Control The Uncontrollable // The Acolyte

105. A Prayer

Grand Master Gios stood at the tall windows of the Temple, watching Coruscant breathe beneath him. Streams of air-traffic cut glowing paths through the sky, lights flashing and weaving between towers as the sun dipped low, painting the city in gold and ember. Below, the noise of the streets rose in distant murmurs—voices, engines, life in constant motion. It was a chaotic place, exhausting in its endless pulse.

And yet, it was home.

He had been born here. Trained here. Had given his life to this world of stone and light and impossible balance. And one day—many years from now, he suspected—it would be where he died. The thought did not trouble him. He still had decades ahead of him. Time enough to endure.

"You know I can't grant your request," Gios said quietly as he turned from the window to face Master Sol.

Sol stood a few steps away, shoulders drawn tight. He looked exhausted—eyes dulled by too many sleepless nights, or perhaps by too much thinking, too much meditating without answers. He turned his gaze aside, jaw set, as if weighing every word before letting it fall.

"Stellan," Sol said at last, voice careful but heavy with conviction, "with all due respect—it's been over twelve years. The Council can say she's dead as many times as it wants. People will believe it."

Gios did not interrupt.

"But I was her Master," Sol continued, the words slipping through the cracks in his composure. Attachment pressed close to the surface now, barely restrained. "I know better."

It had been a long time since anyone had used Gios' given name. The sound of it stirred something faint and human in him—an echo of a time before titles, before distance. Sol was older than he was, by more than a decade. He had watched Gios grow into the role he now carried. If anyone had earned the right, it was him.

Gios let the silence stretch.

"I know she is alive," Sol said, lifting his eyes at last.

For a moment, the room seemed to still around them.

Gios studied him in silence. He didn't need to speak immediately—he rarely did. He did not carry the Council's secrets like a burden, nor did the truths you had entrusted to him weigh heavily on his heart. But he was curious. Curious what had finally driven Sol to voice this aloud.

"Tell me, Master," Gios said calmly, "if you knew all along that she lived... why did you not seek her out yourself?"

"I respect the Council," Sol answered at once.

Gios nodded, his gaze drifting briefly to the high stone walls of the chamber. It was the only answer Sol could have given. And it was true. Respect for the Council—respect for order—was the spine that held them upright. Without it, everything unraveled.

He turned back to Sol, measuring him now. In truth, there was not a month—nor a week, nor a single day—that passed without Gios thinking of you. Though you had made peace with your path long ago, a part of him never had.

As Grand Master, he was expected to be the Order's steady hand, its moral center. And he upheld that role—carefully, publicly. Yet quietly, there were places where he disagreed. He had never believed attachment to be a sickness. He believed it to be a force in itself. You creating life—something so pure—with someone you loved, regardless of who that person was... that was not corruption. That was creation. And the certainty about your remaining years—ten, fixed, unchangeable—felt too rigid. Life had never obeyed numbers so cleanly.