Hyperspace unraveled around us in a long, shuddering sigh.

  The stars snapped back into points, cold and indifferent, scattered across a black so deep it felt like ink pooling behind my eyes. Kam adjusted the shuttle’s controls with small, practiced movements, the kind that suggested he’d flown this route so many times the muscles of his hands remembered it better than his conscious mind.

  “We’re in-system,” he said, not turning. “Welcome to Yavin.”

  The air changed—thin, expectant. As if the galaxy itself were holding its breath.

  A vast shadow drifted into view on our left side, blotting out whole constellations as we closed the gap. At first I thought it was a moon. Then the illusion peeled away, and I understood.

  The wreck of the first Death Star hung in orbit like a god’s failed experiment. A ruined sphere, half scooped out, its remaining shell twisted and flayed open in places. Gigantic beams curled inward and outward in frozen spirals, reaching for floors and corridors that had long since disintegrated in fire. I could see clear through parts of it—into the hollow where entire cities of machinery and terror once lived.

  Now it was quiet.

  An empty skull drifting in darkness, orbit locked, condemned to circle the world it had tried to destroy.

  Kam didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The shuttle’s engines dimmed to a respectful hush as we passed, as if the ship itself recognized the monument to fear that no longer had power but still carried weight. I found myself leaning toward the viewport, breath fogging the transparisteel.

  “How many were there?” I whispered.

  “Too many,” Kam said, and the way he said it suggested he wasn’t counting the dead.

  We slipped out of its shadow, and light returned in soft, expanding waves. Below us, a smaller orb dominated the viewport—lush, living, rolling with patterns of weather and color. Yavin IV.

  Clouds moved over its surface like slow white tides, drifting across continents drowned in thick green. The jungles looked so dense they might swallow sound. I could almost smell the moisture from orbit—sap and soil and some ancient mineral heartbeat beneath it all.

  As we angled toward descent, the moon’s rotation brought a thunderstorm into view on the far horizon. At this altitude it resembled a bruise on the landscape—dark, swollen, restless. Forks of lightning pulsed inside it, bright enough to illuminate entire mountain ranges in ragged silhouettes. The storm didn’t look angry so much as alive, a vast living thing pacing the edge of the continent.

  Kam noticed my stare and smiled faintly. “It’s always like that. Storms move quickly here. They flare, burn, and pass.”

  “And the Praxeum is… down there?” I asked.

  “Down there,” he confirmed, tapping a coordinate glowing on the nav screen. It zoomed on small river delta on southeastern shore of the continent and followed the river north, through a hilly terrain shrouded in thick jungle and vapors. Then a smattering of rectangular and round shapes, too regular to be natural formations. “Past the canopy. Among the ancient temples near the shore.”

  The shuttle’s nose dipped, the hull shaking with the first hints of atmospheric friction. The clouds rose toward us like a second world layered atop the first—high, pale strands giving way to low, heavy masses painted in grays and greens. Through breaks in the overcast, I glimpsed rivers as bright as polished durasteel and valleys drowned in jungle.

  Then we punched through the cloud layer, and the world rushed up to meet us.

  Mist streaked across the viewport. The engines roared in a controlled descent, their hum threaded with electric taste. The storm in the distance flashed again — white-blue, illuminating curtains of rain falling miles away. But beneath us the jungle was a vast carpet of green, unbroken and breathing, stretching in every direction.

  Kam angled the shuttle into a long arc toward a clearing near one of the pyramids and the craft shook in an unexpected turbulence. “You’ll want to brace,” he said mildly. “The air here has… opinions.”

  The shuttle jolted as a warm updraft grabbed us, shoving us sideways like an impatient hand. Kam corrected instantly, but I still gripped the armrest, heart racing.

  And yet, for all the turbulence, something inside me loosened. Perhaps it was the sight of the jungles, or the way the storm battered land that didn’t seem afraid of it. Or maybe it was the sense—quiet, persistent—that whatever waited for me down there had been waiting a long time.

  Waiting for me to arrive.

  Kam Solusar leaned toward the viewport. “Welcome to Yavin Four,” he said softly. “A quiet place, most of the time.”

