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Chapter Text

Chapter I:

Ponderings

Location: Hyperspace

So, I have Midi-chlorians.

If there is anything in this galaxy that should surprise Din Djarin, this fact should not be one of them. After all, Talia had said that every single thing in the universe contains Midi-chlorians. Before meeting her, he had no idea about their existence. She had told him that her Force—the Force—had taken on a physical aspect by creating the Midi-chlorians, using them as instruments to convey its presence and power in creatures, sentient beings, and sometimes places. And honestly, it is all strange to him. The very notion of these microscopic life-forms seems more mythical than factual to his realistic mind. But he cannot deny their existence, not when he has seen proof of these Midi-chlorians in samples of Vandar’s blood and in Talia’s as well. That had intrigued him. It also made him really start to accept that the Force is no longer something he can continue to take for granted. Yet, when Talia tested his blood to check his own Midi-chlorian count . . .

That’s just something else, he thinks as he stares at the swirling blue mass of hyperspace.

He is alone, currently sitting in the pilot’s chair in the Alabaster Star’s cockpit. The ship’s engines purr in a softer and more elegant tune than his Razor Crest’s. Its unique humming, in fact, reminds him of its owner—soothing, welcoming, and resilient. He has been impressed with Talia’s YT-2000 light freighter, a sentiment that surprises even him. Since traveling and living on and off in the Corellian-designed ship, he has not found himself missing his Crest too much, yet he suspects that this has to do with his companions more than the Star itself.

As Din’s eyes un-focus themselves on the endless tunnel of hyperspace, his brain returns to Midi-chlorians and to the moment when Talia had asked for permission to test his Aq Vetinan blood. They were on Kashyyyk, traversing the Shadowlands with a Wookiee pilgrimage, and he had eventually consented to her request—just to please her. It had earned him a breath-taking smile, which had seemed worth it. But as he thinks back on it, he realizes that it was an emotional decision on his part, and he does not often make many of those.

However, while Talia’s medical droid, GG-91-SD, was taking a sample of his blood, he remembers wondering if perhaps giving his permission was a mistake. Would knowing an accurate count of the Midi-chlorians in him really make a difference? He had argued to himself that he was just fine living and surviving on his own without caring about their existence.

But no sooner had he thought this was the moment when any naïve curiosity concerning his count was crushed by his Beskar will. Amidst his emotions and sound reasonings, that of all things was eager to hear a low number from the results. It was a way to prove that his skillset, his training, and his Mandalorian upbringing were the explanations for his superior fighting, high pain tolerance, and survival instincts.

In the end, his defiance, his stubbornness, and even his pride had taken a hit. According to Talia, his count was above the average sentient, which is less than 2,500 Midi-chlorians per cell. He has exactly 3,991. And while he had merely blinked at the results, not sure of its implication, Talia had been studying him with a sense of awe, respect, and . . . affection. Her eyes had taken a soft-like quality—which, he is starting to notice, has been directed at himself more often.

As he had beforehand, Din has tried to understand why Talia has been looking at him in this way. But right now, his Midi-chlorian count is at the forefront of his mind—it has been since the number was announced by GG.

He asks himself if his results mean anything significant. Should they affect how he carries on with his life? Or with how he fights? And what do they mean to Talia? He did not ask her in the medical bay because he was not sure what her answer would be. Instead, he had simply stared at the numbers, comparing his count to hers at 12,000 and to Vandar’s, which is at 15,500. He is actually starting to regret his silence.

“Now we know why your reflexes and instincts are sharp,” Talia had said, her refined Coruscanti accent echoing in his ears. He had detected her Onderonian accent roll her r’s when she added, “And perhaps they can be even sharper.”

“You offering me Jedi lessons, Dewan?” he had almost growled at her, a tone that he is presently reprimanding himself for using. There was no point for him to behave so defensively.

Yet, from the amusement that had twinkled in her dark eyes, he doubts that she took his biting words to heart. She had answered in a soothing voice, “Think of them as tips, verd*.”

(*pronounced: VAIRD; translation: “warrior”)

The title that she has been giving him lately still causes his skin to rise with goosebumps. And it just occurs to him that she did not use the word ner*, or my, before it, not as she has often done in the past. It is a small detail that must have slipped her mind, but for some reason, he is uncertain as to whether or not he feels disappointed by its absence.

(*pronounced: nair)

The Mandalorian bounty hunter shakes himself from that last train of thought. The only aspect that he should not dismiss is his higher Midi-chlorian count. If Talia can offer him more insight on how to better his skillset, then he would be an utreekov* to refuse. Any member from their Creed should always be ready to learn new ways to improve himself.

(*pronounced: oo-TREE-kov; translation: “fool, idiot”; literal translation: “empty-head”)

But what can she offer me? he cannot stop from asking. He knows that he will never gain more Midi-chlorians to wield the Force like her and Vandar. Isn’t that genetically impossible? he wonders, already convinced of the answer. Besides, what can she teach him that he does not already know?

In an instant, he can practically hear his Tribe’s Armorer state, It is unwise for you to assume that you know everything about the galaxy. Or a person. Both are complicated and ever-changing.

So, don’t be an utreekov, Djarin, he tells himself. And why are you fighting this anyways?

The query causes him to frown. He then wonders, will listening to Talia— the woman whom he considers as his best friend—really be that difficult?

A heartbeat passes, and he realizes that he does not even need to answer his own question. Traveling with Talia, living alongside her, spending hours alone with her—neither of these things are as tiresome as they used to be. And, if he is being honest with himself, they have not been for quite some time. Talking with her has ceased becoming an obligation or a routine and has transitioned into a daily pleasure. Whatever passes between them—everyday subjects, sad memories, companionable silence—it has been . . . well, beyond rewarding for him, despite being required to open up. The deep trust and bond fastening them together has slowly been penetrating the walls that he has built around himself since he was a ten-years-old.

He smirks to himself beneath his helmet. When he had first met Talia on Cholganna over five months ago, he had kicked and punched against the intrusion of his privacy. But after time passed and after seeing that this perplexing woman was being kind, understanding, and simply herself, he had stopped. Even now, he does not quite remember when he did. And after a moment, he calmly realizes that he does not care.

Not anymore.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Meanwhile . . .

“All right, Padawan. Jump from there to here.”

Talia Dewan points to a wooden crate that she had turned upside down several minutes ago. Vandar, her green-skinned pupil, looks at it and then back at her, his big eyes squinting with confusion. He is currently standing on a similar crate, his baby-tunic touching its wooden frame.

They are in her ship’s cargo hold, which is chillier than the rest of the Star. That is why she has not taken off her brown Jedi robe. Its billowy sleeves and long hemline have been preventing her body heat from escaping into the cool room. However, she is not so cold to don her robe’s hood. At least, not yet.

In her ship’s cargo hold, shelves outline most of the walls and are filled with supplies, cleaning items, and food. There are also stacks of large storage containers placed in the center of the room, but the organization layout is more of R6’s and P-1’s project than Talia’s. Even Din has more of a hand in where things go than she does, but she does not mind this arrangement at all.

Her tiny Apprentice jumps a few inches off the crate, yet he does not attempt to leap to the other one stationed across from him, as per her instructions. He shakes his wrinkly head at her; however, it is not out of defiance. Through their Force-bond, she ascertains that he simply does not believe how he can accomplish what she is bidding him. Earlier, she had initiated a meditation session with him, showing him how the Force surrounds them while also living inside them. At Vandar’s lack of action, Talia wants to frown in discouragement, but she stops herself from doing so. Although she senses that her Apprentice has not forgotten their meditation session, his unbelief concerns her nonetheless.

