The Temple was silent now — or nearly so.
The soft breeze filtering through the meditation garden rustled the leaves, made ripples across the shallow pools. Distantly, a pair of younglings whispered over their late lessons, but their voices were a faded echo.
Master Tallis remained seated on the bench beneath the old Illyrian fig tree, her eyes unfocused, her mind miles away.
Her thoughts were not on the Force. Not tonight.
They were on Eli Kaen.
She sighed, folding her hands together atop her knee.
There had always been something about Eli — something sharp beneath the softness. Not dangerous. Just… observant. Perceptive in a way that belied his years. But it had been tempered with humor, with an innocent wonder. He'd been bright, not just in presence, but in spirit. The kind of youngling who soaked up stories of ancient Jedi with wide eyes and endless questions. He'd been the first to laugh in class, the last to leave a training match, and always the one to sit cross-legged before her, eager to hear a tale from the Archives.
He hadn't been the strongest, nor the fastest. But he had heart.
And lately… all of that was vanishing.
She tilted her head upward, watching the twin moons drift between wisps of cloud.
It wasn't just the physical change — though that was plain. He moved differently now. Sharper. Tighter. Each motion packed with urgency instead of control. His forms were becoming rigid, filled with aggression. She'd seen it in the way he gripped his training saber. In the way his shoulders hunched before every spar.
But more than that — his silence had changed.
Once, he had listened with joy. Now, he listened like he was waiting for her to be wrong.
Master Tallis closed her eyes.
She had trained hundreds of younglings. She knew fear when it blossomed. Knew the signs of grief, of longing, of misplaced pride. But Eli… Eli was a storm cloud with no lightning, a thunder that rolled just beneath the surface.
He wasn't acting out. He wasn't rebelling.
He was unraveling.
And what disturbed her most… was how alone he seemed in it.
It hadn't happened all at once. A few weeks ago, he had been guiding the youngerlings through their Form I drills with quiet encouragement. He'd laughed when Tavi fell during a spin, helped Niyala fix her grip without judgment. But slowly, that laughter had dulled. That lightness in him had dimmed.
He didn't look them in the eye anymore. Didn't joke. Barely spoke unless asked.
And the dreams. The screaming.
She'd sat beside his bunk, watching his brow furrow in restless sleep, the tremble in his breath, the tension in his limbs.
He was scared. She knew that much.
But of what, he wouldn't say.
Not truly.
That conversation in the garden had confirmed what her instincts had already whispered — something was deeply wrong. Not just worry. Not just fear of failure. Something else. Something deeper.
He'd spoken of danger. Of the Force being indifferent. Of the Sith — not as a threat, but as a possibility.
She gripped the edge of the bench.
Those were not idle words. Not for a child who once asked her if Jedi ever fought just to protect someone they loved. Not for a boy who had once cried because he thought he'd hurt another during training.
There had been such softness in him once.
Was it her fault?
Had she taught him strength without compassion?
Had she failed to see when discipline turned into desperation?
Master Tallis bowed her head.
She had always believed that structure saved. That through form, through meditation, through the guidance of the Code, younglings would find their truth — not just as Jedi, but as beings of light. But Eli's truth was veering into shadow, and she hadn't known how to pull him back.
Not yet.
She breathed in deeply, letting the garden's stillness settle into her bones.
Perhaps it was time to step back from forms and drills.
Perhaps what he needed wasn't more instruction — but more listening.
Real listening.
Before it was too late.
She opened her eyes again, and for a brief moment, they shimmered with something she rarely allowed herself to feel:
Doubt.
Not of the Jedi. Not of the Force.
But of herself.
---
In the high chamber of the Temple, the wind rustled through the open columns, carrying the scent of temple blossoms and age-worn stone. Below, the city glittered like distant stars.
Master Tallis stood there long after midnight, eyes fixed on the skyline.
She remembered Eli's words.
What if the Force doesn't care?
What if it just lets things happen?
She whispered into the darkness, more prayer than answer:
"The Force guides, child. But it does not bind."
And she hoped — truly hoped — that he could still hear it.
Wherever he was.