Unredacted Truths

Posted on Sun Feb 1st, 2026 @ 9:50pm by Sotah & Thurius

2,687 words; about a 13 minute read

Chapter: Chapter VIII: Broken Chains
Location: Reborn Jedi Temple, Coruscant
Timeline: Immediately after "A Fair Offer"

OLD

"Good," Ryn said with a curt nod. He reached under his left armored gauntlet and retrieved a small military-grade cryptographic chip and used the Force to gently float it towards Sotah and Thurius. "Take this. It's your backchannel to your apprentices. Before Zenarrah betrayed me a second time at Korriban, I took precautions using the Descent's computers. She made the mistake of using a connection to her daughter's HoloNet alias using outdated protocols. We know they're on an old ship called the Red Raptor. If you can reach out to your apprentices, talk them down, perhaps even meet with them, then we may have a chance to prevent unnecessary bloodshed. And if you happen to see a young Nautolan woman with them, extend my offer of surrender to her. She is wanted as a suspect for the murder of a scientist on Lorrd. She may be my former apprentice's child, but she's a fugitive and will be treated as such."

Sotah accepted the chip with both hands, inclining his head in a gesture that was formal, measured, and deliberately sincere. “Then I accept this provision with thanks, Master Rynseh,” he said evenly. “An offer of surrender, plainly stated and honoured, is preferable to bloodshed.”

He paused, eyes steady on the Cathar master. “If words can still reach them, then they should be spoken now, before certainty hardens into inevitability.” His tone carried no argument, only acknowledgement, but there was an unmistakable sadness in his tone. “We take you at your word, friend.”

Only then did Sotah glance aside to Thurius, the smallest flicker of shared understanding passing between them, and just as quickly gone. He returned his gaze to Rynseh. “If this conflict can be ended before it truly begins - without martyrs, without absolutes - then that is the outcome I believe we all work toward.” A small, tooth-filled smile was demurely offered to the larger Jedi. “May the Force be with you, Master Rynseh Lahan.”

NEW

They did not speak as they left the vault behind.

The Temple swallowed them quickly, the air growing warmer and more familiar with each turn, the architecture shedding its severity in favour of smooth stone and older comforts. The corridors here bore the marks of long habitation rather than purpose-built vigilance: softened edges, light that diffused rather than cut, the faint murmur of distant voices bleeding through walls designed to remember peace. It was a part of the Temple the more ardent Waayists and these resurgent Templars rarely used - not out of prohibition, but disinterest. There was nothing to prepare for here.

Thurius led without hurry, his stride measured, the tall lines of his frame unbroken by gesture or hesitation. Sotah followed, his breathing audible in the quiet, the faint rasp of it echoing softly as they moved.

The cryptographic chip remained in his hands, carried carefully, without inspection, as though its meaning might change if examined too closely. No lenses tracked them now, even in innocence. The Temple, at least in this place, pretended not to notice.

Sotah's current quarters lay beyond a short access corridor and a simple field-sealed door, larger than the dormitories assigned to younger Jedi, though not by much. The space within was spare but lived-in: a narrow sleeping alcove, a low table set near the wall, shelves bearing a handful of datacylinders, scroll-cases, and personal effects gathered across decades rather than arranged for display. A single viewport looked inward, toward the Temple's inner structure rather than out across Coruscant, offering light without vista. A few amenities to evoke a more aquatic environment were littered about, as well as a general moistness and humidity to the room.

Sotah crossed to the table and sat heavily, the motion slower than it once had been, his robes settling around him with a soft sound. Without ceremony, he reached into the fold of his garment and withdrew a thin data-slate, its casing unmarked save for a single inactive sigil. It was the Bastion Document. An unsanitised and complete copy, obtained via old friends within their Rift counterparts. It lay open where he had left it, lines of text and embedded schematics frozen mid-scroll, the quiet testimony of decisions already made elsewhere.

He placed the cryptographic chip beside it.

The two objects sat together on the table - one a record of vast, systemic intent, the other small, precise, and personal. Sotah regarded them in silence, his dark eyes reflecting the light from the slate's surface, his hands resting on either side as though to keep them from drifting apart.

The Temple beyond the door continued as it always had. Lessons were taught and meditations observed. Young voices passed in the corridors outside, unburdened by what had just been spoken in stone and shadow. Within the room, however, the air had changed, thickened further by what had taken place with Rynseh Lahan.

