Aavruun and Krawruuk were now four years old. Aavruun still hadn't upgraded his perk and his lifeforce remained at 125 percent. He fucking refused to go under 100%.
Sure, there were no negative side effects until 25%, but he didn't care. The system was cool, but he didn't like the idea of being under 100%. He was probably being superstitious, but he did not care.
He wanted the fight, the struggle, the victory.
And in time it would be on his terms… one day in the future. Until then he set his mind on being the best youngling he could be.
He and his brother no longer shared a room, which he didn't mind. They were always connected through the Dopplerganger.
He found it interesting the Jedi allowed them to stay together at all, with all their talk about family attachments and what not. Over time he realized how foolish that really sounded. You grew attached to anyone you lived with from childhood into adulthood, not just people you were related to.
A lot of the Jedi mental and philosophical work conditioned them and everyone else.
Honestly, Aavruun wasn't sure what to think.
Jedi and Sith both had their fucked up sides…
He'd decided to stop chewing on the philosophical dilemma for a couple of years ago.
He was going to fight in the Clone Wars, and everything he did now was to prepare for it.
The twins could still share feelings, but they had learned to communicate properly too.
Aavruun felt hunger from the connection, and the same feeling rolled back from Krawruuk. He padded over to the door and opened it.
They were very high-functioning four-year-olds, and neither of them minded being smart.
They did very well in language classes run separate from the other younglings, and in the other basic school work.
Training and exercise were common.
Strength, cardio, flexibility—the Jedi trained it all.
Meditation was becoming a regular part of their days.
So was conditioning in the Jedi Code, philosophies, and beliefs.
They even got a few hours a couple of days a week on a pad with access to very basic material: how computers worked, simple mechanics, combat fundamentals—anything you might be interested in that didn't clash with Jedi doctrine or philosophy.
The place operated seven days a week, with enough time set aside for rest.
Aavruun and Krawruuk loved their life. The steady conditioning and daily training suited them. In Aavruun's mind, the one percent of a fight that everyone saw—the clash, the charge, the clean victory—rested entirely on the other ninety-nine percent. How much work had you put in? How sharp was your body? How many hours had you spent drilling the same movement until it landed without thought?
He and Krawruuk pushed into that idea hard. If there was a scale, they aimed past full effort and treated one hundred and ten percent like the baseline.
Their favorite hours were the martial arts blocks. In those sessions, the instructors handed out training sticks shaped like short wooden sabers. Aavruun wrapped his big cub-paws around the smooth grip and felt the slight dents and scuffs left by other younglings. Krawruuk did the same beside him, dark fur brushing his brother's arm as they took their stances on the mat.
The drills stayed simple for now—basic footwork, angled strikes, guarded blocks. For four-year-olds, the class moved well. Still, after a while, attention slipped. Some younglings started swinging wide just to make the sticks clap together. Others fidgeted, eyes drifting toward the door or the racks of practice gear along the wall.
When it came time to pair off, Aavruun and Krawruuk always tried to stay together. They moved with the same focus, shared timing through their link, and treated each round like it mattered. Sparring with other children felt like wasting reps.
On the occasions an instructor split them and sent a smaller youngling their way, the twins adjusted in their own style. Aavruun stepped in with a quick, precise tap to the head or knuckles. Krawruuk aimed for knees or fingers, short sharp strikes that stung more than they hurt. Wooden sticks cracked, a cry went up, and tears followed often enough.
After a few sessions like that, most of the other younglings started glancing away when partners were assigned, hoping the Wookiee twins paired with each other instead.
Over time, Aavruun and Krawruuk started to pick out a few other younglings who felt worth paying attention to during drills and lessons.
Ferus Olin stood out first. Human, with light-brown hair kept short and straight, fringe already trying to fall into his eyes before he pushed it back with quick, efficient fingers. His skin carried a soft Coruscant pallor, the look of a child who spent most days under Temple ceilings. In the training hall, he held his practice stick in both hands with a careful, textbook grip, feet set exactly where the instructor showed them. During simple sequences, Ferus moved through each step in order, one after another, rarely skipping or rushing. When a Knight adjusted his stance, he shifted his boots a finger's width and set his jaw, big brown eyes locked on the floor marks as he tried again.
He actually liked the challenge the twins posed and would angle for a place across from them whenever he could. Aavruun saw the talent there, saw how solid Ferus' basics looked even at four, but his style felt stiff. Ferus stuck to structure, to the form as written. In Aavruun's mind, he drank the Temple's cool-ade a little too hard—rules first, Order first, everything by the line. Simply put, a rule follower.
Barriss Offee drew their attention a different way. Mirialan—near-human, with green skin and a cultural tradition of geometric facial tattoos earned over time—she already looked composed even as a small child. Barriss stayed small and neat, dark hair pulled back from her face in a short, practical tail. At four she only had the faint suggestion of where later tattoos would sit, soft angles along her cheekbones, but her features already settled into a calm, focused expression. In class she sat with legs folded, back straight, hands resting on her knees. While other children swung their feet or fidgeted, Barriss watched the instructor's hands, traced floor patterns with her eyes, followed the slow turn of training remotes.
During stick work, her swings stayed compact and precise, more about angle than impact. She lined the tip up with the target circle again and again, adjusting by small increments, eyes narrowing each time she missed by a finger's width. To the twins she felt almost too calm for her age—always thinking, always absorbing. Extremely perceptive and sharp. She handled drills well enough, but her attention drifted toward meditation blocks and early philosophy lessons whenever they appeared on the schedule.
The last interesting one was Tru Veld, who made himself obvious simply by how many children orbited him. He was Teevan, a near-human species from the world of the same name—silver-hued skin by heritage, bodies known for unusual flexibility. On Tru that showed in subtle ways: a smooth, easy bend at the waist, joints that seemed to fold a little further, shoulders that rolled without strain. Under Temple lights his skin read as warm brown with a faint metallic cast, paired with a mop of dark hair that never quite stayed flat.
He moved through the youngling wing like he owned half of it. In the yard before classes, Tru already had a loose cluster of kids trailing him from practice ring to practice ring. He pointed out games, suggested teams, and decided who stood where with simple, matter-of-fact remarks rather than raised volume. During sparring rotations he grinned a lot, even when a practice stick clipped his arm or shoulder, and slid back into stance with quick, springy footwork. His swing lacked Ferus' precision or Barriss' tight control, yet his timing with partners came naturally; he shifted pace without thinking when a slower child lagged or when a bolder one lunged in. That easy adjustment, plus a body that bent and twisted in ways most kids couldn't match, marked him as both charismatic and quietly protective in the twins' eyes—a four-year-old who already stood in the middle of things and seemed comfortable there.
The twins made friends. They liked having other talented kids around. They still tried to help everyone when they could—small tips in drills, a steadying paw during footwork—but they refused to carry anyone. You learned to swim on your own, or you sank on your own.
As far as their progress went, Aavruun and Krawruuk kept things simple with adults. They told instructors and caretakers exactly what those adults expected to hear, then went back to doing the work their own way.
Their main caretaker, Horan, stayed on them in the early years. He checked their lesson reports, watched their behavior during meals, and made sure they hit every class block they were assigned. The more consistent discipline the twins showed, the less often he had to hover. After a while, his visits shifted from constant supervision to quick check-ins and a few quiet nods when he passed them in the hall.
Seasons rolled past. Four turned into five, then into six standard years.