He’s just a child, she reminds herself. He’s only five years old.

Trying to think of another way to teach Vandar to Force-jump, she busies herself by smoothing out the wrinkles of her stone-blue tank top. The material of her tunic is softer than her Jedi outer robe, but it is just as thick. Together, they have been fighting off the cargo hold’s cool draft. Her tunic’s front has the option to remain open like a vest, even though it has no zippers, clasps, or buttons to fasten it. Rather than wear an undershirt and leave her tunic open, Talia had folded one side of its front on top of the other and secured it with a sash, which is made of the same fabric. She had tied the flimsy belt into a knot right at her midriff, and dangling from it is her lightsaber, its clip digging into the cozy material.

Finally, an idea inspires her, prompting her to reach into her brown trousers’ pocket and retrieve her Imagecaster. The circular device’s bronze rim shines in the light. As she holds it in her palm, she angles her hand so Vandar can see it, too.

“Lift this in the air, Padawan,” she charges him with an encouraging smile.

Vandar narrows his eyes at the Imagecaster while raising a three-fingered hand. As he concentrates on her instruction, his pointy ears flap back, and after a few seconds, she feels her communication device leave her palm. It lazily floats in front of her as if it is drifting in water.

“Good,” she says. “Now, keep on doing that. Focus. Focus.”

His facial expression is tense as he continues to raise the Imagecaster in the air. She senses that this small victory is not even close to tiring him out, which is progress indeed, and she smiles, feeling quite pleased with him.

“Feel the Force flowing through you to my Imagecaster,” she guides him. “Feel it as it carries the Imagecaster into the air.”

She pauses, waiting for him to answer her. Soon, he releases a small, “Eh?”

“Well done,” she praises. “All right, you can let it go.” In an instant, the device drops into her hand. “Now, what you did with this,” she continues, indicating her Imagecaster, “you can also do with yourself.”

Quickly, she walks over to the crate that she had instructed him to jump on, her bare feet as soundless as a ghost as she glides across the durasteel floor. There are pillows and cushions surrounding this crate, acting as safety precautions for the inexperienced baby. She makes sure that she is directly across him before she kneels behind the vacant crate.

“Okay, Vandar. I want you to use the Force to focus on you, as if you were this.” She lifts her Imagecaster. “Concentrate on your body so you can leap from there to here.” After giving the crate in front of her a couple of pats, she instructs, “Now, jump. And have the Force flow through you, to carry you here.”

Vandar’s eyes move to the crate before landing on her again. Then, he tilts his head to the side and gives her a slow nod.

So much like his father, she muses to herself, wanting to smile that someone this young can mimic traits and habits.

When Vandar squats his little legs, she waits in anticipation. His short arms spread out to brace himself for a leap while his brown eyes focus on the crate. And then . . . he jumps—but only a few inches up before he lands on his crate again. Talia’s heart drops a little as he pouts and begins to whine, pointing at the other crate and mumbling in baby-talk. She catches the word far or something similar to it, and she suspects that, if he was a teenager, he would be giving her excuses. The automatic response of, ‘Nothing is too far or impossible for the Force,’ is about to escape her lips, but she presses them together, reminding herself once more that she is still talking to a five-year-old.

Not sure of what to say, Talia scratches the back of her neck. Her fingers brush up against the jewelry that she had incorporated in her hairstyle. She had woven a vertical braid, having it start at the base of her neck and travel to the top of her head. Afterwards, she had fastened it with a tie in order to form a ponytail. Interwoven in her braid are the silver rings that had been gifted to her by the Wookiees of Kachirho City.

In order to buy herself more time to find a solution for Vandar’s training, she gathers the loose locks of her ponytail, including her Padawan braid stationed behind her right ear. With nimble fingers, she wraps them around the base of her hairstyle, contemplating the idea of teaching this exercise in a different way. She forms a messy bun and secures the ends of her locks by tucking them into the tie that is holding together her ponytail and braid.

Deciding that she needs to be direct, she says to her student in a firm yet gentle tone, “Vandar, you must believe that you can do this. Close your eyes,” she coaches. After a moment, he obeys, and she continues, “Now, in your mind, picture the crate in front of you. Then, focus on the Force inside of you. Bend your knees and get ready to jump on top of the crate.” She pauses, watching and sensing him follow her instructions. “And . . . jump, Vandar.”

He does. His little body lifts into the air in a crooked arc, and she senses a symphony of the Force resonate from the action. She commands herself not to interfere when Vandar’s leap surpasses the crate; he needs to learn for himself how to gage his power and ability. He lands in between the crate and where she is kneeling, plopping on top of the cushions that she had laid out for such a result.

When he tumbles onto a fluffy cushion face-first with an “Umph!”, Talia has to swallow a giggle. Once she does, she praises, “You did it. Well done, my very young Apprentice.”

A prick of awkwardness at his title and her self-ordained role inserts itself into her heart. She still does not feel worthy to be someone’s Master, especially to a student with such a high Midi-chlorian count as Vandar. Even after months of training him in the ways of the Force and the Jedi Order, she has yet to silence her doubts of how unqualified she is to be a teacher to him.

However, despite her misgivings, she always returns to one fact: Vandar must be trained by another Force-sensitive. And no matter what she thinks or how she views herself, a chain of authority needs to be established to him—for his sake. So, she orders herself to ignore the faint voice inside her heard that whispers, “Who gave you, Padawan, the right to have one of your own?”

Once Vandar lifts his wrinkly head from the cushion, she tells herself to concentrate on him again rather than on her inadequacy. She gifts him with a smile before asking, “Do you want to try that again?”

He responds with a baby-like squeal, and she accepts that as a “yes.”

“Okay, then,” she says. “Let’s have you jump to this other crate.”

Over the next hour, she continues to coach Vandar on his Force-leaps. His targeting improves somewhat, but he has yet to land where she designates. The cargo room is filled with his gasps and giggles, giving Talia plenty of reasons to smile and to commend him for his attempts. If he was older, she would be sterner, yet she knows that his young mind is so impressionable. Since he is barely learning this new skill, it is not the appropriate time for more serious criticism.

His father would be proud of him, she thinks, contemplating the idea of hailing Din so he can see his son in action.

At that moment, her communication and control gauntlet attached to her right wrist beeps, alerting her of an incoming transmission from the cockpit. Raising device near her lips, she answers, “Yes, Din?”

“I have Cara Dune on the comms,” his raspy voice reveals. “She wants to talk to you.”

The news surprises her: neither she nor Din has heard from the Alderaanian woman since they last saw her on Nevarro. However, she cannot help but tease him, “And she doesn’t want to talk to you?”

“We caught up for a little bit,” he replies in a stoic tone.

And I wonder how long that conversation lasted, she considers, knowing all too well that he is still not one to chat.

“Okay, then. Patch her through to me.”

“Copy that.”

Talia drops her wrist and looks at Vandar. “All right, Padawan. Break time.”

Cooing with glee, he lifts his short arms for her to pick him up. She does and maneuvers them around her obstacle course of crates and cushions. Together, they exit the cargo hold. Talia turns left, passing by the engine room and then her study. As her bare feet tread softly across the cold floor, she debates whether or not she should put on some boots. However, she and Vandar are already walking through the ship’s training room, which is on the opposite side of where her room is.

