The shock staff hit the mat before anyone realized Meral was falling.

  It made an ugly sound — hollow metal against rubber, sharp enough to slice through the rhythm of the training hall. You know how a room can be full of motion and stillness at the same time? That was us. Two dozen trainees, two instructors, the hot smell of sweat, the scuffing of boots, the steady counted tempo of drills. Predictable. Ordinary. A heartbeat we all knew by muscle memory.

  And then that sound. The wrongness of it.

  Meral’s staff spun twice on the ground and came to rest against Toran’s boot. He blinked down at it like someone had dropped a snake.

  “Meral?” he said.

  She didn’t answer.

  I saw her then—swaying, hand half lifted toward the empty rack, eyes glassing over. Her skin had gone a shade too pale for her Kiffar complexion. Her mouth opened, as if she were about to say something, but all that came out was a breath that sounded scraped raw.

  Kirana Ti’s voice echoed across the room. “Change partners!”

  Everyone moved. Everyone except Meral.

  I stepped out of formation before I even realized I’d done it. Something cold crawled along my spine—a prickling pressure in the Force, like a memory shoved under a door.

  “Meral?” I said.

  She reached toward the rack again. Her fingers touched the staff she’d been about to pick.

  She screamed. Not loud. Not the kind people write about in stories. A small, breaking sound—the kind that makes every hair on your arms stand up.

  Her knees buckled.

  Toran lunged, catching her before she hit the mat. I was already crossing the distance, but it still felt too slow. By the time I knelt beside them, Meral’s breath had gone ragged. Her pupils were blown wide, swallowing the iris. She clutched Toran’s sleeve like she was drowning.

  “No—no—no— don’t let him—” Her voice was barely air. “He’s just a boy—he didn’t—”

  The Force around her bucked like a sick animal.

  “Kae’rin!” Kam shouted from across the hall, barreling toward us. “Toran—keep her upright. Don’t let her fall back.”

  Toran had already braced his legs around hers, holding her weight. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I’ve got you, Mer. Stay with me.”

  I touched her wrist—gently, like touching the surface tension of water—trying to find her through the jagged torrent of not-herself running through her mind. It wasn’t her emotion. It wasn’t even a fragment of someone’s memory. It was the full sensory imprint of a moment so heavy it hadn’t faded properly with time. It slammed into her like a fist.

  “Meral,” I said. “It’s Kae. Listen to me. You’re here. You’re with us. Breathe.”

  She gasped, shuddering, eyes darting everywhere and nowhere.

  “I saw—” She broke off, gagging. “I felt—”

  “I know,” I said, though I didn’t. “We’re here.”

  Kirana and Kam reached us at the same time. Kam dropped to his knees on Meral’s other side. Kirana’s presence through the Force steadied the air, pressing down on the panic with something cool and controlled.

  “Everyone else, clear out,” she snapped over her shoulder. “Give them space.”

  Boots shuffled backward. A few trainees stared with wide eyes; others looked away fast, like they’d seen something too private to watch.

  Kam pressed two fingers to Meral’s neck. “Pulse is spiking. She’s hyperventilating.”

  “She’s in someone else’s echo,” I said.

  Meral jerked, like the echo fought the idea of being named.

  Kam nodded once. “Get her breathing under control. I’ll call medbay.”

  He tapped his comm and stood, running for the exit.

  Kirana laid a hand on Meral’s shoulder. “You’re safe,” she said calmly. “You’re not in danger. Focus on Kae’rin’s voice.”

  I held Meral’s hand between mine, grounding her with the steadiness Tionne had taught me months ago—breathing deep and slow, letting the rhythm travel through our contact like a tether.

  “You’re okay,” I whispered. “Come back.”

  Meral’s breath hitched. Her fingers twitched against my palm.

  “Kae?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m here.”

  Toran sagged forward, relief shaking him harder than fear had.

  Meral collapsed against him, trembling. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, over and over. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

  “You have nothing to apologize for,” Toran said, voice cracking on the last word.

