[[Just a small reminder to everyone. That my stories are only safe until chapter 20. Then I start rolling dice. meaning if I roll the story badly can end lol.]]
Father led the way toward the guest room. He had this look on his face like he was deciding whether or not to throw three Jedi out a window.
I still felt like my heart was trying to climb up into my throat. Their presence was impossible to miss. Even before we reached the door, the Force felt brighter here. Father didn't knock. It was his house, after all. The door opened, and we stepped through. Jenza was inside by the window. Shmi sat beside her on a cushioned bench, her posture still a little hunched.
Opposite them were the Jedi. I recognized them immediately. Master Adi Gallia stood with her arms loosely folded, angled to watch both my aunt and the other Jedi. White and crimson robes, the familiar headdress. She looked exactly the way I remembered.
Ki-Adi-Mundi was near the center, tall, hands clasped behind his back. Cerean skull like a tower, beard neatly trimmed, expression fixed in what I'm sure he thought was calm concern. To me, it just looked like he had a permanent stick wedged up his ass.
And then there was Master Plo Koon. He stood a little apart, closer to the window light. Heavy robes, breathing mask, and tinted goggles hid his eyes. But in the Force he felt… steady. Deep. Calm.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't get a little spark of excitement right then. I'd watched this man lead clones into battle and be loved for it. I knew how he treated the people under his command. Out of all the Jedi, he was the one I'd secretly hoped to meet first in this life after my father.
Apparently, he felt that, because his attention brushed over me the second we entered. Not invasive. Just… noticing. "Count Dooku," Adi Gallia said, bowing her head with perfect courtesy. "Thank you for receiving us."
"Masters," Father replied, inclining his head just enough to be respectful without lowering himself. "Serenno is not so inhospitable that we would turn away guests."
Ki-Adi's gaze flicked to me, then back to Father. "We appreciate your welcome," he said. "But I hope you understand our… concern." Concern. Right. That was one word for it. Plo Koon stepped forward half a pace.
"Our intent is not to accuse," he said, voice distorted but gentle through the mask. "We heard of a freed slave woman brought to Serenno, and a child strong in the Force living under your care. Such things naturally draw the Council's attention."
Father's hand settled lightly on my shoulder, guiding me forward. "This is my daughter," he said. "Liora Serenno." I stepped out from behind him, putting myself where they could see me clearly. I dipped into a proper bow.
"Masters," I said. "Welcome to our home. You honor us by being here." Adi's gaze softened the tiniest bit. "Lady Liora," she said. "Thank you for receiving us on such short notice."
Ki-Adi studied me like I was a puzzle with one missing piece. "You are strong in the Force," he said, more observation than compliment. "Unusually so, for your age."
"I've been told that," I replied, keeping my tone polite. "It seems it will become a popular topic." That almost earned me a flicker of amusement from Adi. Almost.
Plo's attention settled fully on me now. I couldn't see his eyes, but I could feel the way he was measuring me. "You carry yourself with discipline," he said. "And your presence in the Force is… odd. Not what we usually encounter in one so young."
"Liora is gifted," Father said. "The Force has seen fit to be generous." Ki-Adi shifted his weight. "Generosity without guidance can be dangerous," he said. "Especially under the roof of someone who has turned his back on the Order."
Father's fingers tightened just barely against my shoulder, then relaxed. "And yet," he answered coolly, "none of you sensed fit to come question that generosity when I wore your robes, Master Mundi."
The air got thicker for a second. Plo broke the tension before it could pull too tight.
"Count," he said, turning his head toward Father. "If I may… I would like to speak with your daughter privately. Only for a short time. To better understand her feelings about all of this."
Father glanced down at me, one brow lifting in that silent well. He did so well. I actually was excited. Nervous, yes, but excited. This was Plo Koon. Out of everyone here, he was the one I trusted most to actually listen.
"If you permit it, Father," I said. "I would not mind." Jenza's eyes narrowed by a fraction. Protective, not distrustful. She looked at Plo, weighing him, then at Father.
"There's the east balcony," she said. "It's quiet. And I can see it from here." Which means she will be watching the whole time. "That will do," Father said. He met Plo's gaze. "I expect my daughter returned unharmed and unupset, Master Koon."
"A reasonable expectation," Plo replied. "I will do my utmost to meet it." He gestured politely toward the door.
"After you, Lady Liora."
