Today was Ten years old today. Or that was the measurement of time most at the temple used to tell someone's birthday. Not that many Jedi celebrate their birthdays here.
Nearly decade in this saying and this life. I stood before the mirror in my quarters, studying my reflection in the pre-dawn light.
The child who'd awakened in the healing chamber six years ago had grown taller now, though still small for my age. My white hair had lightened slightly at the roots, taking on faint golden undertones that caught the light. While my golden eyes remained unchanged.
My pointed ears that marked my Sephi heritage had become more pronounced as I'd grown. They gave me an otherworldly appearance that drew stares from visitors to the temple. Some whispered that I looked like the legends of the Celestials. Others simply called me handsome in that uncomfortable way adults spoke about children who didn't quite fit normal parameters.
I didn't feel beautiful. I just felt tired. I was carrying memories and knowledge that spanned lifetimes. Ten years old, but responsible for preventing galactic catastrophe. And I was another year closer to galactic conflict.
While still teaching emotional wisdom to a boy who would become the most feared being in the galaxy. That was a weight that pressed down on my shoulders like an intense gravity.
I turned away from the mirror and reached for my training robes, simple brown and cream, the standard uniform of a Jedi initiate. My fingers moved through the familiar motions of dressing, tying the belt, adjusting the robes.
Outside the window, Coruscant was beginning to wake. Speeders traced glowing lines through the darkness, their running lights like fireflies against the city's endless sprawl. Somewhere out there, I knew Palpatine was weaving his web.
The Separatist movement was gathering strength, and the embers of the Empire were gathering. Slowly but surely.
And here I was, still trying to get through my padawan trials and saber forms. It doesn't matter how many books I write, if no one takes me seriously, especially if I'm weak. I don't know How Luke or Revan did it. Besides being the protagonist of their respective stories.
Happy birthday to me, I thought wryly, as I left my quarters and made my way through the temple's quiet corridors.
Most of the younglings were still asleep, but I'd never been able to rest easy these days. I was so focused on becoming stronger, I fell into a routine.
The meditation gardens were empty at this hour, peaceful in their solitude. I found my usual spot beneath an ancient wroshyr sapling, a gift from the Wookiees of Kashyyyk centuries ago, and settled into a cross-legged position.
The Force opened to me like a familiar door.
The void realm spread out before my inner vision, vast and infinite. The star-lights were there as always, thousands of Force-sensitives scattered across the galaxy, each one a unique color and intensity. I'd learned to read them over the years, to recognize individuals by their signatures.
There was Yoda, a brilliant green light of ancient power and wisdom. Master Fay, silver-white and ethereal, her light somehow both gentle and immense. Mace Windu, deep purple shot through with power held in perfect balance. And there, closer, were the lights I knew best.
Seris burned silver-white with a shade of gold, her light growing warmer and more open with each passing day.
I could fell the arrogance that had once made her shine cold and distant had transformed into genuine strength. When I looked at her light now, I felt warmth spread through my chest in ways I was still learning to understand.
Derren's deep sapphire blue was steady as always, a calm anchor in any storm. His presence in the Force was like a deep ocean, peaceful on the surface but containing vast depths beneath.
Barriss's jade green light pulsed with quiet wisdom. She was the foundation, the one who kept us grounded when we threatened to lose ourselves in transcendent unity.
And Anakin... Anakin's light was almost painful to look at directly. A bright blue silver-white, that was so bright it hurt.
His power was immense, like it was barely contained, constantly overflowing in its boundaries. When I focused on his light, I could feel the storm of the Force inside him, love and fear and anger and hope all tangled together in a knot that grew tighter with each passing day. He was struggling.
I'd known he would be. The other younglings didn't understand him, didn't know how to relate to someone who'd come to the Order so late, who'd known the pain of slavery and loss, and had attachments before ever setting foot in the temple.