  Kirana touched my shoulder lightly. “Let’s get her to medbay.”

  ? ? ?

  Medbay felt colder than usual.

  Maybe it was because we were carrying Meral, and her skin felt chilled under my hand, like she’d been out in a snowstorm instead of a training room. Maybe it was because the place was staffed by droids instead of people with warm hands and softer voices. Maybe it was both.

  The doors hissed open and the 2-1B rolled forward on its repulsor base, photoreceptors bright. Two FX-7s followed, unfolding their spindly arms like curious insects.

  “Present patient symptom profile,” 2-1B said.

  “Psychometric overload,” Kam answered. “Severe, acute onset.”

  “Understood. Place patient on cot three.”

  Toran and I maneuvered Meral onto the bed. She clutched my sleeve even after we got her lying down. Her breathing was steadier, but her eyes still flicked toward shadows like something might jump out.

  The 2-1B extended a diagnostic wand. “Initiating neuralscan. Remain still.”

  Meral flinched at the hum of the scanner.

  “It’s okay,” I whispered.

  She nodded, but her grip on my sleeve stayed iron-tight.

  The readouts scrolled across the monitor in fast, clinical detail.

  “Neural spike detected,” the droid reported. “Cortisol elevation. No seizure activity. No internal trauma. Pattern consistent with non-physical sensory assault.”

  “I could’ve told you that,” Toran muttered.

  The droid didn’t acknowledge him.

  Kam glanced at me. “Tell me what you sensed.”

  I shook my head. “It wasn’t clear. His fear, maybe? But it felt flattened, like a pressed flower. Like it wasn’t supposed to be that strong anymore.”

  Kirana crossed her arms. “That shouldn’t happen from a training staff. They’re replaced regularly.”

  “I touch things every day,” Meral whispered suddenly. “I touch dozens of things. I don’t get… that.”

  Her voice cracked. She curled in on herself, as if trying to fold away the tremor in her hands.

  The FX-7 droid beeped. “Increased muscular tension. Advise mild sedative.”

  “No,” Meral said sharply. “No sedatives. I—I can’t afford to be fuzzy.”

  The 2-1B rotated its head. “Acknowledged. Sedation withheld.”

  Toran raised a brow. “Wish it listened to me that well.”

  I nudged him, because the alternative was punching him and the medbay didn’t need that energy.

  Another beep. “Master Skywalker has been notified,” 2-1B said.

  Meral froze.

  Kam softened his voice. “He needs to know. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Wrong. The world had that taste now. Like guilt and ozone.

  I touched Meral’s arm. “You’re not in trouble.”

  Her throat bobbed. “Feels like I am.”

  “The Force isn’t punishing you,” I said. “It’s warning us something’s happening.”

  She shut her eyes. A tear slipped down her cheek and she didn’t wipe it away.

  We sat with her until the door opened again.

  ? ? ?

  Luke Skywalker never rushes. Even when he’s worried, he moves like someone who trusts the world not to fall apart if he takes the time to breathe.

  He stepped inside, nodded to Kam and Kirana, then crossed to Meral’s cot.

  “Meral,” he said softly. “How are you feeling?”

  She wiped her face with the heel of her hand. “Stupid,” she whispered.

  “No,” Luke said instantly. “Not that. Never that.”

  The Force seemed to quiet around him. Not because he pushed it—more like the room decided to settle.

  He took a chair, pulled it closer to the cot, and sat. “Tell me what happened.”

  Slowly, haltingly, Meral told him about the staff. About the flood of emotion that hadn’t been hers. About the panic that followed.

  Then she told him about the other moments—the ones she hadn’t mentioned to anyone.

  A cup in the refectory filled with a child's loneliness.

  A datapad that had felt like someone’s frustration.

  A blanket that had carried the impression of someone crying quietly while no one saw.

  All tiny moments. All dismissed. Until they weren’t.

