The weeks blurred together in a haze of exhaustion.

The first few days, Seth had thrown himself into training with the same relentless drive that had gotten him through the military academy. Early mornings, late nights, bruises, exhaustion—he could handle all of that. He expected that.

But Jedi training was a different beast entirely.

It wasn't just the hours spent sparring in the dueling ring, the endless drills, or the humbling experience of being thrown to the floor by Bastila at least five times a session. It wasn't even the lectures, the holocrons, or the cryptic Jedi proverbs he barely understood.

It was the Force.

"Reach, but do not grasp."

"The Force is not a weapon, but an ally."

"You are not in control—you are in harmony."

Seth could handle the physical training. He could push his body past its limits, grit his teeth, and keep going. But this? This was fighting blind. The Jedi kept telling him to let go, to open himself, to trust—but trust had never gotten him anywhere in his life.

Still, he tried.

Week One.

Mornings started with meditation. Sitting in complete silence, clearing his mind, and reaching out to the Force.

By day three, he hated it.

By day five, he could barely keep himself awake.

By day seven, he realized—he wasn't getting anywhere.

Week Two.

"The Force is all around you, but you must learn to listen."

Master Zhar guided him through basic telekinesis. Seth stared at the small metal cylinder before him, fingers twitching slightly as he tried to pull the object toward him.

Nothing.

Come on.

He pushed harder. Tried to force it.

Still nothing.

"You are trying too hard, Padawan," Zhar observed.

Seth clenched his jaw. "I think I'm not trying hard enough."

The Twi'lek Master just smiled in that calm, Jedi way that made Seth want to throw something.

"The Force is not about effort, but about connection."

Seth glared at the unmoving object for a full hour.

By the time he left the chamber, he was frustrated, exhausted, and ready to put his fist through a wall.

Week Three.

Dueling. At least this was familiar.

"A Jedi wields their blade with purpose, not aggression."

"Your emotions are clouding your movements."

"You must be patient—"

Seth ducked under Bastila's next strike, teeth gritted. He was patient.

She twisted, bringing her training blade down toward his exposed shoulder—

Pain exploded down his arm.

Seth hit the mat hard, the wooden staff clattering beside him.

Bastila sighed. "You are improving, but you are reckless."

Seth groaned, staring at the ceiling. That made six duels in a row.

"Again," he gritted out, pushing himself to his feet.

Bastila arched an eyebrow. "Perhaps after you've caught your breath this time."

Seth exhaled sharply. He wasn't getting better fast enough. He could feel it gnawing at him.

He needed to be stronger.

Seth hated how slow this was going.

The frustration sat heavy on his chest, burning under his skin as he slumped onto the floor of the Ebon Hawk's garage, staring at the damn hydrospanner lying on the floor.

His hands curled into fists. He was so close. Every now and then, he could feel something—a shift, a pull, a whisper. But it was always just out of reach.

Master Zhar's voice echoed in his mind.

"The Force is your ally. Guide it—do not fight it."

Seth exhaled slowly. Reach. Don't force. Feel.

He felt something—just a whisper of a presence beneath the surface, like a current in deep water. He stretched toward it, willing it closer. Just a little more—

The floor tilted beneath him.

His head spun—his body tilted forward, stomach lurching like he was free-falling through open air.

He gasped. His lungs were tight. His limbs felt numb. A ringing filled his ears—

Then—

A strong hand yanked him back by his collar.

Seth sucked in air, vision snapping back into focus as his back hit solid ground. His heart was hammering against his ribs. His arms shook. He hadn't even realized how lightheaded he was until the oxygen flooded his brain.

Canderous loomed over him, arms crossed, face set in a familiar scowl.

"What the hell are you doing, kid?"

Seth blinked, still dazed. The Ebon Hawk's walls stopped spinning, but his pride took longer to recover.

"I—" he tried, throat dry. "I was just—"

"Forgetting to breathe?"

