Public For Want of a Yen

[Lyanna Starborn]

The skies of Ehpar were as brooding and unforgiving as the ruins Lyanna sought. Jagged bolts of violet lightning danced across the blackened heavens, illuminating the wet jungle canopy in sickly flashes. The Force thrummed with echoes of ancient might here — dark, layered, and whispering secrets from a thousand fallen empires. It was the perfect place for her sabbatical.

She had intended only a brief stop at Neonix, a crumbling settlement nestled near the outskirts of the wilds, to procure information: maps, old tales, anything that might guide her toward the hidden Sith relics rumored to be buried in the old world. Yet when she arrived, she found little more than ruins.

The settlement had been ransacked. Smoking hovels, bodies strewn like broken dolls, and the stench of violence clung to the air. Raiders — savage, undisciplined, and cruel. Not even the children had been spared. Lyanna walked among the ruins, silent as a wraith, her bright robes whispering against the mud. She inspected the devastation not with horror, but with a cold, clinical detachment. Such was the way of the galaxy — the strong survived, and the weak were left as carrion.

Satisfied that nothing here would aid her, she turned to leave, her thoughts already shifting toward the deeper jungle.

But then…

She felt it.

A tremor in the Force — raw, keening anguish, a thread of terror woven tightly with despair. Lyanna paused, her silver eyes narrowing. It clung to her awareness, persistent and pleading. Irritation flickered through her. She had no time for the dying gasps of broken things.

And yet… she followed.

Guided by the Force’s insistent whisper, Lyanna moved through the rubble, her steps unhurried, inexorable. The trail led her to the shattered remains of a home barely standing. Inside, beneath a collapsed beam and the heavy stink of blood, she found him.

A boy — no more than sixteen, perhaps seventeen. He was curled into the lifeless embrace of his parents, their bodies shielding him even in death. His clothes were torn, bloodied, and he shivered violently though the air was thick with oppressive heat.

For a long moment, Lyanna merely watched him, her expression unreadable.

A pitiful thing, she thought. Weak. Broken. A liability.

Her hand shifted beneath her cloak, as if to dismiss the matter with the efficiency mercy often demanded in their world. Yet something… stopped her.

Unbidden, memories of her own past surged forward: the abuse of her handlers. Denied the love and safety of her parents. Her jaw tightened.

Lyanna inhaled deeply, gathering her will. When she exhaled, it was as if she breathed away her hesitation.

She stepped forward, her presence finally making itself known in the Force like the slow, inevitable closing of a predator’s jaws. The boy startled, wrenching his head up, wide eyes locking with hers — a gaze full of terror, confusion… and a faint, stubborn glimmer of life.

Kneeling before him, Lyanna extended a gloved hand.

“You have two choices,” she said, her voice low, firm, and strangely gentle. “You can remain here, buried with the dead. Or you can come with me.”

The boy stared at her hand as though it were a blade, trembling.

“If you take my hand,” she continued, “know this: the path before you will not be easy. It will be full of peril, hardship, and pain. You may not survive it. You may wish you had not.” Her voice softened just enough to feel like a whisper against the battered walls of his soul. “But if you endure, you will never be this helpless again. You will have the power to stand, to protect what is yours… and to never be broken again.”

 

[Muto Yen]

His breathing was shaky and his throat was sore, the heat sapping the moisture from the air and desiccating his nostrils and mouth.

His life had changed so fast: all he had and all he wished to keep were wrenched from his grasp. If only it were solely by the raiders, but now his own hands are stained with innocent blood. The well of tears had long since dried up as they grew exhausted from his grief’s incessant pull for more.

He coughed, and was deathly afraid of the woman, whom he originally thought was going to finish him off. It was strange…it was like he knew she would be coming long before her frame entered his ramshackle abode.

However, the paralyzing terror that once flooded him slowly began washing away. His face shifted from utter anguish and fear to revealing hints of trepidation. He had no reason to want to trust this woman, and yet…he felt pushed to connect with her, as though some part of him wishes to take her hand.

Then, the memories came: the raid, the fear, the surge of deadly power from within, the screams…the death…

He shook his head to shake the thoughts away. He then glanced at the people who held him dear, and gently albeit weakly caressed their faces. He looks to her and sniffles.

“Why…would you…help…me? Have you…come…to take…from me…too…like…the raiders?”
He manages a scowl despite his weariness, but it is not out of anger yet: more so suspicion.

 

[Lyanna Starborn]

Lyanna’s gaze did not waver as his broken voice rasped out the question.

“Why would you help me? Have you come to take from me too… like the raiders?”

A lesser being might have flinched at the accusation, at the bitterness clawing weakly through his weariness. But Lyanna Starborn was not a lesser being — and she knew suspicion was a healthier reaction than blind trust. Perhaps there was something left in him after all.

She let the silence linger for a breath longer than was comfortable, letting the weight of it press down on him.

Then, finally, she spoke — her voice low and measured, with an edge cold enough to carve stone.