But I understood better then anyone how Anakin felt. I opened my eyes as the sun crested the horizon, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. Time to face the day.
Time to face what was coming.
The meditation chamber was already full when I arrived for morning practice.
Master Yoda stood at the front, his gimer stick resting against his leg, his eyes surveying the assembled younglings with that penetrating gaze that seemed to see straight through to your soul. Around him, thirty initiates from various clans sat in neat rows, preparing for the day's lesson.
I found my usual spot near the back, where the five of us typically gathered. Seris was already there, her platinum hair pulled back in a practical braid, her silver eyes bright with morning alertness. She nodded as I sat beside her.
"You're late," she murmured.
"I'm exactly on time," I countered.
"Which means you're late, at least by your own standards." She then studied my face with that disconcerting intensity she'd developed over the years. "Couldn't sleep?"
"Yeah same old, so I meditated," I admitted quietly.
Her expression softened. "Oh. That's right. Your ten years old today." She paused, then added with a small smile, "You're ancient now. Practically decrepit."
"Says the girl who's eleven," I shot back. "Eleven and three months," she corrected primly. "A significant difference. Plus I'm a Sephi we age gracefully. " She said mockingly.
Even though we were both Sephi. It was cute to see her joke around somewhat.
Derren arrived next, dropping into place on my other side with his characteristic easy grace. "Morning," he said, his deep voice still rough with sleep. "What are we arguing about?"
"Cain's advanced age," Seris said.
"Ah." Derren nodded sagely. "Yes, ten is quite elderly. We should probably start planning his retirement."
"You're both hilarious," I said dryly.
Barriss settled in beside Seris, " Anyone else get that weird feeling earlier. The Force is turbulent this morning," she said quietly. "Something's wrong."
I nodded. I felt it too, a disturbance in the currents, like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Then a question occurred to me. "Where's Anakin?"
"Haven't seen him," Derren said, frowning.
"He's usually early for meditation."
Before I could respond, Master Yoda tapped his gimer stick against the floor. The sharp crack echoed through the chamber, instantly silencing all conversation.
"Begin we shall," Yoda announced. "But first, address a matter we must." His gaze swept across the assembled younglings, and I felt a chill run down my spine. "Absent, young Skywalker is. Know his whereabouts, does anyone?"
Silence.
Then, from the front row, a Rodian boy named Teeko raised his hand. "Master Yoda, I saw him in the dormitory halls earlier. He looked... upset."
"Upset?" Yoda's ears twitched. "Elaborate, you will."
Teeko shifted uncomfortably. "Some of the older initiates were... talking. About him. He heard them and ran off."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
"Talking," Yoda repeated, his voice dangerously soft. "What manner of talking?"
No one answered.
Yoda's gaze hardened. "Speak, someone will. Or consequences there shall be for all."
Finally, a human girl named Lira spoke up, her voice small.
"They were saying things about where he came from. About his mother. About how he's too old to be here, how he doesn't belong...."
"Enough." Yoda's voice cracked like a whip. "Disappointed, I am. Taught you better, we have. The Jedi way, this is not."
He turned to survey the room, and I saw genuine anger in his ancient eyes, a rare sight that made several younglings flinch.
"Find young Skywalker, someone must," Yoda said.
"Cain. This task, to you I give. Close to Skywalker, you are."
I stood immediately, bowing. "Yes, Master."
"Go. Quickly."
I left the chamber at a run, my heart pounding. Behind me, I heard Yoda begin a lecture on compassion and the dangers of judgment, his voice stern and unforgiving. But my focus was on Anakin.
I reached for deep into the Force, searching for his bright blue silver-white light in the void. It took me a moment to find him, his presence and light was turbulent, chaotic, like a star on the verge of going supernova.
And he was in the lower meditation chambers. The ones that were supposed to be empty this time of day.
I ran faster. The lower meditation chamber was one of the oldest parts of the temple, built into the foundation itself.
