The Jedi Temple became Kaelen's world. Its spires rose like mountains of stone and light, its halls echoing with the quiet footsteps of thousands who sought peace and discipline. At first, he felt like a shadow among them, a boy carrying the weight of two dead parents and a name whispered with suspicion. Mandalorian. Warrior. Dangerous. But as weeks turned to months and months to years, the Temple shaped him—and he shaped it in return.
He was not like the other younglings. He noticed it early, when the instructors spoke of patience and calm, and the other children sat like stones while his thoughts raced like wildfire. Or when they practiced saber drills, and his hands seemed to know where a strike would fall before it came. "Precognition," Master Tera Sinube had said, watching Kaelen move with wide-eyed fascination. "Rare to see it so clear at his age."
But it was not just saber work. The Force seemed to sing louder for him, whispering in ways others did not hear. When the group practiced lifting stones, Kaelen felt the current like a river flowing through his arms, sweeping the rock upward with barely a thought. When they calmed their minds, he felt the emotions of those around him—Nira's quiet determination, the Rodian's frustration, the instructor's hidden pride. The other children struggled to push the world aside. Kaelen could not push it away, because it was always pressing in on him.
At first, this frightened him. His earliest meditations ended with him trembling, visions of shadows and fire searing behind his eyelids. He saw warriors in masks, voices chanting in strange tongues, flashes of stars collapsing into black. Once, he cried out in the middle of a lesson, clutching his head as he saw his father die all over again. The instructors looked troubled. Some whispered that he was unstable. But Yoda's words never left him: Not cursed. Chosen.
Kaelen clung to that.
He grew taller. His limbs lengthened, his shoulders broadened, and by twelve he already stood head and shoulders above many of his peers. The others joked that he was more Mandalorian than Jedi, all size and fire, but Kaelen only smiled faintly. He carried his father's shard of beskad hidden beneath his tunic, polished smooth from years of touch. He spoke Mando'a quietly to himself when he felt alone, repeating the old verses of the Resol'nare. But he never let it consume him. The Temple had become his family, and his brothers and sisters were the younglings who sparred with him, studied with him, and fell asleep beside him in the creche after long days of lessons.
Nira, the Twi'lek girl he'd met that first day, became his closest friend. She had a sharp wit and a sharper saber arm, often catching Kaelen off guard with bold strikes in training. "You're too tall," she'd tease, lekku swaying as she danced out of reach. "You move like a tower trying not to fall over."
Kaelen would roll his eyes but never missed a chance to spar her again. He admired her agility, her ability to adapt mid-fight. She admired his strength and foresight, though she never admitted it outright. Together, they pushed each other further than either would have gone alone.
Not all bonds were friendly. A human boy named Daran saw Kaelen's skill as a challenge. Daran was older, sharp-eyed and ambitious, always eager to prove himself in front of instructors. When Kaelen blocked one of his strikes too easily during a spar, Daran's pride turned sour. From then on, he sought Kaelen at every turn, needling him with jabs about his Mandalorian blood, his parents' deaths, his supposed "special treatment" by the Masters.
"Bet Yoda only keeps you around to see when you'll snap," Daran sneered once, just out of earshot of the instructors.
Kaelen clenched his fists but remembered Obi-Wan's words in a lecture: A Jedi wins not through anger, but through clarity. He forced himself to breathe, to let the insult wash past him. But the heat in his chest lingered. Later that night, he whispered an apology to his parents for wanting to strike.
Lessons filled his days. He studied lightsaber forms—Shii-Cho first, the foundation of all. His long arms and natural strength made him formidable, though his impatience often led him to overcommit. The instructors guided him toward Niman, the balanced Form VI, where he could blend saber work with the Force that surged so naturally in him. Still, Kaelen experimented with Ataru's acrobatics, reveling in the freedom of leaps and spins, and even Juyo's ferocity, though the Masters warned him of its danger.
He learned diplomacy, though words never came as easily as strikes. Master Luminara would test him with riddles, asking how to resolve disputes without violence. Kaelen would pause, struggling, then answer bluntly: "Find the truth. Don't lie. People respect that." Luminara smiled at his simplicity, though she urged him toward nuance.