I bowed my head again to the room, then walked out beside him. We moved down the corridor in silence. The castle stone was cool underfoot, the air holding that faint smell of old books and polished wood that always clung to this wing. Plo's footsteps were heavy, steady, very now and then I heard the soft, controlled rasp of his filtered breathing. The east balcony door stood open to the afternoon light. I stepped through and took a breath.
The balcony overlooked one of the inner courtyards: a square of green cut into the stone, with a fountain in the middle and neat shrubs along the edges. Sunlight spilled across the tiles, but the balcony itself was shaded by carved stone arches. A breeze stirred my hair.
I glanced up automatically. There it was: the guest room window, just above and to the left. The glass caught the light, but I could make out a vague shape that was definitely Jenza. Watching. Plo came to stand beside me, resting his gloved hands lightly on the railing. For a moment, he didn't say anything. Neither did I.
It wasn't an uncomfortable silence. Just… "Is this all right?" he asked eventually. "If you prefer somewhere else, we can walk."
I shook my head. "Here is fine. My aunt can see us. That makes her feel better."
"A worried aunt," he said.
"The best aunt," I corrected.
He inclined his head slightly. We stood like that for a few more heartbeats. The fountain below bubbled. A bird hopped along the courtyard wall. Plo turned a little more toward me. "The Council had a question," he said. "One that… perhaps is better addressed to you than to your father."
I could guess. I'd already heard the shape of it in Ki-Adi's voice.
"'Are there others like me?'" I asked.
He gave a small nod. "In fewer words, yes."
I rested my hands on the railing, mimicking his posture without even realizing it. "There aren't," I said. "It's just me. No secret group. No hidden school in the cellar."
(Though that wouldn't be a bad idea down the line)
A small gust of wind tugged at the ends of my braid. "You want to know if he's collecting us and building his own… what? Army? Order? Replacement for the Jedi?"
"You are very direct," Plo said. "That is… refreshing."
"People talk around me a lot," I said. "They forget I understand more than my height suggests. It gets tiring, pretending not to notice."
"Do you pretend often?" he asked.
"When it's useful," I said honestly. "Some things are easier to do if people underestimate you. But I don't like doing it with family. Or with people who are actually trying to help." His presence warmed just a little at that.
"You speak like someone older," he said. "Older than six, certainly."
"Everyone keeps saying that," I muttered. "I'm going to start taking it as a compliment and not… whatever Master Mundi means when he says it." Plo made a soft sound that might have been a laugh. "Master Mundi believes in categories," he said. "Things that fit squarely in one box or another. A child who sounds like an adult does not fit his boxes."
"Feels like his problem, not mine," I said, then caught myself. "With respect."
"Honesty is not disrespect," Plo replied. "As long as it is not used as a weapon." I considered that, then nodded. "Are you afraid of us, Liora?" he asked suddenly.
I blinked up at him. "No."
"No hesitation," he observed. "I thought about it," I said. "Before you arrived. About what you might do. Take me. Take Shmi. Tell Father he's unfit. That sort of thing. I'm not stupid. But fear isn't the right word." He tilted his head slightly. "If someone threatened my family," I added, "I wouldn't be afraid. I'd be angry. And I'd fight. Even if I lost. Even if it was you."
It came out more fierce than I'd planned, but it was still the truth. The Force around him shifted. "Attachment," he said quietly, "is something the Order warns against, as you probably know."
"I've read the Code," I said. "And a lot of arguments about the Code."
"Do you agree with it?" he asked.
"I think," I said slowly, "that fear leads to some very bad places. But life without some form of passion is useless." I glanced down at my hands. "I love my father," I said. "And my aunt. And I'm starting to care about Shmi. I'm not ashamed of that. Or of being Force-sensitive. The Force is part of who I am. So is my family. So yeah, I don't really agree with your order line of thinking. I just think you guys lack Balance."
Plo was quiet for a long moment. "You speak of balance often," he said. "Why?"
"Because I've seen what happens when people chase only one thing," I said. "Power. Purity. Peace at any cost. They stop seeing people. They only see goals." I shifted my weight, leaning on the railing a little.
"There's this old story," I went on, "about a fighter who kept training because he wanted to be the strongest. No matter how hard he pushed, it never felt like enough. He only really broke through when someone he loved was in danger, and there was no one else to stand between them and death. The power didn't answer a desire. It answered a need."