“I am not here to steal from you,” she said, the words as steady as the outstretched hand she had not yet withdrawn. “What you had is already lost.”

Her silver eyes hardened, like twin blades catching the flicker of the stormlight overhead.

“I offer you only one thing: a chance. A chance to forge a strength that no one can ever take from you again.”

A pause — letting him feel the gravity of it settle into his battered soul.

“But make no mistake,” she added, her tone sharpening, “I will not coddle you. I will not carry you. If you take my hand, you will suffer. You will bleed. You will face trials that may break you a hundred times before you ever find the power you seek.”

Her fingers flexed slightly, a subtle beckoning.

“My reasons are my own. Your choice remains yours.”

Her arm remained extended toward him, unwavering. But behind her composed exterior, a thread of impatience began to curl within her. Her time — and her tolerance — were not infinite.

Her voice dropped a final note, quieter but far more dangerous:

“Decide, boy. I will not offer twice.”

—

Beneath the cold mask she wore, something twisted in Lyanna’s gut. Not pity — she had long since excised such useless, soft emotions — but a dim, buried ache.

She knew the look in his eyes.

She had seen it before, once long ago — in her own reflection.

There had been no raiders for her, no savage outside force to blame. No war. No tragedy. Just cold hands and colder orders, handlers who tore apart her innocence not with violence, but with suffocating control. Love, safety, family — denied to her from the moment she could walk, sacrificed on the altar of necessity. Her parents had been a memory written in another’s hand; her life, a tool shaped for others’ purposes.

She had been bred to serve — to spy, to lie, to kill — an instrument forged of Eshani blood and Shi’ido secrets, nothing more.

This boy’s pain was different in shape, but not in substance. Loss was loss. Betrayal was betrayal.

She hated how easily she recognized it.

You are wasting your time, a colder voice inside her whispered. He is broken. Leave him.

But another voice — quieter, fiercer — answered.

No one gave you a hand. No one gave you a choice. Perhaps you can be… more.

She crushed the flicker of feeling ruthlessly, allowing not a crack to show in her expression.

The boy would never know the war raging within her.

Her hand remained extended. Her voice remained hard. She would not save him — she would offer him the means to save himself, or die trying.

That was mercy enough.

Tag; @Muto Yen

 

[Muto Yen]

His pensive, inquisitive gaze softened at her words echoing through his mind: “What you had is already lost.”

It was true. What more was there for him here in this bloodstained muck of his own creation?

He did not much care for this woman’s harshness, but the idea of him gaining the power, or at the very least the control, to keep his treasures and treasured ones safe… it was tempting.

Though he knew not of the war, and though her expression seemed callous and cold, as he looked at her, it made less sense for what he saw to be all that she was.

If she were truly soulless she would not have been here. If she were truly heartless, she would not have offered him any aid. If she were truly selfish, she would not have extended an open hand.

Then he saw her fingers twitch, as if she beckoned him to choose differently: to choose her.

“There is…nothing…left for me…here…”

His mind began to show him another scenario: one where he had the control. One where he had the power to crush these raiders with a thought. His family… his home… would not have been ashes. His teeth gritted and his anger — his hatred — began to simmer.

“Never again…”

He muttered, before he reached out and gently grabbed her hand at first, before his clasp became much more tight: more certain. As their hands clasped, she could feel the smorgasbord of emotions churning within him as violently as the storm watching them from above. He looked upon her with a gaze that read “what happens now?”

Tag: @Lyanna Starborn

 

[Lyanna Starborn]

The moment his hand touched hers — hesitant at first, then tightening with new resolve — Lyanna felt the shift ripple through the Force like a chord finally struck in tune.

Pain. Grief. Rage. Hope.

A violent storm, raw and unrefined.

Exactly as she had sensed. Exactly what she needed.

She tightened her grip in return — firm, unyielding — anchoring him as surely as a tether line in a gale. The anger that simmered beneath his skin was not a flaw; it was fuel. Misguided, yes, but still salvageable. Still useful.

Still alive.

For the first time in a long, long while, the cold mask that usually sealed her features cracked — just slightly. Enough.

A smile bloomed across Lyanna Starborn’s face.

Not the cruel smirk of a Sith, nor the empty facade of a diplomat.

A true smile — luminous, fierce, and stunning in its sincerity — worthy of the beauty she rarely chose to wield.

“You have chosen wisely,” she said, her voice softer now, almost — almost — warm.

Without releasing his hand, she guided him out of the broken home, the broken life, into the broken world beyond. The sky above them grumbled, clouds swollen and heavy, as if the heavens themselves mourned the ruin left behind.

As they stepped past the threshold, Lyanna slowed. She turned her head, regarding the still forms that lay within: the parents who had loved him. The family he had lost.

“You may mourn them properly,” she said, her voice low but resolute. “I will arrange for them to be buried with honor.”

There was no pity in her words — only respect. The dead deserved at least that much.

