The training hall was massive. Gymnasium was the closest word, but it didn't fit. The ceiling sat high enough that the air felt cooler up near the lights, and the space was built for movement: raised ledges you could jump to, long bars bolted into frames, padded flats for throws and falls, and open lanes marked out so groups didn't crash into each other. Everything was divided into sectors with clean floor lines and low divider rails, so a dozen different drills could run at once without turning into chaos.
Aavruun and Krawruuk were using one of the smaller flat sectors. Their training sabers had just gone quiet in their hands—practice emitters dimmed down after warm-up. The floor under their feet held a little heat where kids had been sprinting and sliding, and the air carried that mixed smell of clean stone, sweat, and the faint metallic bite of charged training gear.
Over the last few weeks, a few children had been redirected. The Temple treated it like placement, not punishment. Some younglings had the Force, had good hearts, had discipline—yet their talent fit better somewhere else. Those kids moved into the Jedi Service Corps: roles that kept the Order functioning and still served the Republic. The Temple put them where they would be effective—medical support with the Healers, agriculture and supply work, education, exploration logistics. Vital work. Just a different lane than combat training.
Most of the class stayed. Aavruun knew the numbers would shift more over the next few years. That was the pipeline. A Jedi had to choose you. Aavruun and Krawruuk understood they were on someone's radar. Their combat talent showed, and they trained hard. They stayed consistent. That combination got noticed, even when nobody said a word to your face.
The Jedi also kept egos in check. Praise stayed rare. Instruction stayed inside groups. A teacher would correct, demonstrate, point you back at fundamentals—then it was on you to be disciplined. Aavruun assumed they were being watched anyway. The Temple watched anything worth watching.
Which kept dragging his mind back to Anakin. The whole situation still didn't make sense. A former slave, older than the usual intake, shoved into the pipeline sideways, and Palpatine hovering around it all. Aavruun kept his mouth shut about it because he liked living, but he could see the cracks forming in real time. The war would make it worse. That part felt like math.
Aavruun rubbed his thighs through the fabric of his training wrap, then looked over at Ferus.
Ferus Olin was running a form on the edge of the sector, training saber moving in clean, tight lines. It was foundation work every youngling got early: Form I—Shii-Cho. Basic guards. Basic cuts. Angles you could repeat until your wrists and feet obeyed without thought. The Temple taught it young because it built safety and control first. A kid who could keep a blade line consistent, keep their feet under them, and stop on command could spar without turning the hall into a casualty report.
Ferus was good at it. He was also predictable.
Krawruuk caught a mistake—more a wrong weight shift than anything—and pushed the concept through their bond. No words. Just the sense of where Ferus's base slipped and where it needed to sit.
Aavruun stepped closer and called it out.
Aavruun said, "Your rear foot. You're turning it too far. You're giving up your base."
Ferus reset without arguing. He adjusted, ran the sequence again, and the line cleaned up. His face stayed serious, but he didn't bristle. That was one thing Aavruun respected about him: Ferus could take constructive criticism if he believed you had the skill to back it up. Ferus also gave feedback when it was earned, and it was usually solid.
That was why the twins trained with him.
Ferus stayed rigid and uncreative, and he still tried to solve problems like there was one correct answer, but his discipline was real. It would take him places.
Aavruun watched Ferus move through the next set—simple cuts, simple recovery, clean guard—and thought, briefly and privately, that Ferus would've made a hell of a Marine back on Earth.
From there, Aavruun and Krawruuk rotated to a blaster drill droid set on a low track at the edge of the sector. The droid's head clicked side to side as it calibrated, emitter lens cooling to a dull red between bursts. The air held a faint ozone smell from the practice bolts, mixed with sweat and the warm plastic of training grips.
Aavruun kept his training saber in hand. The practice emitter hummed low, light blade steady, weight familiar in his palm. The drill started simple—single shots, predictable cadence. When a bolt clipped a forearm or shoulder it stung, sharp and hot for a second. Aavruun approved the concept. He also thought the pain should be more intense, because on the battlefield you fucking died.
