceful, as if she weighed no more than a butterfly alighting on a blade of grass in silk slippers. She certainly wasn't sweating, and her skin was the same crimson hue, without the purple flush he knew purebloods could develop when they exerted themselves. Hers was the power of being unaffected, invulnerable. The Force coursed through every muscle and vein, lending power to her gentlest movement. She did not need to grunt and heave like Virul did, because her power came from outside herself, not within.

They were not evenly matched. Virul was not using any sorcery that he could see, and Zihuratt was clearly more adept with blades. She also had two blades to Virul's one, and the longer reach. But Zihuratt seemed to be doing her partner the courtesy of extending the duel as they traded sequences back and forth, moving through familiar dulons and then spinning them off into unfamiliar ones, like musical variations extrapolated from a theme. Though Zihuratt didn't echo Virul's smile, Azix got the impression that she, too, was enjoying the exercise.

It made him feel… antsy. Restless. Under no circumstances could he hope to compete with either of them, his surprise-attack on Zihuratt during their duel notwithstanding. But… he wanted to step out onto the mat and feel the rubbery texture under his feet. He wanted a training blade in his hand, and he wanted to follow the familiar forms. He wanted to learn the new ones, the ones Virul made look so powerful and Zihuratt made look so easy.

There was a soft, electronic buzz and Rye appeared next to him. He was dressed in soft black. The warm lighting played differently on his face, and Azix noted that his skin wasn't quite the same hue as Zihuratt's - it was brighter, a truer crimson, while hers was darker like wine.

His arm slid around Rye's waist without his conscious intent, and fit perfectly in the crook of his back. Rye leaned into him, and a flush of heat slid under Az's skin. Suddenly, sparring wasn't the kind of exercise he craved anymore.

But before he could tighten his grip, lean over and murmur a suggestion in that ridged ear, Rye shifted his weight and said, "It's astonishing, isn't it? Somehow the full effectiveness of these forms isn't apparent unless a comparably skilled defense is offered."

Az had to smile. "Yeah, it doesn't look the same in practice. I've been put through a lot of forms I couldn't make heads or tails of, and then I saw a master use them, and it was like… like I was standing at the foot of a cliff, and they were up on the ledge. And I could see they were up there. I could see the difference between what they were doing and what I was doing. But there was no way up the cliff - no way to close the gap. Not that I could see, anyway."

"There is no substitute for the climb," Darth Krazzk said from right beside them, making Azix jump and a sharp flare of rage burn behind his ribcage as he whirled on the Nautolan. Krazzk smirked. Fortunately, he was dressed in the same sleeveless jacket and knee-length pants Az had seen him in before. If he'd been naked, Az wouldn't have been able to maintain his glare.

"With all due respect," Azix said tightly, still remembering the steel grip of Krazzk's hand on his throat, "you don't know me, so don't assume you know what my issue is."

"Granted," the dark lord allowed. "But I've had many students, with many learning styles, who took a variety of paths to mastery. So when I say there's no substitute for simply putting in the work, I know whereof I speak."

"I DO put in the work," Azix began, but Krazzk interrupted with a dry murmur.

"Everyone says that."

Anger flared again, and Azix gritted his teeth, nails digging into his palms. "No. I put in the work. I am not one of those novices who doesn't understand why we have to do drills. I never complained about drilling. I understand the point of drills, I am educated on the importance of muscle memory and ingrained reflexes, and I have never had a problem with that. I didn't skip class, I didn't blow off my solo work, and I've read the damn scrolls. So your opinion, as a guy who's only ever seen me in battle once, I don't give a shit about. No offense."

"The Jedi welp takes his life into his own hand, speaking thus to a lord of the Sith," Zihuratt declared from the mat. She and Virul seemed to be taking a brief respite, and she stood tall and willowy, glaring at Azix with those empty black eyes. Either she had toned it down significantly, or Rye had made adjustments to compensate for the booming effect on her voice – it still resonated, but not painfully. Virul had her hands on her hips and was panting, scraping her sweaty hair back from her forehead. She flashed Azix a wry smile.