Canderous shook his head, exasperated.

"Lesson one, kid—stay alive. Lesson two—don't be an idiot."

Seth groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. "Noted."

The Mandalorian snorted. "You Jedi types always make things harder than they need to be. You tryin' to lift rocks with your mind or choke yourself to death? 'Cause it looked like the second one."

Seth scowled. "I wasn't—"

"Looked like it," Canderous cut in, unimpressed.

Seth sighed, humiliation settling in his chest like a stone. He was pushing himself too hard. Trying to force something that wasn't coming fast enough.

"I don't have time to take this slow," Seth admitted.

Canderous scoffed. "Yeah? And you think passing out in the middle of training is gonna speed things up?" He clapped a heavy hand on Seth's shoulder, giving him a small shake. "Pace yourself, kiddo. No one's expecting you to become a Jedi overnight."

Seth exhaled sharply, nodding.

But that was the thing—he didn't have years to train.

The Jedi were putting the weight of the galaxy on his shoulders. He was supposed to be some key to Bastila's mission, and every second he wasn't getting stronger felt like he was running out of time.

Still, he wasn't about to argue with a Mandalorian about survival.

"Yeah," he muttered, pushing himself to his feet. "Got it."

The Mandalorian scoffed, stepping back and hoisting his rifle over his shoulder. "Try not to die before you get that fancy laser sword, kid." He turned and stalked out of the garage, shaking his head.

Seth sighed, leaning his head back against the Ebon Hawk's cold durasteel wall. Great. Another win for the day.

"You gonna mope in here all night, or can I get in on the pity party?"

Seth jumped, startled by the sudden voice. He looked up to see Mission leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, her usual smirk firmly in place.

"Seriously, Hotshot, I don't even need Jedi training to sense the storm cloud over your head."

Seth sighed, tipping his head back again. "If you're here to make fun of me, take a number. Canderous already beat you to it."

Mission clicked her tongue, pushing off the wall and stepping inside. "Yeah, well, I like to think I'm a little more helpful than ol' tin can over there." She perched herself on a nearby crate, swinging her legs idly.

"So?" she prompted. "What's up? I mean, besides you being terrible at this whole 'Jedi' thing."

Seth shot her a glare. She grinned, unbothered.

"Okay, okay," she amended, holding up her hands. "You're not terrible. Just… not great."

Seth exhaled sharply through his nose, dropping his head into his hands. "That's the problem, Mish. I'm trying—I'm trying so damn hard—but it's just… slow. I should be better by now. Stronger. The Jedi keep saying I have all this potential, but it doesn't feel like it."

Mission's teasing faded into something gentler. "Seth."

He didn't look up.

"You know you're an idiot, right?" she continued. "Not because you suck at lifting things with your brain, but because you think that's what makes you strong."

Seth finally raised his head, frowning at her. "It's kind of important."

"*Yeah, but it's not who you are.*" She nudged his knee with her foot. "The Jedi can teach you all the fancy Force tricks in the galaxy, but they can't teach you the part that actually makes you great."

Seth arched a brow. "And what's that?"

Mission tilted her head, meeting his gaze without hesitation. "You don't quit. You don't leave people behind. You never stop fighting, even when you probably should." She smirked. "You've got the whole 'reckless hero' thing down to a science, and you don't need the Force for that."

Seth blinked. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

Damn.

She made it sound so simple.

Mission grinned, clearly seeing the impact of her words. "See? I knew I was smarter than all those Jedi Masters."

Seth huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "You always know exactly what to say, huh?"

"It's a gift." She leaned back on her hands, legs still swinging. "Though, if you wanted to thank me properly, you could take me out on a swoop ride sometime. Just saying."

Seth smirked. "Not much of a date if I leave you in the dust."

"Oh, please. I'd smoke you."

"*Uh-huh.*"

"You don't believe me?"

"Not even a little."

