Snow whipped sideways across the forest, hissing as it struck ignited plasma. The trees of Starkiller Base stood like blackened ribs against a dying sky, their bark split and steaming where stray bolts of heat had grazed them. The ground trembled faintly, the planet itself unraveling in the distance—but here, in this narrow clearing, the galaxy had collapsed into something smaller, sharper: breath, fear, and the hum of two lightsabers.

Your fingers tightened around the unfamiliar hilt. It felt wrong in your hands—too alive, too responsive. The weapon seemed to vibrate with intention, as if it were judging your grip, your stance, your right to wield it at all. You had fought before—staff against scavengers, quick reflexes honed by hunger and survival—but this was different. This wasn’t instinct alone. This demanded something deeper.

Across from you, Kylo advanced. His dark figure cut through the falling snow, cloak dragging, boots crushing frost into slush. The crossguard blade roared in his hand—unstable, furious, red light splintering across the white ground. Each step he took was deliberate, predatory, though there was a hitch in his movement—a wound beneath his side, still smoking from the bowcaster blast.

“Your fear…” his voice came distorted through the mask, yet unmistakably intense, “it makes you strong. But you’re not alone in it.” You swallowed. You could hear your own pulse, loud as a drum in your ears. “I’ve seen your mind,” he continued, circling. “It is chaos. Desertion. Loneliness. You think you can fight me with that?”

You shifted your footing, raising the blade instinctively as he moved closer. The blue glow flickered against your face, illuminating uncertainty—and something else beginning to surface beneath it. “I won’t let you take him,” you said, though your voice wavered. Kylo tilted his head slightly. “The droid? The Resistance?” A pause. “Or the belonging you think you’ve found?” He lunged. The crack of impact rang through the trees as red slammed against blue. You staggered backward immediately, the sheer force driving your heels into the snow. Your arms shook under the weight of the strike, teeth clenched as sparks spat between the blades. You pushed back—barely.

Kylo pressed harder, relentless. “You need a teacher,” he growled. “I can show you the ways of the Force.”

You broke away with a gasp, stumbling sideways. Your boots slipped, catching only at the last second. You swung clumsily, the saber hissing through empty air as Kylo sidestepped with ease. “Not like this,” he said, almost disappointed. He struck again. This time you barely blocked in time. The clash sent a jolt up your arms so violent you nearly dropped the weapon. Panic surged. You retreated, breath coming fast, each movement reactive, unrefined. He was controlling everything—distance, rhythm, momentum.

A kick to your side sent you sprawling into the snow. The saber tumbled from your grip, its glow carving a line through powder before settling a few feet away. For a moment, everything stilled. Kylo approached slowly, savoring it. “You’re nothing,” he said, voice low, almost calm now. “But not to me.”

You scrambled backward, hands digging into the cold ground. The saber lay just out of reach. He extended his hand. The weapon twitched. Snow lifted in spirals as the Force coiled between you. The lightsaber began to slide—first toward Kylo, obedient to his pull— Your eyes snapped shut.

No.

Something inside you resisted—not with anger, not with fear, but with a sudden, piercing clarity. A memory not of images, but of feeling: the desert wind, endless waiting, the stubborn refusal to disappear. Survival. Will. The saber jerked mid-slide.

Kylo’s head snapped slightly, tension entering his posture. “You need a teacher,” he repeated, more sharply now. You reached—not with your hand, but with that same instinct that had kept you alive all those years.

The saber flew past Kylo’s outstretched hand—

—and slammed into yours.