Master Yoda sat alone in his chambers, his small frame settled at the center of the smooth meditation stone. The surface carried a faint warmth from the afternoon sun, held in the stone like an old memory. Light filtered through the high shutters in pale bands, painting soft lines across the floor and across the folds of Yoda's robe, catching the dust motes that drifted slow and lazy in the still air.
The chamber around him held its familiar mix of stone, polished wood, and age-worn tapestries—textures that carried centuries of quiet use. A faint scent of old parchment and the sharp, clean tang of temple incense lingered, subtle enough to fade into the background unless one had spent a lifetime breathing it.
The temple breathed around him in distant layers—younglings murmuring through a training exercise, soft chatter bright with effort and energy; a knight's steady boots tapping a practiced pace along a polished corridor; the muted hum of repulsorlift traffic drifting up from the city, softened by height and distance until it became part of the upper-hall ambience. Each sound brushed his awareness the way a breeze brushes leaves—light, familiar, and grounding.
The Force wound through the chamber in slow, even coils. A gentle rhythm. Clear water moving through a wide, open space. It folded around him in small pulses, each one rising and settling with quiet assurance.
Then something thin slipped through the flow.
A pressure—quick, precise, cutting through the current like the tip of a needle through cloth. The sensation carried a brightness, a sudden flare that bent the surrounding energy for the span of a heartbeat. A ripple threaded outward across the web of life, subtle yet clean, as if something far away had shifted its weight on the scales of the Force.
The chamber's light held still for that instant, the soft bands across the floor seeming to pause mid-glow.
Yoda's ears lifted a fraction. His eyes opened, steady and aware.
"Hmm."
He sat with the feeling, letting it glide across the surface of his thoughts. A brief pulse… a spark in the deep. Too fleeting to trace, too distant to grasp. The Force smoothed again, falling back into its quiet rhythm as though the moment had passed through without leaving a mark.
Yoda drew a slow breath. A faint crease touched the corner of his brow, small as a brushstroke.
"A curious thing," he murmured to the empty chamber, his voice low, carried on the still air.
He let the calm return, though a thin strand of awareness lingered, holding the tremor like the distant echo of a bell half-heard.
——————————————————————————-
On Naboo, deep within the estate that masked his true life, Darth Sidious stood beside the wide window of his private chamber.
Evening light flowed across the landscape in long golden strokes, settling over the lake until the entire surface gleamed like brushed metal. The fields near the palace district carried a gentle sway, touched by a warm breeze that drifted across the water.
The chamber held a still, careful order. Polished stone reflected the fading light, dark wood shelves carried ancient texts arranged with exact precision, and a thin stream of incense curled from a burner on his desk, shaping lazy spirals toward the ceiling. Everything around him aligned with his daily discipline, a rhythm built through patience.
Beneath the quiet atmosphere, the Force threaded through the room in layered currents. Sidious guided his influence outward, extending it across the planet with small, purposeful adjustments. Each push resembled the smooth stroke of a brush across canvas, building the veil he shaped through long practice, a growing haze over the galaxy's future. His presence slid through unseen pathways, tightening them, shaping them.
Then a brightness skimmed the edge of his senses.
A clean pulse surged across his awareness — sharp, sudden, carrying a thin clarity that sliced through the deep currents he worked to weave. The sensation traveled through the Force like a spark running along hidden wire, swift and undeniable, leaving a faint shimmer in its wake.
Sidious' gaze shifted toward the window's reflection. His eyes held a glint, a thin spark of calculation rising behind the composed surface of his expression.
He drew a long, steady breath, allowing the disturbance to settle along the inner channels he kept tuned for subtle changes. The pulse carried a striking purity, a single-point flare that arrived and faded in a span shorter than a whisper.
For a moment he considered its angle within the tapestry he worked to bend.
A distant point of light.
A shift carried on a narrow thread of possibility, small enough to vanish in silence, yet distinct enough to touch the lattice he shaped with such careful intent.
The sensation left a faint line through his awareness, like the trail of a stylus drawn across parchment.
Sidious stepped forward, placing his palm against the tall marble pillar beside him.
The stone held the evening's lingering warmth, a slow heat rising through his fingers. The polished surface reflected a pale shine from the lake outside, soft gold sliding over the column's curved edge.
A calculation settled quietly in his thoughts, forming with the same precision he used for every layer of his long design.
He extended his will, thread by thread, adjusting its reach across the subtle currents flowing through the estate. New strands of influence unspooled outward, each one measured and clean, joining the pattern he cultivated under Plagueis' instruction.