"They shared this knowing it would fracture the Republic," Sotah finally said. His gaze rested on the Bastion Document, then lifted to Thurius. "If we speak to them now, it cannot be to correct that choice, however, but to show that someone finally understood it."

Thurius remained standing, his cloudy blue eyes looked down, burrowing past the two objects of great significance, not returning his friends gaze, but simply staring into the middle distance.

"And then what else do we offer them?" he answered finally, still not diverting his intense, but unfocussed gaze, "Present Rynseh's offer of surrender and obscurity? The men that left us were not satisfied with the answers we offered them and they won't be satisfied by this offer of mercy, if that's even what it is. I barely know any more."

He finally lifted his gaze, not to Sotah, but to the Bastion Document: the cold, calculated ledger of secret dealings and manipulations by GalactaWerks that eroded trust in the Republic. And as one pillar of the Golden Age crumbled, the weight upon the other pillars increased.

"We understand them all too well, I fear," his words tinged with a flash of feeling, "They always wanted to break the status quo and now they have done it. Of course I don't want them to be hunted and killed by Rynseh's Templars, but how can I ask them to surrender their freedom, their powers, their souls to that man? Must he have them too?"

Sotah was silent for a few moments more. Sadness creased his thick, rubbery skin. A lot of expression was carried across his Selkath visage, and was easily recognisable to his long-time friend.

"I am sorry," he then said quietly. "Not only for Loren... not only for Mykles." The words were insufficient, and he knew it, but they were still necessary.

He turned then, crossing the short distance back to the low table. The Bastion Document lay where he had left it, its light muted now, as though dimmed by the weight of what had been spoken aloud. The chip sat beside it, unassuming, precise, waiting to be used. Sotah rested his palm briefly against the edge of the slate, grounding himself in something tangible.

"They did not share this recklessly," he said at last, his voice steadier now, though no less tired. "Thane and Bomoor knew exactly what would happen once it was released. They knew the Senate would smooth it, pare it down, decide which truths could be borne and which must be softened. And, perhaps, they accepted that." He looked back to Thurius, his dark eyes reflective rather than accusing. "Rynseh believes an offer of surrender can still contain what comes next. Perhaps he is sincere - I think he is. But sincerity is not the same as understanding, and it is understanding that is absent from his terms... and the dark side is now clouding everything. Even the Council must recognise that, now, their sight so diminished."

He inhaled slowly, the sound faint and wet in the humid room. Said unspoken was whether their weakened foresight was born some other evil festering within the Order - or elsewhere. But, Sotah had his own belief.

"If we go to them as Jedi Masters," he continued, "we will already have failed. They know what the Order is becoming. They left because they knew it before most of us would admit it." His gaze dropped briefly, the loss of Loren surfacing there, unspoken but present. "I will not ask them to return to something that no longer exists, and certainly not to face false judgement."

When he looked up again, there was resolve there, thin but real.

"But they are still our apprentices. Still our friends - our family. And whatever they are becoming, it did not begin in darkness." His voice softened, the Selkath cadence more pronounced. "If there is any guidance left to offer, it must come from that truth... as those who taught them what being Jedi was meant to be, before doctrine replaced care."

He looked meaningfully into Thurius' eyes, imploring.

"Our goal is not surrender," Sotah said finally. "Nor defiance, 'though it may be seen that way. It is to ensure that whatever choices they make next are made with understanding, not isolation. If they are to walk away from what it means to be Jedi entirely, then they should do so knowing they were clearly seen by us at least once." His eyes wandered to the window briefly before finding their way back to the Cerean. "I sense, as you must have, that this is where the precipice lies. This is the vergence."

Thurius' brows raised slowly; it was a slight movement but, on his Cerean face conveyed the weight of Sotah's words sinking in. Their meaning had somewhere he had carefully avoided for years, but carried the weight of for decades.

“Has the Order fallen so far?” his voice was low, almost under his breath. It's not that he did not believe it, but it was so taboo to speak of it in these halls that he had buried away his own doubts, even at the darkest moments.

His gaze drifted, unfocused again, to the far wall, “I have spent so long thinking I was not good enough and that I needed to make amends for my failure, but perhaps…” His voice thinned, the admission scraping its way out, “perhaps I was just internalising the decay around me.”