The walls were ancient stone, worn smooth by millennia of use, and the air always felt heavier here, thick with the accumulated weight of countless Jedi who'd meditated in this space over the centuries.
I heard the destruction before I saw it. The sound of stone grinding against stone, of metal shrieking as it bent, of the Force itself screaming in protest.
I burst through the doorway and froze. The chamber was in chaos.
Meditation cushions floated in the air, spinning slowly like planets in orbit. The bronze braziers that normally held incense had been torn from their moorings and hung suspended near the ceiling.
And the stones, massive blocks of foundation stone that should have been immovable, were rising from the floor itself, pulled free by sheer Force power.
At the center of it all stood Anakin. His small body was rigid, his arms outstretched, his face contorted with anguish and rage.
Tears streamed down his cheeks, but his blue eyes burned with an intensity that was almost frightening. The Force swirled around him like a visible storm, distorting the air, making my ears pop from the pressure.
"Anakin!" I shouted over the roar.
He didn't seem to hear me. His lips were moving, and I caught fragments of words: "not a slave, not broken, not too old, she's not, she's not, "
One of the floating stones cracked down the middle with a sound like thunder.
I reached for the Force, trying to project calm, trying to reach him through the chaos. But his power was immense, overwhelming, a tidal wave that threatened to sweep away anything in its path.
The door behind me burst open. Master Mace Windu strode in. Behind him came Master Plo Koon, his masked face unreadable but his concern evident in his body language.
"Skywalker!" Mace's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "Control yourself!"
Anakin's eyes snapped to him, and for a moment, I saw something terrifying in that gaze, not darkness exactly, but potential. The potential to become something vast and terrible and unstoppable.
"I can't!" Anakin screamed, and his voice broke on the words. "I can't make it stop! They said, they said she's probably dead by now, that slaves don't live long, that I should just forget about her, but I can't..."
Another stone cracked. The walls began to tremble.
Mace moved forward, his hand outstretched, his own Force presence expanding to contain Anakin's power. But even he was struggling, I could see the strain in his face, the way his jaw clenched with effort.
"Cain," Plo Koon said quietly. "He trusts you. Can you reach him?"
I didn't hesitate.
I walked forward, directly into the storm of Anakin's power. The Force buffeted me like physical wind, trying to push me back, but I pressed on. Meditation cushions spun past my head. A bronze brazier nearly clipped my shoulder.
I didn't stop.
"Anakin," I said, and my voice was calm, steady, cutting through the chaos. "Look at me."
His wild eyes found mine.
"I know it hurts," I said, taking another step closer. "I know what they said was cruel and wrong and unfair. I know you're angry and scared and you miss her so much it feels like your chest is being torn open."
"You don't know," Anakin choked out. "You don't..."
"I do," I said firmly. "I know exactly what it feels like to lose someone you love. To be powerless to help them. To lie awake at night wondering if they're suffering, if they're afraid, if they're thinking about you."
The stones trembled but didn't fall.
"But Anakin," I continued, moving closer still, "this, " I gestured at the chaos around us, " this isn't helping her. This isn't helping you. This is just pain eating itself, growing bigger and bigger until it consumes everything."
"I don't know how to stop it," he whispered, and he sounded so young, so lost.
"Yes, you do," I said gently. "You just have to let it flow through you instead of holding onto it. Feel the anger, feel the fear, feel the love, feel all of it. But then let it go.
Like water through your fingers. Acknowledge it, honor it, and release it."
"The Jedi say,"
"The Jedi say a lot of things," I interrupted.
"Some of them are wise. Some of them are just... rules made by people who were afraid of their own feelings. You don't have to suppress your emotions, Anakin. You just have to understand them. To feel them fully and then let them pass."
I was close enough now to reach out and touch his shoulder. The Force still swirled around us, but it was calming, the storm beginning to subside.
