Chapter VII Part I

Talia steps out onto the landing pad just as the last echoes of my shout fade into the orchard. She pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders, her brow furrowed — but the moment her eyes find me, and the weapon in my hand, the worry melts into a warm, proud smile.

“That looks amazing,” she says as she crosses the short stretch of packed earth between us. The crisp autumn air tugs at the fringe of her shawl, scattering a handful of copper leaves in a lazy spiral around her boots. Her gaze lingers on the hilt as if it were some long-lost relic. “Can I see the blade?”

I tighten my grip on it, the metal still warm against my palm from all the testing I’d done in the squat garage. The hilt catches the light even now — ivory plates carved with faint, curling elven patterns, their edges kissed with gold. A band of deep violet encircles the locking ring at its midpoint, hinting at the hidden mechanism within. The grip, wrapped in black leather, bears subtle claw-mark embossings that seem to ripple beneath my fingers, a detail as much me as it is the weapon. Both ends taper into flared, petal-like shapes, elegant yet sharp, as if the saber were grown rather than forged.

But her question catches at my chest like a thorn. What if I did get it wrong? The color. The design. What if she sees the magenta and thinks I failed?

I swallow the knot building behind my tongue and shake my head. “If it’s okay… I’d rather show it to everyone. All at once.”

Talia studies my face for a heartbeat — her eyes, those piercing green eyes, soften with understanding. She reaches out, brushing her fingers against the side of my arm in that way she does when she wants me to know she sees straight through me. “Alright,” she says, the corner of her mouth curving into a knowing smile. “I think they’ll love it. But—” She lifts a single brow, just enough to make my ears flick back. “Since you’re brimming with energy, why don’t you get started on cleaning the composter?”

A groan rumbles up before I can stop it. Of course. The one job no one wants — stinking, sticky, always left for the service droids. I glance back toward the squat garage, half-hoping to escape and test my new lightsaber on the Marksman-H remotes, or at least on a poor practice dummy. But there’s no point arguing. I sigh, clipping my lightsaber hilt onto my belt and roll up my sleeves. “Alright, alright,” I mutter. “I’m going.”

A cool breeze nips at my cheeks as I cross the orchard toward the composting shed. Dry leaves crunch under my boots — each step taking me further from my triumph and straight into the stink. I set my buckets of soapy water down with a dull thud. A sponge bobs on the surface, half-sinking under the weight of the bleach. I tie a rag over my nose — it barely helps.

I unlatch the heavy panel. The smell hits me first — a wave of sour rot, old fruit and vegetables left to turn to mush. I gag behind the rag. Inside, the rotary blades glisten with a sticky crust of blackened pulp. The walls drip with sludge in slow, grimy trails. The compost sack, already sagging under its own weight, strains against the clamp.

I tug on the heat-sealer — an old tool Papa keeps in the shed — the ends glow a dull orange. I clamp it across the top of the full sack, the edges fusing shut with a hiss of steam. Carefully, I heft it to the side, adding it to the growing mound of mulch we’ll send to the farming villages soon enough.

I crack my knuckles. “Alright, Nikko… just a saber-forging warrior cleaning out the world’s worst machine. Glorious.”

I ease out each rotary blade, grime sticking to my gloves. They drop into the second bucket with a satisfying splash. I brace one against the edge, scrubbing hard — flecks of old vegetable matter flake away under the sponge, swirling into the bleach like drifting petals.

Time blurs. My arms ache. My sleeves are damp up to my elbows. The cold Autumn wind nips at my back every time I lean out to rinse the sponge. When I’m finally done, the inside walls gleam — or at least, they’re not crusted in last week’s dinner scraps. I reattach the blades, testing each one with a careful twist. Satisfied, I close the panel and secure the latch.

When I check the old chrono on my wrist, I wince. Over an hour has passed and its past afternoon. The sun’s drifted lower, shadows creeping long across the orchard, pale gold through the drifting leaves. I stretch my arms behind my back — every muscle in my shoulders protests. They’re still not back from Arroyo.

