Chapter Text
"Caleb! Over here!"
The whisper hissed through the shadows of the Great Hall. Cal Kestis, barely thirteen and still adjusting to the sudden lanky growth of his limbs, waved frantically from behind a massive marble plinth.
Caleb Dume dropped from a decorative ledge, landing with the cat-like grace he’d been practicing. He was grinning, his Padawan braid swinging. He had just returned from a three-month relief mission in the Mid Rim, and the sight of his best friend was better than any meditation.
"You got taller," Caleb teased, shoving Cal’s shoulder. "And you smell like starship grease. Did Master Tapal make you scrub the engines again?"
"Every day," Cal laughed, his eyes bright with relief. "I thought you were never coming back. I heard your company was hit hard by the separatists.”
"Nah, it takes more than a few clankers to shake Master Billaba," Caleb said, his voice lowering with a conspiratorial glint. "But I’m starving. The ration bars we ate were basically compressed sawdust. I heard the kitchens just pulled a batch of honey-cakes for the big meeting tomorrow."
"Caleb, no. Master Nu said we have to stay in the dorms after second bell—"
"Master Nu isn't here, Cal. Come on, we’re not kids anymore. We’re padawans now!"
They moved like shadows through the corridors, two bright sparks in the Force, weaving through the pillars. They were halfway to the kitchens, suppressed giggles bubbling between them, when a figure stepped out of the archway.
It wasn't a Master. It was a Temple Guard, his face hidden behind the expressionless, golden-slotted mask. He stood perfectly still, his white-and-gold robes catching the moonlight.
The boys froze. Caleb instinctively stepped half-a-pace in front of Cal, his arms spread out to protect the younger boy. The Guard didn't move. He didn't ignite his pike. He simply watched them.
The air around the Guard felt... different. Caleb couldn’t identify the sensation, but he felt scrutinized. He opened his mouth to make up an excuse for their breaking curfew, but nothing seemed to come out. After a long, agonizing silence, the Guard gestured towards the hallway that lead to the kitchen. He didn't say a word, but the message was clear: Go. Before I change my mind.
“Good evening,” Cal gulped politely, putting his hand on Caleb’s shoulder. As they scurried past the Temple Guard, once more on their quest for snacks, Caleb glanced back. The Guard was still watching them. Even through the mask, Caleb felt a strange, cold weight of appraisal—not as a delinquent, but as a prize.
“Oh man, I thought we were in trouble,” gasped Cal, as they rounded a corner, his hand heavy on the back of Caleb’s neck. “These cakes better be worth it!”
The boys grinned at each other and took off towards the kitchens. Their giddiness tempered by the interaction, but not fully diminished.
They ate their late night snacks with gusto, laughing, telling stories of their journeys, and planning their brilliant futures.
“We’re going to be the greatest Knights in the Order, Cal," Caleb sang joyfully, his arm slung over Cal’s shoulder, his other hand holding a half eaten honey-cake aloft. "No matter what happens, I’ve got your back."
~~~~~~~~~~~
The wind on Kaller was a relentless, icy howl that threatened to tear the very breath from Caleb’s lungs. He crouched behind a stack of rusted fuel crates, his fingers numb as they clutched a small, battered transmitter.
Pulse. Pause. Pulse. The signal was a desperate heartbeat sent into the void. Cal, if you can hear this, please respond.
"The frequency is jammed. No one is listening."
Caleb spun, his hand going to his belt, but he froze. A figure emerged from the swirling snow—a tall, gaunt man wrapped in nondescript, heavy black robes. He didn't look like a soldier.
"Who are you?" Caleb rasped, his thumb hovering over the transmitter’s button.
"A friend of the Order," the man whispered, his voice a smooth, calming baritone that seemed to cut through the gale. He stepped closer, his hands visible and empty. "The clones are closing in on this sector. I have a shuttle fueled and ready on the far side of the ridge. I can hide you, Caleb Dume. But we must move now."
Caleb hesitated, looking at the dark horizon, then at the man’s steady, golden-yellow eyes. He saw a chance. "You know my name?"
"I know many things. Come."
The man led him to a small, unmarked shuttle. Once inside, he ushered Caleb into a cramped storage compartment beneath the floorboards. "Stay silent," the man urged, his hand resting briefly, reassuringly, on Caleb’s shoulder. "Once we clear the atmosphere, we’ll be safe."
