"You can change the armour, but not the war inside."
The descent into Coruscant felt like suffocation.
Kaelen stood rigid at the viewport, arms crossed over his still-dented beskar chestplate, visor trained on the blinding sprawl below. Coruscant was a city that never ended—its skyline bled into the horizon, all chrome, light, and glass towers that clawed at the clouds like hungry gods.
It was the opposite of Mandalore. There, the skies were vast, and silence was sacred. Here, the hum of repulsorlifts, the blur of speeders, and the chaos of trillions made the air itself feel polluted by noise.
Kaelen's breathing was steady, but his heart thudded harder than it should have.
Too many lights. Too many people. Too many eyes.
He hated it already.
Qui-Gon Jinn stood beside him, calm and quiet. He hadn't said much during the flight. He'd respected Kaelen's silence, only checking in when needed. It was… unexpected. No prying. No pity. Just presence.
Still, Kaelen remained wary. Jedi were manipulators. Pacifists who claimed peace but moved armies behind Senate curtains. He remembered what Pre Vizsla had told him: "They talk of balance while their blades drip with Mandalorian blood."
He wouldn't forget.
When they approached the Temple, the sight pulled something sharp from deep within him.
Massive and imposing, the Jedi Temple looked like it had been pulled from the ground by the will of the gods. Its base was wide and solid, crowned by spires that shimmered with gold and durasteel. But Kaelen didn't see elegance.
He saw arrogance.
He didn't speak as he was led through pristine white corridors. Every wall was polished, sterile, and unnervingly symmetrical. The Temple lacked all soul. All history. There were no marks of battle, no trophies of fallen warriors, no scars. Just order.
Kaelen's boots echoed against the marble floor. He could feel the glances from Jedi that passed them, robed monks who whispered behind the folds of their sleeves.
He was already being judged.
The High Council Chamber was circular, a ring of stillness perched high above the planet's chaos. Sunlight filtered through massive windows, washing the room in gold.
Kaelen stepped into the centre. Twelve Jedi Masters sat in a perfect arc, like statues carved from different truths. He recognised none of them by face, only reputation.
Mace Windu sat like a blade—sharp, unwavering, unamused.
Master Ki-Adi-Mundi's brow was furrowed, lips tight.
Plo Koon tilted his masked head slightly, analysing him with unreadable eyes.
And at the centre sat Yoda. Small, old, silent. But Kaelen felt the weight of his gaze more than any other.
"This… is the Mandalorian boy," Windu said, voice clipped. "Older than he should be to start learning."
"Twelve," Ki-Adi-Mundi noted. "Too old. Too… volatile."
Kaelen's fists clenched at his sides, armoured fingers curling with tension.
Yoda's ears twitched. "Pain, anger, fear. Heavy in him, they are."
"I'm standing right here," Kaelen growled, voice filtered through his helmet.
"You speak like a soldier," Plo Koon said gently, "not a Jedi."
"I never asked to be one."
"The Force brought you here," Mace said. "But it has brought us danger before."
"It is not the boy's fault," Qui-Gon said, stepping forward. "He is not the danger. His pain is the echo of a war he never chose."
"Then it must be silenced," Mundi said sternly.
Yoda studied Kaelen again. "Hard… his journey will be."
"I will not train him," Qui-Gon added, "not while Obi-Wan is still learning. But I will guide him. He will not be alone."
"And if he falls?" Mace asked.
"Then I'll fall with him."
That silenced the room.
After a long pause, Yoda's eyes closed. "Clouded, his future is. But guide him, you may. Until the Force says otherwise."
The training hall was a place of warmth, light, and laughter. Kaelen hated it.
The younglings moved gracefully, weaving their training sabers in wide arcs. Their faces were flushed with exertion and joy. The floors were polished. The air smelled of incense.
Kaelen stood at the edge, arms crossed, still in full armour. No robes. No saber. Just silence.
He didn't speak.
He didn't move.
He watched.
Their eyes found him, one by one, staring, whispering. He couldn't hear them clearly, but he didn't need to.
He could feel it.
Their judgments were as sharp as blades.
He doesn't belong here.
Why is he armoured? Is he afraid?
He looks angry. Dangerous.
Kaelen's breathing slowed. He began to whisper under his helmet, quiet words in Mando'a. A prayer for patience. A vow of silence.
But it couldn't last.
A young boy approached him. Blond hair. Blue robes. Barely younger than Kaelen. There was a smugness in his voice.
"You know this isn't a battlefield, right?" he said. "We don't wear armour because we don't need to hide."
Kaelen said nothing.
"I heard about you. You're with Death Watch. Terrorists. My master says your people only know how to kill."
Kaelen's gaze snapped toward him.
"Why don't you say something?" the boy pressed. "Scared? Or just too dumb to speak Basic?"
Kaelen stepped forward.
"No," he said. "I'm thinking about which part of your face will break first."
And then he struck.
The punch landed with a sickening crack. The boy staggered back, blood spilling from his nose. Kaelen followed it with a vicious knee to the gut, then an elbow to the jaw. The boy collapsed. Kaelen mounted him and rained fists down—brutal, fast, methodical.
Screams broke out. Younglings scattered.
"KAELEN!" Master Trila's voice thundered across the hall.
Kaelen didn't stop.
Only when she used the Force to wrench him backward and slam him against the wall did he release the boy.
Silence fell.
Master Trila looked stunned. Her hands trembled slightly.
"Take him to the med bay," she said, voice shaken. "Both of them. Now."
In the med chamber, Kaelen sat in silence, blood on his knuckles. Qui-Gon knelt beside him.
"You lost control," the Jedi said softly.
"He insulted my people."
"You proved his words."
Kaelen's head dropped.
"I didn't come here to be mocked."
"You came here to be healed. But healing requires surrender, not to them. To yourself."
Kaelen didn't answer. His armour felt heavier.
Later, Qui-Gon guided him to a meditation chamber.
Candles flickered. Incense curled in the air.
Kaelen knelt stiffly.
"Close your eyes," Qui-Gon said. "Let the noise go. Let the Force speak."
Kaelen tried. He did.
But all he saw were fire and death.
Vizsla's last words: "You're not one of us. You're a mistake."
Blaster fire. Screaming. Smoke.
"Focus," Qui-Gon urged gently.
"I can't. I see… them. I see him. Dying."
"Then don't run from it. Face it."
Kaelen's voice cracked. "It won't stop hurting."
"It's not supposed to."
Outside, Obi-Wan paced.
"He's dangerous," he said. "You saw what he did. That wasn't a fight. That was a mauling."
"He's in pain."
"So are we all. That doesn't excuse him."
"No," Qui-Gon agreed. "But it gives us a choice—to help, or to condemn."
Obi-Wan shook his head. "You always think you can fix them."
"I don't. But I trust the Force."
That night, Kaelen lay in his quarters.
He couldn't sleep.
Coruscant glowed outside his window, like a world that never shut its eyes. A place that refused to rest. It made him feel even smaller.
His armour sat beside the bed, dented and silent.
He touched it gently.
They all stared at him like a weapon. Maybe they weren't wrong.
But he was still here.
Still breathing.
Still fighting.
And for now… that was enough.
He whispered to himself, voice low, almost reverent.
"I'll learn their ways… but I won't forget mine."