I went back to my normal routine faster than I thought I would. Five days. That's what it took for bruises to fade, for my shoulder to stop complaining when I lifted my arm, for the ship noise in my ears to be replaced by the familiar sounds of the estate. Doors. Voices. Distant fountains.
Mornings were for lessons. "Liora," my tutor said, pinching the bridge of his nose like the numbers on the page were giving him a headache. "Most students your age are still memorizing basic star charts. This—" he tapped the projection hovering between us "—is advanced hyperspace geometry."
"It's wrong," I said. I swung my legs under the desk, not really able to keep them still. "If we use that vector, we skim a gravity well. We'd either drop out of hyperspace or arrive much later than we wanted."
He frowned at the projection. "The route was taken from a standard Navy pattern."
"Then their pattern is lazy." I took the stylus and adjusted the third point, then shifted the line by a fraction and dragged the exit marker. "There. Cleaner slope. Less strain on the hyperdrive, and it's much faster."
He stared. "How did you—?"
"Can we do the next one?" I asked, already bored. He gave me a look that was somewhere between impressed and frightened, then sighed and changed the file. "Fine. Next one."
I liked this part. Numbers. Shapes. Things that were easy for me to pick up and understand. While he loaded the next exercise, my hands went looking for something to do. The small desk comm unit had been sitting off to the side all morning. I popped the bottom panel with my thumbnail, pinched the tiny latch, and slid the casing open.
"Liora," my tutor said without even looking up.
"I'm just checking the solder," I said. "The signal lagged yesterday."
"The maintenance staff can check the solder." His tone went tight. He'd said this before. More than once. "Put it back together."
"I will," I said. I already had the board halfway out, bits of metal and plastic balanced in my fingers. The design was simple. Too simple, honestly.
"Now."
I sighed and started clicking everything back into place. "You know, if you let me fix these, the entire estate would have better comms."
"And if I let you keep 'fixing' things, we'd spend half the week searching for missing parts you forgot you were using for some other device." He slid the screen toward me. "Focus, please."
"Fine," I muttered again, but I took the stylus and went back to the flight paths. The comm clicked closed under my fingertips.
By midday, we'd gone through three full sets of equations and a political briefing I could have recited backwards. I finished an essay on trade tariffs so fast that my tutor checked it twice for cheating. When the bell chimed for the midday break, he practically fled the room with an excuse about needing to update my lesson plans.
I snorted to myself and slid off the chair. It felt good to stretch. My brain still wanted something to chew on, but the rest of me was looking forward to the afternoon. Saber days were my favorite.
On the way to the practice hall, I detoured as I wanted to check up on someone. The corridor outside the main study opened into one of the side galleries. From there, you could see down into the east office through a cut-out balcony. Jenza had claimed that room years ago. She liked the light. Said it made the paperwork feel less like dying.
She and Shmi were there now. They sat at a long table piled with datapads and old-fashioned paper ledgers. Jenza's neat handwriting flowed across a page, while Shmi read from a screen, lips moving slightly as she followed lines of text. Every so often, Jenza would lean over, say something low, and point at a line. Shmi would nod, correct a number, and keep going.
I leaned on the railing and watched for a moment. Shmi looked… different already. Not in a big, dramatic way. The lines on her face were still there, the years you couldn't wash off with a single bath. But her shoulders weren't hunched anymore. She sat straighter. Her hands moved with a bit more certainty instead of that small flinch she used to have, like she expected someone to slap them away.
They were speaking quietly. I tuned in halfway through a sentence. "…so this column is outbound grain," Jenza was saying. "And this one is what we've agreed to hold in reserve for the western farms."
Shmi frowned at the pad. "You keep this much?" she asked. "Even when the harvest looks good?"
"We especially keep this much when the harvest looks good," Jenza said. "People get careless when they think they have plenty. My job is to assume they're wrong." She smiled a little to take the sting out.
Shmi shook her head. "On Tatooine, if you had your hands on this much, you'd sell it before someone stole it."
"On Serenno, we make sure no one has to steal it," Jenza said. "At least, not if they're under our protection."
Shmi let out a breath that was half laugh, half disbelief. "Feels like a dream," she said. "Sitting here. I still wake up in the night and think I'm going to hear a gong, or a shout."
"And what do you hear instead?" Jenza asked, genuinely curious.
"Sometimes?" Shmi smiled, small but real. "Silence. Or Liora snoring."
"I do not snore," I muttered. Who told her to pick the room next to mine?
They didn't hear me from up here, but it made me feel better to say it.
"How are you finding the work?" Jenza asked. "Truly."
Shmi chewed her lip, thinking. "It's…a lot," she admitted. "There are more things to remember than I thought existed. But I like it. And when I make a mistake, you don't…" She cut herself off, shook her head. "You help me fix it. It still surprises me."