Caleb huddled in the dark, the vibration of the engines the only thing keeping him from collapsing. He felt the stomach-churning lurch of takeoff, the transition from gravity to weightlessness. I made it, Master, he thought, a single tear tracking through the soot on his face. I’m going to get out.
He pulled out the holocron, the last gift from his Master before she was gunned down, and pressed his forehead to its cool surface. With a gentle push, the relic opened and played the message Caleb had now memorized. It floated through his dreams, when he could no longer stay awake.
"This is Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. I regret to report that both our Jedi Order and the Republic, have fallen with a dark shadow of the Empire rising to take their place. This message is a warning and a reminder for any surviving Jedi. Trust in The Force. Do not return to the Temple... that time has past. And our future is uncertain. We will each be challenged. Our trust. Our faith. Our friendships. But we must persevere. And in time, a new hope will emerge. May the Force be with you, always."
Cal, Caleb reached out through the force, tears dripping from his chin. Cal I’m coming.
The shuttle groaned as it docked with something massive. The storage hatch hissed open and Caleb quickly shoved the holocron into his pocket, and wiped away his tears.
"We have arrived," the man in black said, reaching down to help Caleb up.
Caleb followed the man out of the shuttle, hoping to see a familiar face. Instead, he stared down a hangar bay that seemed to stretch for miles, lined with the pristine white armor of hundreds of Clone Troopers. The rhythmic clank of their boots on the metal floor sounded like a death march.
Caleb’s heart hammered against his ribs. He turned to run back into the shuttle, his breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps. "The clones! They’re here! We have to—"
"Be calm, young one," the man said, his voice as smooth as glass. He placed a heavy, grounding hand on Caleb’s shoulder, turning him around. "It will be alright. They won’t harm you."
They marched through the sterile corridors of the ship. Everywhere Caleb looked, the clones stood at attention, their faceless helmets tracking his movement. The man’s hand never left Caleb’s shoulder; it was a firm, inescapable weight that steered him toward the command bridge. Caleb’s heart pounded in his chest.
The heavy blast doors hissed open. Standing at the center of the viewport, framed by the cold stars, was a towering pillar of shadow, his rhythmic, mechanical breathing the only sound in the room, and an oppressive aura of pure darkness.
Caleb’s knees turned to water. He tried to bolt, to twist away from the man in black, but the hand on his shoulder shifted with lightning speed. It clamped onto the back of Caleb’s neck, the fingers digging into the bone with a sudden, agonizing strength.
"My Lord," the man said, his voice shedding its warmth for a suave, predatory silk. He shoved Caleb downward, forcing him to his knees on the cold metal floor. Caleb fought, his hands clawing at the hand on his neck, but he was pinned like an insect.
The Sith turned slowly, the black lenses of his mask reflecting the flickering monitors. He looked down at the trembling boy, the mechanical rasp of his respirator filling the silence.
"The survivor from Kaller."
Dismissively the Sith waved his hand, "He is a waste of oxygen."
Caleb’s throat slammed shut. An invisible vice crushed his windpipe, lifting him inches off the floor by his neck. He thrashed, his vision beginning to spark and dim, his hands desperately trying to bat away a hand that wasn't there.
"My Lord,” The man in black dropped to one knee beside the struggling boy.
"The boy has a spark of defiance," the man interjected, "He was something of a thief in the Temple. Let me have him as an apprentice. He might be weak now, but I promise to forge him into a weapon worthy of the Empire."
The Sith held the choke for a long, agonizing heartbeat. Then, he lowered his hand.
Caleb collapsed to the floor, his lungs screaming as they dragged in ragged breaths. He curled into a ball, his vision swimming in a haze of red and black.
"He's yours." The mechanical monster motioned to the boy trembling on the floor, "If he fails, you will put him down yourself."
The man in black bowed low, as the Sith turned away, then reached down and tilted Caleb’s chin up, forcing the boy to look into his face.
The man was smiling—a thin, jagged expression of pure, predatory triumph. The boy suddenly thought of the Temple Guard, from that last night he and Cal were together. Before everything fell apart.
"Do not worry, little Padawan," the Grand Inquisitor whispered, his voice a terrifying promise. "The is only the beginning of your new life."
Overwhelming terror flooded Caleb’s senses, a cold, black tide that pulled him under. As his eyes rolled back, the last thing he saw was that hungry, yellow-eyed smile.