"Your mother loves you," I said quietly. "And that love doesn't disappear just because you're apart. It's not a weakness. It's not something to be ashamed of. It's the most powerful thing in the galaxy."
"But the Code and the Masters say...."
"The Code says there is no emotion, there is peace," I said. "But that doesn't mean no emotion. It means not being controlled by emotion. There's a difference. You can love your mother and still be a Jedi. You can miss her and still be strong. You can feel everything you're feeling right now and still be the person you're meant to become. Whether the Masters agree or not."
"You don't have to prove yourself to them, but to the Force itself."
Anakin's face crumpled. "I just want her to be safe."
"I know," I said. "And we're going to make sure she is. I promise you, Anakin, we're going to find a way to free her. To bring her somewhere safe. But first, you have to be okay. You have to learn to carry this love without letting it destroy you."
Slowly, carefully, I pulled him into a hug. For a moment, he was rigid, resistant. Then he collapsed against me, sobbing, and the Force storm finally broke.
The stones fell.
They didn't crash, they settled gently, guided by Mace Windu's power, returning to their places in the floor as if they'd never moved. The meditation cushions drifted down like leaves. The bronze braziers righted themselves.
And Anakin cried in my arms, his small body shaking with the force of his grief and fear and love.
I held him and let him cry. In that moment I felt like something connected us, I couldn't tell what, but I felt what he felt. And I understood and accepted his feelings.
Behind us, I felt Mace Windu and Plo Koon's presence in the Force was watchful, and full concern, but they chose not to intervene. They understood that this was something Anakin needed, and trusted Cain.
Then the storm passed.
An hour later, I sat with Anakin in one of the smaller meditation rooms, just the two of us. He'd cried himself out and now sat quietly, his face blotchy and his eyes red, but calmer than I'd seen him in weeks.
"I'm sorry," he said for the third time.
"Stop apologizing," I said gently. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"I almost destroyed the meditation chamber."
"Almost," I agreed. "But you didn't. And more importantly, you learned something."
He looked at me questioningly.
"You learned that your power responds to your emotions," I said. "That when you're in pain, the Force amplifies it. That's not a weakness, Anakin, that's just how you're built. Some Jedi are naturally calm, naturally controlled. And you're not one of them. And that's okay. I'm the same way."
"Master Windu didn't look like he thought it was okay," Anakin muttered.
"Master Windu is concerned," I corrected.
"There's a difference. He's seen what happens when powerful Jedi or Force users lose control. He's trying to protect you, and everyone else, from that possibility."
"By making me suppress everything?"
"No," I said firmly. "By teaching you to understand everything. To feel your emotions fully, acknowledge them, and then let them flow through you instead of damming them up inside."
I paused, considering how much to share. Then I made a decision.
"Anakin, can I tell you something?
Something I've learned from studying Jedi history?"
He nodded.
"The Jedi Order has changed a lot over the millennias," I said. "There was a time when Jedi were allowed to marry, to have families, to love openly. There were Jedi who felt deeply and passionately and still served the light. But then there were tragedies, Jedi who fell to darkness because they couldn't handle loss, couldn't let go of the people they loved. And the Order responded by creating stricter rules. No attachments. No passion. No emotion."
"But that's the Code," Anakin said.
"The Code is a guideline," I said. "Not a prison. And I think, I know, that the Order has gone too far in one direction. They've confused emotional control with emotional suppression. They've mistaken detachment for not caring. And that's dangerous in its own way."
Anakin was listening intently now, his blue eyes fixed on my face.
"You're going to feel things more intensely than most Jedi," I continued. "You're going to love more fiercely, fear more deeply, anger more quickly. That's not a flaw in your character, that's just who you are. And if you try to suppress all of that, if you try to become some emotionless statue, you're going to break. Or worse, you're going to explode."
"So what do I do?" he asked, and there was desperation in his voice.
