The cool wind of Aquilltano whispered through the tall grasses, bending them like waves upon an unseen sea. The scent of pine and fresh earth filled the air, grounding the mind in the sharp clarity of the wilderness. Far below, the ocean stretched out like a living thing, its waves crashing violently against the jagged cliffs, sending up spray that glittered in the fading light of the late afternoon. The sound of the sea—a constant, rhythmic roar—blended with the soft rustling of the trees, the soft chirps of distant birds, and the steady hum of the wind that seemed to carry with it the secrets of the world. It was a quiet and remote place, far from the ever-present weight of the Empire, a place she often came to think. To clear her mind. Her vivid seaweed eyes, reflective and distant, watched the undulating sea, the wind tugging at the strands of her blonde hair, but it was not the ocean that consumed her thoughts.
It was the question. The one that had clung to her for weeks, silently gnawing at the edges of her mind, refusing to be ignored. She had heard Doran speak of the Jedi—how they were destroyed, scattered like dust in the wind—and she had felt the weight of it in the very marrow of her bones. Her parents, Jedi knights, were caught in that destruction, killed by the clones they had fought beside. They had died far from her, on a distant planet, when Reine was just eight years old. She had been safe on Aquilltano with her elderly grandmother, who had cared for her after their deaths. The pain of that loss had shaped her in ways words couldn't fully capture. Her grandmother had never recovered from the news, and just half a year after, she too had passed, her heart broken beyond repair.
That was nine long years ago.
Since then, Doran had taken her under his wing, guiding her through the disciplined motions of combat, the quiet focus of meditation, and the unspoken truths woven into the Force itself. His lessons were never just about striking or defending—they were about understanding, about seeing beyond the surface of things. Each drill, each exercise, felt like a piece of something larger, a puzzle whose final shape he had yet to reveal. And though he never spoke of it outright, she could feel it in the weight of his gaze, in the careful way he measured her progress. He was preparing her—for something...
Her thoughts were interrupted by a subtle shift in the wind, a movement that seemed to pull her attention toward the path leading down into the woods. She took one last, lingering glance at the horizon, then turned her back to the sea and started walking toward the dense woods. Her footsteps were light, though the cool earth beneath her boots seemed to whisper in the silence. She could hear the soft crunch of the dried leaves and pine needles beneath her feet, the way they gave way with every step she took. The woods here were deep, thick with trees that stretched high into the sky. The scent of damp wood, moss, and earth mixed with the fresh air of the coastal wind, creating an almost heady perfume of wilderness.
As Reine walked the narrow path, winding through the towering trees, her mind remained fixed on the question she had carried with her for so long. She knew it was a question not easily answered. She knew Doran would be the one to offer an answer, though she was unsure whether he would give her what she sought or if he would continue to guard his thoughts, as he so often did. His silence was a constant companion, as much a part of him as the cloak that hung about his broad shoulders or the saber at his side.
The path opened into a small clearing, and there, in the quiet of the wild, Reine saw him. Doran stood near the base of a large stone, the flickering light of a small fire casting his figure in sharp relief. He was chopping firewood, each swing of his green lightsaber cutting through the log with a sharp, rhythmic precision. The blade hummed with energy, casting a greenish glow that danced across the surface of the logs as they cracked and splintered. The air was filled with the clean scent of freshly cut wood, the smell mingling with the smoke of the fire he had kindled nearby.
Doran's broad form was framed by the glow of his lightsaber, the blade moving in smooth arcs, his movements fluid and practiced. There was something almost meditative in the way he worked, each strike measured, purposeful, as if the act of cutting wood itself was a form of quiet reflection. His dark cloak billowed gently in the breeze, but the movements of his body—strong, steady, controlled—did not betray the restlessness that simmered beneath his calm exterior. He was as much a part of the wilderness as the trees themselves, solid and unyielding, yet somehow deeply connected to the land around him.
Reine stood just outside the clearing, watching for a moment, her eyes tracing the fluid arc of his saber. She had always admired the way he moved, the ease with which he wielded the weapon that had once been a symbol of something grander, something noble. To her, it was a reminder of the past, of what had been lost.
She took a step forward, the dry leaves crunching underfoot, and Doran paused, turning his head slightly to catch her presence. He didn't need to look fully at her to know she was there; his senses, sharpened by years of experience, told him all he needed to know.
"Reine."
With a small exhale, Doran turned toward the pile of chopped wood, setting down his saber with a soft click and resting his hand on the hilt. The glow of the blade dimmed, but the fire beside him crackled with warmth, throwing light onto his face. The years had etched themselves into his features, the lines of age and hardship deepening as the years passed, but there was still a certain strength in his eyes, a quiet fortitude that had never wavered.