Too late.

Right there and then, her Imagecaster beeps. Talia leaves the training room behind her and quickly enters the joint kitchen and lounge area. As the door slides shut, she retrieves her Imagecaster from her pocket. Vandar points at the device and babbles at it as she sits them both on the lounge’s velvety dark blue couch, which is stationed across the kitchen’s counter-island. While placing her young Apprentice beside her, she uses the Force to send her Imagecaster to the floor. With just a thought, she initiates the Force to turn on her device, and in an instant, a colored yet transparent image of Carasynthia Dune appears.

The Alderaanian woman’s hologram hovers over the Imagecaster, and Vandar squeals in delight at their guest. Like always, Cara is wearing her forest green and midnight armor and gauntlets. Talia notes that her skin is not as tanned as it had been, but her short hair is just as black as space. Her arms are thick with muscle, and the red, vertical bars of her Rebel tattoo on her right bicep boasts of history and experience. The big-boned woman has a grim expression on her hard face, yet it softens into a half-smile when her dark eyes land on Vandar. The tiny Rebel Alliance symbol stamped on her left cheek gives her expression a hint of sadness, but then, Talia reminds herself that it and others identical to it have been recognized across the known galaxy as a tear-like tattoo.

“Hello, Carasynthia,” she opens the conversation, gracing her guest with a welcoming smile.

The one that she receives in return from the former Shock Trooper is a mixture of amusement and secret joy. “Hi, Tal.” The greeting earns an excited giggle from Vandar, who points at her while looking up at Talia, his eyes wide with recognition. “Hey there, kiddo. He looks the same,” Cara notes. “Any growth changes?”

As Vandar drops his hand, Talia replies, “Not really. Except for his stomach. His appetite has increased.”

“Hopefully not too much.”

A chuckle emerges from Talia’s lips. Her Padawan joins her in her humor, probably sensing how entertained she is feeling. She then inquires, “So, what have you been up to, Cara?”

“That’s a question I can ask you,” the other woman remarks with a smirk. “Mando told me that you guys have been on Kashyyyk for a while.”

At the mention of the Wookiee planet, Talia again smiles as fond memories flash through her mind. “We were,” she answers. “And he was feeling restless. Wasn’t he, Vandar?”

“Eh?”

Cara chortles in a way that sounds very similar to a Gamorrean snort. “I bet. He was like that on Sorgan, you know—always going on patrols around the village, just to keep busy.”

“That’s him all right.”

“Isn’t it? That man just wouldn’t sit still. But then . . .” A sly smile creeps on the ex-Dropper’s lips, and her eyes twinkle with mischief. “There were times when Mando seemed relaxed. Almost like he was quite at home there.”

Although Cara’s mischievous demeanor warns Talia not to pursue this topic, her curiosity outweighs her caution. “Oh?” she asks before she can stop herself. She remembers there were moments on Onderon when her close companion was rested and somewhat stress-free while staying with her at Dewan Manor. But he had not indicated that he felt this way on Sorgan.

At her short question, the Alderaanian woman tilts her head to the side, which causes her chin-length locks to listlessly brush up against her round cheeks. She comments, “I’ll take it that he never said this.”

“And you’d be right,” Talia admits while patting Vandar on the back. He coos up at her and begins to fiddle with the end of her Jedi robe. With a sigh, she adds, “He just gave me a few basics about his time on Sorgan.”

Crossing her powerful arms, Cara says, “Too bad. It was a nice, quiet planet. Maybe a little boring. But it was very homey, too.” She then watches Talia closely before mentioning in an off-handed tone, “You know, the villagers there took really good care of us. Especially Mando’s hostess.”

Immediately, Talia knows who she is referring to, and despite her Jedi and Mandalorian upbringing, she feels her expression falter for a fraction of a centimeter. But thank the Force, she catches it just in time. Her stomach, however, clenches as she hums a question in response. She knows that her voice will give away how uncomfortable she is suddenly becoming.

“Yep. Her name was Omera,” Cara flatly answers with an uncaring shrug, but Talia did not need to be reminded of this other woman’s name. “And,” her new friend adds with a chuckle, “she spoiled him.”

In an act of pure instinct, Talia calls upon the Force to keep her expression innocent and unaffected by this new piece of information. She inhales a subtle, quiet breath, hoping that it will help calm her. “Yes, he spoke very highly of her,” she comments, both pleased and relieved that her voice does not sound as shaky as her heart feels.

Like lightning, she remembers a certain conversation that she had with Din months ago on Onderon. This talk has not even approached her mind since then, yet one of the downsides of having the Force is that it can beckon memories as fast as the blink of an eye. While one might have forgotten a certain event, the Force can remind that person of every single detail and emotion related to it as if it had happened just moments before.

Time slows down as she recalls when Din admitted—in so many words—that he had been attracted to Omera, a confession that took a lot of effort for him to voice. At the time, Talia had not thought much of the Sorganese widow, especially since they were discussing old loves and one-night-stands. For her, it was simply reassuring to be reminded that the heavily armored bounty hunter had a beating heart inside him—a heart that could sway him to surrender to desire. He is a man after all, no matter if his Beskar may imply otherwise.

Furthermore, that particular conversation had allowed her to learn more about him, for he was—and still is—tight-lipped about himself. But now . . . hearing how “Mando” became attached to a woman—one whom he had been impressed with—makes Talia want to squirm. From what she knows of her version of Din Djarin, Omera must have been very special to have caught his disciplined attention.

Her heart squeezes as all this information registers in her mind. She does not consider herself to be a vain woman, yet she has been made aware of the fact that Din feels a form of attraction towards her. Their last moment alone in the Kashyyyk Shadowlands was proof of that. He had done a fairly good job of tampering down his recognition of her femininity and his male appreciation for it; however, the bond they share could not hide it completely. Because of this, she figures that any feelings, sentiments, or even intentions he has concerning her are more than likely ones that he is not fully aware of himself. But whatever they are, she wonders if they are . . . well, stronger than his partially towards Omera. Is that even a possibility? And will he realize this at some point?

When Cara’s scoff crashes into her emotional thoughts, time jars Talia back to the present. “‘Very highly?’” her friend repeats while dropping her arms to her sides. “Really, Tal? You almost sound like a politician there.”

Common sense persuades her to withhold a confession that she had been a politician for several years on Onderon.  A while ago, Din had told her that Cara was not an admirer of politics, so she suspects that it may be better for her to tiptoe around this subject—just for now.

As a way of misdirection, she teases, “Now, Cara, you don’t want me to gossip behind his back, do you?”

“Hey, who said anything about gossiping?” The Alderaanian wrinkles her nose at the idea. “I’m just trying to figure out what he told you. To, you know,” she adds with a shrug, “make sure our stories line up.”

“Of course,” Talia supplies, forcing herself not to roll her eyes.

“But knowing Mando,” Cara muses aloud, “he probably didn’t say much about Omera. Especially not how she seemed half in love with him.”

Hearing this makes Talia freeze the neutral expression that she has managed to don so far. She had no idea that Omera’s favoritism to Din went that far, and he did not even hint this back on Onderon. On the other hand, she is all too aware that, even if he realized it or not, he would not have mentioned it.

Knowing that she cannot break the rhythm of her conversation with Cara by taking too long to answer, she chuckles out, despite not feeling any kind of light-heartedness about this topic, “Come on, Cara. You’ve met Mando. Does he seem the type to share something like that?”

