Chapter Text
Some speak of the Force as an old friend. A confidant, an advisor—a parent, even.
Serra has never known such comfort. She does not envy, for that is not the Jedi way, but she watches. She watches, and she yearns for her yearning to disappear. It is hard to not feel lonely, not when the very thing that makes a Jedi eludes her. I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me , she tells herself, and it is a lie.
But here—here with sweat trickling down her neck and dampening her robes; here in a salle silent save for heavy breathing and the hum of lightsabers—she is alone, and she is strong. The weight of watching eyes hang over her, but she knows they will see no flaws.
This is what I was made for.
Chest still heaving, Serra draws herself up and licks her dry lips.
“Yield,” she demands.
Her master’s eyes, normally sharp and piercing, are softened now by a warm, assured pride. He does not look at his lightsaber, deactivated and on the floor where it had fallen. Nor does he look at hers, one of which is hovering under his chin. He sees only her. And in that moment, with his gaze fixed on her with a quiet, all-consuming fondness, Serra feels like she is flying.
A smile slowly curves across his face, and he inclines his head. “I yield,” he agrees.
There is a beat of silent astonishment before the salle erupts into a swirl of voices and emotions. Only then does she allow herself to grin. She flicks off her ‘sabers, drops them, and launches herself into her master’s open arms.
“I am so proud of you, Serra,” he whispers before drawing back, hands a steady weight on her shoulders.
Impossibly, her grin stretches wider. “I know.”
Her master sighs, a long-suffering sound with which Serra is intimately familiar, then glances at something behind her. “It seems as though your friends wish to celebrate,” he says. “Go join them.”
Serra hesitates for a moment, then lunges forward to give her master another quick hug, squeezing tight and ignoring his protests. The warmth of the embrace is a small comfort, steadying her and calming her racing heart.
“Thank you, Master,” she says, still smiling as she pulls away. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Somehow, I doubt that,” he mutters, but she’s already hurrying to where her friends are gathered.
Naturally, Rissa Mano reaches her first. The Devaronian is beaming and visibly giddy, pink skin flushed with excitement. She takes Serra’s hands in her own and whirls them around, giggling uncontrollably.
“You did it!” she crows, breathless. “You beat the Battlemaster! You did that, Serra—you made him yield!”
With the adrenaline of the spar almost gone, Serra can suddenly feel every ache and bruise decorating her body. “I almost passed out in the process,” she groans in response, managing to sling an arm over Rissa’s shoulder.
Moving out from behind Rissa, Barriss Offee approaches far more sedately. While her face is calm, the sparkling glint in her eyes is enough for Serra.
“Your restraint during that last sequence was beautiful,” she murmurs.
From his position next to her, Tae Diath nods. “I agree,” he says, then smirks. “I was sure that your impatience would get to you.”
“You and everybody else,” she replies. “I might’ve normally, but I trained too hard for that match to mess up.”
Barriss hums. “Perhaps,” she suggests, “you finally slowed down enough to hear the Force.”
“No, that was all me,” Serra says. “Unlike some of you, I don’t need to listen to anything to know when to move. I trained, and I won. Simple.”
And it is simple. When she duels, there is nothing that she cannot control. Her body obeys, and inevitably, victory follows. It has always been that way, and Serra will never admit that a small, traitorous part of her longs for something different.
“Oh, we know,” Rissa cuts in, after the pause has dragged on too long. “Do you know how many times we had to cover for your insane late night training sessions? This is basically our victory too.”
“Too many to count, that’s for sure,” Tae says, scoffing.
Serra raises an eyebrow. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”
“It most definitely did,” Barriss says. “Congratualations, Serra. You deserve this.”
“Here we go,” Tae mutters, eyeing the way Barriss has folded her hands into her sleeves—a sure sign of an impending lecture.
“I mean it,” Barriss continues, unbothered. “You push yourself farther than most of us ever would. You always have. That has its drawbacks, of course. I’ve seen you fail far more than I’ve seen Rissa or Tae or even myself fail. But it makes you strong, and you just proved that to half the Temple.”
Rissa tugs Serra closer, tightening her grip. “I had something mushy and super motivating to say too, you know,” she mutters, mock-indignant.
Serra snorts. “I’m surrounded by such saps.”
“No, just people who admire you,” Barriss says, quiet but firm.
She blinks. Opens her mouth, then closes it again. Only now does she notice how the salle is almost entirely empty, and even the quiet sounds that remain recede for a moment. A strange, itchy feeling gathers in her stomach, her triumph dimmed by the raw sincerity in her friends’ faces.
“I—” she starts, then pauses. Her throat feels raw. “Thank you.”
Rissa rests her head gently on Serra’s shoulder. She doesn’t want to disturb the heaviness of the moment, but the itch in her stomach proves to be too much. “I’m still going to brag about this for weeks, you know,” Serra says, straightening.
“We expect nothing less,” Tae responds. His voice is so flat that he doesn’t need to roll his eyes.
“After all,” Barriss adds, “it’s not every day that one triumphs in a Trial of Skill.”
At the reminder, Serra’s grin returns and with it, the warm bubbles of joy. “Three down, two to go!” she whoops.
Barriss shakes her head indulgently, and Tae fixes her with an half-amused, half-incredulous look. “You make it sound so simple.”
“Well, I only have Flesh and Courage left,” Serra reasons, considering. “Those’ll be far more straightforward than Spirit or Insight were. The Trial of Flesh will be tricky, but I doubt it’ll be terrible.”
All three of them stare at her, Tae having abandoned amusement for full on incredulity.
“Only the Trial of Flesh, she says,” he mutters. Barriss has resumed her head shaking, and Rissa’s eyebrows appear to be making an escape attempt. “You do remember what it involves, right?”
Serra shrugs, reaching her arms up to stretch. “Pain, hardship, loss,” she lists. “Bloodshed usually, dismemberment occasionally, and death rarely.”
“I think you forgot the trauma,” Rissa remarks. “Lots and lots of trauma.”
“Can you truly list those out and claim it’ll be straightforward?” Tae asks, still staring.
She drops her arms and shrugs again. “Compared to Insight, most definitely. Either you’re in pain or you’re not in pain, right? At least you know when the trial’s happening.”
Tae exhales slowly. Barriss has moved on to massaging her temple. “That’s a dangerous thing to assume, Serra,” she warns.
“It’s not going to be a duel,” Tae continues. “It’ll be difficult and painful and possibly one of the hardest things you’ll ever go through.”
“Well,” she says, “all the more reason to get it over with.”
They fall silent again. This time, it’s Rissa who breaks. “Okay, I’m done,” she declares. “Serra, you beat your master, passed your Trial, and are one step closer to being a Knight. I say this calls for a celebration.”
And celebrate they do.