She released his hand then, standing a little apart, folding her arms behind her back in a posture of quiet authority.

“Our path lies elsewhere now,” she continued, her tone shifting back toward business, though not unkindly. “We are in search of old ruins — remnants of the Sith who came before us. Knowledge buried in time, waiting to be claimed.”

Her gaze turned toward the jagged horizon, where the ruins slumbered unseen beyond the storm.

“You will learn. You will suffer. You will rise.”

Her eyes cut back to him, sharp as a blade yet carrying a weight of promise.

“And if you are strong enough… you will never be broken again.”

Tag; @Muto Yen

 

[Muto Yen]

There it was: a glimmer of something more. Yet, as her smile and gentle words reached his ear, and he felt her hand wrap tighter around his; he could not help but for his own suspicious gaze to soften. He blinked twice in that pause, before he felt her tugging at him silently to arise.

Indeed, he did. He held onto her hand a bit tighter. A silent, involuntary request for reassurance, perhaps? He looked back at his lost loved and his lips quivered and heart ached, but no tears came.

At her mention of a proper burial and funeral for his loved ones, he stares at her with shock. He could not believe it: he thought he would have to be the one to demand the idea, and here she was offering help freely. He then nods slowly.
“T-thank you…”

As she loosens her grip, for a fraction of a second, she can feel his fingers twitch to pursue her hand and maintain the hold, but ultimately let her go.

He looks confused, as if she were speaking gibberish.
“Sith…who came before us…?”
He murmurs as he tilts his head and considers her words.

After a pause, he nods, and - for some reason - felt the best thing to do at the moment was kneel.

“Then…teach me…teach me everything…I cannot lose…I cannot be weak…never again…”

Tag: @Lyanna Starborn

 

[Lyanna Starborn]

Lyanna watched him kneel, the storm winds tugging at his hair and ragged clothes, the boy’s small, battered form silhouetted against the broken horizon.

For a long moment, she said nothing.

She simply regarded him — her expression unreadable once again, the earlier softness tucked carefully away behind a veil of cool deliberation.

“Then… teach me… teach me everything… I cannot lose… I cannot be weak… never again…”

His voice trembled with the force of his desire, and through the ever-present thrum of the Force, Lyanna could feel the iron beginnings of his will taking root.

It was not a perfect will yet — too raw, too desperate — but it would be.

Under her hand, it would be.

She stepped forward, letting her shadow fall over him.

Her voice was low and steady as the coming storm.

“I will teach you,” she said, the words falling heavy into the air between them.

“Not because you begged, but because you chose. Because you know what it is to lose, and because you hate the weakness that let it happen.”

She circled him once, slowly, like a blade drawing its first line across a whetstone, gauging him, feeling the weight of his choice settle into place.

“You will call me Master,” she said finally, stopping before him. “You will obey my instruction without hesitation. You will endure trials that would break lesser beings — and you will overcome them.”

Her silver gaze burned into him — not with cruelty, but with a terrible, unrelenting promise.

“In time, you will become a blade. You will carve your destiny from the bones of a galaxy that would otherwise grind you into dust.”

Another small beat of silence — and then, softer, but no less fierce:

“And you will never be left helpless again.”

She extended her hand to him once more — not the hand of mercy this time, but of covenant.

“Rise, Apprentice. There is much to be done.”

—

As he reached for her hand a second time, Lyanna felt the bond between them cinch tight — an invisible thread woven not by affection, but by necessity, by shared brokenness.

She would forge him into something greater.

Something useful.

But not all at once.

First, strip him of sentimentality, she thought, her mind cool and sharp. Temper the raw edges of his grief into purpose, and teach him that survival is bought in blood, not in tears.

She would begin with the simplest lessons: Obedience. Endurance. Control.

There would be no grand ceremonies, no illusions of safety. Only the long, slow agony of transformation.

Until the boy standing before her was no longer a victim — but a weapon. Her weapon.

And in time, she mused, her gaze flickering once toward the storm-wracked horizon, perhaps even something more.

But that would be determined by him — by whether he had the strength to seize what she offered.

Without another word, she turned and began walking.

She did not look back to see if he would follow.

He would either rise… or he would be left behind.

Tag; @Muto Yen

 

[Muto Yen]

"I will teach you...because you chose..."

The words were like nectar to his ears, and the conviction within them only fueled his own growing resolve.

The force around him had felt like a warbling, chaotic mass: aimless yet untamed and even a bit dangerous.

However, now, it felt more akin to a laser beam: contained and focused, yet emanating a great deal of power that could be felt.

His head hung low, yet he could still feel her gaze boring into him. However, he did not move, and he would not be moved. He could not be weak: never again.

In his mind, her words became self-affirmations which he prophesied over his very soul.

I will conquer trials that would break lesser beings. I will become a blade and carve my destiny from the bones of this wretched galaxy. And I will never be left helpless again.

“Rise, Apprentice. There is much to be done.”