Krazzk just chuckled. "We don't always get to choose our teachers, Jedi Tsuva. And it isn't prudent to reject wisdom just because you don't like the source. Come," he offered, stepping up onto the mat. He bowed to Darth Virul, who looked amused, and held out his hand for her practice saber. She surrendered it, and he tugged on the handle, deftly extending it into a polearm. Azix assumed a certain amount of latitude in the form of the weapons was built into the training program, and followed him onto the mat. Lord Zihuratt stepped aside and replaced her training sabers, folding her hands into the sleeves of her robe as she stood with her head tilted to watch.

"Maybe I can help you bridge the gap you've been struggling with. Can we get a base-line?"

"Look," Azix began, but then Rye murmured his name from the sidelines.

"Azix," he said quellingly. Az looked over and saw the hope in his eyes – Rye wanted to watch this, analyze it, learn from it. He was eager to have a front row seat to practical applications of lightsaber combat theory, and his craving melted Az's resistance. He dissolved into a sulk.

"Fine."

Krazzk rumbled. "Excellent. Now, ready stance."

Ready stance? Seriously? The irritation under his ribs felt like heartburn, sizzling against his lungs like acid. He was not some fucking padawan…

/Well,/ he thought with sudden, dark clarity, /only one way to prove that./

He skipped ready stance. Instead he opened with a crashing Juyo advance. If Krazzk liked weapons with reach, he didn't intend to let him have that reach. And he had learned something from watching Darth Virul who, like him, wielded only one saber but unlike him did not treat that lightsaber like her only viable weapon. When Krazzk predictably back-tracked, trying to keep some distance between them, Azix tangled his off-hand in his jacket and held on, blocking the haft of his pike with his body. He switched his grip on his lightsaber, holding it back-hand, much better for a tight maneuvering space. And then, without really considering the consequences, he pushed the 'edge' of the plasma blade up against Krazzk's ribs, incinerating the cloth and sizzling into the flesh beneath.

Krazzk gave a thunderous howl of surprise and pain, and The Force hit Azix like a canon. His feet left the mat and he slammed into the wall with a crunch and a clatter, toppling to the floor along with a hail of displaced practice weapons and splintered pieces of their display racks. He heard Rye gasp his name, but he felt strangely all right – he'd lost his wind, but there was no stabbing pain of broken ribs, no numbness from bruised nerves.

/Because of the program,/ he realized as he struggled to peel himself out of the rubble. /Rye's protecting me./ Doubtless, he'd scripted this environment so Az couldn't come to any real harm while he was in it. Of course, if he didn't get his ass up, Darth Krazzk might be testing the limits of that protection momentarily.

Az sucked in a breath and PUSHED, not just with his body but with The Force, and the rubble scattered as he leaped to his feet. He'd lost hold of the practice blade. Fortunately, there were plenty to choose from at his feet. He checked Krazzk's position even as he slid his toe under one and flipped it into the air, catching it back-hand by the hilt. But Krazzk wasn't coming after him for revenge. Rather, he was standing on the side of the mat, holding his jacket open while Darth Virul examined the injury and clucked chidingly at him. He noticed Azix was up and grinned, showing sharp white teeth.

"That was well-reasoned, boy," he rumbled. "Very well reasoned. I felt the swell of your rage, the will to maim and punish. You've come farther than you think."

"Shouldn't have assumed he'd obey you," Virul said, amused.

"He IS a Jedi," Krazzk replied. "Obedience is bred into them. I had to work much harder to break many of my previous students of that tendency, but it looks like Azix wasn't lying about putting in the work on his own." He studied Azix with those cracked, dark eyes.

Admitting he'd misjudged him was an olive branch. Azix was chagrined enough to accept it. Perhaps he should have felt pride - he'd wounded Krazzk, taken him by surprise. Getting even one hit in was impressive, and Krazzk wouldn't be caught off-guard again; the next one wouldn't be so easy. Yet, watching Virul smile up at Krazzk in her motherly way as her hand covered the line of the plasma burn, glowing with a sickly light, he just felt… embarrassed. He'd lashed out in frustration, that was all. It was childish behavior. He should be better than that, now, after all the work he'd done as a Padawan to control his temper.