Mission narrowed her eyes, then grinned. "We'll just have to test that theory."

She hopped off the crate, stretching dramatically. "But for now, you should probably try that whole 'not forgetting to breathe' thing. I hear it's helpful."

Seth chuckled, watching as she started toward the door.

But just before she left, she hesitated.

Then, without warning, she turned back, grabbed the front of his tunic, and pulled him into a quick, impulsive kiss.

It was barely more than a brush of lips, a fleeting, stolen moment—but it was enough to leave Seth completely speechless.

Mission pulled back just as quickly, her face barely flushed, her smirk back in place.

"Sleep tight, Hotshot."

And just like that, she was gone.

Seth blinked.

His brain had officially short-circuited.

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, before a slow grin spread across his face.

Yeah.

He was gonna be just fine.

The air in the dueling chamber was thick with tension—not from hostility, but from the unspoken challenge between the two combatants standing across from one another.

Bastila rolled her shoulders, loosening her stance. Her double-bladed sword gleamed under the soft lights of the chamber, each polished edge promising precision, speed, and mastery.

Seth tightened his grip on his own blade, exhaling slowly as he settled into a ready stance. His muscles hummed with energy, coiled like a spring ready to strike.

No words were exchanged.

They had done this dance before.

But this time, Bastila wasn't holding back.

She moved first, a whirlwind of steel and momentum.

Her first strike came in a downward arc—fast, brutal, decisive. Seth barely had time to meet it, his arms trembling from the force of the impact. He gritted his teeth, twisting his wrist to divert the blow, but Bastila was already moving.

A second strike. A third.

She was pushing him hard, her form seamless, fluid, as if she was simply guiding the blade where it was meant to go.

Seth barely had time to think.

So he didn't.

He let instinct take over.

His feet shifted, dodging left, then right—an opening. He ducked low, pivoting to the side, forcing Bastila to readjust.

The moment she did, he struck.

He lashed out, his blade carving a tight, controlled slash toward her ribs—only for Bastila to twist, redirecting his momentum.

Before he knew what had happened, he was stumbling forward, thrown off-balance.

A baited trap.

Damn, she's good.

She spun, her back to him for just a fraction of a second—but it was enough.

Seth recovered faster than she expected.

He lunged, locking their blades together in a fierce struggle, his strength bearing down against hers.

Bastila's arms tensed as she held her ground.

Then—she smiled.

That smile sent a warning straight to his gut.

Seth barely had time to react before she dropped her weight and hooked her leg around his ankle, sweeping his feet out from under him.

His back slammed into the floor.

The wind rushed out of his lungs.

He felt the cold press of steel against his throat before he could even move.

Bastila loomed over him, her blade hovering just inches from his skin.

Seth landed hard, his back slamming against the training mat as Bastila's blade stopped just short of his throat. She held it there for a beat, waiting. Testing.

He breathed heavily, chest rising and falling, but he didn't concede.

Instead, he rolled to the side, dodging the strike she hadn't even thrown yet, and sprang back to his feet. His sword was in his hands before he'd fully regained his stance.

Bastila paused. Just for a fraction of a second.

Then she moved.

Their blades clashed again—fast, relentless, the duel turning into a blur of strikes and counters. Seth was thinking less, feeling more, his movements led by instinct rather than strategy. It felt right.

Until—

Bastila sidestepped at the last second, his attack swinging wide.

Seth cursed, pivoting to recover, but she was already there.

A sharp kick to his ribs sent him staggering, and before he could regain his balance—her blade was at his throat again.

This time, he stayed down.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Just the sound of their breathing, the still-humming blade inches from his skin.

Then—slowly—Bastila stepped back. She powered down her weapon and hung it at her hip, her face unreadable.

Seth let out a breath, rolling onto his back with a groan. "I'm starting to think you enjoy knocking me around, ma'am."

Bastila didn't smile. Not exactly. But there was something there. Something almost amused.

"You're improving."