His head still bowed, his hand moved with certainty to clasp her own. He felt the covenant established between them not solely by handshake but by what he now knew to be "the Force."

"Yes...my Master..."

He then slowly ascends from the ashes, looking to his family. He pauses, then nods at his now destroyed home, before he turns on his heel and marches dutifully after her.

Once he catches up, he pauses before he asks: "Who...are you...Master?"

Tag: @Lyanna Starborn

 

[Lyanna Starborn]

Lyanna heard his footsteps behind her — hesitant at first, then firmer, as if each stride hammered another nail into the coffin of the boy he had been.

Good.

She kept her pace even, unhurried, the wind tugging at her bright robes as they wound their way through the skeletal remains of the village. The ashes clung to them both, but she did not mind. Ash was simply the soil from which new power would grow.

“Who… are you… Master?”

His voice broke the silence like a stone dropped into still water.

Lyanna did not slow. She let the question hang between them a moment longer, testing whether he would ask again, whether impatience would taint his tone.

When she judged that he would wait for her answer — that he understood already a fraction of discipline — she spoke.

“I am Lyanna Starborn, many know of me as Darth Fauste,” she said, her voice like polished steel, smooth but implacable.

“In the galaxy’s eyes, I am many things: a Sith. A heretic. A warlord.”

The ruins creaked and groaned under the weight of the coming storm, but she walked on, her presence a steady beacon ahead of him.

“But those are merely the titles others give to what they fear and cannot understand.”

She turned her head slightly, just enough that he could glimpse her silvered eyes — sharp, unblinking, endless.

“I am a seeker of truth. A maker of strength. The one who will show you how to forge yourself into something unstoppable.”

A beat. Then, almost softly:

“I am your Master. And if you are worthy… I will make you more than the galaxy would ever allow you to be.”

She faced forward again, the faintest smile ghosting across her lips — not the beautiful, earnest smile she had given him before, but something quieter. Sharper.

A promise written in the language of storms.

“Stay close, Apprentice. Your first lesson begins when we bury your dead.”

—

The journey to the burial site was a silent one.

The boy — her Apprentice, she corrected herself — followed closely at her side, his presence small but seething with nascent power, like a forge stoked but not yet unleashed.

The ruined village gave way to an open field just beyond the last blackened husks of homes. A hill rose there, gentle but proud, its crown unmarred by fire or blood.

It would suffice.

Lyanna stopped at the base and turned slightly, regarding him with a critical eye.

“Here,” she said simply.

She gave him no instruction beyond that — no orders, no comfort.

The task was his to carry out. To honor the dead with his own hands or not at all.

She stood vigil as he worked, arms folded neatly beneath her cloak, the wind tossing strands of silver-streaked hair around her face.

She did not interfere.

There was no teaching in easing his burden — only in allowing him to bear it.

When at last the graves were shaped and the final stones laid with trembling but determined hands, Lyanna approached.

She gave no comment on the workmanship.

Instead, she inclined her head in brief acknowledgment — a subtle but unmistakable mark of approval.

The boy’s chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, dust clinging to his skin and clothes, his grief buried alongside his loved ones for now.

Only then did she speak again, her voice measured but probing.

“You said you knew nothing of the Sith,” she began, tone thoughtful. “But tell me this — in this place, among these ruins…”

She glanced toward the horizon, where crumbling silhouettes of ancient structures loomed like broken teeth against the sky.

“…have you heard any legends? Whispers, stories told in the dark?”

Her gaze sharpened slightly, not unkindly — but expectantly.

“Anything… at all?”

@Muto Yen

 

[Muto Yen]

Lyanna Starborn. Darth Fauste. His inner monologue registering the two names as the woman - his master, he corrected himself - who strode before him. The first sounds like a name he would have heard before but the second feels…darker and more unnatural.

Speaking of darkness, once he felt the tether that had somehow formed between them grow taut, he sensed the darkness surrounding her. He could feel that it was restrained, but only because he stood ankle deep in the ocean of her power. He began to wonder if this is the type of power she meant he could wield. He then grimaced at the thought her using that against him in training. He huffed as if to expel that line of thought from himself, before his focus drifted.

As she continued spouting labels, he grew even more confused, except by one of them.
“Warlord, Master?”
This gave him pause, and rightfully so since it was by war that he lost everything; and he had an inquisitive look in his eye and slight furrow in his brow as he met her gaze expectantly.

“I am a seeker of truth. A maker of strength. The one who will show you how to forge yourself into something unstoppable.”
This caused him to relax a bit, at first, then feel curious, then feel invigorated. Well as much as he could considering how he was running nigh on fumes at this point. Satisfied, he nods at her.

-

No jewel forged by the stars nor knowledge gifted by the force nor anything else in creation may ever be handled nor treasured as much by him as the bodies of his loved ones as he carried them to that untouched hill.

With care and with deliberation, ignoring the existence of his new master as though in a trance, he dug their graves: one for each who had died.