I shrugged, feeling a little self-conscious. "It stuck with me," I said. "The idea that real strength shows up in response to what's needed, not just because someone wants it." Plo inclined his head. "That aligns with some of our own teachings," he said. "Though perhaps expressed… more colorfully."
"You should hear the original version," I muttered. "Much more yelling." He gave another of those soft, amused sounds. "And the second story?" he prompted gently. "I can tell there is one."
"There's a wise old man in another tale," I said. "He traveled a lot. Studied different kingdoms, different philosophies. He used to tell his nephew that if you only drink tea from one pot, you start thinking that's the only way tea should taste. If you only study one kind of wisdom, your mind gets stiff. It is better to get your wisdom from more than one place."
I looked up at him. "When I think about the Force," I said, "it doesn't feel like something one group can own. Or fully define. It's… everywhere. Bigger than the Jedi. Bigger than the Sith. Bigger than the Senate. So it makes sense to learn from more than one place."
"You fear the Order has grown… stiff," he said.
"From what I've read," I said carefully, "and from listening to how some of you talk… yes. Not all of you. But enough."
"And yet you stand here speaking with one of us," he said. "Sharing stories and concerns you could have kept to yourself."
"I pick my moments," I said. "And my people." He let that sit for a second, then nodded once. "You mentioned Shmi," he said. "You care for her."
"Yes," I said. "Anyone with eyes should. She's been carrying too much for too long."
"And her son?" Plo asked, letting the words fall lightly, but they hit heavy all the same. "How much do you know of him?" I took a slow breath. "That's what I wanted to ask you about," I said. "Anakin Skywalker. Shmi doesn't talk about him directly much, but…. I can tell she wishes to see him again at some point."
Plo studied me for a long moment. "Anakin is a padawan," he said finally. "Still learning. Still changing."
"Is he happy?" I asked, the question came out faster than I meant it to. Plo didn't answer right away. "He is… conflicted," he said at last. "He has joys. Friendships. A master who cares for him. He also carries old fear. He feels things intensely. The Temple is not always gentle with such intensity."
"Do they see him as a person," I asked quietly, "or as a prophecy that they need to control?" His head tilted. "For someone who has never met him," he said, "you ask very pointed questions."
"I've seen what happens," I said softly, "when people turn children into symbols. They stop listening to the child. All they hear is what they hope or fear he'll become."
He went very still beside me. "Tell me, Liora," he said. "When you ask about Anakin… are you asking for yourself, or for someone else?"
"Both," I said. No point pretending otherwise. "Explain," he said gently.
"For Shmi," I started. "Because she tries not to hope too much, but she can't help it. She misses him. She worries. She's proud, but also scared the Order will break him in ways the desert couldn't."
I swallowed. "For the galaxy," I added. "Because someone that strong in the Force is going to pull on everything around him. Like gravity. However he goes, a lot of others will follow." I drew in another breath. "And for me," I said. "Because I'm… tied into the same current now. Whether I want to be or not. My father was his Master master's teacher once. Shmi is here. The choices you make with Anakin won't just stay in your Temple. They'll wash up on our shores too."
The mask hid his expression, but I felt something in him change, but if it was for the better or worse, I couldn't tell. "You are right," he said quietly. "Anakin will affect many lives. He already has."
"Do you think he's being guided?" I asked. "Or managed?" He let out a slow breath through the filters. "That," he said, "is a question I ask myself often. Some on the Council believe that a strict structure is the best way to keep him balanced. Others think he needs more room to grow. We are… not of one mind."
"Are you?" I asked. He was silent for a moment. "I think," he said, "that he needs people around him who see the boy, not just the potential. Who can tell him no when necessary, but also… listen. Truly listen. Not every Master is good at that."
"You are," I said, before I could stop myself. He made a small, surprised sound. "You think so," he said. "I think," I said, "that when you look at me, you see a person, not a kid to be ignored. That counts for a lot."
"Perceptive," he murmured. "That's one word," I said. "I've heard worse." He rested his forearms on the railing again, looking out over the courtyard. "On my homeworld," he said, "there are Force-users who are not Jedi. The Baran Do sages. They speak of the Force as a storm. You cannot order a storm. You cannot own it. You can only watch the sky, feel the pressure change, and move in harmony with it as best you can."
"I like that," I said. "It's honest. No promise that you get to control everything."