"You learn to feel everything and let it pass," I said. "You acknowledge your anger without acting on it. You feel your fear without being paralyzed by it. You love deeply without becoming possessive or controlling. You experience your emotions fully, honor them, and then release them back into the Force."
"That sounds impossible."
"It's hard," I admitted. "Probably the hardest thing you'll ever do. But Anakin, you're not alone in this. You have us. The five of us. We're going to help you learn. We're going to catch you when you fall. We're going to remind you who you are when you forget."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Why are you helping me? Really?"
I met his eyes. "Because I see who you could become. And it's extraordinary. But I also see the paths you could take to get there, some of them light, some of them dark. And I want to make sure you take the right one."
"You sound like you can see the future."
"Sometimes I can," I said honestly. "Not clearly. Not perfectly. But enough to know that you're important, Anakin. More important than you realize.
The choices you make, the person you become, it's going to affect the entire galaxy."
His eyes widened. "That's... that's a lot of pressure."
"It is," I agreed. "But you don't have to carry it alone. That's what I'm trying to tell you. We're in this together. All five of us. We're going to face whatever comes as a team."
Anakin nodded slowly, and I saw something shift in his expression—fear giving way to determination, isolation giving way to hope.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For coming after me. For not giving up on me."
"Never," I said firmly. "I will never give up on you, Anakin Skywalker. That's a promise."
That afternoon, I gathered the younglings who'd been involved in the mockery.
There were seven of them, ranging in age from nine to twelve, from various clans and species. They sat in a circle in one of the smaller training rooms, looking uncomfortable and defensive.
I stood in the center, my arms crossed, my expression serious.
"Do you know why you're here?" I asked.
Silence.
"Let me clarify," I said. "You're here because you were cruel. You looked at someone who was already struggling, already in pain, and you made it worse. Because you forgot the most basic principle of being a Jedi, compassion."
"We were just talking," Teeko muttered.
"You were gossiping," I corrected sharply. "You were judging someone based on circumstances beyond their control. You were mocking a child for missing his mother, for coming from slavery, for being different from you. And you did it loud enough for him to hear. That's not 'just talking.' That's cruelty."
Several of them had the grace to look ashamed.
"Anakin Skywalker is nine years old," I continued. "He was born in slavery and was one up until coming to the temple. He was separated from the only family he's ever known. He's trying to adapt to a completely new way of life, to learn skills that the rest of us have been practicing since we were toddlers And instead of helping him, instead of showing him compassion, you made him feel like he doesn't belong."
"But he doesn't," Lira said quietly. "He's too old. Everyone knows that. The Masters say...."
"The Masters say a lot of things," I interrupted. "But they also still accepted Anakin into the Order. They saw his potential. They recognized that he deserves a chance. And who are you to decide otherwise?"
I let that sink in for a moment.
"Here's what you're going to learn today," I said. "You're going to learn that emotions aren't the enemy. That feeling things, even difficult things, doesn't make you weak. The goal isn't to become emotionless droids, but to become people who can feel deeply and still act with wisdom and compassion."
I sat down, joining the circle. "Close your eyes and all of you, reach out to the Force."
They obeyed, though some looked skeptical.
"Now," I said, "I want you to think about a time when you felt excluded. When you felt like you didn't belong. When someone made you feel small or worthless or wrong."
I felt the shift in the room as they accessed those memories. Pain rippled through the Force—old hurts, childhood wounds, moments of rejection and shame.
"Feel it," I said quietly. "Don't push it away. Don't suppress it. Just feel it. Let yourself remember what that was like."
The room was heavy with emotion now, sadness, anger, fear, loneliness.
"Now," I continued, "I want you to imagine that feeling multiplied by a hundred. Imagine being torn away from your mother, the only person who's ever loved you unconditionally. Imagine being brought to a place where everyone is better than you at everything, where you're constantly reminded that you're too old, too emotional, too different. Imagine lying awake at night wondering if your mother is safe, if she's being hurt, if she's thinking about you."
