They did not speak as they left the valley.
The ridge rose gradually, basalt giving way to cracked stone and sparse growth that bent with the wind instead of fighting it. The fog thinned behind them, loosening its grip until it became nothing more than low cloud clinging to the dead ground below.
Tein did not look back.
Lessons ended where they were learned. Dwelling turned memory into comfort, and comfort dulled instinct.
El-Je followed a half step behind now—not because he was told to, but because he had discovered the distance for himself. Close enough to hear Tein's breathing. Far enough not to trip on his shadow.
The wind tasted cleaner here. Less metal. More dust.
Still not safe.
They crested the ridge and continued on, the terrain opening into a wide shelf of stone broken by shallow fissures and scattered scrub. The moon's sky hung low and colorless, clouds layered thick enough to mute the light but not block it entirely.
Nothing dramatic.
Which made it worse.
Tein slowed and raised a hand.
El-Je stopped instantly this time.
No scrape of boots.
No breath hitch.
No flinch.
Tein registered it without comment.
He knelt and pressed two fingers into the dirt beside a fissure. The soil was damp beneath the surface, compacted in a way it shouldn't have been. Not from rain.
From weight.
Recent.
He stood and moved on, angling them toward higher ground where the rock rose in shallow terraces. Each step was chosen. Each pause intentional. Tein didn't teach by explaining every decision.
He taught by forcing El-Je to notice what changed when he didn't.
After a long stretch of silence, El-Je spoke.
"Back there," he said, voice low. "You didn't tell me what to do."
Tein didn't turn.
"Correct."
El-Je frowned. "You usually do."
"Only when you would die otherwise."
That answer sat between them as they climbed.
El-Je adjusted the strap of his cloak, thinking. "You could have killed it."
"Yes."
"And you didn't."
"No."
"Why?"
Tein stopped walking.
This time, he did turn.
"Because killing solves fewer problems than it creates," he said. "And because you needed to decide whether you could live with that choice."
El-Je hesitated. "What if I'd frozen?"
Tein considered him carefully.
"Then you would have learned something else," he said. "And we would have addressed it."
The boy searched Tein's face for judgment and found none.
Only assessment.
Only honesty.
They resumed walking.
The terrain grew rougher as they moved east, the stone fractured into angular shelves that forced careful footing. Tein navigated without hesitation. El-Je stumbled once—caught himself, corrected, and continued without looking back.
Progress.
By the time the clouds thinned enough to show a pale strip of sky, they reached a narrow overhang overlooking a shallow ravine. Wind funneled through it, carrying the faint sound of distant movement—creatures, maybe. Or something else.
Tein crouched and removed a small ration pack from his belt. He split it cleanly and handed half to El-Je.
No ceremony.
No praise.
El-Je took it and sat beside him, back against the stone. He ate slowly, eyes still tracking the ravine.
After a moment, he said, "You don't fight like other Jedi."
Tein didn't answer immediately.
"Other Jedi don't fight like this," El-Je clarified. "They stand out. Everyone knows who they are."
Tein chewed once, swallowed.
"That visibility is a luxury," he said. "And a liability."
El-Je absorbed that.
"Is that why you don't let me meet them?" he asked.
The question was careful, but the edge beneath it was new.
Tein felt it settle into place like a hairline fracture in stone.
"Yes," he said.
El-Je's jaw tightened. "They're supposed to help people."
"They help how they understand how," Tein replied. "And they shape what they touch."
El-Je stared out over the ravine.
"Like the Nightsisters."
Tein didn't correct him.
Silence returned—thicker now, carrying weight instead of comfort.
Tein finished eating and rose, checking the wind one last time before moving.
As he turned, he felt it again—
A flicker.
So faint it barely registered. A soft tightening in the Force—not tied to El-Je's fear this time, but to memory.
To anticipation.
It passed quickly.
Tein ignored it.
He always did.
They moved on as the sky brightened by degrees, the world settling into something almost ordinary. Training would continue. Lessons would stack. Trust would deepen.
And somewhere between discipline and secrecy, between restraint and survival, something patient continued to grow—fed not by screams or terror, but by the smallest, quietest truths no one thought dangerous enough to notice.
The path ahead looked clear.
That was how it always began.