Seth blinked. That was… rare.

"But," she added, tone sharpening, "you still leave yourself open. You telegraph your movements. A real opponent won't give you time to correct your mistakes."

Seth sighed, pushing himself upright. "Yeah, yeah, I got it. Less thinking, more—"

"If that had been Malak," Bastila cut him off, something serious slipping into her voice, "you'd be dead."

Seth stilled.

The words weren't meant to scold him. They were a warning.

Bastila's arms folded, but her posture wasn't strict—not in the way it usually was. There was no lecture coming. No reprimand. Just… a truth she needed him to understand.

"This fight won't be fair," she said, quieter now. "You can't afford mistakes."

He swallowed. There was something different in her eyes. Something not just strict, but… personal.

Like she wasn't just talking about Malak.

Like she was afraid.

Not for herself.

For him.

And that, more than anything, sent a jolt through his chest.

Bastila exhaled, composing herself. She stepped past him, toward the weapons rack, her voice leveling out again. "You're getting better," she admitted.

Seth blinked. That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.

She set her blade in place, then turned to face him again.

"Much better."

There was something else in her eyes now. A flicker of something restrained.

Pride.

Real pride. She was proud of him.

Seth felt his stomach tighten. Bastila never said things she didn't mean.

But before he could say anything—before he could think of what to do with that—the moment was gone.

Bastila straightened, any hint of vulnerability replaced by the usual cool, measured demeanor.

She gave him a curt nod. "Again tomorrow, same time."

Seth let out a breath, shaking his head as he stood. "Can't wait."

Bastila turned for the door. But right before she stepped through, she hesitated.

Just for a second.

Then, quietly—without turning back—she said,

"I meant it."

And then she was gone.

Seth stood there for a moment, watching her go, still processing the fact that she had just complimented him.

Then—

"Impressive."

Seth startled, spinning around to see Master Dorak standing in the doorway.

The Jedi historian smiled warmly. "Zhar has told us much about your progress, but seeing it for myself…" He nodded approvingly. "You have accomplished much in a short time."

Seth straightened instinctively. "Thank you, Master."

Dorak's gaze lingered, thoughtful. "Keep up your studies, young Avery. Your future is bright."

The Jedi turned, making his way toward the hall.

Seth watched him go, then—before he could stop himself—blurted, "Master Dorak, wait."

He had been carrying the weight of unspoken questions for weeks.

The words had settled in his chest like a boulder, pressing heavier with every quiet glance Bastila exchanged with the Council, with every cryptic remark from the Jedi Masters, with every reminder that they knew something he didn't.

And now, standing alone with Master Dorak, that weight was threatening to break him apart.

He couldn't hold it back any longer.

Seth's voice came out sharper than he intended, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "What happened to my parents?"

Dorak exhaled slowly, folding his hands into his sleeves. "Seth—"

"Don't," Seth cut in, his pulse pounding in his ears. "Don't tell me you can't say. Don't tell me it's 'complicated.' You know something. You've always known."

A pause. A hesitation.

Dorak's face remained unreadable, but something in his stance shifted—like a man walking a fragile line, choosing his words carefully. Too carefully.

Finally, the Jedi Master spoke. "Your parents were Jedi." Dorak's voice remained even, detached, as if recounting a piece of history long past. "Two knights of the Order. They fought in the Mandalorian Wars, against the wishes of the High Council."

Seth barely heard the rest.

His parents had been Jedi. They had fought in the same war that had shaped the galaxy, the same war that had created Revan and Malak.

The same war that had led to the Jedi Civil War.

His chest tightened.

"And?" His voice was quieter now, but no less urgent.

Dorak hesitated again. Just for a fraction of a second.

Then: "They were lost."

Seth swallowed hard. "What happened?"

Dorak finally met his gaze, his expression unreadable. "Revan and Malak happened."

The words slammed into him like a landspeeder crash.

Seth's vision swayed.