"It shouldn't, but I know why it does," Jenza said softly. "You're doing very well. I'd be drowning without you already."
Shmi snorted quietly. "You're being kind."
"I'm being accurate," Jenza said. "In a month, the staff will come to you first when they're confused. I give it that long."
A faint, shy pride flickered across Shmi's face. She ducked her head over the ledger again. "I'll try not to let you down," she said.
"You won't," Jenza replied.
I smiled to myself and pushed off the railing. That looked good. Better, at least. Shmi had a place. A job. Something to do with her hands and her brain that didn't involve fear. That was more than most people in the galaxy got.
The path to the practice hall took me past one of the big windows that looked out over the valley. I glanced out on habit. The sky was clear. A few specks of traffic moved in the distance, but nothing close. The estate walls cut their usual clean lines across the green.
The training hall was one of the older rooms in the estate. High ceiling, stone walls, the floor scuffed. Sunlight came in through narrow windows up high, drawing bright bars across the ground. A few practice droids stood at the far end, more for show than anything; Father preferred live drills.
He was already there when I walked in, in simple training clothes, his hair tied back. His lightsaber was clipped to his belt, but the one in his hand was a practice blade, lighter, with a duller emitter and a safety limiter. Mine was already set out on the low rack by the door.
I grabbed it and ran my thumb over the switch, just to feel the familiar click. The training saber hummed to life, bright and clean. The color wasn't the point with these; it was just a pale, training blue.
"On time," Father said. "Good."
"Of course," I said. "I'm not going to be late for this."
He gave me a small nod and stepped into position. "Begin with the forms," he said. "First sequence, then second, then Makashi transition. Slow."
Slow. Right. I took my place facing him, feet apart, weight balanced. I moved through the first series of strikes and parries. Straight-line attacks, basic blocks, the things drilled in until my muscles could do them without help. Father watched, correcting with short words.
"Your left foot. A little more forward. Good. Keep your wrist loose there. You're gripping the saber too hard."
"I'm not, I'm—"
"You are. Again."
I repeated the sequence, fixing the foot, relaxing the wrist. The saber hummed, air shifting around it. Sweat started at my hairline. We shifted to the second sequence. More angles, more turns. It flowed better. My body liked movement more than sitting.
"Makashi transition," Father said.
I exhaled and slid into it. His form. Light on the feet, precise with the blade. Less brute force, more control. The hilt angled a little differently, guard up, point directed straight at an opponent's heart.
He stepped forward and engaged without warning. That was how he liked to do it; no time to overthink. Our blades met with a crackle; they still sparked. He didn't hit me hard, but there was enough pressure there to make me work. I pivoted, let his saber slide off mine, and tried a quick riposte to his side.
He was already gone, sliding back, redirecting my blade down and away like it was nothing.
"You're far too focused on attacking than anticipating," he said.
"I'm trying," I grunted, stepping in again.
"Less trying. More seeing." He tapped my blade aside. "Don't decide what you will do before I move. Watch, then respond."
We went another round. I got one clean touch in on his sleeve. He raised an eyebrow, and I tried not to grin too wide. He also caught my wrist twice when I left it open and could have taken my hand off if this weren't practice.
After a while, he lifted his hand for a break. I let my saber drop to my side, trying not to bend over like I wanted to. My breath came a little fast. A light sheen of sweat stuck hair to my forehead.
"Better," he said. "You're improving your footwork."
"Because I like this," I said. "Meditation isn't really my strong point."
He huffed out something that might have been a laugh. "Meditation is not the enemy," he said. "Nor is the Force."
"I know it's not the enemy," I said quickly. "I respect it. I just…can't grab it like before."
His expression shifted, softer. "You should not try to 'grab' it," he said. "That is not what it is for."
I looked down at the practice blade, then back up. "I just thought," I said, "after what happened…down there… that maybe it would be easier now. It's not. I sit. I breathe. I reach, and it's like…like trying to catch mist. That day it wasn't like that."
He paused, choosing his words. "The Force works in strange ways," he said. "Most of the time, it whispers. That day, I suspect it was guiding you. It won't always be like that; those are rare moments in life, dear."
"That's very poetic, Father," I said. "Not very helpful."
He gave me a look, but there was no real heat in it. "You are impatient," he said.
"I'm efficient," I corrected. "There's a difference."
"You are six."
"Mentally I'm—"
"Six," he repeated, a little more firmly. "You have time. What happened in the palace was…exceptional. Dangerous. You were under threat. You were afraid, and you reached with everything you had. The Force answered. That does not mean it will always answer the same way. Nor should you force it to."
"I'm not trying to force it," I said. Then grimaced. "Okay, maybe a little. But only because I know what it can do and I hate feeling like I can't do it on purpose."
