The cube pulsed once in Toren's palm.
Then it unfolded.
Lines split with impossible precision. Faces of the cube turned inward, light spiraled from the seams, and suddenly a figure stood before him—projected in crisp, flickering blue.
A man, robed, with a lined face and weary eyes. He stood still, hands clasped before him, as if addressing a student not yet present.
Jakel let out a sharp breath behind him, but Toren didn't turn.
He couldn't.
The projection spoke.
"If this message plays, then the Outer Rim has fallen silent.I am Master Riis Kalthor, Jedi Archivist, and this holocron contains fragments of what must not be lost.We are failing. The Republic falters. The war corrupts the very structure it claims to preserve.If you are not Jedi—be cautious. The Force listens.And if you are something else…"
The figure paused. Looked, almost, directly at Toren.
"Then you may be what comes next."
Toren's skin prickled. The holocron seemed to sense him—adjust to his thoughts. As if it could feel the shape of his mind, the color of his questions.
Master Riis continued.
"The Force does not belong to the Order.It belongs to the living.And to those who awaken it without training—without dogma—comes both danger and possibility.Beware the Sith.But do not trust the Jedi, either.Seek balance. Seek purpose.And remember: the war is not the only danger.There are anomalies—emergent events.Forces that twist time, space, and soul."
The image dimmed slightly. Glitched.
Then returned to stasis.
Toren's hands trembled.
Anomalies.
Time.
Soul.
He wasn't just living in Star Wars. He was part of something it didn't understand.