I slip back into the manor through the side door, the warm scent of tea and woodsmoke wrapping around me like a blanket. Talia’s waiting by the hall, her book now tucked under her arm, a small grin tugging at her lips when she spots me.

“They’re not back yet,” she says, her tone light, her eyes bright with that conspiratorial twinkle she gets when she wants something. “And we haven’t had a girls’ time in forever. How about the sauna? Just you and me.”

I blink — and the idea blooms in my chest like an ember catching dry kindling. A hot soak, the cedar-scented steam, no chores, no worries. “Sure.”

She lifts a finger, pressing it to the tip of my nose, playful. “But not before you take a shower. I’d rather not share the sauna with Eau de Composter,” she teases, the faintest wrinkle of her nose making me laugh in spite of myself.

I roll my eyes, flicking a damp piece of leaf from my sleeve. “Fair enough.”

After a quick shower, I wrap a towel snug beneath my shoulders, still feeling the warmth of the water clinging to my skin. I make my way down to the basement — that familiar, lived-in space where Talia and Papa keep a piece of our family’s entire history. Shelves rise from floor to ceiling, crowded with books of every kind: adventure stories, ancient tomes on mana theory, mechanical schematics — all things my father scavenged or traded for across Elasier and the Galaxy. Somewhere in here are my childhood clothes, the spare parts for Papa’s droids, even the battered training remotes I used when I was eight.

My footsteps echo softly across the stone floor. The smell of cedar greets me before I see the sauna tucked into the far corner — Papa’s anniversary gift for Talia. A hush of steam curls from beneath the door. Inside, the heat is already at work, filling the space with a comforting humidity that seeps deep into my sore shoulders.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

When I step in, Talia is already reclining on the upper bench, a towel wrapped securely around her. Her long platinum hair is gathered in a loose bun, a few damp strands falling free to frame the delicate points of her elven ears. She looks so calm here, her eyes half closed, breath rising and falling in a slow, relaxed rhythm. A copper crate of stones sits in the corner, hissing every time a thin trickle of water drips from the pipe above, releasing a fresh swirl of steam.

I settle on the bench across from her and lean back, letting the warmth and silence melt away the ache in my muscles. We sit like that for a while — no words needed, no distance to cross. Talia was right: it has been far too long since we’ve done something like this.

Eventually, she opens her eyes, her green gaze soft but direct. “Now,” she says, voice low and steady, “talk to me. What compelled you to do something so reckless?”

I swallow, the memory raw on my tongue. But I tell her anyway — the same words I gave Papa aboard the Crucible. My voice shakes as I recount the errands in Arroyo. The cake for Erza, the supplies from Elara’s forge. How every shopkeeper asked where Papa was, not me. How they didn’t even bother to say my name — only wanting the stories of the man who’d become legend.

Talia doesn’t interrupt. She listens, just like Papa did. Her eyes never drift away, even when I falter and press a trembling hand to my ribs to hold the sting in. I tell her how I thought that Diamond-ranked quest would make them see me for once — not just as his daughter, but as me. How I led Adam into Veil’s trap. How the captives died because I wasn’t strong enough to save them.

When I finish, the only sound is the faint drip of the pipe onto the stones. Talia lets out a deep, thoughtful breath. “Oh, Nikko…” she murmurs, and her eyes shine, soft with something like pride and ache all at once. “You know better than anyone that your father loves you for who you are. You have nothing to prove to him.”

I let out a quiet laugh, small and broken at the edges. “Yeah. He told me that, too. I just… I’m not as strong as him.”

Talia lifts her chin, and her voice cuts through the steam like a bell. “You’re wrong. You are as strong as your father, Nikko. Do you remember Curville? Almost ten years ago now.”

I look up, blinking through the haze. “You mean the day you and your party nearly got torn apart by Gurth Lûg?” I ask, and despite myself, a tiny smile flickers at my lips.

She laughs, her shoulders shaking slightly. “Yes — that wretched undead dragon,” she says, the name heavy with old dread and a hint of fondness. “But that day was wonderful to me. It was the day I met your father. And it was the day I met you — this sweet, fearless little girl who told me how pretty I was right after meeting.”