When he had finished, Lyanna could tell that he had whispered something over each of them before embraced them; cleaned them as best he could, and buried them beneath the hallowed earth on the top of that hill.

It was during this process that he began crying again, but he did not stop. Not as he placed them in the grave, nor as he fashioned the best headstone possible.

He must admit that he was…disappointed and a bit annoyed: he had thought his new master would have helped him by their vow. Or arranged for their bodies to be properly cleaned and transported to a finer place than this. Nonetheless, he trudged on to the finish line.

He then knelt before the graves and stared at them. Before long he heard her arrive directly behind him, but he did not face her. At her query, he shook his head.

“This day is the darkest thing I had ever heard or seen in my life…Master. I do not know of any legends nor do I know anything about the Sith.”

His fists clenched, and the wind began to swirl a bit faster around them as his anger began to swell.
“What I do know is that the raiders must die for this. The ones at the place they come from, and the one who sent them must die for this…!”

The wind grew a bit more intense as he gritted his teeth and his muscles tensed to a point where his arms were quivering. Not with fear, but with bubbling, seething anger. The once calming skies began to stir alongside him, as the winds carried the dark clouds crackling with lightning over to them. The ground would begin to tremor slightly, and Muto would begin to breathe heavier and faster.

Lyanna could see the force behaving with remarkable intensity at the boy’s growing rage. In particular, the Dark Side would seem to teem with delight in gorging the boy with its power to further fuel his anger; whatever light being there being slowly overshadowed…

Tag: @Lyanna Starborn

 

[Lyanna Starborn]

The Force coiled and surged around him, a storm unto itself, raw and untempered.

Lyanna stood behind him, arms loosely at her sides, her cloak snapping lightly in the rising wind.

She did not speak.

She did not flinch.

She simply watched.

Watched as his small hands clenched into trembling fists.

Watched as the grief that had crippled him mere hours ago was reforged into something useful — something with teeth.

The Dark Side lapped hungrily at his pain, at his rage, swelling his presence until he seemed twice his size in the Force.

And yet, amid that swirling power, Lyanna saw the risk as clearly as she saw the broken tombstones and blackened village.

Unshaped, he would burn himself alive on the fires of his hatred.

Untrained, he would become just another lost, raving animal — no different than the raiders he so despised.

She stepped forward, boots whispering against the grass, until she stood just beside him.

Her voice cut through the howling air like a knife.

“Good,” she said, her tone cool but edged with quiet steel. “Let it fuel you.”

The ground trembled.

She could feel the ancient ruins nearby stirring faintly in response — like an old beast lifting its head at the scent of blood.

“But—”

Her words sharpened, cracked like a whip.

“You must master it. Command it. Not be consumed by it.”

Her gaze bore down into him, sharp as any blade, her presence in the Force suddenly immense, pressing against him like a tidal wave.

“You are no mindless beast. You are not a slave to your rage. You are its master.”

A breath, like the calm between thunderclaps.

“You said you wished to never be weak again,” she murmured, a quiet promise in her words. “Then learn this first lesson well: rage is a blade. Wield it… or be slain by it.”

She let the silence stretch a moment longer before she turned her head slightly, the silver in her hair catching the first threads of lightning dancing along the sky.

“Now,” she said, almost idly. “Breathe. Still yourself. If you cannot contain your power, it will betray you long before you face your enemies.”

Lyanna stood, waiting, her patience like bedrock.

Would he listen? Would he learn? Or would he drown in himself, as so many before him had?

The first test was already before him — and it would not be the last.

Tag; @Muto Yen

 

[Muto Yen]

Truth be told, whether she would know or not, her words were muffled: not by the squalls but by the encroaching darkness seeping further into his psyche.

He was unaware of the power he was letting in: a complete novice to things concerning the force. However, he did not exactly deny it either. His turmoil took center stage, but he could feel himself growing stronger…his power in this…thing being sharply increased and seemed to climb higher and higher.

The once minor happenings around them were slowly approaching the intensity of a natural disaster. The wind now began to barrage against the structures around the area. Lightning descended from the sky to repeatedly lash the ground with its electric ire. Rain began to be ripped from the sky as was thrown sideways through the air by winds. The earth began to quiver beneath them, reducing what remains of the town homes into greater rubble.

However, only upon revealing her true power in the force was her voice clear at last:

“You are no mindless beast. You are not a slave to your rage. You are its master.”

His breathing became ragged and stifled as his tearful rage continued. He planted his hands onto the ground. He understood what she was saying, but he could not understand how at the moment.

“…rage is a blade. Wield it… or be slain by it.”

He heaved as he tried to will everything back into control, his brow furrowed, his teeth gritted and his eyes shut tightly as he tried to quickly force the force back into place. However, that only makes things more erratic, as the rain pellets feel thicker and collide into the earth like bullets.

“…Breathe. Still yourself. If you cannot contain your power, it will betray you.”

