Tarn stood out like a dropped saber in a garden.
Even stripped of most of his armor—left in utility fatigues, gloves, and boots—his every movement radiated discipline. Too rigid, too quiet, always watching. He didn't walk through Aurex so much as patrol it, eyes scanning rooftops and doorways, cataloging exits and elevation points without meaning to.
Children stopped laughing when he passed.
Elders nodded politely but kept their distance.
He didn't try to smile.
He didn't know how.
By the third day, Mira had seen enough.
She found Toren at the hydroponic troughs, elbows deep in a coolant line and muttering to himself about oxygen ratios.
"Got a minute?" she asked, already knowing the answer.
He wiped his hands on a cloth and looked up.
"You're going to tell me to send him away."
"No," Mira said. "I'm going to ask you if you trust him."
Toren hesitated.
"He didn't fire during Order 66."
"That's not trust. That's history."
She leaned on the frame beside him.
"Look—he's not dangerous. But he's trained to follow someone, not lead himself. You put him in this village and people expect him to turn into one of us overnight."
She paused.
"Some part of him's still in that war."
Toren nodded, slow.
"Maybe," he said. "But that doesn't mean we can't show him what peace looks like."
Mira watched him a moment longer.
Then gave a small nod.
"I hope you're right."
She turned to go, then added over her shoulder—
"But if he isn't... I'm not letting you hesitate next time."