The archives fascinated him more than he expected. His mother's voice echoed in his memory whenever he touched a datapad: Knowledge is armor too. He devoured texts on Mandalorian history, on the Old Republic, on forgotten wars. He traced names—Revan, Shan, Ordo—without knowing how deeply they tied to him. Sometimes, when he read, the holopages blurred and visions seized him. He saw masked warriors dueling across burning worlds. He saw a man in white armor clasp hands with a woman whose voice sounded achingly familiar. He never told the Masters everything he saw. Some visions felt like secrets too heavy to share.
One trial came when Kaelen was thirteen. The younglings were led into the training grounds, a wide space lined with tall columns. In the center, small seeker droids floated, their red eyes glowing. The instructors explained the task: defend against the droids' stinging bolts using only training sabers.
Kaelen stepped into the circle with Nira, Daran, and three others. The droids hummed to life, zipping between the columns. Bolts shot out in rapid succession. The younglings raised their sabers, blocking clumsily at first. Sparks filled the air.
Nira spun gracefully, batting shots aside. Daran gritted his teeth, barely keeping up. Kaelen's body moved before his mind did. His saber—blue and humming softly—snapped up to block a bolt before it even fired. He felt the intent of the droid, the pulse of the shot, and his blade was already there. His movements were fluid, his strikes precise. He advanced through the circle, saber flashing, every bolt deflected.
The others slowed, sweating, missing blocks. Kaelen pressed forward, his blade moving faster, smoother, until he wasn't just blocking—he was redirecting. One bolt ricocheted into another droid, deactivating it. Another he sent harmlessly into the floor beside Daran, who stumbled with shock.
When the droids powered down, silence hung heavy. The instructors exchanged glances. Sinube leaned on his cane, muttering, "Prodigy indeed."
Kaelen lowered his saber, breathing steady. His peers stared at him with a mix of awe and unease. Daran scowled, muttering something bitter under his breath.
That night, Kaelen sat in the garden again, the beskad shard cold in his palm. He whispered: "Am I cursed… or chosen?" The stars offered no answer, but the current of the Force hummed steadily in his chest.
The years wore on. Kaelen grew into his frame, towering over his peers, his presence calm where once it had been fiery. He still sparred fiercely, still burned with questions, but war had not yet touched him, and the Temple's steady rhythm gave him space to mature. He learned to guide others in exercises, often stepping in to calm frightened initiates. When a younger Rodian panicked during a climbing drill, Kaelen climbed down beside him, whispering encouragement until the boy found courage to keep going. The instructors noticed, whispering that leadership came naturally to him.
He made mistakes, too. In one lesson, frustrated by his failure to lift a massive stone, he gave in to anger. The Force surged, hurling the rock across the chamber where it shattered against the wall. Silence followed, the other younglings staring in shock. Kaelen's chest heaved with guilt. He expected punishment, exile. Instead, Yoda appeared, tapping his cane.
"Strong, your anger makes you," the Master said. "But blind, it will leave you. Control, not suppression. Choice, not chains. Learn this, you must."
Kaelen bowed his head. "I'll try."
"Do, or do not," Yoda reminded. "There is no try."
The lesson stayed with him, etched deep as the scar on his arm from the river's rocks.
By the time Kaelen reached fifteen, he was no longer the frightened child Yoda had pulled from the current. He stood tall, his hair cropped short, his frame lean and strong from years of training. His eyes held a calm depth beyond his years, though shadows sometimes flickered there when memories returned. The Temple had tempered him, but not broken him.
One evening, standing on the balcony of the spire, he looked out across the endless city. The sun dipped low, painting the durasteel towers gold. The airspeeders wove like fireflies across the horizon. Beside him, Nira leaned against the railing, her lekku wrapped loosely around her shoulders.
"You've changed," she said.
Kaelen raised a brow. "So have you."
She smiled faintly. "No, I mean… you're not the boy who used to stumble through meditation. You're steady now. Like… like a wall."
He looked back at the city, his jaw tightening. "Walls fall, Nira. I've seen them burn."
She didn't answer. But she touched his hand briefly before walking away.
Kaelen stood alone, the beskad shard warm in his palm, the Force whispering at the edge of his hearing. He didn't know where the path would lead. He only knew he was ready.
And soon, the galaxy would call him.