  Luke listened without interrupting. When she finished, he exhaled through his nose—slow, thoughtful.

  “You’ve been carrying this alone,” he said.

  “I didn’t know it was a problem,” she said weakly. “I thought it was just… stress. I thought it would stop.”

  “Stress doesn’t do this,” Luke said. “And ignoring it wouldn’t have made it disappear.”

  She flinched.

  He softened his tone. “That doesn’t mean you did something wrong. It means you’re young. And scared. And trying.”

  Toran let out a breath like he’d been holding it too long.

  Luke glanced at him, then at me. “You stayed with her,” he said. “Good.”

  “Of course we did,” Toran said. “What were we going to do, go get lunch?”

  I elbowed him. Again. I was committed at this point.

  “Kae’rin?” Luke asked. “What did you feel in the Force?”

  “Like a memory imprint,” I said. “But too strong. And not hers.”

  Luke frowned slightly. “Kiffar psychometry is powerful. And unpredictable, especially when awakened by trauma. Kessel may have stirred more in Meral than we realized.”

  Meral squeezed her eyes shut. “So I’m broken.”

  “No,” Luke said. “You’re overwhelmed.”

  Her breath hitched.

  “That’s why we’re going to send you home.”

  The room went still.

  “Home?” Meral echoed.

  “To Kiffu,” Luke said. “Where Kiffar psychometry is understood. Where your people have trained it for generations. We don’t have the knowledge here to help you control this fully. But they do.”

  Meral’s face crumpled. “I don’t want to be sent away.”

  “You aren’t being sent away,” Luke said. “This isn’t exile. It’s guidance.”

  “Feels like failure.”

  “It isn’t,” he said gently. “It’s a path.”

  The door slid open softly.

  Kyp Durron stepped inside.

  He looked at Meral, then at the medbay readouts, then at Luke. His jaw tightened.

  “I heard,” he said. “And I want to take her.”

  Meral blinked. Toran’s eyebrows shot up. I tried to keep my face neutral.

  Luke didn’t look surprised. “Why?”

  Kyp crossed his arms, leaning against the wall like he was bracing it. “I partnered with her on Kessel. If this started there, some of that’s on me. She shouldn’t go without someone who understands what she saw.”

  “I understand what she saw,” Luke said softly.

  Kyp looked away. “You know what I mean.”

  The silence that followed was thick with things not said.

  Luke finally answered. “Kyp… I value your willingness. And your care. But your presence may complicate things.”

  Kyp stiffened. “You think I’ll make it worse.”

  “I think,” Luke said carefully, “that you burn hot. And Meral needs someone steady. Someone quiet. Someone whose presence won’t amplify the storm she’s already in.”

  Kyp flinched. Not visibly, but in the Force — like a sudden bright spark snuffed down.

  He swallowed. “So you’re saying I shouldn’t go.”

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  “I’m saying someone else should.”

  Tionne stepped through the doorway then, as if she’d been waiting.

  “I will accompany her,” she said.

  Meral’s breath caught. “Tionne?”

  Tionne smiled — warm, gentle, steady. “I have some experience with echo sensitivity. Not like yours, but enough to help bridge the gap until we reach Kiffu.”

  Kyp’s shoulders sagged, just a fraction. “She’ll be safe?”

  “She will,” Luke said.

  Kyp nodded stiffly and stepped back. “If anything happens—”

  “We’ll call for you,” Luke said. “But for now, let her rest.”

  Kyp looked at Meral one last time —something protective and painful crossing his face— then left the room.

  Meral stared down at her hands. “So… I have to go home.”

  “Yes,” Luke said. “But you won’t go alone.”

  She blinked up at him.

  Toran spoke first. “We’re going with you, obviously.”

  Meral’s mouth opened. Closed. “What?”

  “We’re not letting you disappear for weeks by yourself,” he said. “What if your clan hates us? Someone has to defend our honor.”

  “Your honor?” I said. “What honor?”

  “Exactly,” he said.

