The blade was still off.
That was the first frustration.
El-Je stood on a flattened stone shelf overlooking a shallow ravine, training hilt in his hands, muscles tight with readiness that had nowhere to go. The air was cool here, wind cutting sideways across the rock face and pulling at his cloak. Below them, the ravine dropped into shadow and scrub—narrow enough to cross, deep enough to punish mistakes.
Tein watched from several paces away.
No stance.
No instruction.
No correction.
Only observation.
"Again," Tein said.
El-Je exhaled and moved.
Not fast.
Fast was useless without control.
He stepped forward, rotating his hips the way Tein had shown him, letting momentum travel from foot to shoulder instead of breaking at the joints. The hilt moved with him — a clean diagonal cut, restrained and precise.
The Force moved with the motion — not summoned, not pushed.
It threaded through balance and timing the way breath threaded through muscle: present, supportive, quiet. El-Je didn't use it so much as allow it, the way Tein had taught him. Alignment before power.
Tein said nothing.
El-Je followed with a second strike, then a third. The sequence wasn't flashy. It wouldn't have impressed a Temple instructor. But it flowed — motion feeding motion, balance never fully abandoned.
When he finished, El-Je held position. Breathing steady. Waiting.
Tein circled him slowly.
"You're thinking about hitting something," Tein said.
El-Je frowned. "That's… the point."
"No," Tein replied. "That's the result. Not the intent."
He stopped in front of him.
"A lightsaber isn't a weapon you swing," Tein continued. "It's a line you place. The Force doesn't care about strength. It cares about alignment."
El-Je tightened his grip. "So what form is this?"
Tein didn't hesitate.
"None," he said. "Yet."
That landed harder than correction.
El-Je swallowed. "All Jedi use forms."
"Yes," Tein said. "After they survive long enough to choose one."
He tapped the hilt — not hard, not gentle.
"Forms are philosophies," he said. "They reward instinct. Some aggression. Some defense. Some movement. Some control."
He stepped back.
"But if you don't know which instinct is yours, the form will lie to you."
El-Je took that in silently.
They reset.
This time Tein moved.
Not attacking — advancing.
He closed the distance with measured steps, hands empty, posture relaxed. Still, pressure gathered around him, the way space always seemed to shrink when Tein decided it should.
"Defend," Tein said.
El-Je reacted.
The hilt came up too fast. The angle was wrong. Tein stepped inside the line effortlessly and caught his wrist mid-motion, redirecting without force. El-Je stumbled, corrected, barely stayed upright.
Tein released him immediately.
"No," he said. "Again."
They repeated it.
And again.
Each time El-Je tried something different — wider arcs, tighter arcs, quicker reactions, slower reactions. Each time, Tein dismantled the attempt with minimal effort.
Not dominance.
Instruction.
By the sixth attempt, El-Je stopped before Tein could move.
He adjusted.
His stance.
His balance.
His intention.
He let the hilt drop slightly instead of raising it.
Tein advanced.
El-Je didn't block.
He stepped aside.
Not away.
Around.
The motion was small. Almost unimpressive. But Tein felt it — the instant El-Je stopped trying to stop force and started moving with it.
Tein halted.
A pause.
Then a single nod.
"There," he said.
El-Je blinked. "That was it?"
"That was the beginning," Tein replied. "You didn't fight me. You moved with the problem until it wasn't one."
He walked to the edge of the shelf, gaze drifting over the ravine.
"That instinct," Tein said, "leans toward motion. Timing. Opportunity."
El-Je's heart lifted despite himself. "Like… Ataru?"
Tein didn't answer immediately.
"Form IV rewards speed," he said at last. "But it punishes recklessness. Most chase momentum until it kills them."
El-Je swallowed.
"And me?"
Tein looked back at him.
"You don't chase momentum," he said. "You wait for it to appear."
That mattered.
They stood in silence for a while, wind threading between them.
"You will learn multiple forms," Tein said. "Enough to understand them. Enough to recognize them."
He gestured with two fingers.
"But you will not commit yet."
El-Je nodded — though frustration flickered beneath the surface.
"So… when do I get a real saber?"
Tein's gaze lingered on him — not measuring skill.
Measuring consequence.
"When the blade means something to you," he said. "Not power. Responsibility."
El-Je nodded again.
Slower.
They returned to training.
Motion repeated until tension gave way to rhythm — until reflex began to carve itself deeper than thought.
And far away — dormant, patient, listening —
something learned how a different kind of blade might one day be wielded.