His parents—his family—had been killed by the very Sith Lords who had burned Taris, who had ordered the slaughter of billions, who had cost him his squad, his comrades, his brothers.

Revan and Malak had stolen everything.

The walls of the enclave felt too small, too close. His breath came fast, sharp, like his body was bracing for an impact that had already happened.

The fire in his chest burned hotter.

"They left you in our care before they left for the Wars," Dorak continued. "We were to take you to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, where you would be raised in the Order. But the ship carrying you was shot down upon arrival. By the time our search teams arrived, you were gone."

Gone.

Lost to the Undercity.

He felt sick.

Dorak exhaled, watching Seth's reaction carefully. "We believed you were dead."

Seth let out a sharp breath, barely listening now. The weight of it all was crushing him.

Destroyed by Malak.

The name was a drumbeat in his skull, each repetition fueling the storm building in his chest.

Malak had taken them.

Malak had stolen his family.

And now, he was out there, burning planets, slaughtering innocents, taking more.

Not one more.

Not one more world.

Not one more family.

Not one more life.

Seth clenched his jaw, white-hot fury seething beneath his skin.

Dorak placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. "I understand that this is difficult to hear."

Seth barely heard him over the roaring in his ears.

"But know this, young one—vengeance is not the Jedi way."

Seth ripped himself away from Dorak's grasp.

His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. His whole body was trembling.

"I—I need to go," he choked out.

Dorak gave a solemn nod. "Take the time you need."

Seth didn't wait for more.

He turned sharply and walked away—then ran.

The Ebon Hawk's ramp hadn't even fully closed behind him before Seth stormed past the others, straight to the medbay.

The door sealed shut with a hiss, locking him in before anyone could follow.

Seth collapsed onto the cot, his mind spiraling.

The anger inside him was alive, pulsing, clawing at the edges of his control. His heart was slamming against his ribs, his breath uneven, his vision blurred.

Everything was unraveling.

A knock.

"Seth?"

Mission's voice.

His stomach twisted.

No.

Not now.

Not her.

Not when the rage was still burning through him, when he could barely breathe past the weight in his chest, when everything inside him felt like it was shattering.

"Not now, Mish," he bit out, harsher than he meant to.

Silence.

Then, softer: "Are you okay?"

Something inside him snapped.

He wasn't okay. He would never be okay.

His whole life had been built on unanswered questions, but now that he had answers, they only made it worse.

Malak had taken his parents.

The Jedi had left him in the dark.

And now Mission—Mission, who had been the one person to always see him—wanted to help, wanted to be there, wanted to understand.

But she couldn't.

She wouldn't.

And it was too much.

Seth sprang to his feet and slammed a fist against the medbay door.

"I SAID NOT NOW, MISSION!"

The words hit like a shockwave.

The silence that followed was too thick, too heavy.

Seth's pulse pounded as the echo of his own voice rang in his ears. Too loud. Too angry. Too much.

What the hell was that?

He wasn't like this. He wasn't supposed to be like this.

He had never raised his voice at her before.

Not at her.

And he hated himself for it the second the words left his mouth.

Through the door, he could hear Mission's breath catch.

For a moment, he thought—hoped—she'd snap back, throw something sarcastic at him, roll her eyes and tell him to quit being dramatic. That would be better.

But she didn't.

She didn't say anything at all.

Then—her footsteps.

Slow. Measured.

And getting further away.

Seth's hands were shaking. His breath was ragged, uneven.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his palms hard against his forehead.

What the hell was wrong with him?

His anger wasn't just anger anymore. It was something darker, something that crackled beneath his skin like fire, something that felt hungry.

And that terrified him more than anything.

He had never felt this kind of rage before.

Not when he lost the Endar Spire.
Not when he saw Taris burn.
Not even when he stood over Draven's lifeless body.

But this?

This was different.

This wasn't just war anymore.

This was personal.

And Malak—

Malak would pay.