  Meral turned to me next. Her eyes were wet but steady. “You’ll come?”

  “Of course,” I said quietly. “We’re in this with you.”

  She made a small, broken noise —half laugh, half sob— and covered her face with her hands.

  Luke watched us for a moment, something soft and proud in his expression.

  “Then it’s settled,” he said. “You’ll travel with Tionne. And we’ll begin preparations immediately.”

  Meral lowered her hands. “When?”

  “Tomorrow,” Luke said.

  She inhaled sharply. Then nodded.

  Toran grinned. “Great. I’ve always wanted to visit the land of spicy food and angry desert birds.”

  Meral sniffed. “You’re impossible.”

  “I know,” he said cheerfully.

  And for the first time since she’d touched that staff, she smiled.

  A small, fragile smile.

  ? ? ?

  We stayed in the medbay a while after Luke and the others left.

  Not because the droids needed us there — they didn’t. The 2-1B had already decided Meral was “stable for discharge,” and the FX-7s had retreated into their alcoves like bored insects waiting for something more interesting to break.

  But Meral didn’t want to move yet, and neither did we.

  She sat on the edge of the cot, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles looked carved from bone. Her eyes kept drifting toward the scanner equipment as though it might lunge at her when she wasn’t looking.

  Toran leaned back in his chair, rocking it onto two legs despite the droid’s disapproving whir. “Well,” he said lightly, “that was dramatic.”

  Meral shot him a look that should’ve set his hair on fire. “Toran.”

  He held up his hands. “Hey. I’m just saying it’s a great story for the archives. ‘Padawan Terrorizes Training Room With Psychic Breakdown; Several Witnesses Traumatized.’ We could even commission a mural.”

  I jabbed him with my elbow. “Stop.”

  He rubbed his ribs. “Ow. Again? That’s three times today. I’m filing a complaint.”

  “Do that,” I said. “I’ll ask Tionne to play you the universe's smallest violin when they throw it out.”

  Meral’s shoulders loosened a fraction. That tiny sliver of tension melting wasn’t much, but it was enough.

  She blew out a breath. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “For scaring everyone.”

  “You can stop apologizing any time,” I said.

  “Seriously,” Toran added. “If anyone here should apologize, it’s the staff that ambushed you.”

  A small huff escaped her. Not quite laughter, but close.

  ? ? ?

  Toran and I walked Meral back to her dorm once the droids finally released her. The halls of the Great Temple were quiet this time of day — most trainees were either cleaning up from afternoon drills or racing to the refectory before all the good food vanished.

  Meral walked between us, her steps slow but steady. She kept one hand curled against her stomach, like she was afraid her insides might spill out if she didn’t hold them in place.

  “You okay?” I asked softly.

  Her jaw worked for a moment before she answered. “No.”

  I nodded. “That’s okay.”

  Another step. “I really thought it was getting better,” she whispered. “After Kessel. After… everything. I thought I had a handle on it.”

  “You did,” Toran said. “Until you didn’t. And that doesn’t mean you messed up.”

  “It means something is changing,” I said.

  She made a small, helpless sound. “What if it keeps getting worse? What if I can’t stop it?”

  “Then we’ll find someone who can help you,” I said. “And we already have.”

  She winced. “Going home.”

  “It’s not punishment,” I said.

  “Feels like it.”

  We reached the fork in the corridor where our rooms split. Her door was halfway down the left-hand hall. The evening sun cut through one of the cracks in the temple wall, painting gold across the stones. Dust drifted through the beams like tiny galaxies.

  She stared at that light as if it were about to vanish.

  “Tionne will know what to do,” I said.

  Her throat bobbed. “I know.”

  “And your clan,” Toran said. “They’ll help.”

  She snorted softly. “They’ll bombard me with questions, that’s what they’ll do.”

  He shrugged. “Answers are overrated anyway.”

  Meral cracked the faintest smile before her gaze drifted downward again. “I don’t want to be scared of myself,” she whispered.