Several of the younglings were crying now.
"That's what Anakin feels," I said. "Every single day. And when you mock him, when you judge him, when you make him feel like he doesn't belong, you're adding to that pain. You're making it worse."
I let them sit with that for a moment.
"Open your eyes," I said.
They did, and I saw understanding in their faces now. Shame, yes, but also empathy.
"The Jedi Code says there is no emotion, there is peace," I said. "But I think that's been misunderstood. It doesn't mean we should have no emotions. It means we shouldn't be controlled by our emotions. We should feel them, acknowledge them, learn from them, and then let them go."
"How?" Teeko asked, and his voice was small.
"By practicing," I said. "By being honest with ourselves about what we're feeling and why. By talking about it instead of bottling it up. By supporting each other instead of tearing each other down."
I stood up. "You're all going to apologize to Anakin. Not because I'm making you, but because it's the right thing to do. And then you're going to do better. You're going to be the kind of Jedi who lifts others up instead of pushing them down. Understood?"
Nods all around.
"Good," I said. "Now get out of here. And think about what kind of person you want to be."
They filed out quietly, subdued and thoughtful.
I stayed behind, feeling the weight of what I'd just done. I'd essentially contradicted orthodox Jedi teaching. I'd encouraged emotional expression instead of suppression. I'd challenged the Code itself.
The Council wasn't going to like this. But I didn't care.
Because I'd seen what happened when emotions were suppressed instead of understood. I'd seen Vader.
And I would do whatever it took to prevent that future. That evening, Seris found me on the upper balcony.
I was standing at the railing, watching the sun set over Coruscant's endless cityscape. The sky was painted in shades of amber and crimson, and the first stars were beginning to appear overhead.
"You've been busy today," Seris said, coming to stand beside me.
"Word travels fast," I said.
"Master Fay told me about the meditation chamber incident. And about your... unconventional lesson with the other younglings." She paused. "The Council is talking about it."
"I'm sure they are."
"Cain." Her voice was serious now. "What you did today, teaching them to embrace their emotions instead of suppressing them, that's not standard Jedi doctrine."
"I know."
"It's actually pretty close to heresy."
"I know that too."
She was quiet for a moment. Then: "Where are you getting this from? These ideas about emotional intelligence, about feeling things fully instead of suppressing them, that's not something you learned from the Masters here."
I didn't answer immediately.
"You said you have visions," Seris continued. "That the Force shows you things. But Cain... I've been watching you for years now.
The way you talk about history, the way you reference events and people that aren't in the standard archives, the way you seem to know things you shouldn't."
She turned to face me fully, her silver eyes intense. "You've been slicing the archives again, haven't you? ."
I met her gaze steadily. There was no point in lying. Not to her.
"Yes," I said simply.
Her expression didn't change. "Who were you looking up?"
I said. "Nomi Sunrider. Ulic and Cay Qel-Droma Revan. Bastila Shan. Jolee Bindo. And Dozens of others throughout history who broke the mold the Jedi set for their era, who loved deeply and still served the light. Who proved that attachment doesn't automatically lead to darkness."
Seris was quiet, processing this.
" Can you show me," she said finally.
I blinked. "What?"
"Can you show me," she repeated. "Those restricted records. If you're planning something, and I know how you think. I can't keep telling you your wrong if I don't know what you've seen. So Cain, I want to understand your views and you. I want to see what you've seen."
I studied her face, searching for any sign of judgment or betrayal. But all I saw was curiosity and trust.
"Alright," I said. "But not here. And not now. Tonight, after midnight, meet me in the archives. Third level, restricted section. I'll show you how to bypass the security."
"You're going to teach me to slice Jedi security systems?" She sounded almost amused.
"I'm going to teach you to think for yourself," I corrected. "The slicing is just a tool."
She smiled, that rare, genuine smile that made my chest feel warm. "You're either going to get kicked out of the Order or change it, Cain. I haven't decided which yet."
