The river carried Kaelen like a broken leaf, tumbling him through its dark current. Cold water surged into his ears, his nose, his mouth. He flailed, but the current overpowered his small body, dragging him deeper into its relentless pull. Above him, the moons blurred into silver streaks. Below, shadows twisted, rocks scraping against his skin as he spun helplessly.
He tried to scream for his mother, for his father, but the water swallowed his voice. The taste of silt filled his mouth. His chest burned, desperate for air, and in his panic he felt something else stir—something he couldn't name. The Force surged within him like another current, colliding with the river's flow. His arms jerked upward without thought, and suddenly his body rose, pushed by a bubble of invisible pressure. He broke the surface, coughing violently, eyes wild.
Air tore into his lungs. He clung to it greedily, even as the river continued to drag him downstream. The banks rose steep around him now, jagged cliffs dotted with thorn bushes and dead grass. The stars wheeled overhead, spinning dizzy as the current twisted him. He slammed into a branch, felt bark scrape his arm, and spun away again.
Every bump, every stone felt sharper than the last. But exhaustion numbed him quickly. His limbs grew heavy. The fear, the pain, the grief—his mind swirled with them until he could no longer separate the river's roar from the voices in his head.
The whispers came clearer this time. Not just his mother's gentle tone or his father's growl, but others. Ancient voices layered together, rising and falling in languages he did not know. Shyriiwook rumbles, low and mournful, echoed alongside guttural Huttese, mocking and cruel. Strange syllables slithered like the hiss of serpents—perhaps Sith, perhaps something older still.
Kaelen pressed his hands to his ears, but the voices were inside him, not outside. His small body convulsed with sobs as the Force churned through him, feeding his terror.
And then he saw them.
Not with his eyes, but in the dark between breaths. Shadows flickered at the edges of his mind, shapes draped in cloaks, armored warriors standing tall, a woman with a staff, another with golden hair and fierce eyes. They weren't real, couldn't be real—but they looked at him. They saw him.
"Who… who are you?" he whispered hoarsely, water slapping his face.
The voices answered all at once, but he understood none of them. Yet beneath the noise, there was a single thread—a current guiding him forward. It wasn't speech. It wasn't language. It was feeling: survive.
Kaelen clutched that thread as he drifted. His eyelids drooped. His small fingers loosened on the branch he had tried to hold. The current pulled him under again.
High above the river, in the quiet cliffs overlooking the plains, Grand Master Yoda meditated. His small frame rested on a carved stone, cane across his lap, eyes closed. Around him, the Mandalorian night stretched vast and silent, save for the distant crackle of flames from the fallen Ordo stronghold.
He had felt it—like a tremor running through the galaxy itself. The death of warriors, the grief of a child, the violent ripple of potential. Yoda's ears twitched, and his brow furrowed.
"Hmm," he murmured. "Strong in the Force, this presence is. Pain, fear, loss… and yet… balance, too."
He rose, his cane tapping softly on the stone. With a slow breath, he followed the pull. His gimer stick clicked against rock as he descended toward the river, the Force whispering at every step.
Below, the current glimmered faintly under the moons. And there, bobbing weakly on the surface, was a child.
Yoda moved faster than his age seemed to allow, cane tucked beneath his arm as he reached the bank. He lifted one hand, and the current obeyed. Water surged around the boy, cradling him instead of battering him. Slowly, carefully, Yoda drew him to shore.
Kaelen collapsed onto the mud, coughing and retching river water. His chest heaved as he dragged in ragged breaths. His small frame shook uncontrollably.
Yoda crouched beside him, green eyes solemn. "Safe now, you are," he said softly.
Kaelen blinked up at him, his vision blurred. The figure before him looked impossibly small, yet the presence radiating from him was vast—greater even than the shadows Kaelen had seen in the water.
"Wh… who…" Kaelen stammered.
"Yoda, I am," the Master replied. "Grand Master of the Jedi Order."
The boy's lips trembled. "My mother… my father… they—" His voice cracked, collapsing into sobs.
Yoda laid a hand on his shoulder. "Gone, they are. But not lost. With you, their love remains."
Kaelen shook his head violently. "No! I saw them die! Death Watch—they killed them!" His words dissolved into incoherent cries, half-Basic, half-Mando'a. "Buir… buir dar'manda… ni suvarir laandur…" (Mother… faithless mother… I remember the pain.)
Yoda listened, eyes heavy with sorrow.
Through the storm of grief, Kaelen gasped suddenly. "The voices! I hear them! In my head!"
"Voices?" Yoda tilted his head.
"They talk in… in words I don't know. Like the big furry ones at the market. And others. Angry ones. Cold ones. But one voice… one voice tells me to live."
Yoda's ears twitched. His gaze narrowed slightly. "Strong in the Force, you are. Hearing echoes of past, present, and future. Dangerous, this gift can be."
Kaelen shivered. "Am I cursed?"
"Not cursed," Yoda said firmly. "Chosen."
The boy's tear-streaked face twisted in confusion. "Chosen for what?"
Yoda did not answer immediately. He studied the boy's small frame, the cut on his arm, the mud streaking his cheeks. Behind those gray-blue eyes, he felt something… old. Something tangled and powerful, a root buried deep in galactic soil.
"Answer, the Force will give, in time," Yoda said at last.
Kaelen looked down, whispering: "I want my mother."
The Grand Master's voice softened further. "Always with you, she will be. In the Force."
The boy didn't understand, not fully. But he felt something stir when Yoda spoke—like a warm ember in the center of his chest. It didn't erase the pain, but it made the air less suffocating.
Yoda stood slowly, leaning on his cane. "Come. Leave this place, we must. A future waits for you, young one. A path of light… and shadow."
Kaelen struggled to his feet, wobbling from exhaustion. His small hand reached out instinctively, and Yoda took it, guiding him gently. Together, they walked from the riverbank into the night.
Behind them, the current flowed on, carrying the last ashes of the Ordo stronghold downstream. Ahead, the distant lights of a Republic cruiser glimmered faintly against the horizon, waiting to carry them into a new life.
Kaelen glanced back once, just once, at the river that had nearly drowned him but had also delivered him to survival. He whispered in broken Mando'a, "Ni ceta, buir. Ni ceta, adate." (I'm sorry, mother. I'm sorry, family.)
Yoda squeezed his hand. "Sorry, you must not be. Live, you must. For them."
Kaelen's throat tightened, but he nodded. He clung to the Master's side, each step heavy but certain. The night closed around them, filled with silence and the whisper of flowing water.
In the distance, across stars unseen, destiny stirred again.