  I reached for her hand. She let me take it. Her grip was small and desperate.

  “You won’t be,” I said. “We’ll go one step at a time. Tomorrow’s just… the first one.”

  She nodded. “Yeah.”

  She didn’t let go of my hand until we reached her door.

  ? ? ?

  The next morning felt wrong in the way quiet mornings do when change is hanging over them.

  Not dramatic. Not heavy. Just… shifted. Tilted slightly off its axis.

  Meral wasn’t at breakfast. I found Toran sitting at one of the long tables, stabbing his eggs like they’d personally offended him.

  “She’s packing,” he said before I could ask.

  “How’s she doing?”

  “As you’d expect.” He pushed his plate away. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m not the one leaving.”

  He gave me a look. “Her leaving is not really the part you’re worried about.”

  I ignored that and stole his bread roll.

  He ignored that and continued anyway. “You take things in too much. You want to fix everything for everyone. But some things aren’t fixable by Force tricks or emotional CPR.”

  “You done?”

  “Nope.” He stole his bread roll back. “But I’ll pause for hydration.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re impossible.”

  “And yet, you still choose to spend time with me. Curious.”

  I reached for his bread roll again. He yanked it away triumphantly and stuffed half in his mouth.

  “Force,” I muttered, “you’re a menace.”

  He grinned, crumbs stuck to his chin. “Correct.”

  ? ? ?

  We met Meral outside the hangar. She stood stiffly near the loading ramp of a small transport shuttle, her shoulders straight, her expression trying very hard to be neutral.

  Tionne stood beside her, hands folded neatly, calm as a summer pond. Her silver hair caught the light like threads of starlight, and the small instrument case slung across her back looked strangely at home among the cargo crates.

  Luke was there too, giving pre-flight instructions to the pilot. He saw us and beckoned.

  Meral looked between us, chewing her lip. “You guys don’t have to walk me all the way,” she said.

  “We’re going,” Toran said. “Luke already said we’re assigned to you.”

  Her eyes widened. “He did?”

  “Yes,” Luke said, stepping toward us. “Kae’rin and Toran will accompany you to Kiffu under Tionne’s supervision. They’re part of this journey, too.”

  Toran puffed up with exaggerated self-importance. “See? Official.”

  Meral swatted his arm. “You’re insufferable.”

  “And you love me,” he said, slinging an arm around her shoulders.

  She pretended to shove him off. Pretended. But she leaned into him a little—not much, just enough for me to see she needed the contact.

  Luke turned to me. “You’ll help Tionne keep the psychological grounding steady. Meral may have sudden episodes. You’ve been able to reach her before—your presence may help.”

  I nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

  “You always do,” he said softly.

  Something warm flickered in my chest at that. I tried not to let it show.

  The hangar doors slid open behind us. Footsteps.

  Kyp.

  He stopped a few meters away, not crossing the distance. His face was unreadable, but his eyes moved to Meral immediately.

  She swallowed. “Kyp…”

  “I came to say goodbye,” he said.

  Toran muttered, “That explains the dramatic entrance.”

  I elbowed him for the fourth time that day. He hissed and rubbed his ribs.

  Kyp stepped closer, but not too close. “You’re going to be okay,” he said to Meral. “Tionne knows what she’s doing. And your clan… they’ll help.”

  Meral nodded, but didn’t speak.

  Kyp hesitated. Then, quietly: “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” she asked.

  “For not seeing it sooner,” he said. “For not realizing you were carrying the worst parts of Kessel home with you.”

  Her eyes softened. “It’s not your fault.”

  “Maybe not,” he said. “But I was with you. I should’ve noticed.”

  Luke stepped forward then, placing a hand on Kyp’s shoulder. “You care about her,” he said.

  Kyp didn’t deny it.

  Luke gently squeezed his shoulder. “You did what you could. And what she needs now… is calm.”

  Kyp exhaled through his nose, a quiet surrender. “Yeah. I know.”