"Maybe both," I said.
"Maybe both," she agreed.
We stood in comfortable silence for a while, watching the city lights come alive as darkness fell.
"Cain," Seris said eventually, her voice softer now. "What you did for Anakin today, that was good. Important. He needed someone to tell him that his feelings weren't wrong."
"The Council might not see it that way."
"The Council isn't always right," she said firmly. "Master Fay taught me that. She said that the Order has become too rigid, too afraid of change. That we need people who are willing to question, to challenge, to find new paths."
"And you believe that?"
"I believe in you," she said simply. "I've watched you for six years now. I've seen how you think, how you care, how you're always three steps ahead of everyone else. I don't know what you're planning, but I know it's important. And I want to help."
I felt something shift in my chest, gratitude, and affection. I felt like something was growing between me and Seris. I just didn't know how to describe it.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
"Don't thank me yet," she said with a slight smile.
Later that night, in a quiet council chamber, three Masters sat in discussion.
"The boy is becoming a problem," Master Mace Windu said, his voice measured but concerned.
"What he said today, his idea's and teachings directly contradicted orthodox doctrine. I hear he has also been spreading it to the other younglings and initiates .He's encouraging emotional expression, attachment, and questioning of the Code itself."
"Or," Master Fay countered gently, "he's teaching a form of emotional intelligence that others can understand. There's a difference between suppressing emotions and understanding them. Between detachment and apathy."
"The line is very thin, but a child as young as him cannot know the difference." Mace said.
"Maybe, but nothing he has said is wrong at all it," Fay insisted. "And Cain is talking with remarkable wisdom for one so young. He leads by example, even if some of his actions are questionable."
Master Plo Koon, who had been silent until now, spoke up.
"What he did today prevented a catastrophe. Young Skywalker was on the verge of losing control completely. The damage could have been severe, to the temple, to himself, to others. Cain reached him when we could not."
"Because he told the boy what he wanted to hear, We shouldn't have let Skywalker into the Order, for this exact reason" Mace said. " To be told that his attachments are acceptable. That his emotions are valid. That the Code is merely a guideline."
"Is he wrong?" Fay asked quietly.
Mace turned to look at her, his expression unreadable.
"The Code has served us for millennia," he said.
"
True. But we can't act like the Code itself is perfect. It's meant to be a guide for the Jedi not a absolute. The only absolute is the Force," Fay countered. " Master's, how many have we lost to darkness not because they felt too much, but because they were taught to feel nothing at all? How many have fallen because they were never taught to process their emotions, only to bury them? Or the ones we lost because the order was seen as to regid."
"You're suggesting we change doctrine that has stood for thousands of years?"
"I'm suggesting we remember that doctrine should serve the Jedi, not the other way around," Fay said. "And I'm suggesting that these five younglings, Cain, Seris, Derren, Barriss, and Anakin, are showing us something we've forgotten. That connection is strength. That love doesn't have to lead to darkness. That we can feel deeply and still serve the light."
Plo Koon nodded slowly. "Their growth and unity during their training is unprecedented. The way they move as one in the Force while maintaining individual identity, I've never seen anything like it in my centuries of service."
"Which is exactly why we should be cautious," Mace said. "Unprecedented power requires unprecedented wisdom. And they're children, we must guide them properly, even restrict them if need be. Until they are wise enough to understand their power, and use it for the great good of the Force and the Republic."
" I believe the children can teach us as well," Fay said softly. "Perhaps we should listen."
Mace was quiet for a long moment, his dark eyes distant with thought. He knew their was power in her words, the same power that Yoda carries.
"I propose we accelerate their training," he said finally. "Move them toward Padawan trials within the year. If they're going to challenge orthodoxy of the code and the order, they need to be test at appropriate levels that show their convictions. This will allow them to shine fully in the Force. They will need us Masters who can guide them, and help them navigate the dangers of the path they're choosing."