The former Dropper crosses her muscled arms again. As she considers Talia’s question, her gaze looks as if it is a million miles away. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. He wouldn’t.” Cara’s eyes veer back to her before they squint with intrigue. In a suspicious tone, she says, “I thought he’d tell you about this. And about how the idea of settling on Sorgan scared him right down to his Mando soul.”

As time lingers once more, Talia wants to frown at this revelation. Settle down? He really thought about doing this? That doesn’t sound like the Din Djarin I know. Not at all. Was that even his idea? Or Omera’s?

Through the Force, she senses that a full second has passed. She can feel the next one tick by as she discerns that it must have been the Sorganese widow’s proposal. Anyone who truly knows Din must see that he is a wandering soul—almost like she is right now. Although she may have the urge to plant her roots somewhere in the future, she is not quite sure if he will ever be tempted to do the same. He just seems too free-spirited and restless to build a permanent home and raise a family.

No wonder he took so long to decide whether to let me travel with him, she thinks, remembering that he appeared uncomfortable with her request to leave Onderon with him and join him on his Razor Crest. Oh, Talia. He must’ve thought you were asking him to settle down, too.

Beside her, Vandar begins to snore, and it is that tiny interruption that returns her to the present again. How odd that she did not notice until now that he had fallen asleep. He has tucked himself inside her Jedi robe’s long hemline, using it as a blanket. A contented smile pulls at his tiny green lips as he snuggles into the couch’s relaxing cushion seating.

Figuring that she needs to comment on Cara’s last remark, Talia observes aloud, “And like most from the Creed, Mando wouldn’t admit to being afraid. I should know.”

“But from one Mandalorian to another, he would confide in you, right?” the other woman inquires, her gaze intent on Talia’s expression. She senses that Cara is beyond interested in her answer and is practically in earnest.

Well, he has been confiding in me lately, she thinks, but she is certain that even admitting this to Cara is not her place.

“It depends on the topic,” Talia replies, walking the fine line between honesty and discretion. “And also on how he’s feeling about sharing—which isn’t often.”

“But it does happen, right?”

The question makes Talia quirk an eyebrow at her. Even across the stars, she can now feel a roaring curiosity stemming from her fellow Rebel, and that prompts her to ask, “Carasynthia Dune, where is this coming from?”

“Nothing.” She waves a hand in disinterest, yet Talia suspects that it was merely done for show. When Cara notices that she tilts her head at her, she defends, “What, Tal? Can’t I be concerned about how my Mando friend is doing?”

Talia gives her a knowing look, but the Alderaanian soldier pretends not to notice it. An amused half-smile lifts the corner of Talia’s mouth as she says, “Of course, you can. But I get the feeling that you’re fishing for something.”

“And what would I be fishing for?”

“I couldn’t say. That’s for you to tell me.”

With a saucy smirk, Cara replies, “I think that’s my cue to ask how’s the search going for the kid’s people.”

The sudden subject change is both a disappointment and a relief to Talia. If the latter feeling was nonexistent, then she would not have allowed Cara to get away with it. But she does not want to risk her new friend cutting their call short. So, she follows Cara’s lead as they delve into a half-hour of small-talk. Next to her, Vandar continues to softly snore, and Talia occasionally lays a hand on his small body, using the Force to offer him serenity and security as he sleeps.

During her light-hearted exchange with Cara, she observes that the ex-Dropper steers the conversation away from job-related and personal topics. In fact, she seems more fascinated in what their trio has been doing to since they left Nevarro. And though Talia wants to know how Cara is coping with the loss of her planet, Alderaan, she believes that now is not the appropriate time to press her to re-visit this fresh wound. Their friendship is still in the growing stages, and she discerns that her fellow Rebel simply needs a distraction, which is probably why she had hailed their ship today in the first place.

It is only after her holo-call with Cara ends is when Talia permits herself to think about Omera, a woman whom she has never met. She had been tempted to ask the Alderaanian for further information about her, yet she suspected that bringing up the Sorganese widow again might steer Cara into a line of thinking that Talia was not willing—or ready—to discuss with anyone else. Not yet anyways.

Her own feelings and growing love for the carefully guarded Mandalorian warrior have blossomed in her heart so much during their visit to Kashyyyk. They are even tempted to raise up a wave of jealousy and crash it onto Omera. The sensation is so strong that the woman in her is on the verge of allowing it to distort the widow’s reportedly good and kind character. But Talia closes her eyes and calls upon the Force to settle her jealousy. If left unchecked, she knows that it can give the Dark Side a chance to insert itself into her mind and heart. She does not need its whispered doubts and distorted truths to plague her.

Instead, she embraces the Light Side of the Force to dissolve her jealousy, and like a violin’s soft melody, it soothes her soul. At the back of her mind, she reasons that she should not fear losing her bond with Din or the attraction that she knows he has been experiencing towards herself. They have endured much since they first met on Cholganna, and she has spent more time with him than anyone from his Sorgan adventures, including Cara. Her place by his side and in his life is secure. For now.

Assured, Talia opens her eyes and then raises her hand. Calling upon the Force, she summons her Imagecaster from the floor. It zooms in the air towards her and lands safely in her palm. As she tucks it away in her pants pocket, she glances down at Vandar and smiles at his sleeping form. Despite the strong presence of the Force in him, he is, after all, a child who needs time for napping.

Carefully, she slips out of her brown Jedi robe and leaves it with Vandar. She positions the extra flowy material to settle over him like a blanket, and he hums in contentment. Then, she rises from the velvety blue couch, her bare feet settling on the cold durasteel floor.

With quiet steps, she tiptoes to the Star’s training room. Even though her lessons for her toddler-Padawan are over for now, that does not mean she, his teacher, should be lax when it comes to reinforcing her own skillsets.

Entering the training room, she waves her hand, which summons the Force to press a button on the room’s control panel. Behind her, the door slides closed with a soft hiss! sound. Next, she unclips her lightsaber from her tunic’s flimsy belt. The dull-silver and gold Beskar hilt gleams from the lights above, and she skims her thumb over the ebony band where the activation button and adjustment switches are. Silvery vines decorate this small section on her hilt, reminding her of the jungles of Onderon and Dxun. Her eyes veer to the end of the weapon where her blade will soon emerge. The dull-gold plating, peppered with a pattern of tiny circles, always appears more of a bronze color once her lightsaber is activated and emanating its purple glow.

She twists the adjustment switch on her hilt, an action that will set her blade on its lowest calibration. This has been a habit of hers whenever she decides either to spar with a companion or to drill herself through the Jedi Lightsaber Forms. Although the blade’s heat will be considerably lower, it is foolish for anyone to assume that it will be less deadly.

In the cool silence, Talia calms her mind, allowing all of her earlier thoughts to disperse for the time being. Then, she presses the activation button with her thumb. Instantly, her purple blade appears from her hilt with a familiar snap-hiss! that briefly echoes in the training room. Its steady purr is quieter than usual due to being activated at a lower setting; nevertheless, its sound is still both familiar and reassuring. Simply hearing it and seeing it glow remind her once again that this weapon is her life; it is the symbol of her Jedi Order and what they stood for. And ever since she constructed her second lightsaber at the age of fourteen, she and her Force-sensitive crystals have endured much together. Pain, victories, death, and hope have been embedded in the resilient gems.

As Talia’s dark eyes glide across her lightsaber’s purple blade, she purposefully relaxes her muscles, preparing them for her training routine.

