Chapter VI Part III

I set the pouch down and roll up my sleeves. I undo the tie in my hair and knot it back higher, pulling the last loose strands away from my face. The soft music playing from the little speaker swells — a song with a slow, steady beat, like a heartbeat reminding me to breathe.

I move to the crates, lifting each piece out one by one — tubes of cortosis alloy, plates of phrik, strange conduits etched with tiny runes. Some feel heavy in my hands, too rigid, not right. Others spark a faint hum of possibility, like they’re waiting to be part of something alive.

The small furnace stands ready in the corner. The molds rest in neat rows along the shelves, some round, some square, some strange shapes I can’t name yet. A dozen possible hilts flicker through my mind — curved, double-bladed, short, long — but none feel right just yet.

I run my thumb over the two halves of my kyber crystal, feeling the soft pulse beneath the surface — steady, waiting.

An extension of myself.

I glance at my tools, my welding goggles, the scratched forceps that always slip when they get too warm. Not perfect — but mine.

I stand there a moment, my eyes sweeping over the crates Papa and Apollo dragged home from Nevarro. Tubes, plates, ingots, coils of wire. All of it waiting.

I take one more breath — deep and steady — letting the hum of the Force settle in my chest. Then I reach for the first plate of metal, the first wire, the first idea. And I start.

I run my fingertips over the edges of each piece — phrik, durasteel, even scraps of cortosis alloy that shimmer like dark glass under the workshop lamps. Each one heavy in my hands. Each one a question I don’t yet have an answer for.

But the answer doesn’t come. My mind spins, but it stays empty. All those years begging for this moment — and now, when I finally hold it, it feels like I’ve run headfirst into a wall. What does my saber look like? What does me look like, forged in metal and crystal?

I swear under my breath, pacing a slow circle around the workbench. The crystals rest in their bowl at the center — pulsing faintly whenever I draw close, like they’re reminding me they’re still waiting.

An idea pops in my head. I get up bolt out the side door, the night air slapping my cheeks awake as I jog across the orchard path to the dojo. The doors creak as I push inside — the training room smells like polished wood and old sweat, the place we’ve drilled a thousand forms and stances until my muscles could do them in my sleep.

Along the far wall, the rack of training sabers waits in the shadows. Seven hilts — each a different shape, each a different story. Papa’s collection, models built to echo the old masters: curved hilts for Makashi, short shoto blades for Jar’Kai, a heavy cross-guard design, even one double-bladed like the staff he used to fight with. I run my hands along each grip, feeling the weight of them, the history in them.

I set them out on the dojo floor — a ring of hilts around me like a circle of old ghosts. I kneel, staring at them one by one, my mind drifting through forms and possibilities. What do they mean? What do they feel like? And what do I want mine to feel like when I hold it in my palm, when I swing it at a target dummy, when I stand at Papa’s side with a real saber for the first time?

I see it then — the idea flickers like a flame catching dry kindling. A hilt that adapts. That shifts when I need it to. Single blade, double blade, or split — so I’m never boxed into just one form. Fluid. Flexible. Just like Papa says the Force should be — like me.

I gather up the training sabers, cradling them like rare books, and slip back into the night. By the time I’m back in the garage, my pulse is steady again — my mind no longer a blank slate, but a blueprint etched sharp behind my eyes.

I set the training sabers on the workbench beside the crates. I flick the music player to a slower track, something with a soft hum that matches the beat of my heart. I roll up my sleeves, slip on my goggles, and reach for the kettle perched by the old portable burner. A hot cup of tea — sweet and bracing — slides down my throat as I talk through my ideas to myself.

“Zeke,” I mutter, but he’s half-dozing on his pad. So I call out instead, “Apollo?”

A shadow shifts near the doorway — Apollo’s helm glints under the single overhead lamp. He steps forward without a word, the plates of his armor whispering against each other.

“Can you show me the alloys you and Papa brought back? The best ones for a split-hilt design — something that won’t warp when the bottom piece twists and locks,” I ask.

“This one,” he says, lifting a bar of silvery phrik. “For the outer shell — light but strong. For the conduits, you’ll want this — diatium channels. And…” He rummages through the crate, pulling out a coil of wiring so fine it shimmers like spun silk. “Insulated, low-resistance — so you don’t fry your palm when you split the hilt.”

I grin, the tension between my shoulders easing for the first time in hours. “Perfect. Thanks, Apollo.”

He nods once then settles into the corner, visor flickering in quiet watch. My silent guard.

I work. I melt metal, pour it into molds. I brace each piece in a clamp and file down the edges until they gleam in the lamp’s glow. Sparks dance off the welding tool — tiny stars that vanish as soon as they land. Hours slip by in a blur of heat and hammer, each piece slotting together in my mind as if the crystals themselves whisper instructions.

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But at some point I must have dozed off because a soft beep wakes me. I open my eyes and notice Zeke’s dome hovers inches from my face, his optic blinking anxiously. I rub my eyes with the back of my wrist, squinting at the half-forged hilt in the clamp. The pieces blur in my vision — details that should feel sharp instead slip sideways like oil on water.

“Okay, okay…” I mumble, stifling a yawn. “You’re right, Zeke. I’ll finish tomorrow.”

I give the tools one last glance, then shut off the music player and step out into the orchard air. The night has deepened — crickets hum in the tall grass by the landing pads, the Crucible’s hull gleaming under the twin moons.

