The Temple came alive with dawn.
Golden light filtered through high arched windows, casting shifting patterns across the stone floors of the training halls. Jedi instructors moved like shadows among the Initiates, guiding, correcting, encouraging. Every step, every word, carried centuries of tradition. Even the air seemed to vibrate with focus and purpose.
Aaron was already awake.
He'd risen before the others, breathing slow and deep, centered in the Force. Sleep came harder now—his mind always moving, always calculating. He couldn't afford to waste a moment.
Today was his first day of formal instruction.
He stood quietly in line with the rest of Clan Ukk, dressed in standard tan Initiate robes, his boots a little too big. Around him, the other younglings shifted nervously. A few whispered to each other. Kael cracked his knuckles and smirked like he was ready for a fight.
Aaron simply waited.
Master Pura entered the chamber, flanked by two younger instructors—Togruta and Nikto, both calm and efficient.
"Today," Pura intoned, "you begin your path. You may not know where it leads, but the Force will guide you, as will your teachers. Today we test the roots of your foundation."
The children bowed in unison.
The first class was simple: movement and reflex training.
Wooden staffs, padded mats, balance poles. Aaron went through the motions, slow and careful, blending into the group. He copied the tempo of the others, stumbling once or twice on purpose. But inside, he was tracking everything—the center of gravity in each stance, the footwork, the subtle shifts in energy.
He was bored. But he couldn't look bored.
Play the role. You're a child. Not a prodigy. Not a threat.
He stumbled during a pivot. Master Heera raised a brow.
"Try again," she said gently.
He nodded and did—this time with just enough improvement to look normal. But by the third repetition, he could've taught the drill. Every movement felt natural now. His Gift wasn't just accelerating his learning—it was rebuilding his body in real time. His muscles remembered what his adult self had once known.
By the time the class ended, sweat clung to the other children's brows. Aaron barely breathed harder.
Later, the Force meditation class was even more revealing.
They were led into a quiet chamber lined with smooth stone and glowing blue crystals. Master Pura sat at the center, legs crossed, eyes closed.
"The Force is not a storm," he said. "It is a river. It does not obey. It flows. Feel it—not with your hands, but with your soul."
The children closed their eyes.
Most fidgeted. A few whispered.
Aaron sank deep.
Instantly, he felt the room. The echoes of footsteps in the halls beyond. The roots of the garden trees twisting through the soil. He even sensed the faint presence of a kyber crystal humming beneath the Temple. It was overwhelming—but not frightening. It was alive.
He exhaled slowly. Let himself drift.
Time passed. Then—
"Interesting," Pura said softly.
Aaron blinked and looked up. The Master's gaze was on him.
"You found it quickly."
Aaron hesitated. "I just... listened."
Pura nodded, but said no more.
The class moved on, but Aaron felt the weight of that glance linger. He was being watched. Not with suspicion—yet—but with interest.
He had to be careful.
That night, Aaron slipped away again.
While the Temple slept, he returned to the same quiet corner. This time, he brought a small training saber—blunt and unpowered, meant only for forms practice.
He trained in silence.
Shii-Cho, the first Jedi form. The most basic. Wide, sweeping strikes meant to disarm rather than kill. He had seen it in movies. Read about it in books. But now, with the Force flowing through him and the Gift guiding every movement, he didn't just learn it.
He became it.
Hour by hour, his blade danced through the air with increasing speed and control. He felt the weight of each strike, the balance in his hips, the momentum in his steps. The staff became an extension of him.
He stopped after two hours, chest rising and falling in deep rhythm.
His arms ached. His back was sore. But he smiled.
Two hours... Twenty for anyone else. I know the form. Not well. But well enough to hide it.
He sat down and reached into the Force again.
This time, he tried to move something bigger.
A chair. Small, but solid.
He stretched out a hand, focused—not on the object, but on its place in the world. Its weight. Its connection to everything around it.
The chair trembled. Lifted. Wobbled in the air like a puppet dangling on uncertain strings.
Then it dropped.
Not far. Not loud. But far enough.
Aaron let out a breath.
It's working. But it's not perfect yet. Good. That keeps me grounded.
He stood. Wiped the sweat from his brow. And returned to bed before the morning bell.
By the end of the week, Master Pura said something that stuck with him.
"The most dangerous student is not the one who grows quickly," the Kel Dor said,standing before the gathered younglings, "but the one who grows in silence."
Aaron felt that weight settle on him like a cloak.
I need to move faster. Learn faster. But I can't let them see it.
So he smiled.
He tripped during sparring. He hesitated during Force drills. He made mistakes—just enough to be believable.
But in the shadows?
He trained like the galaxy depended on it.
Because it did.