Ferus Olin stepped in first and did well. His feet stayed planted, shoulders square, blade angle clean. The bolts flashed off his guard with tidy little snaps, each deflection pushed into a safe lane the way instructors wanted.
Aavruun watched the difference anyway. Ferus had talent and discipline, but the stakes lived in his head as a lesson, not a memory. Aavruun had something he didn't—actual combat experience. Nothing replaced the forge of it. Desire mattered, and Ferus didn't have the same reason to need the bolt to miss.
Aavruun had held a man who lost his legs from motor fire. The screaming stayed with you. It got into your sleep. It sat behind your eyes when things went quiet. Where other people broke, it made Aavruun want to survive more.
After his first tour, Aavruun had realized one truth: he would either die or be maimed on the battlefield. He would always seek the battlefield.
Krawruuk took his turn next. The black-furred Wookiee stepped into the marked lane, knees bent, saber up. The first bolt came fast. Krawruuk turned his wrist and caught it clean, blade angle tight. The second came higher; he shifted his stance a half step, shoulders rolling with it. Through their bond, Aavruun felt the focus in him—pressure, timing, the small spike of irritation when a bolt came in at an awkward angle.
Watching it made Aavruun's blood boil, just a little. Soon.
Aavruun noticed Ferus looking at him between volleys—one of those quick checks people did when they thought they felt something in the Force. Aavruun kept his face neutral and his mind guarded. The most Ferus got was surface calm and training intent.
When Krawruuk stepped out, Aavruun stepped in.
Aavruun gave Ferus a grin and raised his saber. The droid chirped and fired. Aavruun didn't chase the bolt with big swings. He used short movements—tiny shifts of wrist and elbow, blade already in the lane before the shot arrived. The bolt snapped off his guard and went wide. The next one came low; Aavruun dipped his hips and caught it on the rise, redirecting it with a sharp turn that left his feet planted. His claws flexed once around the grip, then settled.
They ran the drill until the droid's cadence increased and the bolts came in clusters. Ferus held up. Krawruuk held up. Aavruun held up.
By the end, all of them were passing what counted as youngling assessment standards—clean deflections, controlled footwork, no panic when the pace spiked. In that sector, with the air tasting like ozone and the droid cycling down, the truth stayed simple: they were all talented.
They were about to head to a sparring area when they turned to see Obi-Wan watching them. He was trying to grow a beard, but it still had some youthful flair, and the Padawan braid was gone—he was a Jedi Knight now. He'd been around a few times due to Qui-Gon's lessons at the academy.
And next to him stood none other than Anakin fucking Skywalker.
Obi-Wan smiled. "Well look at you all, hard at work. I have to say—you three are doing very well."
The three younglings bowed respectfully to the Jedi Knight.
"Thank you, Master Obi-Wan," Ferus said, speaking for them. In the Temple, younglings used "Master" as a respectful address for adult Jedi even when the Jedi's actual rank was Knight; the rank mattered more in formal settings than in hallway talk.
Anakin looked inquisitive and looked like he had been through a workout.
Obi-Wan continued, "Are you three finishing up?"
"We were about to spar, Master Obi-Wan."
"Ah, I see," Obi-Wan said, with a mischievous glint in his eye. "I was going to fetch a droid for my Padawan, but I was wondering if he could spar as well?"
Ferus already knew the twins wouldn't rebuke or turn down a Jedi Knight—especially not an upcoming Knight like Obi-Wan Kenobi.
"We would be honored," Ferus said respectfully.
Anakin had only been here five months at this point, Aavruun thought as the four of them walked over.
If Anakin was put at number two on a "talent list" in all Jedi history, nobody in their right mind would claim to be number one. That was what Aavruun understood, at least. So, fine—he'd finally get a clean look at the kid's talent up close.