The day before yesterday, while she and her companions were on Kashyyyk, Talia had walked through some lightsaber exercises with a young Wookiee named Gungi, a former Jedi Youngling. Like her, he had survived Order 66 and managed to evade Imperial detection since then. She had learned that the Wookiee was mostly acquainted with Form I of lightsaber combat called Shii-Cho. This was not surprising to hear because it was a technique that all of the Jedi were first taught. It was commendable that Gungi had continued to drill himself in it over the years.

Throughout the hours and days of wandering the Shadowlands with him and his Wookiee pilgrimage, Talia had been able to groom Gungi’s Shii-Cho while also introducing him to Form III, Soresu, the most defensive technique of all the other Forms. And it was during her humble lessons with him that she realized how out-of-practice she had been with Soresu—a revelation which had been a little embarrassing to her. That is why, yesterday, she had completed hours’ worth of lightsaber exercises from Soresu. But today, it is time for her to reinforce her discipline in Form I.

In her early training of Shii-Cho, Talia—like every Jedi Youngling—had either been blindfolded or worn a training helmet that covered her eyes. This unique method had taught the Younglings to call upon the Force and to lean on it rather than their other senses. To this day, she still remembers how frustrating it was for her to practice with a training saber without seeing. Yet, the key to Shii-Cho is to rely on one’s instinct.

Closing her eyes, she positions her feet in a ready-stance and then guides her blade to be parallel to the floor. It buzzes from the movement and purrs when she directs her weapon to cut through the air with an opening horizontal strike called the “Sarlacc Sweep.” The maneuver, she had learned and experienced, is best used when a duelist is assaulting multiple enemies at once.

In accordance with the exercise, her feet slide forward across the cool floor while she guides her blade to slash in front of her at a vertical angle. Quickly, she raises it up as if to parry an attack from an imaginary enemy. Then, she repeats the “Sarlacc Sweep” routine, making sure to turn herself around once she reaches too close to the training room’s walls.

Again and again, she runs through this drill, her body taking over and acting on its instinctive reflexes. The Force ripples across her muscles and bones, sharpening her movements and enhancing her senses. Her temperature rises from the maneuvers, and she can feel a trickle of sweat drip down her back.

Shii-Cho is often dubbed the Determination Form, for it is known to be persistent yet simple, requiring a calm, collected, and even methodical application when used. Talia remembers her Master, Zebedee Asher, had told her that Shii-Cho had been designed to tactfully disarm adversaries without causing serious injury. It was constructed to counter the ever-present urge to kill while engaged in combat. To gain victory without injury is the emphasis of Form I’s philosophy. And because it requires the utilization of deliberate tactics, it promotes continuous, step-by-step advancement against multiple opponents whilst cutting off their angles and attacks.

Talia maneuvers her blade to strike in a perfect horizontal slash, stretching her arm away from her torso. She slants her hilt at 20 degrees as if targeting an imaginary foe’s right arm and side. Shii-Cho has six body target zones, and she just completed number two. While spinning on her heel, she directs her blade down at 60 degrees, aiming for body target zone number four—an opponent’s back.

The training room is filled with her steady breaths and her lightsaber’s gentle purring. She can hear and feel her blade pulse with heat and energy as she dances across the durasteel floor. A bead of sweat drips from her temple and down her cheek as she strikes and slashes at multiple yet invented enemies, practicing the body target zones in random order. Beneath her sleeveless tunic, her heartrate increases ever so slightly. She calls upon the Force to preserve her strength and guide her movements, from her arms to her feet and to her breathing. Its melody is calming and inspiring, beckoning her to lean on its direction as she continues to keep her eyes closed and trust her instincts.

The pace of her training slowly begins to double, and she can only guess how much of a blur her purple blade may look to any viewer. Her body quivers with anticipation the further she delves into her routines. She sweeps her weapon from one angle to the next, noting at the back of her mind that her movements are becoming jagged and even clumsy. But the velocity behind each maneuver sends a thrill up her spine, spreading to the rest of her bones. Her sense of decorum and restraint are becoming less appealing with every practiced strike, and she feels the temptation to become lost in this frantic tempo.

One of the major downsides of Shii-Cho’s combat style is that it can be wild and raw, fostering an emotionally-heated mindset to the practitioner. She is reminded that, if a Jedi allows this to cloud their judgment, then the attraction to initiate maneuvers with lethal intent grows substantially, thus ignoring Form I’s prime philosophy: victory without serious injury.

“And that is why,” her Master had instructed her, “Shii-Cho requires restraint, Talia. You must exercise this Form without going too far.”

With Zeb’s warning in mind, she inhales through her nostrils, calling upon the Force to soothe her emotions before they are able to enter into a combat frenzy. Its song steadies her heartrate and breathing, and she returns to a defensive stance after completing an extensive application of parries and strikes. Then, with a relaxed body and mind, she begins another set of drills in Shii-Cho.

Time seems to flow listlessly along, and the training room bounces off the sounds of subtle breaths and the constant buzzing of her lightsaber. Talia bends and turns herself in various angles, each movement complimenting the direction of her deadly blade while simultaneously keeping it away from herself. The low heat from her weapon eventually causes her body to gain another layer of perspiration, and she can feel every single droplet slide across her skin. With the Force enhancing her senses, she is even aware of the instances whenever an individual bead of sweat falls to the floor with an almost imperceptible splash!

All too soon it seems, the door connecting the training room to the kitchen slides open behind her. A familiar male presence causes her hammering heart to flutter with affection. Because her back is to him, she allows her lips to form a soft smile as she enjoys having her Mandalorian so near. But after a long moment, she schools her expression and dons a welcoming one instead as she completes her last routine in Shii-Cho.

After a final slash, angling her blade at 45 degrees, Talia deactivates her weapon. Once it retreats into her Beskar hilt with a hiss!, she opens her eyes again. The room’s lights are harsh to her pupils, but she rapidly blinks them while calling on the Force to help them adjust within seconds. Her bare feet, sliding across the floor, turn herself around, and she finds Din standing in the doorway. From her reflection in his helmet’s visor, she notices more than feels that sweat is making her sleeveless tunic cling to her like a second skin. The whisps of hair that have escaped her messy bun are sticking to her neck like black veins, and she finds herself feeling a little self-conscious on how unruly she must look to him.

“Good afternoon,” she says to her dear companion while clipping her lightsaber to her belt.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Din greets her in return, his raspy voice as pleasant as ever to her ears.

“I was just about finished,” she assures him, feeling the Star’s cooling system tickle across her overheated body. Goosebumps soon form across her damp skin.

She watches as Din glances around the room, the lights above shining down on his polished Beskar. Then, in a neutral tone, he asks, “You up for a round?”

Before she can think, a chuckle escapes her lips at his entertaining suggestion. However, Din does not join her in her amusement, and she stops immediately. One full second passes, making her realize that his offer is surprisingly genuine.

“Oh, you’re serious,” she exclaims. She then winces at how undiplomatic her voiced observation may seem.

Flatly, he states, “Didn’t think my offer was funny.”

Heat flares in her cheeks and travels to the back of her neck. Meanwhile, her heart drops at the possibility that she may have offended him.

“I’m sorry,” she hastily replies, her throat feeling thick with regret.

Din tilts his helmet-covered head to the side, and she disciplines herself not to use the Force to gain a better understanding of what he is feeling right now. She holds her breath when he says in a curt tone, “I’m starting to wonder if you believe that I won’t be much of a challenge for you.”