  The way he said it made me think of thunder waiting behind mountains.

  ? ? ?

  The landing pad wasn’t much more than a clearing carved into the jungle beside a colossal stone pyramid. Its steps rose like the spine of an ancient beast, half-swallowed by vines and crowned with moss that shimmered in the humid air. The moment the shuttle ramp lowered, warm moisture wrapped around me like a second skin—thick with the scents of wet bark, crushed leaves, and something older still, something that seemed to vibrate under the soles of my boots.

  A crowd was already waiting. Not a formal reception—more like a cluster of people who’d paused whatever they’d been doing to come see the new arrival. A few waved. Others whispered to each other behind hands. A small knot of children—no older than six or seven—sat cross-legged on the stone steps, each craning their neck to get a better look. Older students stood beside them: teens with training staffs, young adults in simple robes, all radiating the same quiet hum of curiosity.

  At the center of them, a man stepped forward.

  I recognized him instantly—of course I did. I’d seen his face in a dozen holos and datacore recordings Kam had brought to Theta-9. The man who faced down empires. The one every world seemed to know, even if they pretended they didn’t.

  But the Luke Skywalker standing before me wasn’t a war-scarred legend or the triumphant hero from the news clips. He looked… ordinary. Sun-touched. Worn in the kind of way that made him seem approachable rather than fragile. His hair caught the light like old copper, and his smile had a softness that surprised me.

  “Welcome,” he said, voice warm and a little amused. “I’m Luke. The one supposedly in charge of this zoo.”

  A ripple of laughter ran through the students behind him—fond, familiar. I bowed automatically, too fast, nearly tripping over my own feet. Luke moved with an easy reflex, catching my shoulder before gravity could embarrass me further.

  “No need for that,” he said gently. “Around here, we try not to fall unless we’re learning something from it.”

  His hand released me, steady and warm, and he stepped aside to reveal the instructors gathering around him.

  A tall woman with silver hair and an instrument strapped across her back offered a graceful nod. Her eyes were bright, musical in their own way. “Tionne,” she said. “Welcome, truly. We’re glad you made it here safely.”

  Beside her stood a Mon Calamari woman with calm, deep-set eyes—Cilghal. Her presence felt like a tidepool at dusk: patient, observant. “If you need anything—rest, food, quiet—please tell me,” she said in a low, soothing cadence. “We adjust to newcomers at their pace, not ours.”

  A bearded man with wind-ruffled hair stepped forward next. He carried the weight of sky and solitude with him, as though he hadn’t entirely left the clouds behind. “Streen,” he said simply, giving me a small, almost shy smile. “If the air here feels strange at first… don’t worry. You get used to its moods.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  On his other side, a warrior stood with arms folded over dark, patterned robes. Her gaze was sharp as obsidian, cutting straight through pretense. “Kirana Ti,” she introduced herself. No flourish, no extra words. Just a curt nod of acknowledgment that somehow felt like the highest compliment.

  Then a man stepped forward who didn’t seem to take up much space—but somehow anchored the entire group. His expression was unreadable, weighing and assessing without judgement. “Kyle Katarn,” he said. “We’ll talk later.” It wasn’t a threat. More like a promise: practical, focused, to the point.

  Behind the instructors, the students murmured, edging closer. A girl with freckles and a practice saber whispered loudly, “She’s so weird…Pretty, but weird,” earning a sharp elbow from the boy next to her. A teenager with prematurely silver-streaked hair waved cheerfully. Another—maybe fifteen—looked at me as if trying to puzzle out which part of me mattered most.

  Luke lifted a hand and the chatter softened. “All right, everyone. Give her breathing room.” Then, to me, with a warm, grounding certainty: “Kae’rin, this is our home. All of us are still learning—teachers included. You don’t have to prove anything today. Just take it in.”

  The jungle made a low, ancient sound behind him, wind curling through leaves in soft whispers. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled—deep and playful, as if echoing the rhythm of my pulse.

  I nodded, trying to steady my breathing. For the first time since Theta-9, the feeling in my chest loosened—fear and anticipation folding into something fragile, but real.