"Master," Reine called, her voice cutting through the stillness. "What's for dinner?"
Doran paused mid-swing, turning to face her with a subtle smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Ah, I thought you might be hungry. Bunya fish stew again." He nodded toward a small fire pit set up nearby, where a pot simmered gently. "My specialty."
Reine smiled at the familiarity of his words, but she felt the question rising again in her chest, demanding to be asked. She paused for a moment, watching the steady movements of his hands. Then, quietly but firmly, she asked, "Do you think it's possible to bring back the Jedi Order?"
Doran didn't answer right away. Instead, he looked down at the fire, the flickering light reflecting in his grey eyes. He didn't need to say a word. She could feel the weight of his thoughts pressing on the air between them, a silence that stretched out before him like a distance he wasn't yet willing to cross. Finally, after a long pause, he exhaled, slowly setting his hands on the rough stone near him, his posture shifting as he looked back at her, his expression unreadable.
"You think it's possible?" he asked quietly, his tone measured. "After everything that happened, after everything that was lost, you think the Jedi Order can come back?"
Reine stood still, her chest tightening at the question, but she held his gaze, unflinching. "I don't know. But if there's a chance… even a small chance… I need to know."
Doran's gaze softened, but only slightly. He turned away, his fingers brushing over the hilt of his saber, as if considering how to speak the words he had held for so long. "Possible?" The word left his lips like a bitter taste, and for a moment, Reine wondered if he even believed in the possibility of something like that. "The Jedi were not destroyed just by the Empire. They were destroyed because of their own failures. Their blindness. They failed to see the darkness that was already within their own ranks. They failed to see the truth, and that cost them everything."
Reine's breath caught in her throat, her heart aching with the weight of his words. She had heard him speak of the betrayal before—of Anakin Skywalker's fall, of the Republic's collapse—but it never seemed to hit her with the same force as it did now. It was as if, in hearing it, she could feel the scar that ran through his soul, the invisible wound that had shaped so much of who he was.
"I know they weren't perfect," Reine said. "I know that. But my mother always said the Jedi believed in something greater than themselves. They believed in justice, in peace, in protecting the helpless. You can't just forget that."
Doran's face hardened, his lips pressing into a thin line. "They were blind, Reine. They couldn't see the darkness growing around them until it was too late. They failed to protect the Republic. They failed to protect each other. And when the darkness came, it destroyed them." His voice was steady, but there was a fire in his eyes now—a fire she had seen only in moments of unrestrained emotion. "And the galaxy? The galaxy paid the price for that failure."
Reine's hands clenched at her sides, her heart hammering. "But it doesn't have to be that way again, does it? We can learn from what happened. We don't have to repeat their mistakes. We can build something new. A Jedi Order that isn't blind. Something that's actually... better, Doran!"
Doran turned to face her, his gaze darkening with intensity. "You don't understand, Reine. It's not just about fixing what was broken. The Jedi Order was more than a symbol; it was a system, a network of beliefs, traditions, and responsibilities that no longer exist in any meaningful way." He exhaled sharply, stepping closer to her, his voice low and deliberate. "And I'm not going to rebuild it. I'm going to build something beyond it. Something that doesn't carry the same failures, the same limitations."
Reine blinked in surprise. "What do you mean?"
Doran's gaze softened, but only slightly, and there was a quiet sadness in his voice. "The Jedi failed, Reine. Their blindness led to their destruction. I'm not trying to bring them back, because I don't believe that's the answer. We can't fix what's broken by trying to put it back together the same way it was. We have to build something new—a way of seeing the galaxy that isn't bound by their dogma."
Reine's chest tightened, the weight of his words sinking in. "But… we can't just forget the Jedi ideals, can we? The justice, the peace…"
Doran shook his head. "I'm not asking you to forget those things. But justice and peace can't be served by a broken system. We need to look beyond it. Build something stronger. Something that can actually stand against the Empire. But it won't look like the Jedi Order. Not anymore."
Reine's hands trembled at her sides. "So… what are we supposed to fight for, then? If the Jedi aren't the answer, what are we doing here? What is this all for?"
Doran was silent for a long moment, his face unreadable, before he spoke softly. "We fight for what's right. But we do it with eyes wide open. We build something that isn't shackled by the past, something that doesn't repeat the mistakes that cost us everything. Maybe it's not the Jedi we need. Maybe it's something... greater."
And for the first time in a long while, Reine felt the smallest flicker of hope, the same hope Doran had quietly carried ever since that night. The night he had saved her from death that had almost consumed everything else.