Convinced that she has indeed offended him, Talia’s eyes widen in alarm while her heartbeat accelerates with fear and shame. She is all too aware of the fact that any member of their Creed would find her comment and reaction as grounds to challenge her, for the sake of honor. Even though she doubts that her Mandalorian would do such a thing, she is beside herself for not disciplining her response.

The need and urgency to resolve this matter swiftly outweighs the call to carefully choose her next sentence, and Talia blurts out, “What? Of course not! I know that you are. A challenge, I mean. Er, you would be a challenge. I mean, you are a challenge. In combat. I just didn’t mean to—”

“Relax, Tal,” Din interrupts. “I’m just messing with you.”

At this, she shuts her mouth so fast and hard that her teeth clash. Her previous embarrassment rises even more since she knows that she must have sounded like a fool fumbling over her words. She wishes the floor would swallow her whole. However, as two seconds tick by, her brain catches up with what her ears had heard, and she registers that there was a hidden smile painting Din’s scratchy voice. She feels her muscles relax, especially when she recalls that her nickname coming from him had sounded so natural.

“But my offer still stands,” he presses while casually crossing his arms in front of his chest-plate. From this movement, she hears his gauntlets clink! when they bump into each other.

His subtle insistence intrigues her, and her forehead crinkles. Squinting at him, she now senses through the Force that he is very interested in her answer. She cannot help but find it odd that Din is not being as guarded with his emotions as he had been just moments ago. An air of curiosity and seriousness currently stems from him like the strumming of a shy violin, and it dawns upon her that he is withholding himself from showing how much her reply matters to him.

Talia wants to give him an adoring smile for his reservation, but she knows that it may startle him. Yet, since he had teased her earlier, she decides to be just a little playful herself. So, she asks him in a half-joking, half-thoughtful voice, “Din Djarin, are you challenging me to a Mandalorian Fighting Circle?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“I wasn’t meaning to go that far,” he remarks as he uncrosses his arms and places his hands on his belt buckle. Feeling his gloved fingers clench the fastener helps him to thwart the excited ripple that had raced across his arms at Talia’s question.

Although he maintains that the idea of a Mandalorian Fighting Circle is extreme, he will only engage in one if she has her heart set on it. However, he is unable to figure out if she is actually considering it since her expression is hard for him to read at the moment. There is a roguish twinkle in her dark eyes, yet her demeanor seems more contemplative than interested. Should he actually encourage her to agree to a Circle?

Nah, he decides even though his body purrs at the possibility of having her so close to him during a challenge. Better leave that up to her.

“But I’m game,” he admits in a neutral tone. “Only if you are. We never got to finish our Fighting Circle on Cholganna,” he adds, and after a moment, he is not sure why he mentioned that incident in the first place.

“Well, I did withdraw my challenge, remember?” Talia replies, dropping her eyes from his visor.

Oh, yes. He remembers, as if that incident on Onderon was yesterday instead of four months ago. While he had visited her on her homeworld, she had not only retracted her proposed Fighting Circle, but she had also apologized to him for initiating it. Her reason behind the challenge was due to the fact that she had been frustrated at him, an emotion that she had allowed to cloud her judgment. Now that he thinks about it, she had acted very un-Jedi-like. But in any case, she must have realized this because, on Onderon, she had taken full responsibility for suggesting the Fighting Circle in the first place and rescinded the challenge.

Nevertheless, both of them had been pressing each other’s buttons that day on Cholganna—something he now regrets. Because neither of them had been at their best, they had thrown heated and clipped words at one another, which resulted in a challenge that proved to be unnecessary and childish. If he could return to that time on the Nexu-infested planet, he would tell his past self to be more patient towards her. And less suspicious, too.

But in spite of this, Din would be lying to himself if he claimed that he never thought about their unfinished Fighting Circle. There have been moments—mostly while trying to sleep—when he would mentally replay their brief sparring session, attempting to predict an outcome. He had applied his Death Watch training from his Tribe’s Weapon’s Master, some of his buir’s* tactics, and a few tricks from his own bounty hunter skillset. Talia, he assumed for a while, had used her Onderonian and Dxun Mandalorian training. But after he learned that she had a Jedi and Clone War background, he would not be surprised if she utilized what she had learned from those experiences, too. Still, he has asked himself every now and then who would have emerged as the victor if they had not been interrupted by the people and politics from her home system.

(*pronounced: boo-EER; translation: “mother”)

Curious, he off-handedly remarks, “Kind of wondered who’d win. I think I was close to.”

At this, Talia slowly nods, her gaze seeming far away. “Maybe you were,” she finally comments. Then, she focuses her eyes on his visor again. “But I was feeling you out in the first couple of rounds.”

“Likewise,” he admits, recalling how they had circled around one another as if they were caged Rancors forced into a fight. The two Mandalorians had entered into three, short skirmishes, trying to assess the other’s strengths, strategies, and vulnerabilities. It was quite educational.

During his reminiscing and at the back of his mind, Din notices that something miniscule changes—or moves. It catches his attention enough to interrupt his line of thinking, and instinct prompts him to discover what shifted.

When he returns his gaze to the woman in front of him, he realizes that the movement was Talia’s dark pink lips stretching into a smile. Her expression is full of comradery and fondness, and her tanned skin glows with health. He notes that her cheeks are still tinted with a rosy blush from when she was drilling in her lightsaber exercises. Beneath the training room’s lighting, the angles of her face seemed to have softened, but it is her smile that his eyes eventually revert to. Her lips look luscious and inviting yet also innocent and genuine. A surge of warmth emerges from the inside of his chest just knowing that she is directing such a lovely expression at him—and him alone.

Talia then lifts her chin at him, a gesture which forces Din to stop surveying her with as much fervor as a hunter familiarizing himself with his quarry’s appearance and habits. He blinks himself back to the present, and his best friend steps towards him. At first, he is unsure of why she is invading his personal space, but he notices that her gaze is fixed on the door behind him.

Move, Djarin, he scolds himself and feels his feet shift his body to the side so that he is no longer blocking Talia’s pathway.

The nod she gives him is small yet thankful, and she walks past him—and much closer than he is expecting her to. Her shoulder lightly brushes against his, sending a zap down his arm. He catches a whiff of mint from her as she strides into the galley area. The scent is from the ship’s laundry solution, which faintly wafts from the cockpit to the engine room. Yet, the mint always smells sweeter whenever it emanates from her.

As he follows her into the combined kitchen and lounge area, the Mandalorian realizes that he has not detected Talia’s usual fragrance of sugary cream and lemons, not for a while now. He frowns. Why has she stopped wearing that particular scent? Did she run out? He never did figure out if the citrusy aroma had come from a perfume, hair-wash, or body oil, but it had always made Talia seem both homey and exotic at the same time.

In the corner of his visor, he observes that Vandar is starting to wake up. His green eyelids are heavy with sleep, and he yawns while stretching his little arms. So much power can flow through his tiny body and his three-fingered hands. One day, Vandar will be able to master his Force, just like Talia has—a fact that makes Din nervous yet excited.

But first, the kid needs to discipline himself, he thinks. He does not want to imagine Vandar recklessly applying the Force to every single dilemma that he stumbles across. And most of all, he does not wish to see his adoptive son abuse his abilities like those Sith people that Talia has mentioned.