"Agreed," Plo Koon said.
"Agreed," Fay echoed.
"But," Mace continued, his voice firm, "we must watch them closely. Especially Cain, his influence over the others is significant. If he falls, they may all fall with him."
"He will not fall," Fay said with quiet certainty. "I've seen his heart. He carries darkness, yes, we all do. But his light burns brighter."
"I hope you're right," Mace said. "For all our sakes."
The three Masters sat in silence, contemplating the future. Outside, the city lights of Coruscant glittered like stars.
And in the archives, two younglings prepared to break the rules in search of truth.
I met Seris at midnight in the shadows of the third level.
The archives were quiet at this hour, the usual bustle of students and researchers replaced by the soft hum of data storage systems and the occasional patrol droid. We moved through the stacks like ghosts, our footsteps silent on the polished floor.
"Here," I whispered, stopping before a seemingly ordinary terminal.
"This is it?" Seris asked skeptically. "It looks like every other terminal."
"That's the point," I said. I pulled out a small device, a custom slicer I'd built from scavenged parts over the years. "The restricted section isn't physically separate. It's just locked behind better security protocols."
I plugged the device into the terminal and began typing commands. The screen flickered, showing layers of encryption and security measures.
"How did you learn to do this?" Seris asked, watching over my shoulder.
"Trial and error," I said. "And a lot of late nights. The temple's security is good, but it's designed to keep out external threats, not curious younglings with too much time and determination."
The final encryption layer fell away, and the screen changed. Suddenly, we had access to files that were supposed to be restricted to Masters only.
"We're in," I said quietly.
Seris leaned forward, her eyes scanning the file names. "Force-sensitives throughout history... Jedi who left the Order... Alternative interpretations of the Code... Cain, this is, "
"Everything they don't want us to know," I finished. "Everything that contradicts the official narrative."
I pulled up a file. "Look. Nomi Sunrider. One of the greatest Jedi of the Old Republic era. She was married. Had a daughter. Loved deeply and openly. And she never fell to darkness. In fact, her love made her stronger."
I pulled up another file. "Revan. Probably the most powerful Jedi who ever lived. He fell to darkness, yes, but he came back. And when he did, it was his attachments that saved him. His love for Bastila Shan. His friendships. His connections."
"The Council teaches that attachment leads to darkness," Seris said slowly.
"The Council teaches what they believe keeps Jedi safe," I corrected. "But they're wrong. It's not attachment that leads to darkness, it's fear of loss.
It's possessiveness. It's the inability to let go when the time comes.
But you can love someone deeply and still be willing to release them. You can form connections and still maintain your center."
Seris was quiet, absorbing this. Then her eyes met mine, and I saw understanding dawn in her expression.
"Your planning on recreating the Order?" she said quietly. "That's what you're preparing for, isn't it? That's why you've been training us so hard, why you're building these connections, why you're teaching Anakin to manage his emotions instead of suppressing them."
"Yes," I admitted. "One day a great change will come. Sooner than anyone realizes. And when it does, we need to be ready. Not just as guardians of the Force, but as people who understand that The Galaxy. Its people and the Force in different ways. To make the hard choices and not be destroyed by them."
"And if the Council finds out what you're doing?"
"Then I will deal with it," I said.
She was quiet for a long moment, her silver eyes searching my face. Then she smiled, fierce and determined and beautiful.
"Alright," she said. "I'm in. Whatever you're planning, whatever comes next, I'm with you."
"Thank you," I said, and I meant it with every fiber of my being.
We spent the next hour going through files, absorbing information, building our understanding of Jedi history beyond the sanitized version taught in classes. We read about Jedi who'd married, who'd had families, who'd loved openly and still served the light.
We read about the schisms and reforms, the times when the Order had changed and evolved.
We read about the possibilities. And with each file, each story, each precedent, I felt hope growing stronger.