Dynasty

vii. LOVELORN

From the smoking hole in his chest that gaped like the mouth of a monster, the truth spread, cell by cell, the scent of burning flesh weaving its suffocating miasma through the air as the changeling morphed back into its true self, a greenish, wizened thing. Why he had snuck into the temple, no one knew. How Nadya had seen through his disguise, no one knew either.

All that was known was the word arrogant, and its brothers, brash, cocky, impetuous.

Later, they would find the padawan's body off-world, pale and stiff. And even later, Chrysaor would learn that Nadya and the padawan had been friends for many years. Yet he had not greeted her when she stood before him that day—he did not even recognise her. That was how she had known.

Was it selfish to believe that, because a person you care for does not recognise you, they must not be themselves? Chrysaor had considered the notion, time and time again over the days and nights he spent roaming the temple halls. Eventually, he decided not to challenge it. Nadya's story was bruised enough without him poking holes through it—questioning her motives was like wounding her, and he had no desire to see her bleed again.

Then came Fallon. Kil Vizsla had always watched over her, and it was to no-one's surprise that he claimed her as his padawan the moment he was able to. She was perfect for him, even and circumspect, curious and clever; the exact intersection of a soldier and a scholar. And he was perfect for her too, a gentle god who could carve channels for the great river of her ambition and see her carried safely to sea.

Hiro was next, and her situation remained as ambiguous now as it had been when she first announced her assignment to Adi Gallia. Adi Gallia, gifted with stoicism and sawtooth-sharp wit, with a taste for tradition and a dislike for defiance. Yet Hiro did nothing but defy, devour, her words and weapons—which were oftentimes interchangeable—brutal and biting. Adi was not interested in training a child who was perpetually teething, each tooth a new personality. Beautiful Hiro, with her pretty smile, her pretty dances. Vicious Hiro, with her cruelty, her callousness. Crafty Hiro, with her cunning intellect and fox-like stratagems.

There were only two consistencies for all the Hiros that existed together in the girl's slender frame: they were always a mask, a concealment, and they always hated Chrysaor. I'll set you on fire, golden boy, she had said the day she constructed her second lightsabre. Double the weapon, double the wound. Let's see how bright you burn.

Whether Adi had taken on Hiro willingly, or had been pressed into the task by the Council, no one knew. And Chrysaor, who did not know the girl beneath the masks, not truly, did not dare to ask.

And then, it was him. Last, and very likely, least. He could remember his fear like acid, corroding him till he was laid bare, all bones and nerves and hissing blood. Had he done something wrong, something to scare off all prospective masters? Chrysaor was sure he hadn't. He was a skilled duellist already, a more-than-competent combatant. He lacked Nadya's savage temper, Hiro's two-facedness: all the traits that bred hatred, the rot that bred decay.

Still, no one chose him—and that terrified him. He had heard stories of younglings who had been favoured by no one; they were passed to the jurisdiction of the Council of Reassignment, traded from the temple as if they were stock, a bolt of fabric between merchants, a commodity. With the Council, the younglings were assigned to the Jedi Service Corps, and directed to retraining, where they would learn to use their abilities for other services, like agriculture or law enforcement.

Or, they were sent home.

Chrysaor did not want to spend his time with plants—he didn't care for them in the slightest. What would he want with them? He had no desire to prune back deadwood, to pare off rot; to feel the ebb and flow of sap in a stem, to weave strength into crops with will and focus. And he would not waste his ambition on law enforcement.