The chamber held steady around him.
The incense from the burner moved in a thin ribbon toward the ceiling, carrying faint spice into the dimming air. Evening light continued its slow retreat across the floor, drawing longer shapes across the stone as the sun dipped behind the ridge.
Sidious released a slow breath, a controlled shift of the chest that produced neither sound nor tension. The ripple that passed moments earlier melted into the wider current again, leaving the structure of his work intact and firm.
He turned from the window, the folds of his robe brushing the marble with a soft whisper. His steps carried him back into the deeper part of the room, his presence settling smoothly into the quiet framework of power he shaped each day with patient, deliberate care.
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On Dathomir
Among the chalk-white stones of a ravine, a Night Sister paused mid-chant. The air swirled in a slow coil around her fingers, carrying a flicker that brushed the edge of her senses.
Her eyes narrowed.
A spark, distant and unfamiliar.
One heartbeat later, the current settled again.
She resumed her work, though a small line remained etched across her brow.
⸻
On Jedha
A Guardian of the Whills stood in the temple courtyard sweeping fine red dust away from the stone steps.
His broom halted for a breath.
A subtle brightness drifted across his awareness — something like a candle flaring on a far ridge.
He leaned on the broom, steady and thoughtful.
"Strange day," he murmured to himself, then continued his sweep.
⸻
On Mon Cala
Deep beneath the ocean's surface, a meditation circle sat within a glass observatory. A quiet Mon Cal elder rested with hands folded.
Ripples of the Force passed through him like a cool tide brushing the shore.
A brief spike rode the wave — tight, sharp, and quick.
He adjusted his breathing, letting the sensation slip through him.
The tide resumed its calm rhythm.
⸻
On Tython's Outer Ruins
An old hermit — once a student of a forgotten enclave — sat with a cracked cup of tea warming his palms.
The Force shifted in a fine line, like a reed bending under a passing breeze.
He blinked toward the horizon.
"Huh," he said simply.
Then he took another sip.
—————————————————————-
Far above the turning galaxy, on the shifting plane of Mortis, the air stirred as if responding to a distant tremble. The sky held its usual pale glow, neither sunrise nor dusk, the eternal quiet of a place that balanced the Force itself.
The Father stood at the edge of the stone platform, hands resting lightly on the carved staff before him. His gaze drifted over the horizon where clouds folded into one another in slow, deliberate spirals. Mortis changed shape as it pleased, yet today a subtle tension threaded through its form — faint, but present.
His eyes narrowed.
A pulse had moved through the Force.
Brief. Sharp. Unlike any pattern he had witnessed in millennia.
Light.
Darkness.
Potential without shape.
The Father breathed in, letting the sensation pass through him. The tremor carried no alignment, no destiny he could parse. Both sides of the Force shimmered in response to it, like a single drop of water falling into a vast pool.
Footsteps approached — light, smooth, carrying no malice.
The Daughter came to his side, her white robes catching a soft glow as Mortis brightened around her. "I felt it as well," she said, voice calm, gentle as wind across leaves. "A ripple… though faint."
The Father gave a slow nod. "Yes. It passes through the currents without allegiance."
Her head tilted, a thoughtful look settling in her expression. "It carried warmth. A spark of possibility."
A shadow fell across the far archway.
The Son approached with a measured stride, wings folding behind him in an easy sweep. A faint smile curved his mouth — not cruel, not gentle, simply curious in the way storms are curious.
"I felt more than a spark," he said, stepping into the open air. "Something stirred in the deep places. Brief… yet strong enough to mark even this realm."
The Daughter glanced toward him but remained composed. "You sense shadows in everything."
The Son smiled wider. "And you sense light in everything."
The Father lifted a hand, quieting them both without raising his voice. The air settled instantly.
"This tremor carries both," he said. "A moment of balance, unformed. Neither rise nor fall. A presence entering the great current — distant from Mortis, yet powerful enough to brush against it."
The Daughter stepped closer, eyes drifting upward as if trying to follow the trail. "Its path is hidden."
The Son's smile faded into something more focused, almost analytical. "Its strength is hidden."
The Father's gaze remained fixed on the horizon, where the clouds began to shift again, smoothing back into their usual slow dance.
"It is new," he said quietly, more to the Force than to either child. "And the Force has yet to decide what it shall become."
He pressed his staff gently to the ground.
Mortis stilled around him — waiting.