He then tried to think back not on the memory of today, but of a time before. It was when his father brought him to the side after he lashed out at a bully. The words that his father said were not entirely clear, but he felt the intent. He tried to breathe deeply, and as he did the words became clearer.
“…just hold my hand and take three deep breaths. Ready? Breathe in…”
He deeply inhaled.
“Breathe out…”
He deeply exhaled.
“Breathe in…”
His muscles relax and his hands do not try pressing through the earth, but seeking support from it.
“Breathe out…”
His shoulders slouch down a bit, and his back descends while being expelled of air.
“Last one, champ. Breathe in…and….breathe out…! So, how do you feel?”

“Better…”
He replies aloud to the vision. When he opens his eyes again, he looks around to see…everything is calm again. He looked content until he saw the village and his eyes grew wide. He took a step back, mortified.
“I…I didn’t…no, not again: I didn’t mean to…!”
He said, not weeping but nonetheless concerned.

But, at least there was a bright side for Lyanna: it seems the boy had listened and learned after all.

Tag: @Lyanna Starborn

 

[Lyanna Starborn]

She watched in utter stillness as the maelstrom raged — and as, slowly, achingly, it receded.

The Force was thick with the remnants of his fury, clinging to the ruined village like smoke after a wildfire.

And yet, through it all, Lyanna’s expression remained unchanged: calm, assessing, expectant.

When the last bolt of lightning faded and the winds died to a low sigh, she stepped forward again, her boots crunching softly against the broken earth.

He stood there, breathing hard, eyes wide with horror at the devastation he had unleashed. His small frame trembled — not from exhaustion, but from the dawning realization of what he had become capable of.

Good.

Necessary.

She came to a halt beside him, her presence steady, unyielding, like a lighthouse in the aftermath of the storm.

“You did not mean to,” she agreed softly, voice low like the settling of ash after fire. “But meaning is irrelevant.”

Her eyes — those cold, star-bright eyes — pinned him with their gaze, leaving no room for delusion.

“You have touched a truth that most beings never dare to face: power uncaged is destruction. Power without will is chaos.”

She tilted her head slightly, considering him.

“And yet,” she continued, “you did not fall. You did not break. You did not drown.”

A rare, almost imperceptible flicker of approval touched her features.

To a stranger it would have been nothing.

To him, attuned to her now, it would feel like a silent nod of acknowledgment — a first earned step forward.

“You listened,” she said simply. “You learned.”

Then, turning her gaze to the horizon, where the rain finally softened into mist, she added:

“You have the raw strength to destroy. Good. You will need it for the trials ahead. But strength without discipline is no different than weakness. Remember that, Apprentice.”

Lyanna let that sink in, before she finally looked back at the graves atop the hill — the only things left untouched by the storm, as if shielded by some unseen grace.

“We leave at first light,” she said, already pivoting away. “Rest if you can. You will need it.”

Without another word, she moved to set up a small, sheltered camp just beyond the battered ruins — fully expecting him to follow, or not, as he chose.

The path to power had opened. Whether he could walk it was still to be seen.

—

The “camp” was modest — almost spartan — but efficient, much like the woman herself.

Lyanna moved with methodical precision, using what little remained of intact materials and the gear she carried. A simple collapsible tent — small, dark, and weather-worn — was swiftly erected at the base of a crooked, half-fallen tree that offered a sliver of shelter from the misting rain. She staked it into the battered earth with sharp, practiced thrusts, wasting no motion.

A small ration pack, meant for one, was split cleanly in two: dried meats, a few nutrient bars, a flask of purified water. No fire. No unnecessary light. Only what was essential for survival.

She set one half of the rations carefully on a flattened stone near the tent entrance — not forcing it into his hand, but leaving it there as an offering of sorts. An acknowledgment that, for tonight at least, he was no longer an orphan wandering the ruins. He belonged somewhere: at her side.

Inside the tent, she rolled out a single narrow sleeping bag, worn but thick enough to guard against the cold ground. She left it open, making it easier for him to crawl inside without waking her if he hesitated.

And then, without ceremony, she took her cloak — thick, grey, and heavy — and walked a few paces away.

There, amidst the broken grass and the smell of wet earth, she lowered herself to sit cross-legged beneath the open stars, her face turned upward to the cloud-scattered night sky.

She would not sleep tonight.

Not because she could not — but because she chose not to.

A rare act of mercy, hidden beneath layers of discipline: letting him have the warmth, the shelter, the small safety of a roof for a night, while she stood guard against the darkness.

A Sith did not coddle their apprentice. But neither did they abandon them before their roots could take hold.

Lyanna sat in silence, the folds of her cloak pooling around her, a solitary shadow among the ruins. Her lightsaber lay across her lap, inert, though her senses remained wide open to the Force — to any threat that dared approach, to the deep, dreaming minds of the boy in the tent, to the distant echoes of war yet to come.

For now, he would sleep, if he could.

And tomorrow, the forging would truly begin.