While the woman folds up her Jedi robe, which Vandar had been sleeping with on the couch, Din’s frown deepens slightly. How will the kid know when it is the appropriate time to use his Force? From what he has observed of Talia—who is the only adult Force-sensitive that he has met—she has sometimes chosen to allow nature to take its course, such as having a bruise or cut heal on its own. He has watched her climb ladders or stairs rather than use the Force to help her leap to her destination. Also, she has left her chair to grab an item on the other side of the room instead of raising her hand and summoning it to her.

The longer he analyzes his best friend’s past actions, the further his memory takes him, and before he knows it, he is soon re-evaluating her during their time on Cholganna. Like a lightning bolt, he thinks of their challenge and how she had fought. She was a Jedi back then, even though he had no idea. The Jedi are attached to their Force in the same way that Mandalorians are to their weapons. How can a person separate the two?

“You didn’t use your Force on me, did you?” he blurts out to her.

Talia had been moving towards the kitchen, with Vandar on her heels, but his question causes her to abruptly stop walking. The kid bumps into her legs and slides to the floor. Meanwhile, his Master turns her head in Din’s direction.

“When?” she asks, her refined Coruscanti accent painted with confusion.

“During our Fighting Circle on Cholganna,” he reminds her.

Surprise at his insinuation causes her dark eyes to widen, and she adamantly replies, “No. I swear—”

“You don’t have to,” he interrupts. Her one-word answer had been sufficient enough for him. But when she opens her mouth again, probably to reinforce her previous response, he assures her, “Hey, I trust you.”

Immediately, Talia’s demeanor shifts. At first, she seems surprised by his remark, but then, she slowly blinks, her long eyelashes lightly brushing the top of her cheeks like downy feathers. But that single blink coaxes her dark pink lips to form a small yet humble smile. He finds himself secretly appreciative that she is more than pleased by his words and the meaning behind them. Warmth emanates from her captivating eyes, and a sense of serenity fills the room. How is it that an obvious statement of fact from him can have this kind of an effect on her?

Perhaps, he can almost hear his Tribe’s Armorer say, it’s because you haven’t voiced your trust in her enough.

Maybe, he thinks, supposing that he should remedy this. After all, he and Talia are not just fellow Mandalorians and best friends; they are also Vandar’s co-guardians, partners in their joint-quest to find the child’s people, and the most influential adults in his young life. We gotta tell the kid that we trust each other. And we gotta show it, too.

In an instant, he can predict his Armorer’s next words. Her accented voice would be factual and teacher-like while commenting, But Talia sacrificed the option of using all of her skillset during your challenge. That was honorable of her.

And selfless, he agrees, proud of his Jedi.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Was that hard to do?” Din asks her. “You know, not using the Force during our challenge?”

Such a Mandalorian question, she muses to herself.

All too well, she knows that practically every member from their Creed would hardly be able to resist exploiting every single item in their extensive arsenal in order to gain victory over an opponent. To be disciplined enough to stay one’s hand in combat is a fine line between honor and sheer willpower.

Or Mandalorian stubbornness.

“Not really,” she answers while glancing down to her bare feet. Vandar, still on the floor from when he had bumped into her, lifts his green head and giggles up at her. She smiles before returning her gaze to Din and explains, “Over the years, I picked up the habit of not wielding the Force whenever I sparred against someone on Onderon. It became second-nature after a while.”

As Din nods, she passes by the galley’s island-counter. The stationary piece of furniture features a cutting area on its top surface and cabinets down below. She figures that, according to their trio’s internal clock, it is almost time for their afternoon meal. That means she should start preparing something for Vandar to eat before he becomes cranky from hunger.

“So,” she hears Din say, “you didn’t get to practice using the Force much. Shame. For you.”

Heading towards the kitchen’s refrigeration unit, she mentions, “I had enough practice. My father had me tap into the Force whenever we did one-on-one training at Dewan Manor. He said it was to make sure I was sharpening my ‘other’ abilities.”

Talia opens the door to the cooler and looks inside; however, her eyes have a hard time focusing on its contents. The large unit’s chilly temperature sweeps across her face and arms, reminding her of how cold her relationship with her father had become. The last training session that she had with him was on her fifteenth birthday. The evening had ended with tears, intense words, and pain. Deep down, she has often thought that, during the combat practices when she did use the Force, her father had viewed her as a challenge to exercise his own skills and abilities. Yet her younger self had refused to dwell on this possibility because all she had wanted was his love and approval.

“Would you win?” Din asks her, and she senses that he has stationed himself behind the kitchen’s island.

For a moment, the question causes her to tightly grip the cooler’s door-handle. Despite her desire to gain her father’s favor, she had always felt uncomfortable using the Force as a form of weapon against him. She did not want to hurt him, but he never listened to her concerns.

A sense of anger from this reminder swirls through Talia’s heart like a whirlpool. If she ignores it, she knows full well that it can infect her attitude and allow the Dark Side to gain some kind of influence. Quickly, she calls upon the Force to soothe it into a peaceful pond. In mere moments, she feels her hand loosen its hold on the refrigeration unit’s handle as the Light Side of the Force pacifies the anger within her.

Knowing that she needs to answer Din, she replies in a soft voice, “Yes, I would win. Every time.” She thinks she hears him smirk from where he is standing, and she wants to roll her eyes at how Mandalorian his reaction is. However, a sense of familial loyalty to her Clan Kex bloodline prompts her to add, “But my father was still a challenging opponent to face nonetheless. That is, challenging in his own way.”

Her gaze finally clears, and she surveys the cooler’s contents. There is a covered pot containing Bantha Surprise, sitting on the middle shelf of the appliance. When she and Din had made a hasty departure from Kachirho City on Kashyyyk, the Wookiees had graciously stocked the ship’s refrigeration unit, cabinets, and cargo hold with supplies, food, and tools. Bantha Surprise is one of many dishes.

Without further thought, she grabs the pot of stew, its chilled surface sending shivers through her hands. She figures that re-heating it for their afternoon meal will be a welcome to Vandar. Her toddler-Padawan seems to enjoy Wookiee cuisine—or at least, the cuisine edible for humanoids.

As Talia places the leftovers on the stove and switches on the contraption, she can hear Din telling Vandar to grab his toys and play. Children’s blocks from Onderon, a hand-held holo-projector, Wookiee-made figurines carved in Wroshyr wood, and other fun little knick-knacks are stored in a container, which is stationed next to the lounge’s velvety blue couch.

She retrieves three bowls from a cupboard, her thoughts returning to her father. Whenever she emerged as the victor from their training sessions, he neither sulked nor grumbled. No, her father, Tezok Kex, believed in honor in combat and respected the better opponent. While he was Chief of Clan Kex, he had the reputation of being a very strict man, but he was also fair—to a certain extent. And though he was not a sore loser or an arrogant winner, he was a harsh and meticulous critic, especially in matters related to her, his only child.

Sometimes too meticulous, Talia recalls with a small grimace. I just couldn’t seem to please him.

“You’re not a Jedi anymore,” he had once scolded her when he caught her meditating in her mother’s courtyard garden in Dewan Manor. “That life is dead. You’re a Mandalorian now. And a Kex. So, start acting like one. It’s time for training. Go put on your Beskar.”

Even after nearly thirty years, she can hear her father’s brusque tone dominating his deep voice. She can still feel his blunt words try to knock her off the Jedi path and away from her Master’s teaching. Her father never understood her, but he had tried when her mother was alive. However, after Galia Dewan had died and Talia returned to Onderon in the wake of Order 66, he did not attempt to learn who his daughter had become since she had joined the Jedi and fought for three years in the Clone War. Instead, he assumed she would swear herself to the Creed, just as she should have done rather than become a Jedi.