"Does your father teach you about the Force?" he asked. "Yes," I said. "In his way. He talks about calm, about discipline. About not letting emotions drag you like a current, but to not cut them off as well. I listen. I practice. But I… also collect other pieces. Other ways of thinking. Like your storm. Like those old stories I mentioned."
I rubbed my thumb over the stone railing. "I'm trying," I said, "not to end up so locked into one way of seeing it that I can't adjust when things change."
"That is wise," he said. I huffed. "I'm not wise. I just remember a lot of other people's mistakes."
"That is sometimes where wisdom begins," he replied. We fell quiet again for a bit. The sun had shifted lower, turning the courtyard light more golden. From inside the guest room, I could sense Jenza's watchful pulse, Shmi's tired hope, Adi's focused thought, Ki-Adi's irritated confusion.
"Would you ever want to come to the Temple?" Plo asked suddenly. "To study. To walk among other children who feel the Force as you do." The idea floated around in my head. Part of me wanted it, distantly: the Archives, the training rooms, the quiet hum of a place built around the same thing that called to me.
"I don't want to be… part of that order. Im happy with my family," I said slowly.
"I see," he said softly.
"Visiting?" I went on. "Learning? Seeing how you do things, meeting people, then coming home? Maybe. That sounds… good, actually. But that kind of arrangement would make some of your Council's heads explode."
He actually laughed at that, a short, muffled sound. "You may be right," he admitted. "Our traditions are not built for… flexible membership."
"Then maybe that's something that needs to change," I said, "if the Order wants to keep up with the galaxy instead of just… lecturing it."
"You do not lack for opinions," he said. "If I did, I'd be a lot quieter," I replied. He turned his head toward me. "If it were up to me alone," he said, "I would welcome you as a guest. As an ally. Someone who walks alongside our path, even if she does not walk it in our robes."
"But it is not up to you alone," I said. "No," he agreed. "It is not." I nodded, absorbing that. "Will you tell them everything we talked about?" I asked. "Word for word?"
"I will tell them what they need to know," he said. "That you are strong, but not out of control. That your father is protective, not abusive. That Shmi is safe. That you do not desire to be taken by force into the Order."
He paused. "As for your stories, your analogies, your… concerns about Anakin and about us…" he went on, "I will share the spirit of them. Carefully."
"That's… all I can really hope for," I said. He inclined his head. "You asked if Anakin is being guided or managed," he said. "Let me ask you this in return: What would you say to him, if you met him?"
The question caught me off guard. I stared at the fountain for a moment, imagining a lanky teenager with too-bright eyes and too many ghosts. "I'd tell him," I said slowly, "that it's okay to be angry. That it's okay to miss home. That feeling things deeply doesn't make him weak; That loving someone isn't wrong, and that if it ever came down to choosing the person he loved or the order, then he'd better pick the person. I'd tell him he's allowed to be a person and not just a 'Chosen One.' That if any of his superiors forget that, that's their failure, not his. And that… he's not the only one who feels like he was handed too much, too fast."
I exhaled. "And then," I added, "I'd probably say something stupid to make him laugh, because if you're going to carry that much pressure, you at least deserve someone who doesn't treat you like walking glass."
Plo was silent for a long time after that. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than I'd heard it yet. "I hope," he said, "that he meets someone who can say those things to him."
"Maybe he already has," I said. "Maybe he hasn't. Either way, you're on the Council. You can… remind them he's human."
"I will do what I can," he said. For the first time since they'd arrived, I actually believed that might be enough to make a difference. The light continued to slide across the stone. I could hear faint footsteps inside, people shifting positions.
Plo glanced toward the window briefly. "Your aunt is still watching," he observed. "Of course she is," I said. "That's her job. She'd probably be out here glaring at you directly if politeness didn't exist."
"I have faced worse glares," he said dryly.
"I know," I said, smiling a little. "I've seen—" I cut myself off before I said I've seen you in a war that hasn't started yet. "—seen the kind of things Jedi go up against," I finished.
He let it pass without comment. "Liora," he said. "One last question."
"Only one?" I asked. "You're being merciful."
"If the day comes," he said, "when the Jedi stand opposed to your father… where will you stand?
"I will stand with him," I said slowly. I looked up at him, meeting the reflection of my own face in his goggles. "If you hurt my family," I said, "I will fight you."
He nodded once. We fell into another silence. The fountain murmured below. A bird took off from the wall, wings cutting through the gold light. From inside, I felt Father's familiar presence shift closer, checking on us without intruding.