I flush, heat rising in my cheeks that has nothing to do with the sauna. “You… remember that?”

“Of course I do.” Talia’s smile softens. “Even then, you were so selfless. When we were on the run afterward —you shared your half of the dried meat and bread. We had barely enough for ourselves, yet you offered me what you had, without hesitation. You were just seven, and yet you wanted to help take back that encampment where your father’s ship was hidden. You wanted to help when he and I went to rescue my father from the Shadowfell. And outside Lindórinan, when those cloaked followers ambushed you and Rebecca… you didn’t freeze up. You fought — fiercely. Not because you were trained. But because that’s who you are.”

I feel something warm and solid lodge in my chest. A quiet weight that anchors me deeper than the heat ever could. “But that was just because of Dad’s training—” I start to protest.

“No,” she interrupts, her voice gentle but firm. “His training gave you tools, Nikko. The strength? That came from you. It’s always come from you. You care more for the people you love than for yourself. That is your real power.”

For a moment, my tail flicks under the towel, brushing against the bench. It almost feels too tight around my chest — like there’s too much inside me to contain.

Talia reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from my damp forehead. “So what if you can’t use the Force like your father? You’re not him. You’re you. Make your own path. A style that’s your own. Your father and I have given you every tool we could. The only thing holding you back now… is doubt.”

She rises, tightening her towel around her. “I need to prepare dinner. Don’t stay in here too long, all right?” she says. She presses a soft kiss to my hairline — so light, so motherly — before slipping out, the door clicking shut behind her.

I lean back against the sauna’s warm cedar wall, Talia’s words echoing in my head like a distant, steady heartbeat. The steam curls around me, softening my breath. I pull in a long inhale — cedar, heat, and the faint hum of the old pipes above — and ease down onto the bench. My tail slips over the edge, my leg dangles, the heat soaking into tired muscles.

Papa’s voice comes back first: “Your eyes can deceive you.” The memory is so vivid — his calm tone when he first blindfolded me, the buzz of that training remote spitting bright bolts I had to block by feel alone. I’d hated that helmet at first, but now… it’s one of my favorite memories.

I see Talia too — patient, fierce, her hair caught by the breeze as she guided my stance that afternoon on the forest clearing near the old encampment. Lindor’Thar — flow of dance. She taught me not to fight brute force with force but to redirect it, to be light on my feet, to trust the rhythm inside me.

My hand curls into a tight fist on the bench. And that first real fight — outside Lindórinan — when the Shadowfell cultists cornered Rebecca and me. I was terrified. But my body moved the way Papa and Talia had drilled into me. Even back then, just a kid, I fought back.

I press my palm flat against the bench, grounding myself in the warmth. They’re right. Talia’s voice hums like an anchor in my chest. I’ve spent so much time worrying about being like Papa — as strong, as precise, as unshakable — that I forgot the one thing they both taught me: my strength is already mine. Different, maybe, but no less real.

I let out a slow breath and swing my legs down. The towel bunches around my hips as I stand and roll my shoulders back. Maybe magenta does mean something — something not written in any Temple records. Something just mine.

I slip out of the sauna, leaving the soft hiss of steam behind. The air outside feels cooler, refreshing against my flushed skin. I rinse off the sweat in a quick shower, tug on my training clothes, and catch my reflection in the little mirror above the sink — hair pulled back, eyes bright, doubt pushed down for once.

My new lightsaber rests on the dresser, gleaming in its metal cradle. My fingers brush over the hilt — smooth where it should be, ridged where I need a better grip. Papa’s first saber didn’t look anything like this. And it shouldn’t. This one is me.

Then, through the open window, I hear the low roar of the Crucible descending — steady, controlled. They’re back. A grin sparks across my face before I can help it.

I clip the saber to my belt and sprint for the door, footsteps thudding down the stairs, heart hammering in my chest like a drum.

I’m done doubting. It’s time to show him — all of them — what I’ve built for myself.