When I wake the next morning, the manor is hushed and golden. After a quick shower and putting on clean clothes, I pad down the stairs, fingers brushing the banister, and find Talia at the dining table — a book balanced in her lap, steam curling from the tea cup at her elbow. She looks up, eyes soft under the cascade of her pale hair.

“Morning, Nikko,” she says, voice warm but a little amused at the dark smudges under my eyes.

“Morning…” I glance around the empty room. “Where is everyone?”

“Your father took your sisters to the Harvest Festival in Arroyo. Rebecca insisted on tagging along too,” she says, closing her book with a quiet snap. “I didn’t want to go and we figured you wanted to stay here instead.”

Oh. Right. The Harvest Festival. The smell of roasting nuts, the way the banners rippled in the wind. I could go. I could run and catch up — maybe join the crowds, let the chatter wash the worry away. Perhaps see Adam again.

But when I look out the side window, I see the squat garage door still cracked open. The crystals inside waiting like a heartbeat half-finished. No. Not yet.

“I’ll stay,” I say, and Talia smiles that small, proud smile she gets when she knows I’ve made up my mind. For breakfast all I have is toast with butter and jam.

Back outside, the day blooms warm. I pour myself another cup of tea, tug my hair up, and roll my sleeves higher. The next hours melt away in a whirl of metal, solder, and quiet, steady breath. I file down the emitter shrouds until they gleam. I carve the twist-lock grooves that will let the hilt expand and split. I burn my fingertips more than once — Zeke chirps every time I yelp, the little traitor.

I take breaks — short ones. A sip of tea by the orchard gate. A slow stretch under beneath the large tree in the backyard. But every time I step away, the forge calls me back like gravity.

By the time I finally slot the last piece into place, the sun has begun its lazy descent behind the orchard. The shadows grow longer, the cicadas louder. I run my thumb along the finished hilt — smooth, balanced, the weight just right. I can feel the crystals in my hand — their soft, steady hum echoing in my chest.

I open the top compartment, nestle one half of the kyber crystal inside — its pulse jumps when it touches the housing. I close it, then the other: the hidden chamber at the base that will come alive when the hilt extends.

My hands tremble as I lock the final plate in place. This is it.

I step out to the threshold, the orchard glowing copper in the late light. The landing pads hum faintly behind me. I draw in one breath — another — and press the activation stud.

A blade snaps into existence with a hiss that buzzes in my bones. The color hits me first — not the sun-bright yellow I’d pictured all these years, but a deep, rich magenta that bathes my hands in purple-pink light.

My mouth falls open. The hum of the blade buzzes in my teeth, but all I can do is stare at the glow washing over my hands. Deep, vibrant magenta.

“What—?” I breathe. The word sticks in my throat like something bitter.

Papa’s training — every lesson drilled into me since I could swing a practice staff — the holocrons I’ve read over and over until the text blurred behind my eyes, the old guardians who kept the Temple’s colors alive for generations. It should be yellow. A Sentinel’s blade. The color of balance between combat and knowledge — the path I’d convinced myself I was walking.

I’ve studied them all: green for the Consulars, the diplomats, the seers. Blue for the Guardians, the protectors, the warriors. Yellow for the Sentinels — the watchmen, the shadows, the seekers who blend the saber and the mind. The rare purple — a line walked close to the edge, a blade balanced between light and the darkness just beyond. Red — the color of bleeding, of corruption, of a crystal forced to obey. White — pure, cleansed, reclaimed.

But magenta? What does magenta even mean? There’s no ancient scroll for this. No Temple diagram or dusty holocron that says what this color is supposed to tell me about who I am.

A cold little knot twists under my ribs. Did I get it wrong? Did I fail him somehow? I did everything right — followed Papa’s training, learned every lesson, practiced until my bones ached. And yet… there it is. Magenta, pulsing in the dusk like a bruise I don’t understand.

My chest tightens. I swallow, dragging my thumb along the activation stud. I’ll ask him when he gets back — I’ll show him what I built, color and all. Maybe he’ll know what this means when I don’t.

I twist the hilt, just like I built it to do — the bottom slides free with a soft mechanical click, the extension locking into place. I thumb the second switch. The second blade ignites with a roar, completing the staff — magenta fire at both ends, alive in the orchard dusk.

And then — a final twist — the hilt separates, a click and a pull, splitting into two perfect, humming sabers. I hold one in each hand, my arms buzzing with their energy.

A laugh bursts out of me — sharp and sudden. “Yes!” I shout, spinning one blade low, the other arcing above my head in a form I’ve practiced since I could hold a stick. The orchard echoes the crackle of plasma.

I glance back and spot Apollo standing just outside the garage, arms crossed like always, helm tilted just slightly — but when I look closer, he lifts a single gloved thumb in the faintest sign of approval.

I grin so hard it hurts. I shut down the blades, twist the hilts back together, feel the bottom chamber slide home with a soft click. I ignite it again — single blade. Twist. Double blade. Twist again — two hilts. Over and over, smooth, flawless, alive. My saber.

I laugh again, breathless, my chest tight with relief and wonder and something that feels suspiciously like tears behind my eyes.

I did it. I actually did it. My own lightsaber.

Too bad Papa’s out with the twins — he’d grin that crooked grin of his, proud and maybe a little teasing. Doesn’t matter. He’ll see it soon enough. He’ll see that I did this. That I built something real.

I shut the hilt down, the hum vanishing back into the calm orchard dusk. I cradle it in my palms — my saber, my hard work.