Tag; @Muto Yen

 

[Muto Yen]

His eyes were locked onto the village as her words of wisdom reached him. Though he may not have faced her, he did listen as he regarded the chaos.

“And yet…”

It was these words that caused his eyes to flick toward her. It would be the thrum of approval in the force alongside her congratulations, however, that would make him turn to fully face her and stand just a bit straighter.

At the mention of his destructive potential, he looks to his open hands, now stained with dirt.

Before she takes her leave, he nods.
“Yes, Master.”

-

He watched her move and work in silence for a time. He considered lending a hand, but decided against it as he was not instructed to. Not to mention that he was so weary.

So he opted to just sit before his parents’ graves and reminisce. A soft smile would alight upon his face as the he walked down memory lane.

When she finished, he could sense it in the force, and he finally turned around to see the fully prepared camp. He arose and stumbled down the hill, assessing the camp. He gave a quick nod before his eyes locked onto the ration, which he quickly went over and gobbled down. It was not enough to make him full, but it was better than nothing.

He then saw the tent she made, and saw her seated outside. Initially, this confused him, but then the intent became clear through their bond in the force. She would be standing guard and allowing him the comfort of a newly prepared shelter, just for him. This caused him to pause and stare at her for a while. He then smiled, and stumbled over to her. He knelt before her, and, with some hesitation, slowly embraced her. His head resting on her shoulder.

“I know this not very soldier like and I’m sorry. But…thank you…”
If she allowed the embrace, he would squeeze tighter in that moment. Yet again the bond would stretch taut and another thread would be added.

Tag: @Lyanna Starborn

 

[Lyanna Starborn]

Lyanna did not move as he stumbled toward her.

She could feel his approach even before his feet shifted the grass — not through sound, but through the Force, through the new, tenuous tether between them.

She remained still, even when he knelt before her, even when his arms, hesitant but sincere, wrapped around her shoulders.

For a brief moment, her hand twitched — instinct, trained reflex, demanded she push him away, reassert boundaries. She was Sith. She was Master. There was no place for such softness.

And yet…

And yet…

He clung to her not out of weakness, but gratitude. Not for pity, but for anchorage — for something solid in a world that had ripped everything else from him.

Through the Force, their bond pulsed and tightened once again: a fragile, living thing taking root beneath the bruised soil of his soul.

Lyanna closed her eyes briefly and allowed the embrace, her body like a pillar of unmoved stone against the storm of his sorrow. She did not return the hug, but neither did she pull away.

When he squeezed tighter, she let him.

When he whispered his apology and gratitude, she inclined her head just slightly — silent acknowledgment — before finally, gently, she shifted, a wordless signal it was time.

Without protest, he rose and stumbled toward the tent, disappearing into the gloom.

Within minutes, she heard the soft, uneven breathing of sleep: the deep, dreamless exhaustion of a boy who had lost everything — and yet gained something new.

Only then, when she was certain he had fallen into slumber, did Lyanna allow the tiniest shift in her mask.

A soft smile, fleeting and unseen, touched her lips as she stared up at the stars veiled by drifting clouds.

The fire of grief could forge iron or ash.

Tonight, he had chosen iron.

Her hand rested loosely on the hilt of her saber as she closed her eyes once more, listening to the night, to the rain, to the slow, steady pulse of the living Force around them.

In the silence, she murmured under her breath, so low that only the night itself could hear:

“Foolish Apprentice.”

Tag; @Muto Yen

 

[Muto Yen]

Then, he awoke: not see the roof a the tent, but of the sterile quarters he had long since called his own.

He yawned, and outstretched his limbs to the point where his body quivered with satisfaction.

Only then did he sit upright and hop out of bed, using the force with a flick of his hand to reorganize it. He blinked a few times for his eyes to readjust to the light around him.

At once, he made his way to the bathroom to freshen up using his standard morning routine. As per normal, he would use the force to aid him doing all of this simultaneously.

Once that was done, everything would be reset back into its proper place, and he would roll his neck. He hopped up and down a few times to get the blood flowing even more. Then he would look to his holopad and see what assignments have been placed on his schedule today.

 

[Lyanna Starborn]

Lyanna sat cross-legged in the command chamber, her posture statuesque, the cold glow of various holoscreens illuminating her face in a sharp, angular light. She was already awake — she always was. Meditation and discipline had long since replaced the luxuries of sleep.

Through the Force, she could feel the ripple of his awakening: a faint but distinct flare of energy as he stirred to life.

She did not turn from her work, though a flicker of satisfaction crossed her mind. Six years ago, he would have dragged himself from his bed, limbs sluggish, mind clouded with grief and uncertainty.

Now, there was purpose in every movement. Precision.

She let her senses brush lightly across him, gauging without words: alertness, focus, hunger for the day’s challenge. All as it should be.