  Tionne lifted her instrument case slightly. “We should depart soon. Storm season on Kiffu is unpredictable.”

  Kyp stepped back. “Good luck,” he murmured.

  Meral smiled—small, sad. “Thank you.”

  He nodded once and left without another word.

  The silence he left behind felt oddly heavy.

  Luke gestured toward the loading ramp. “Go on,” he said. “The three of you will do fine.”

  And we did.

  We walked toward the transport. Meral paused at the ramp, taking one long breath as if she were bracing for something enormous.

  She glanced back at me.

  “You sure about this?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Toran threw his arms wide. “Adventure!”

  We groaned in unison.

  Meral laughed—thin but real.

  And we boarded the ship together.

  ? ? ?

  The ship took us up into the sky on a smooth, humming ascent. Yavin’s jungle canopy fell away beneath us—green, rippling, alive. I watched it shrinking in the viewport as the clouds gathered like thin white gauze over the world we were leaving.

  Toran sprawled across the crash couch opposite us, arms crossed behind his head, pretending not to be jittering with leftover adrenaline. Meral sat beside me, back straight, hands knotted together in her lap. She wasn’t shaking anymore, but her posture had the tense carefulness of someone who didn’t trust her own body yet.

  Tionne checked a few last readings on the flight console, then settled onto the seat next to Toran. She set her lute gently on the floor between her feet, as if it were something fragile even the ship shouldn’t jostle.

  The engines deepened into a steady burn as we hit the upper atmosphere.

  Meral exhaled a long breath. “So that’s it,” she said. “I’m going home.”

  “You don’t sound thrilled,” Toran said.

  She gave him a thin smile. “It’s complicated.”

  He nodded. “Families are.”

  Her gaze flicked toward me. “What about yours?”

  I stiffened. “Mine is also complicated.”

  “Understatement,” Toran added.

  I glared at him. He raised his hands innocently.

  Meral leaned her head back against the seat. “I don’t know how my clan’s going to react. Returning home like this… injured, but not physically. Broken, but in a way nobody can see.” She picked at the edge of her robe. “What if they think I’ve failed?”

  “You didn’t fail,” I said instantly.

  “I know that’s what you think,” she said. “But the clan—Kiffar don’t treat psychometry lightly. It’s part of us. A heritage. A tradition. If I can’t control it, what does that say about me?”

  “That you’re sixteen,” Toran said. “And trying your best. And getting pummelled by powers nobody here knows how to teach. Seems pretty reasonable to me.”

  She stared at him. Then, softly: “You make things sound simple.”

  “Everything’s simple until you think about it,” he said. “My secret to happiness is not thinking too much. You should try it sometime.”

  She huffed a laugh. “If only.”

  We fell into quiet as the transport banked toward the stars. The viewport dimmed automatically to protect our eyes from the glare. The silence wasn’t empty. Just… suspended.

  Tionne broke it gently.

  “You’re afraid,” she said to Meral. Not unkindly. Just a fact.

  Meral nodded.

  “It is normal to be afraid,” Tionne said. “But fear doesn’t make you unworthy. Sometimes it is simply the heart’s way of telling us that we’re about to learn something important.”

  Meral swallowed. “What if the important thing is that I’m not supposed to be a Jedi?”

  Tionne reached out and rested her hand lightly over Meral’s. “If that were true,” she said, “the Force would not have brought you to us. And it certainly wouldn’t have placed you with friends who refuse to let you face this alone.”

  Meral glanced at me and Toran. Her eyes softened, just a fraction. “They are stubborn,” she admitted.

  “Relentlessly,” Tionne agreed.

  Toran grinned. “Absolutely relentless. We should get badges.”

  I poked his ankle with my boot. “Don’t help.”

  The ship vibrated gently as it hit the last layer of atmosphere. Stars spread like spilled salt across the black. Meral looked out the viewport, her face reflected faintly in the glass—tired, nervous, hopeful, and something new I couldn’t quite name.