  A beginning.

  ? ? ?

  The Great Temple loomed above, ancient and stern. Its stones were dark with moss and scored with the carvings of a civilization long gone. Luke explained that the temple was once a Massassi ziggurat, used by an ancient Sith Lord. Now it served as dormitory, library, and training hall.

  “We’ve cleansed the place,” he said, almost to himself. “But some echoes take longer to fade.”

  As we stepped inside, the temperature dropped. The air smelled of dust, incense, and rain-soaked leaves. Faint light filtered through slits in the stone, catching on motes that moved like tiny constellations.

  When I touched one of the walls, warmth radiated beneath my palm — faint, like a heartbeat under thick cloth.

  Kam saw me hesitate. “The stones remember,” he said. “Don’t be afraid of that.”

  I wasn’t sure if I was afraid. The pulse under my hand felt familiar, like something I’d felt in the storm on Theta-9 — except deeper, sadder.

  Luke mentioned that my room was ready, and he barely finished the sentence before someone at the edge of the crowd straightened like she’d been caught eavesdropping. A girl—my age or close—had been lurking behind a stone pillar, pretending to examine a vine on the wall with exaggerated interest. The second Luke’s words landed, she perked up, stepped forward, and blurted, “I can show her around! I mean—if she wants. If you want. Do you want?” Her voice tripped over itself in enthusiasm, but her stance had the easy balance of someone always ready to bolt into motion.

  Luke concealed a smile. “Meral has volunteered,” he said mildly, though the understatement nearly made me laugh. The girl—Meral—shot her hand up in a kind of half-salute, half-wave, the gesture so earnest it made my pulse ease. She was small for her age, wiry, with dark hair tied back by a strip of patterned cloth. A dark gray Kiffar clan mark curved across her cheekbone like an angular brushstroke. Her eyes—the sharp, bright eyes of someone who loved secrets but couldn’t keep them—studied me with unabashed curiosity. She radiated the same energy as a starship engine warming up: restless, eager, lightly buzzing under the surface.

  “Come on,” she said, already taking a step backward toward the Temple entrance. “Before someone decides they want you for orientation lectures.” Then, in a conspiratorial whisper that carried far too easily: “They’re hideously boring. Luke tries his best, but the datapads are older than the ruins.” I couldn’t help following her, with barely enough time to offer a quick thankyou to Luke and Kam.

  Inside, the temperature shifted from jungle humidity to cool, echoing stone. Meral walked backward as she talked, clearly experienced at not crashing into things. “So this is the War Room level,” she said, sweeping her hand around. The central chamber was enormous—its ancient stone architecture polished smooth from centuries of use. “Strategy Center. Meetings. Big important discussions. We’re not supposed to come down here without a reason,” she added, then shrugged. “But nobody really stops us unless Kyle’s in a mood.”

  Meral slipped into my orbit with the easy confidence of someone who’d already mapped every shortcut and loose floor tile in the Praxeum. She was all quick steps and quicker smiles—short dark hair bouncing as she pivoted through corridors, amber eyes bright and alert beneath the faint clan markings that curved across her sun-warmed skin. Her athletic frame moved with a coiled, playful grace, as though she were permanently one heartbeat away from sprinting or laughing—or both. Words tumbled out of her fast and sharp, jokes stitched between questions she asked before deciding whether they were appropriate. Yet behind the mischief was a steady warmth, a loyalty that felt less like a promise and more like gravity. Even in those first few minutes, following her through the Temple’s maze of chambers, I could feel it: Meral wasn’t just showing me around. She was already making space for me in her world.

  She led me to a staircase carved into the inner wall. “Next up is the living level,” she said, hopping up two steps at a time. “Students and Masters all together. It used to be storage, but now it’s where we sleep, study, stash snacks, hide from storms—oh, and this is where your room is.” Her enthusiasm didn’t falter even for a breath. “Try not to get lost. The corridors all look the same at first, but they even out once you learn which walls creak and which ones drop dust on your head for no reason.”

