Chapter III Part I

When I get home, the first thing I do is put the groceries away — flour sacks lined up in the pantry, vegetables stacked neatly in the basket, a fresh bundle of herbs pressed into the jar Talia keeps by the window. I slide the cherry blossom cake into the fridge, making sure no one gets to it before dinner tomorrow. The crate of scrap goes into the squat garage, clinking against Papa’s other boxes of parts and half-finished droids.

I change into more comfortable clothes — soft trousers and my old tunic, the one with the faded stitching along the hem. But still, no word from Papa. I check my wrist gauntlet for the fifth time in an hour. Barely late afternoon. He promised he’d be home by now. I swallow the pinch in my chest and force myself to do something — anything — to keep busy.

I eat the packed lunch Talia made me, sitting by the back door where the orchard sways beyond the glass. I flip through some of Papa’s old star charts, reading about planets I’ll probably never see. I let Zeke patch into the old speaker, the one Papa picked up from a junk trader on Taris, and music from the galaxy drifts through my room — soft tones and strange beats that make my tail flick along with the rhythm.

I help Mirajane and Lisanna with their letters, correcting the loops in their scrawl. I take Erza from Talia’s arms for an hour, letting her pat at my cheeks with sticky fingers while Talia finally takes a break. After that, I head to the dojo. The wooden sword in my hands feels lighter than usual as I go through the old stances — block, parry, strike, retreat — all the motions Papa drilled into me since I was ten. Holly’s words keep echoing in my head: You’ll outshine him one day.

I pause, lowering the practice blade. My reflection stares back at me in the polished floorboards — sweaty hair clinging to my cheek, tail twitching, ears flicking toward the sound of the wind rattling the dojo’s paper screens. Only an hour has passed.

Then, finally — the communicator on my wrist pings. My heart leaps as I hit the holocall icon. Papa’s image flickers into existence above my gauntlet — all blue light and crackling edges. He’s wearing his Temple Guard armor, the dark robes fluttering around him in the wind. I can see his mask, his shoulders tense. And behind him — blaster shots streak across the hazy backdrop.

“Hey sweetie,” he says, his voice calm even with the chaos. “Sorry to put this on you, but I won’t be coming home tonight.”

My ears flick back. “What? Papa, what’s going on — are you okay?”

He fires his blaster at something offscreen — two sharp shots, the recoil making the hologram jitter. Red bolts snap past him, one close enough to cast a brief spark on his shoulder plate. He doesn’t even flinch.

“I’m fine. Negotiations soured, is all. Nothing I can’t handle,” he says, glancing behind him. The wind picks up, static fuzzing the edges of the hologram. Then someone moves into view — an alien shape that makes the fur behind my ears bristle. It’s tall and thin, wrapped in rough scraps of cloth and metal plates. A mask covers its face, long filters and tubes snaking from its mouth down to the chest. Its eyes — or what I think are its eyes — glint like polished stone under a heavy brow.

It turns its head toward Papa, voice rattling through the modulator, all clicks and drawn-out vowels:

“Shurrik vash’tu! Keth’re vo’ak, mehran!”

Then it swings a battered rifle up and fires into the darkness behind them — the flash of blue bolts lighting the swirling dust. Papa ducks, returns fire — three shots in quick succession that send sparks skittering.

Apollo sweeps past behind them, armor black and gold, his blaster drawn as he pivots and unleashes a rapid burst of crimson bolts. He doesn’t even spare the hologram a glance, just disappears into the haze again, his voice crackling out of the comm behind Papa: “There are multiple targets advancing from the south west.”

Papa shifts his stance, raising his blaster. I can see the faint glow of his lightsaber hilt clipped at his belt. He looks at me again — eyes just shadows behind his mask. “Alright. Gotta go. I’ll be home tomorrow. Send my love to Talia and your sisters, okay?”

Before I can say anything, the alien grabs his shoulder, shouting another guttural string of words —

“Vah’tar ik shull! No’thek!”

Then the feed cuts. Just like that — gone.

I stare at my empty gauntlet screen, pulse drumming behind my ears. He’s fine, I tell myself. He’s always fine. But my heart can’t quite settle.

I lean against the dojo wall, pressing the wooden sword’s tip to the floorboards. Should I just start on the lightsaber by myself? No. I want him here when I ignite it for the first time. I want him to see it — to see me. I squeeze my eyes shut and picture it anyway — the yellow blade, bright as a shard of sunlight, humming warm and alive in my hands.

One more day. I can wait one more day.

But the dojo feels too quiet now, too small for the thoughts spinning in my head.

“What now?” I whisper to the empty room, but the only answer is the creak of the old paper screen in the breeze.

I return to the manor just as the sun dips low behind the orchard, painting the windows with a warm amber glow. Inside, the kitchen feels like the heart of the house — steam curling from the stove, the low clatter of a knife against the cutting board, and the gentle babble of Erza’s laughter echoing in the space.

Talia stands at the counter, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a soft smudge of flour on her cheek she hasn’t noticed yet. She’s chopping potatoes into neat cubes, their starchy white flesh piling up in a wide wooden bowl. Beside her, a bundle of fresh leeks rests in the sink, the green tops glistening with droplets from the rinse. A thick leg of ham waits on a platter, half-cubed, ready for the pot — potato and leek soup, then. Comfort food.

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Erza sits in her high chair nearby, tiny legs swinging as she stacks her colorful blocks one by one on the little tray table. When she spots me, her ears perk and she lets out a squeal, pudgy arms reaching for me immediately — it’s like her whole world lights up when she sees me.

“Hey there, bug,” I say, and scoop her up. She squirms with that giggly little hiccup of hers, trying to grab my braid — I dodge her chubby hands and instead poke her belly, and she lets out a delighted squeal that echoes through the warm kitchen.