It was a short walk, and there hadn't been time for small talk. The training sectors stayed loud in the background—boots squeaking on mats, a few younger kids grunting through reps, a droid calling cadence in a flat voice, the steady hum of practice emitters. The air smelled like clean stone and sweat, with that faint metallic bite from charged training gear.
Obi-Wan Kenobi walked with an easy stride, robe hem swaying around his boots. His attempt at a beard sat patchy in places and thicker along the jaw, still carrying that young look around the cheeks. The padawan braid was gone; the change showed in how he stood—same calm, less waiting. Anakin Skywalker kept pace a half step off him, tunic darkened at the collar from a recent workout. He rolled one shoulder like it was tight, then reset his grip on the hilt he carried.
They reached a sparring lane with a clean boundary line painted into the floor and a low rack holding spare masks and padded forearm guards. The lane's mat had scuff marks where kids had pivoted and slid. Anakin already had a training saber in hand, emitter giving off that low, steady hum you felt in your teeth if you stood close.
Ferus Olin stepped forward first, feet setting with care, posture rigid in the way he always carried himself. Ferus raised his practice blade into guard, elbows tucked, wrists straight. Anakin mirrored him, a fraction looser in the shoulders, knees flexed like he was ready to spring.
They bowed.
They started.
Ferus moved like Ferus always did—clean lines, controlled footwork, tight angles. He closed distance on a simple entry and snapped a quick touch across Anakin's front. The training blade made a sharp tap against fabric—enough for a point.
Obi-Wan watched without speaking, hands loosely behind his back. Aavruun stood with Krawruuk just behind the boundary line, both of them still, eyes tracking blade and feet.
Ferus and Anakin reset positions.
Ferus came again. Same discipline, same structure—another clean touch, another point. It landed fast enough that a couple kids in a neighboring sector glanced over and then went back to their own drills.
Obi-Wan nodded once, then spoke in a normal voice.
Obi-Wan said, "Very good, Ferus. Watch your reach. You left your right side open."
Ferus dipped his head, taking it like he always did.
Ferus said, "Thank you, Master Kenobi."
Obi-Wan's eyes shifted to Anakin.
Obi-Wan said, "And Anakin—do what we trained. He's more trained. He's more fit. Match that with discipline."
Anakin swallowed and nodded. Sweat clung at his hairline. His grip tightened on the hilt, then loosened again like he forced his hand to relax.
They reset.
Ferus advanced with a probing cut, testing the guard.
Anakin shut his eyes for a brief beat and took one deeper breath through his nose. His chest rose, then settled. When his eyes opened, his focus looked narrower—less scanning, more locked.
Ferus stepped in and committed, an overhead strike dropping in a clean arc.
Anakin slid off-line. Not a big dodge—just enough. The overhead missed by inches, the hum passing close to his shoulder. Ferus corrected and drove again, trying to re-center his guard and keep the pressure.
Anakin moved again, feet placing where they needed to be without hesitation. He stopped giving ground and closed the gap instead, shoulders turning with the motion.
Ferus tried to bring his blade back to center.
Anakin went under it.
Anakin's practice blade snapped across Ferus's ribs with a hard, controlled slash—still a training hit, still safe, but loud enough to make Ferus's tunic jump and Ferus's breath catch. Ferus stumbled back two steps, one hand dropping to the struck side on instinct, then he forced the hand away and rebuilt his stance.
The point had landed clean.
Anakin blinked, frozen for half a second like he hadn't planned to do it that way.
Anakin said, "I'm—sorry."
Aavruun watched Ferus's guard in his head, then replayed the moment it softened. Ferus had started treating the exchange like it would keep going the same way—structured, predictable, controlled. Anakin broke that pattern with one instinctive decision and a fast entry.
Aavruun kept his face neutral. Inside, he filed it where it belonged.
Anakin had talent. Real talent.
Ferus had the better foundation. Ferus also let his guard get casual for a beat, and in sparring a beat was enough.
Obi-Wan's eyes stayed on both of them, calm and exact.