Pulling out a ladle from a drawer, she hears Din ask, “Do you, uh . . . Are you ever tempted to . . . you know . . . go look for him? For your father?”

Through the Force, Talia senses that his hesitation stems from concern that he may be treading on delicate territory. She automatically feels touched by his question and most especially for his thoughts for her. However, she pushes her affection for him to the back seat of her mind and focuses on his inquiry rather than the sentiment behind it. Time seems to pause as her mind races across her past.

When she was fifteen, her father had declared to their entire Clan that she disgraced him. He had claimed that she had not honored him and their Mandalorian way of life because she had not sworn herself to the Creed. However, he had refrained from mentioning the true reason behind his testimony: she refused to lead a Mandalorian army against the Galactic Empire. Her Jedi background, her lightsaber, her ability to wield the Force—all of them, according her father, were assets that could help her achieve the status of the greatest Mandalorian warrior in their culture’s history. His ambitions had no end except for war, conquest, blood, and prestige. With him by her side, Talia would eventually become the next Mand’alor*, a position only gained if she challenged and defeated the Mandalorian leader who was in current possession of their Creed’s fabled Black Saber.

(*pronounced: MAHN-dah-lor; translation: “sole ruler”)

But because she had not agreed with him on his goal, her father abandoned her. She had watched him subtly pack his belongings and set his affairs in order, and she did not stop him. Then, one day, he was gone. Even after twenty-eight years, she still feels hurt by him, betrayed, and sorrowful. The child in her continues to miss her father’s love, his embrace, his pride.

“Are you ever tempted to go look for him?” Din had asked her, and she does not need any more time to search for the answer.

Staring hard at the empty bowls in front of her, Talia murmurs, “I was tempted to—when I was younger. Sometimes . . .” She allows her voice to trail off before releasing a heavy sigh. But doing this does not lighten the heaviness of her heart. “Sometimes,” she admits, “I still am.”

A few heartbeats pass before Din points out, “Nothing’s stopping you. If you decided to do it now. Finding a Mando these days shouldn’t be that hard.”

Again, time slows for her. While her heart relishes the gentleness in her companion’s raspy voice, her mind considers his suggestion. Through the Force, she senses that there is a hidden offer in his words—an offer to help her find her father. If she does decide to search for him, Din would indeed be useful. She has never doubted his excellent skillset as a bounty hunter, and her love for him expands at the knowledge that he is hinting to lend his services to her. With him aiding her, she is certain that they will find her father.

But is this even a good idea? She had allowed her stubborn father to walk out of her life, knowing full well that his toxic, bitter, and domineering behavior towards her was not healthy to either of them. If he is indeed still alive, is he the same man who had deserted his only child? Is the same resentful and unforgiving nature raging in him like a Dxunian storm?

No, we’re better off separated, she decides while mentally closing the door to Din’s offer. This is a conclusion that she has drawn over and over again, and she doubts that it will ever change.

In a flash, Talia thinks of a person whom she had tried and failed to track down: Zenya Talak, a Force-sensitive girl wandering somewhere in this galaxy with a father who is just as selfish as hers was. It was her Duros friend, Daggeron Locke, who had brought Zenya’s existence to Talia’s attention. One of his contacts saw the young girl use the Force in order to help her father win a gambling scheme, and Dagg reached out to Talia about it. And ever since she has been made aware of Zenya, Talia has felt a strong drive to find her, to help her, and to save her from her father’s selfish ways of life. However, looking after Vandar and training him as her Padawan has occupied most of her attention these days—including her growing feelings for his adoptive father.

A frown wants to tug at Talia’s lips. Will her path ever cross Zenya’s at some point? She has often meditated on this question, trying to reach out to this girl whom she had never met. But any thought related to Zenya has always been too clouded. And yet . . . Talia has sometimes felt a type of connection to her, sensing Zenya’s presence as if she is merely in the next room or several miles away rather than a multitude of parsecs.

Behind her, Vandar sneezes, and Din rustles over to check up on him. The activities yank Talia from the Gizka trail that she had allowed herself to become distracted with, and time slams back to normal again. She gives her mind an internal shake and tells herself that the only thing that should concern her right now is working with Din to find out more about Vandar’s origins, his people, and his planet. Their next destination in their quest is the New Republic’s capital, Coruscant, and she dearly hopes that the city-planet may hold another clue—or even a few—for them.

Grabbing the bowls that she retrieved from the cabinets, Talia spins around and sets them on the counter-island. Din, she notices, is kneeling beside Vandar, who is using the Force to stack his blocks on top of one another.

On the stove, she senses that the pot of Bantha stew is beginning to simmer ever so slightly. The scent of its various spices wafts in the air as she pulls out three spoons from one of the kitchen’s drawers.

She hears Din return to his previous spot, behind the counter-island. As she picks up her ladle and uses it to stir the Bantha Surprise, she tells him, “I don’t think it’s my path to look for my father right now, ner ori’vod*. You and I have a more important mission right now.” Still stirring the stew, she glances over her shoulder and nods at Vandar who claps his hands in glee at the block-tower that he has constructed.

(*pronounced: nair OH-ree-VOD; translation: “my special friend”)

In a Din Djarin-like manner, her dear Mandalorian simply nods. Through the Force, Talia senses that her answer had given him a slight hint of disappointment; however, it is quickly replaced with resolve and determination from her reasoning.

As Talia faces the stove again, she increases the temperature of the section where she is re-heating the Bantha Surprise. She is careful and slow while she stirs the stew, taking note of the many vegetables, cubes of meat, and the broth’s thick texture. Steam rises in the air, spreading its mouth-watering aroma throughout the kitchen, and her stomach begins to clench with hunger.

In an attempt to distract her eager appetite, she asks Din, “How long until we reach Coruscant?”

“Tomorrow morning. Early.”

“Then let’s focus on that,” she replies as the stew begins to enter into a full boil. Looking over her shoulder at him, she inquires, “Hungry?”

Din shrugs. “I can eat.”

“Good. The stew’s hot enough now. I’ll make you a tray.”

“And I’ll wash up the kid.”

She hums her appreciation, but when she hears Din and Vandar leave the galley, she releases a worried sigh. Dread slips into her bloodstream as the reality of traveling to Coruscant sinks in. The city-planet may provide answers to Vandar’s origins, yet it will more than likely hold some kind of Force-trial for her to endure.

The last time that she had been there, she was eleven, working on her third year as a participant of the Clone War. Amongst Coruscant’s vast metropolitan surface lies her old home, the Jedi Temple, undoubtedly emanating the deaths of hundreds of Force-sensitives. Will she be able to sense it the instant the Alabaster Star enters the atmosphere? And what about the Senate Building? It is at the heart of the planet, and for over two decades, it has been a structure that has housed evil and the Dark Side from Emperor Palpatine.

Coruscant will be a form of battleground for her during this time of peace. In her experience, the Force has often ushered her into situations where she must conquer something from her past or face the Dark Side’s influence. Chances are that going to Coruscant will provide her with many opportunities to do either of these things—or both.

But I am ready, she affirms, quoting her Clan’s maxim. And as always, it causes her shoulders to straighten with determination. The Force will guide me, she reminds herself. And by Dxun, I am ready.

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