Of course, the alternative would have been to let the Sith think he had something to teach him. Perhaps a little childishness was the lesser of two evils.

"There," Virul declared. "Miracles of holocron logic. How does it feel?" He took his hands away from Krazzk's side, revealing mostly-healed flesh. The burn was still shiny, but that would doubtless flake off within hours.

Krazzk smiled, some of his tendrils curling up at the tips. "Much better, thank you." He gathered one of Darth Virul's hands and kissed the knuckles with courtly aplomb, then turned back to Azix, tying his jacket closed. "Well, you stung me for my presumption, and rightly so," he said. "But the fact remains: you need a teacher, and I crave a student. Perhaps we can agree to expand your skills together, with respect?"

Azix scowled. Then he took a look at Rye, who was watching him with such a resigned expression that his sheepishness came flooding back. He was being stubborn. But hadn't he gone far enough? It was foolish to think you had to walk all the way into hell just because you'd taken a few steps.

Krazzk read his expression. "You still resist the Dark Side."

"I'm a Jedi." Az tore his eyes away from Rye's. "I'm a servant of light." He might have snapped if Krazzk chose to challenge that statement, but he did not. Instead, the burly Nautolan scooped up his discarded practice pike and assumed a ready stance on the mat.

"Wisdom and power exist in delicate balance," he rumbled, stepping slowly through a weapon form that spun the pike across his shoulders and between his hands. "Wisdom without power is impotent. Power without wisdom destroys itself. But when a student walks the path of The Force, I have found that results are always better when wisdom takes the lead." When Azix just blinked, he said, "If you're not ready for Dark Side Channeling, let's focus on combat forms. They are neither Light nor Dark; just tools to shape the body so it can properly serve the mind."

"That's a great idea," Virul said, rubbing a towel over his (now shortened) hair. His dress and leggings had become a gi-like tunic and loose pants. "If those sithspawn you mentioned are as terrible as you say, learning a few new tricks to practice while you're awake could really boost your chances of getting to New Adasta in one piece."

"In addition," Lady Zihuratt said in her cool, dry tones, "you have allowed your body to fall into disrepair. Some conditioning would serve you well, and speed your recovery once you have escaped this planet." She inclined her head to the two Darths, which surprised Azix until he remembered she was technically lower-ranked than both of them in the sith hierarchy. "I will take tea to my study. May I share it with you?"

"A cup of tea would be very welcome, thank you," Krazzt said, planting the butt of the pike on the mat and leaning on it. "Well, Jedi Tsuva? It isn't as if we have anything better to do."

Azix could think of several things he would rather be doing, but before he could make an excuse, Rye stepped onto the mat. "I'd like to learn too," he said. "Everything you teach me helps expand the capacity of my predictive algorithms. I'll be more use to Azix in a fight if I get to practice and see examples here."

Krazzk's tendrils curled again in amusement. "Of course. I'd never deny our host."

"Fine," Azix found himself saying once again, in a huff. But when Rye came to stand beside him, scooping up a spare practice blade on the way, some of his tension dissipated. "Where do you want to start?"

"As before, I'd like to put you through your paces. I know it's elementary stuff, but observing how familiar and comfortable you are with the dulons will give me a better idea how to build on what you already know," he explained. "Rye, if you would stand aside and observe, I think you'll find this very helpful to your predictive algorithms. Then you and I can try the same sort of sequences, and see how well you put them into practice."

"That sounds reasonable," Rye agreed. He turned, giving Azix a smile only he could see, and whispering into his mind. /You know I love watching you./

Azix flushed and tightened his grip on the padded hilt. Time moved differently in the holocron, of course, so he could get in much more instruction than he could in a typical day. But if Rye didn't set aside some time for them to be alone together soon, he was going to have to drag him away from all this excitement. Wanting him made it hard to concentrate on dulons.

Krazzk had squared off in front of him. "Let's begin," he said, and lowered his weapon into an overhead attack.

Azix sighed and resigned himself to training away his night.