He exhaled slowly, the breath leaving him as though it had been held for years:

“When Mykles died, you taught me that a new outlook on what it means to be a Jedi; what would bring me peace... and it did for a time: while I taught Bomoor and watched him grow alongside Thane, I felt as though I was a part of something greater.”

His jaw tightened and there was a beat of silence before he added, softer:

“But then, as they stepped away, I was forced to choose between them and the Order; between purpose and duty. If I ask them to bend to Rynseh and the Order, admit they were wrong, then I feel I will lose that purpose I crafted with you and with them both over all these years. This 'vergence', this conflict: do we lose either way?”

Sotah shook his head slowly.

"There is no winning here," he said after a moment. "And no loss worth measuring." He held Thurius' gaze, steady and certain in a way grief had not yet eroded. "The Living Force does not ask us to choose sides. It asks us to act rightly, now, with what is before us." A quiet breath, eyes briefly turned up, before returning to his friend. "Balance is not preserved by outcomes. It is preserved by intention, mindful of the present. We do not go to them to convince, or to retrieve, or to resolve anything for the Order... We go because it is right to meet those we care for without fear, without terms, and without an end already decided."

The Selkath thought for a moment, and his hands found each other within the folds of his dyed robes. "What comes of it," he said slowly, the sadness still heavy, despite his softened tone, "is not truly ours to control."

Thurius' allowed his arms to drop and he shuffled over and sat next to his friend, letting out a short groan from a body that felt the weight of many years upon it all of a sudden.

He looked at the wide, glistening face of the consular before forcing a weary smile.

"I think you've always embodied Jedi humility far better than I, old friend," Thurius inclined his tall head, "Of course, you can't blame an old Cerean for being a little headstrong. But you're right: this is not our story to tell, but one we must hear with open minds and compassion."

"Humility is only useful if it moves us," he said quietly. "Listening is not the same as standing aside." He turned slightly toward Thurius, his voice low and steady. "We will hear them, yes. Fully. Without judgement, and without the weight of what others expect us to say." A pause, deliberate. "But we will also be there, in the moment, as we are now. That matters."

The Selkath's hands tightened together once, then stilled. "The Force is not patient with hesitation disguised as wisdom. It asks us to be present... not perfect."

His dark eyes held Thurius' a moment longer before exhaling slowly, then leaned forward. His hand moved with care, not haste, as he gathered the data from the table. The Bastion Document was closed first, its light extinguished with a soft tap. Only then did he take up the cryptographic chip, turning it once between his fingers as if weighing not its value, but its timing.

"We should test it, quietly. Make certain it cannot be traced, or twisted into a summons we did not intend." His gaze lifted to Thurius, steady. "When we reach out, it must be as the invitation we propose, not a signal."

Thurius gaze followed the chip in Sotah's glistening aquatic hand and the corners of his mouth trembled as he hesitated, trapped on the brink of a thought.

"Be present..." he echoed the Selkath's words, "Not perfect..."

Sotah saw the faint glisten of a silent tear glide down Thurius' cheek and disappear in a fleeting moment.

His fingers curled slightly against his knees, as though bracing himself against a blow that had not yet struck.

“I worry,” he said, voice low, “That I have not been present enough for him. For either of them... and if we offer only an invitation…” His breath thinned, almost lost to the room’s humidity, “I fear it may go unanswered.”

He did not look at Sotah as he said it. The admission was too raw, too close to his heart.

Sotah reached out, placing one broad, cool hand over Thurius’ forearm, the touch steady and unhurried. It was not to stop him, but just to be there, a familiarity earned through years of companionship and strife.

"An invitation unanswered is still an honest act," he said quietly. "We are not measured by replies received, but by whether we spoke when it mattered." His thumb pressed once, gently, then withdrew. "If they are willing to hear us, they will recognise the difference," Sotah continued, voice low, certain. "As their friends. Not as emissaries."

A pause lingered for a moment before Sotah continued. "And if wisdom does not find us today," he added, almost lightly, "then it will not be coaxed by hunger."

He gestured faintly toward the door, the tension easing from his shoulders by a fraction.

"There is a small diner in the CoCo District. Still run by the same family, I believe. They make a spiced kelp broth that likely should not please so many diverse palettes, but does." A faint, tired warmth entered his tone. "We can eat. We can rest. Tomorrow will still be there." He settled back, hands folding once more into his robes.

"There is no rush," Sotah then said. "Only the next right step."

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