Control The Uncontrollable // The Acolyte

91. Moment of Truth

Qimir stepped forward, his breath measured, his expression unreadable. Every movement felt calculated, as if he were navigating a battlefield rather than a entering a conversation. And in many ways, he was. The moment his eyes landed on Vernestra, time stilled. She was exactly as he remembered her. Regal. Imposing. Unshaken. The years had barely touched her, yet the weight of the past clung to the space between them.

A memory flickered in his mind—of standing beside her, smaller, younger, desperate for approval. Of looking up to her as his master, his guide. Qimir closed his eyes, but her swinging lightsaber haunted his mind. He could still feel it on his back. The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken words. He wondered if she felt it too. The weight of what was lost. The truth of what remained. The little boy in him even questioned if she wanted to see him?

"You've grown," Vernestra said at last, her voice smooth, unwavering.

She even sounded the same.

Qimir averted his gaze, scanning the room. It was vast, stark, the walls an unforgiving shade of white. A wide black window dominated the center, cutting through the sterile expanse like a wound. He knew what lay beyond it—you. His eyes locked onto the glass, unseeing yet certain.

He couldn't help but imagine how nervous you must be for him, even if you tried to hide it behind your Jedi facade. He hoped, that you had someone beside you. Someone who could tell you that it will all be fine, the same way you had told him a million times. He didn't want you to be anxious, and if you were he hoped someone was there to support you even if he couldn't. It was in this quiet moment, he realized the truth: neither of you were truly alone. You were always carrying each other. Always.

"You haven't," Qimir murmured, tilting his head back to Vernestra.

You would've laughed at this comment, Qimir thought to himself. Not aloud, of course, but with a knowing hum. It almost made him smile, even in this absurd situation he found himself in. He knew it was expected of him to step forward, to approach the center, but he lingered in the corner of the room, keeping his safe distance.

Vernestra's robe seemed like a were deliberate statement. A rather calcuated move from the Council. They wanted him to fail, to falter. His fingers brushed the hilt of his lightsaber. They wanted him to draw it, to strike her down. It would make their lives easier.

Vernestra would die a martyr. He would become the monster they so desperately wanted him to be. But then there was you.

They would blame you. They would twist the truth, corrupt your work, use this moment to paint you as yet another Jedi seduced by darkness. When it couldn't be futher from the truth. You didn't let yourself be consumed by neither side, you simply chose to not fear what you didn't know, unlike most Jedi. You were untraditional, and they would use that to make an example out of you. Qimir couldn't shake the thought of his Master—former Master—Plagueis, who had been wrong about many things, but not this... You were essential to the balance of the galaxy.

And now, Qimir had to find his own.

"I see you've grown sharp," Vernestra observed, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. Something distant. Something lost.

Qimir closed his eyes. Her voice wasn't raised, but it felt like it lashed against him like a whip.

"I had to," he whispered, honesty slipping through before he could stop it.

A beat. A moment of fragile silence. Then, she inclined to disturb the loud silence.

"The same way you had to kill the Padawan on Naboo?"