He stepped closer and rested his hand briefly on the top of my head, fingers brushing damp hair back. "Your mind is sharp," he said. "Your will is strong. You want to use everything in front of you. That is not wrong. But the Force is not a tool you force to act the way you want it to. You must let it flow through you."
I snorted despite myself. The tight knot in my chest loosened a little. "So what do I do?" I asked. "Just keep sitting and listening for whispers?"
"Yes." He stepped back again, lifting his saber. "And practice. With blade and without. It will come. Do not chase the feeling from that day. That way leads to obsession."
"I'm not obsessed," I said.
His eyes flicked down to my grip. "You are holding the saber like you're angry at it," he pointed out. "Relax your hand."
I looked down. My knuckles were white. I forced my fingers to ease. "Fine," I muttered.
He nodded once, satisfied, and took his stance again. "Once more through the sequence," he said. "Then we'll adjourn for today."
We'd barely gone three passes when the door at the far end of the hall opened. A servant stepped in, moving quickly but not running. House staff didn't run unless things were very bad. He stopped at the edge of the mats and bowed low. "My lord," he said, voice steady. "Forgive the interruption."
Father didn't lower his blade right away. He finished the movement he was in, then thumbed off the saber. The room felt suddenly too quiet without the hum.
"Yes, Arlen?" he said. Calm. A little too calm.
The servant straightened. His eyes flicked to me for half a heartbeat, then back to Father. "A ship has arrived at the private pad," he said. "Three guests have requested an audience. They identify themselves as representatives of the Jedi Order."
I looked at Father. He didn't look shocked. He didn't look like anything, really. Just very still.
"Names?" he asked.
"Ki-Adi-Mundi of Cerea," Arlen said, clearly reciting. "Adi Gallia and Plo Koon." He swallowed once. "They are being shown to the east receiving room, my lord."
Father closed his eyes for a brief second. "I see," he said. "Thank you, Arlen. See that they are given refreshment while they wait."
"Yes, my lord." Arlen bowed again and backed out of the room.
I stared at Father. "You're not surprised," I said.
He unclipped the practice saber from his belt and set it back on the rack with a soft click. "No," he said. "I am not."
"You knew they were coming?"
"I suspected." He wiped his hands on a towel, more out of habit than need. "The Jedi do not ignore reports like the one Jabba's informant would have sent. A powerful Force-sensitive appearing out of nowhere, under the roof of a former Jedi Master? That will get their attention."
I felt oddly cold and hot at the same time. "So they're here because of…me."
"And Shmi," he said. "And because of me. This is not solely your burden to carry."
I made a face. "They don't know about…everything. Right?"
"They likely know as much as they can piece together secondhand," he said. "They will want to see with their own eyes. To ask questions."
"About what?" I asked. "About you? About me? About why you didn't tell them?"
He looked at me steadily. "All of the above."
For a second, I thought about the way it had felt, down in the pit. The way the Force had surged up like a wave when I'd forced into the rancor's mind. I pushed those memories aside. They weren't useful right now.
"What do you want me to do?" I asked.
He considered. "First," he said, "you will go change. Clean tunic. Fix your hair. You will not meet them smelling of sweat and training."
I huffed. "So you want me to look presentable while they pick us apart."
"I want you to look like my daughter," he said quietly. "Which you are. They will see a child first. Remember that. It is no small thing, whatever else they may think."
I nodded slowly. "And when they ask questions?"
"You will answer truthfully," he said. "If you are asked directly. But you are not obligated to explain everything that lives in your head." His gaze sharpened slightly. "Do not brag about what happened on Tatooine. Do not try to impress them."
"I wasn't going to," I said, a little offended. "I'm not stupid."
"I know you are not," he said. "You are also six. It bears repeating."
"Daddy—"
"Liora," he cut in, but his mouth twitched. "Emotions are part of life. I do not ask you to be a statue. If you are afraid, it is all right. If you are curious, that too is allowed. Feel what you feel. Just be aware of it."
"Right," I said, before sighing and nodding.
"Good." He picked up his own towel, then dropped it lightly onto my head. "Go, then. Ten minutes. We will meet them together."
I pulled the towel off and made a face at him, but my chest felt…strangely steady. The idea of Jedi walking our halls should have scared me more than it did. Maybe it hadn't fully landed yet. Maybe I was too busy trying to picture their faces.
"Daddy?" I said, pausing at the door.
"Yes?"
"You're not…worried?"
He held my gaze for a long second. "I am concerned," he said, honestly. "The Order and I do not agree on many things. They will not like that I kept you from them. But this is my house. My world. And you are my responsibility. That has not changed."
Something warm tightened in my throat. I nodded once. "Okay," I said quietly.
"Now go," he said. "No more delays."
I left the training hall at a jog, towel slung over my shoulder.
A few minutes later.