At a thought, the holopad in his room lit up with today’s schedule, pre-arranged with the meticulousness she demanded:

— Morning Sparring Session (Dawn Sector Training Hall)
— Meditation and Mental Fortitude Drills (Chamber of Echoes)
— Tactical Wargame Simulation (Command Deck, 1100 hours)
— Apprentice-to-Master Debrief (Private Quarters, 1800 hours)
— Optional: Independent Study (Recommended Topics: Ancient Sith Philosophy, Lightsaber Forms II and VII)

Her lips curled into the faintest ghost of a smirk.

Today would not be easy. Nor should it be.

Through the bond they shared — no longer a tenuous thread but a steel cable woven by countless trials — she sent a pulse of expectation:

Be ready.

Then, at last, she rose from her meditation, the shadows shifting around her as her cloak draped about her armored form.

Today would be another hammer strike against the iron she had spent six long years forging.

And she would see if the blade she was crafting could endure it.

She keyed into her comm and sent him a simple, curt message:

“Five minutes. Do not make me wait.”

Tag; @Muto Yen

 

[Muto Yen]

When she let her senses brush across him, he felt it but only chuckled in response before brushing back as a silent greeting.

As if on cue, his itinerary arrived. He quickly scans it, nods, the places the holopad back onto his desk.

Upon hearing her voice, he responds through the comms in a teasing tone: "I would never, Master."

He pats the lightsaber on his hilt twice - a routine he adopted for good luck - and then strolled out of the room.

He utilizes force speed to arrive at the training hall in 2 minutes and 33 seconds: a new record! He does a fist pump in jubilation before he steps in. The smell of sterility tinged by sweat wafted into his nose - an aroma he had long since grown accustomed to.

With some time to kill, he decided to do some stretches as he awaited her.

 

[Lyanna Starborn]

Lyanna arrived precisely on time.

Her boots clicked softly against the durasteel flooring as she entered the training hall, the door hissing shut behind her. She wore her usual training attire: simple, durable, and allowing for full range of motion. No grand armor, no flowing robes — today was about function, not spectacle.

Her silver gaze immediately found him.

Already there. Already stretching.

She could feel the faint remnants of his pride — he had rushed, made a new personal best, and seemed pleased with himself.

Once, she might have scolded him for wasting energy before a spar. Now, she let it pass, allowing herself a flicker of amusement.

“You beat your own record,” she said, striding toward the center of the hall with a measured calm. “Good. But speed alone is meaningless without discipline.”

She unclipped her own saber hilt from her belt, the weapon hanging loosely from her fingers, casual in its lethality.

A faint current of approval radiated from her through the Force — subtle, but undeniable.

She didn’t offer him praise often. She had learned over the years how to temper her words just enough to drive him further, without allowing complacency to take root.

“Today, we build on what you have learned — and destroy what is weak within you.”

A ghost of a smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth as she added, “Ready yourself. I will not be kind.”

Despite the words, there was a warmth threaded beneath the steel of her tone — a quiet pride that she did not voice aloud.

Not yet.

She ignited her saber with a sharp snap-hiss, the crimson blade humming to life, casting a sinister glow across the polished floor.

Her stance shifted into readiness, and the Force between them thrummed with anticipation, like a bowstring drawn tight.

“Come, Apprentice,” she said, voice low and edged with challenge. “Show me how far you have come.”

Tag; @Muto Yen

 

[Muto Yen]

While he continued his stretching routine, he did not immediately face her, yet he did smile as he spoke:
“Right on time as always, Master.”

When she revealed that she knew his Jubilee at beating his personal record here, he only chuckled. In times past, he would be shocked and amazed about how she could discern things she was not present to witness. But, that wonder had long since passed as he came to know the inner workings of the force and their bond within it more and more.
“I know, I know, but it was pretty cool, to be fair, Master.”

At last he turns to face her, hearing the sound of her footsteps as they clip clopped against the floor, finally cease. He knew at once what time it was in his eyes clocked the saber that now rested within her hands. He smiled as he felt the current of approval toward him in the force, and smiled even further when her once-in-a-blue-moon smirk arrived with it.

“A smirk? You spoil me, Master. I guess I’d better not disappoint.”

Using the force with his right arm outstretched, he yanked the light saber into his open right hand. As soon as it makes contact his indigo saber too bursts to life from within the hilt. He squares his stance to his master, a smirk still playing on his face, and he grips his blade in both hands.

It’s then that the smirk on his face dissipates, and he adopts the look of a predator: hyper-focused and eager. He grips his saber even more tightly and lets out a deep breath. He then lets the silence hang in the air between them, only being permeated by the constant hum of their lightsabers.

Abruptly, he stretches out his left hand toward her before yanking it back to himself, as he summons a powerful force pull. Even if she stays her ground, the hail of training equipment careening toward her from behind would not. His left hand would then crackle with lightning which he shot as he bolted toward her using force speed, trying to perform a pincer technique with the environment and his own lightning. His lightsaber stood at the ready to defend: be it from her or the flying debris she might send his way.

Tag: @Lyanna Starborn