  We passed open doors as we walked: a pair of younger students arguing cheerfully over a training schedule; an older teen meditating upside-down; someone playing a quiet string instrument that echoed down the hall. Meral glanced at each scene with a mixture of fondness and mischief, as if she knew every person’s quirks and secrets. “You’ll fit in,” she said suddenly, confidently, without looking at me. “I can tell. Some people arrive and feel like strangers for weeks.” She paused, then added, “Also, you look like someone who’ll break rules if you think the rules are stupid. Which means we’re going to get along.”

  When we reached the uppermost level, she pushed open a stone door onto a sweeping rectangular chamber. No, not a chamber - a massive hall, its ceiling stretching higher than I expected. Sunlight speared down through an opening at the peak, catching dust motes that swirled like tiny stars. Mats, training circles, and scattered datapads filled the space. “This is where most of the teaching happens,” Meral said, softer now. “Lectures, exercises, meditation… or just sitting here when the weather’s too loud to think.” She leaned close, lowering her voice in mock conspiracy. “The acoustics make everyone sound like they’re smarter than they actually are. Very handy.”

  She grinned, and in that moment something settled inside me—quiet, warming. After Theta-9, after running, after the silence of space and the uncertainty of what I was, this girl with her quick smile and too-many-questions felt like a hand reaching out in the dark. A first friend, before I even understood what friendship here might look like.

  ? ? ?

  That night I couldn’t sleep. The jungle was alive with sounds — not mechanical hums, but wild, unpredictable rhythms: insects drumming, birds shrieking, something enormous moving through the canopy like a breath drawn by the planet itself.

  I slipped from my bunk and went outside. The air was thick with mist, glowing faintly green under the moonlight. In the distance, the temple rose like a mountain, its edges softened by vines and time.

  The ground hummed faintly beneath my bare feet. I realized it wasn’t the ground at all, but the Force. It moved through the soil, the trees, the air — slow, patient, immense. When I closed my eyes, I could almost hear it singing.

  But beneath that music was something else — a discordant undertone, faint but sharp. It sounded like stone cracking, like a note held too long. When I opened my eyes, the shadows at the base of the temple seemed deeper than they should have been.

  Then I heard a voice behind me.

  “Couldn’t sleep either?”

  It was Tionne, carrying a small lamp and smiling gently. “The jungle never stops breathing. It takes time to get used to that.”

  “Does it always sound so… alive?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Alive, always singing its tunes, and listening.”

  Her lamp flickered as she spoke. For a heartbeat the light bent strangely, as if something unseen had brushed against it. Then the jungle sighed, and everything returned to normal.

  ? ? ?

  In the following days, I made the small room carved into one of the temple’s upper levels feel like mine. A surprisingly comfortable bed, a desk, and views of endless green. The window had no glass but heavy drapes hung from a metal beam, thick and solid, keeping the noon heat and occasional rains out. I parted the drapes and watched the other students practice in the courtyards — lifting stones, running obstacle drills, meditating in the sunlight. They laughed easily, even when they failed. It felt… foreign.

  On Theta-9, mistakes cost lives. Here, they were lessons.

  Luke visited once while I was unpacking my last. He watched me place Mother’s crystal cube on the windowsill, where the light caught its edges and filled the room with soft cerulean rainbows.

  “Beautiful,” he said. “Does it mean something to you?”

  “My Mother gave it to me,” I touched the cube and it brightened for a moment, “It’s been in our family for… longer than anyone can remember.”

  He observed it from a distance, a thoughtful expression clouding his bright eyes.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” he muttered. “What does it do?”

  “It hums,” I said.

  He smiled faintly. “So does this place, if you listen long enough.”

  He paused, studying me.

  “This will be home for a while, Kae’rin. Not just the walls. The people. Let them be your teachers too.”

  I nodded, though part of me already knew this home had ghosts.

  When he left, I parted the drapes fully. The jungle exhaled warm air that smelled of rain and stone and life. I felt the prism’s faint vibration through the air — a low note, harmonic with the night.

  I thought I started to understand what Kam had meant aboard the shuttle: learning which part of the noise was me.

  I leaned out into the darkness, breathing with the forest, and for the first time since leaving Theta-9, I felt the world breathing back.