Obi-Wan said, "Good. Again. Ferus, keep your guard honest. Anakin, don't apologize for a clean point. Control the strike and own the result."
Anakin nodded, jaw set now, breathing steadier. Ferus lifted his blade back to guard, expression tight and focused, the hit already turning into a lesson.
Aavruun stood with Krawruuk a pace behind the line, braids hanging still against his neck, and watched the two boys square up again.
Anakin managed to steal a couple points after that, once his breathing settled and his feet stopped stuttering on the mat. He started reading Ferus's entries, started meeting the blade instead of reacting late.
Ferus still dominated.
Aavruun could see the difference anyway. Give Anakin a year or two and the balance would shift. Talent like that didn't stay behind forever.
Obi-Wan kept watching from the boundary line, hands behind his back, face calm, eyes doing the real work.
When Ferus stepped back to reset, Aavruun stepped forward.
Aavruun had been waiting for this. Krawruuk had been waiting too, quiet as always, but the pressure through their bond sat sharp and ready. The twins treated this as more than points on a lane. Ferus called it training. Aavruun and Krawruuk treated it like seeds—habits you planted now that could keep you breathing later.
Sometimes that meant a brutal lesson.
Ferus raised his training saber and settled into Form I. His shoulders stayed square. His feet stayed disciplined. His eyes stayed locked.
Aavruun mirrored the guard and met him in Shii-Cho, a half dozen exchanges in quick succession—basic cuts, recoveries, clean parries. Plastic soles squeaked on the mat. Practice emitters hissed and snapped as the blades met. The air held sweat and hot electronics, and the far sectors kept thumping with other drills.
Ferus pressed in, confident in his rhythm.
Aavruun waited until Ferus committed to the next beat—until Ferus expected the familiar clash—then Aavruun cut power mid-exchange.
The training blade winked out.
Ferus's saber swung through empty space like it had missed a rung on a ladder. His shoulders surged forward on the follow-through. His weight spilled ahead of his hips. His overhead strike started early, chasing the contact that wasn't there.
Aavruun moved inside the gap.
Aavruun's left hand shot up and clamped Ferus's saber wrist—furred palm biting into the joint line, claws kept tight. Aavruun's right hand caught Ferus's forearm just below the elbow, turning the arm like a wrench. The control hit fast: wrist pinned, elbow angled, shoulder forced to follow.
Ferus tried to muscle it back.
Aavruun used that effort. He stepped deep, hip close, planted his feet, and pulled Ferus's arm across his own centerline. The motion dragged Ferus's balance forward and sideways at the same time. Aavruun's shoulder drove under Ferus's chest line like a moving post.
Then Aavruun turned.
It looked like a front flip because Ferus's legs came up, but it was leverage and timing. Ferus's momentum carried him. Aavruun's hips and shoulder gave it direction. Ferus rotated over Aavruun's frame, the mat rushing up under him.
Ferus hit on his back with a solid slap of impact, breath punching out.
Aavruun re-lit his training saber in the same motion he finished the throw. The blade hissed back to life and stopped clean at Ferus's throat—close enough to make the point obvious, controlled enough to keep it safe. Aavruun's stance stayed low and stable. His off-hand stayed ready at Ferus's wrist line, like he expected a knife or a second weapon to appear.
Ferus blinked up at him, surprised first, then irritated at himself.
Aavruun kept his eyes steady.
Aavruun said, "Expect the unexpected."
Ferus swallowed once, then nodded. He rolled to his side and pushed up, rubbing his ribs more out of habit than pain.
Obi-Wan's eyebrows lifted a fraction.
Obi-Wan said, "Creative. Clean execution." He looked from Aavruun to Krawruuk. "Where did you learn that?"
Aavruun and Krawruuk exchanged a quick look—more a pressure than a conversation—then both of them grinned like it was the easiest question in the galaxy to dodge.
Ferus spoke before the twins bothered.
Ferus said, "They're our resident youngling training maniacs, Master Kenobi. They're very good."