Talia glances up, pausing in her cutting. “Hey, Nikko. Any word from your father?” she asks, her tone so calm and gentle it makes the knot in my chest tighten.

“Yeah,” I say, my tail flicking once behind me. I settle Erza back onto her chair, guiding her fingers back to the blocks when she tries to grab at my hair again. “He called in. Said he’s not coming home tonight. Says he’ll try tomorrow.” I don’t bother hiding the disappointment in my voice.

Talia lets out a quiet sigh, rinses her hands in the sink. “I’m sorry,” she says, drying her hands on a cloth. Her eyes soften as she looks at me — not pitying, just… knowing. “I know you were really looking forward to it.”

“It’s okay.” The lie feels stiff in my mouth as I sit down at the counter and help guide Erza’s tiny hands to stack the blocks again. She squeaks and babbles, happy to have my attention. “I’ve waited this long. I can wait a little longer.” I glance at the cutting board. “Can I help with dinner?”

“Of course.” Talia moves aside, giving me her spot by the potatoes. She brushes my shoulder gently as she passes behind me to check on the broth simmering on the stove.

The knife feels solid in my hand — something I can control, something that doesn’t judge. I start cutting the potatoes into perfect cubes, just like she does. The steady sound calms me, at least a little.

From the corner of my eye, I see Talia lean over Erza, tucking her hair behind her ear as she holds out a little sippy cup. Erza takes it with both hands, dribbles half of it down her chin before swallowing a sip. Talia just laughs softly and wipes her mouth with the corner of her apron. She looks so tired but still warm, still patient.

She’s always like this. She worries about Papa, sure — but she never lets it show. She doesn’t snap or groan about him not being here. And yet, I can feel it, that small thread of worry tied up with her worry for me.

It tugs at me, sudden and sharp. My hands slow on the cutting board. The knife stops just shy of the last potato.

Talia catches it immediately — of course she does. “What’s wrong, Nikko?” she asks gently, one hand rubbing Erza’s back as she shifts her gaze to me.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I say too fast. I force my eyes back to the potato, keep my tail from twitching too obviously. I dump the cubes into the big bowl, grab the leeks, start slicing through the crisp green stalks.

Talia sets Erza back in her high chair, where she busies herself knocking her blocks to the floor just so Zeke — who has wandered in — can beep in annoyance and pick them back up. Talia comes up behind me, her presence warm as she lays a hand on my shoulder.

“Talk to me,” she says. Her voice is that soft firmness only she can pull off — the kind that cracks right through the shell I try to keep on. “What’s really bothering you?”

I grip the knife tighter, then set it down, my hands trembling just slightly. I turn to face her, my eyes stinging at the corners. “Talia, am I just… in Papa’s shadow?” I say, the words coming out in a rush, like I’m afraid they’ll stick in my throat if I hold them back.

Her brows knit, her expression so heartbreakingly kind it makes my eyes burn hotter. “What do you mean?” she asks, shifting Erza onto her hip as if she’s ready to stand there all night if she has to.

I suck in a shaky breath. “Today — all day — it was like I didn’t exist. Nobody really cared how I was. It was all ‘Where’s your father?’, ‘Is he well?’, ‘Send him my regards.’” I sniff, swallow back the lump. “Not once did anyone ask how I was. It’s like… like I’m still just that catgirl hiding behind his cloak. Not me. Just… his shadow. Only Holly seemed to care.”

Talia’s thumb brushes my cheek, catching a tear before it can fall. “Nikko…” she murmurs.

“It’s not just that.” The words keep tumbling, raw and bitter. “I’m not even sure I can ever be like him. He was so strong at my age. He could lift ships with the Force — whole ships. I can barely move a rock. I’ve never beaten him in a spar, not once. He’s powerful, wise, unstoppable. What if — what if he’s disappointed in me? What if I’m just… not enough?”

For a moment, the kitchen feels too small, suffocating even. The scent of potatoes and broth spins around me, too thick to breathe through.

Then Talia pulls me in, one arm still holding Erza, the other curling around my shoulders like a shield. I bury my face into her tunic, feel Erza’s tiny hand patting at my hair.

“Hey,” she says, her voice firm in that way that leaves no room for argument. “Don’t you dare think that. Your father is so, so proud of you, Nikko. He tells me every day — how strong you’re becoming, how much he trusts you. Not because you can lift boulders. Not because you can pull down starships. Because you’re you.”

I sniff, mumbling into her shoulder, “But I’m not like him…”

“And you don’t have to be.” She pulls back just enough to tilt my chin up, her forest-green eyes locking with mine. “Your father came from so much pain, Nikko. He had to be that strong — to survive it. He doesn’t want that for you. He wants you to find your own path. He cherishes you, exactly as you are — lightsaber or no lightsaber, Force or no Force.”

Erza coos, leaning forward to bop my forehead with hers. It makes me huff a wet laugh that shakes the last tear free.

Talia brushes my hair back, presses her forehead to mine. “He didn’t take you in because he wanted you to be his reflection. He took you in because he saw your heart. And so do I. And so does everyone who really matters.”

I squeeze her tight again. “Thank you…” I whisper.

“Always,” she says, her voice warm as the hearth. She pulls back, brushing her thumb across my cheek one more time. “Now… why don’t you go run a bath? Or play that music you love so much. I’ll finish up here.”

I glance at the potatoes, the leeks, the simmering broth. “No,” I say, voice steadier now. “I want to help. I need to help.”

She tilts her head, studying me, then nods once. “Alright. Then help me with the ham.”

I pick up the knife again, the weight of it somehow lighter than before. Erza babbles and Zeke beeps from under the high chair, her blocks scattered like confetti.