  Maybe resolve.

  ? ? ?

  A few hours later, after Tionne had retreated to the back cabin to rest and Toran had fallen asleep sideways in his seat like a cat that had never heard of dignity, Meral and I sat alone in the main compartment.

  The lights were dim. The hum of the engines filled the space with a low, steady heartbeat.

  She spoke first. “I’m scared it’ll get worse again.”

  I turned toward her. “Do you feel anything now?”

  “Just… echoes. Little ones. The usual background noise.” She rubbed her thumb across the side of her finger distractedly. “But it’s getting harder to ignore them.”

  “Maybe you don’t have to ignore them,” I said. “Maybe the answer isn’t pushing them away but learning how to let them pass through.”

  She sighed. “I’d like that. I’d like to not be terrified of picking up a cup.”

  We fell quiet again.

  After a moment, she looked at me. Really looked. As if trying to read something in my face that I wasn’t sure was there.

  “Kae,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For not… flinching. For not looking at me like—like something dangerous.”

  “I know what danger feels like,” I said. “You’re not it.”

  She didn’t answer. Her eyes shimmered in the low light. I reached out and took her hand. She gripped mine tightly, her pulse fluttering fast against my palm.

  “You’re not alone,” I said.

  “I know,” she murmured. “But it still feels like it.”

  “We’ll hold the line until it doesn’t.”

  Her breath shivered. But she nodded.

  ? ? ?

  Tionne returned an hour before descent. Her hair was braided loosely now, her expression serene in a way I envied.

  “We’ll be landing soon,” she said softly. “You may want to wake Toran before gravitational shift knocks him out of his seat.”

  I nudged him with my boot. He didn’t wake.

  Tionne nudged him with the Force.

  He yelped and jerked upright, hair sticking in every possible direction.

  “Wh—who—what—why—”

  “We’re landing,” I said. “Try to look alive.”

  “I am alive,” he said indignantly. “Barely.”

  “You sleep like a stunned womp-rat,” Meral said.

  “You say that like it’s a flaw,” Toran replied, stretching.

  Tionne took her seat, fastening the restraint. “Prepare for atmospheric entry.”

  The ship vibrated as we hit the first layer of Kiffu’s sky. Sand-colored clouds swirled below us, blurring into a tapestry of stone ridges, deep canyons, and stretches of sunbaked plains. The color palette of an entire world: ochre, rust, slate, gold.

  Static storms shimmered in the distance—thin white forks of electricity dancing between canyon edges like luminous spider silk.

  Meral leaned forward in her seat, staring.

  “Home,” she whispered.

  There was a weight in the word. Grief and comfort braided together.

  The ship descended low enough for us to see the outskirts of the Tesska clan’s settlement—stone structures blending into the rock, dust paths winding between them, banners snapping in the wind.

  I glanced at Meral.

  She didn’t look terrified anymore.

  Just braced.

  Ready.

  The landing struts touched the ground with a soft hydraulic hiss. The engines powered down. The air took on the faint smell of hot stone and static charge.

  Tionne rose first. “We’re here.”

  Toran stood, smoothing his robes. “Let’s hope they have better food than Yavin.”

  “They do,” Meral said. “And worse humidity.”

  “Good,” Toran said. “I like my misery dry.”

  I stood beside Meral.

  She took my hand.

  And together, with Toran at our side and Tionne just ahead, we walked down the ramp into Kiffu’s blistering light. The heat hit like a wall. The wind tasted of metal and dust. Somewhere in the distance, a storm flickered weakly.

  Meral stepped onto the cracked stone ground and closed her eyes for a breath.

  “I’m home,” she said again.

  This time, there was no fear in it.

  Thank You goes out to , whose novel Star Wars: The Age of Peace has shown me that there is still room for good Expanded Universe/Legends fiction. Corty has shown nothing but support throughout the past few months I've been writing - so if you haven't yet, please go and read The Age of Peace, too!