Ferus dusted his hands on his tunic and reset his grip, like the throw had flipped a switch in his head. His guard came up tighter. His feet widened a hair. His eyes stopped assuming.
Obi-Wan stayed with them for the next hour.
They rotated partners. They ran more rounds. Ferus and Anakin kept sparring. The twins stepped in and out, taking turns and giving turns, pushing pace until sweat darkened collars and braids stuck heavier to fur.
Anakin got handled by the twins. Aavruun and Krawruuk hit hard for training—controlled, but heavy. Their blades drove lines that would have mattered with live steel. Their feet cut angles like they wanted the outside lane, like they wanted a flank, like they wanted the fight ended instead of extended. Their guard stayed disciplined the entire exchange. Their breathing stayed measured. Their eyes stayed cold and focused the way adults fought when mistakes cost body parts.
Obi-Wan noticed that.
He watched Anakin spar Ferus and saw kids learning. He watched the twins spar and saw intent that lived closer to survival. The strikes carried weight. The transitions carried urgency. The pauses between beats stayed short, like both of them expected something ugly to happen in the gaps.
When it came time for Aavruun and Krawruuk to spar each other, they shook their heads together.
Aavruun said, "More constructive to spar others."
Obi-Wan looked curious at that. He held the thought behind his eyes and didn't press it in front of the lane.
Anakin wiped sweat off his upper lip with the back of his wrist and stared at the twins like he was trying to understand what, exactly, he was looking at.
Ferus adjusted his stance again and came back in tighter than before.
Obi-Wan stayed quiet, kept watching, and kept filing away the same uncomfortable detail: the twins fought like the lane was real, like the blade had consequences, like life and death sat one step behind every exchange.
Where Anakin and Ferus treated it like training, Obi-Wan caught something different off the Wookiee twins—one tone in how they carried themselves that felt closer to a veteran than a kid playing at forms.
Obi-Wan watched Aavruun and Krawruuk reset their stance, paws setting on the flat with quiet weight, shoulders squared, ears forward. The thought came back on its own: hadn't they come to the Temple as cubs? Two Wookiee younglings were rare, it's why he remembered them.
Aavruun and Krawruuk moved like fighters who expected resistance. The seriousness sat in their posture, in how their feet stayed under them, in how their guards stayed honest even after a point got scored. Their breathing stayed controlled. Their eyes stayed on hands and hips, not faces. When they shifted, it stayed tight and purposeful—no extra motion, no wasted reach. Obi-Wan had seen that kind of economy before, usually on beings who'd learned what a mistake cost.
Obi-Wan kept his expression neutral and ran the simplest explanation first. Kashyyyk produced natural warriors. Strong bodies. Fast reactions. A culture that raised cubs on height, claws, and danger. That could account for a lot.
Still.
Obi-Wan stepped closer to the edge of the lane and gave pointers the same way he gave them to any younglings—short corrections, clean and practical.
Obi-Wan said, "Ferus—watch your reach. Don't give away your base to chase a point."
Obi-Wan looked at Anakin.
Obi-Wan said, "Anakin—breathe before you commit. If you rush, you telegraph."
Obi-Wan looked at the twins.
Obi-Wan said, "Aavruun, Krawruuk—good control. Keep it. Don't let speed turn into sloppiness."
Ferus acknowledged with a crisp nod. Anakin swallowed once, then nodded fast. Aavruun and Krawruuk answered with low rumbles and steady eyes.
After that, the block ended the way Temple blocks ended. The younglings peeled off toward the next thing on their schedules, footfalls fading into the larger noise of the training sectors. Obi-Wan stayed put for a moment, hands behind his back, listening to the hum of other lanes and the soft hiss of practice emitters further down.
All three younglings were talented. That part was obvious.
The Wookiee twins stayed in the back of Obi-Wan's mind as he turned to leave. Something about them read like it had been forged earlier than it should've been, and he found himself curious—plain and practical—how far they could go.