Lorn trudged into Shiraya's Rest as the first rays of the sun painted the sky in hues of purple and gold. He was a silhouette against the awakening world, his armor dented and grime-streaked, mirroring the state of his soul. The night had been a brutal teacher, its lessons etched into the lines on his face and the ache in his bones. Lyra, their Commander, was gone, a casualty of a New Way trap they had walked into with blind faith. A trap that had shattered their ranks and left them raw and bleeding. He and Aiden had fought tooth and nail, a desperate dance with death that had barely brought them home.
Now, the courtyard was a silent testament to their loss. The Vanguard milled about, their faces etched with a confusion born of grief and shock. A shadow hung over them all, the heavy realization that they were now a ship without a captain. Yet, Lyra, in her wisdom, had foreseen such a possibility. She had left behind a contingency – a plan for succession. And so, the Vanguard, a relatively new entity, was about to undertake a somber rite.
There in the courtyard, amidst the hushed murmurs and averted gazes, they nominated three. Lorn was one, a fact that surprised him deep within his weary core. Despite his relative newness, they saw his grit, the hardened edges smoothed over by countless skirmishes, the steely calm that settled over him in the heat of battle. He was a soldier, through and through. He knew this life, he knew the price it demanded.
The unnominated retreated into the barracks to deliberate, to weigh the merits of each candidate and cast their votes. Lorn was left behind in the sun-kissed courtyard, a figure of quiet contemplation. He settled on the edge of the cliff, legs dangling precariously over the drop, his gaze lost in the horizon. He saw the faces of the fallen in the sky, heard the echoes of blaster fire in the wind, and felt the phantom ache of Lyra's loss. He had known many deaths, had walked on battlefields that had swallowed entire armies. It was nothing new, but this was different.
The sun ascended, painting the sky in fiery colors, as he took a deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs. His mind wandered, a chaotic jumble of memories and anxieties. What did it all mean? Did this all matter? If he was to lead this newly formed group, could he even do it? He wondered. His mind wandered, focusing on the last ascension he had experienced, what a joyful time that was...
---
The camp crackled with the energy of a recent victory. Lorn, a young man of twenty-two, moved through the boisterous crowd, a half-smile playing on his lips. The infantry, back from a scouting mission, were in high spirits, their laughter echoing off the surrounding trees. He had fought alongside these men for years, defending the Varnell Kingdom against the relentless aggression of the Krull. Years that had hardened him, forged him into something far removed from the boy he once was.
His master, Soloman, a weathered warrior with a stoic demeanor that rarely faltered, suddenly shed his usual reserve. A rare, genuine smile stretched across his face, his eyes twinkling with an unusual light. He had an idea, he announced, a rather unorthodox one. It was time, he declared, to symbolically Knight Lorn.
Lorn's brow furrowed. He didn't understand. They hadn't followed the traditional Jedi path ever since they had fled the New Jedi Order, leaving that life behind. He wasn't a Padawan. He was a soldier, a warrior, a killer. He had taken lives in defense of his people. Surely a Jedi was the furthest thing he could be? He had believed himself to be nothing like what he had been brought up to be as a young Jedi.
But Soloman insisted, his face flushed a happy red. Lorn found himself kneeling before his master, the hilt of Soloman's lightsaber almost resting on his shoulders, first one side then the other. "Rise," Soloman boomed, his voice thick with uncharacteristic emotion, "Rise, Jedi Knight Lorn."
The soldiers cheered, the camp erupting in joyous shouts and laughter. Wine flowed freely, and the night continued with merriment. But as Lorn joined in with the celebrations, his gaze drifted toward the edge of the encampment. There, in the distance, stood a figure, her form silhouetted against the moonlit sky. She had long, flowing blond hair, and for a moment, Lorn's heart seemed to leap into his throat.
Virginia?
The thought struck him with the force of a physical blow. Could it be her? Spies had reported that she was now a ruthless warrior alongside the Krull, a shadow of the woman he once knew. She wielded the darkness of the force, a valkyrie on the battlefield. He shook his head, dismissing it as the effects of the wine.
But as he took a step towards the edge of the camp to better see, the figure turned and vanished into the darkness. He cursed under his breath. Why? Why, after all this time, did she still haunt him? He should hate her, despise her for choosing the enemy, for betraying them both. But instead, he felt a persistent pull, a painful hope that lingered in the deepest recesses of his heart. He still believed he could save her, that he could somehow draw her back from the darkness that had consumed her.
He hated that he felt it. He hated his inability to let go. Soloman had tried to arrange marriages with noblewomen from allied kingdoms, but Lorn had always refused. No one else could hold his attention, his heart was still bound to Virginia, to the memories they shared, to the girl he believed was still buried under that ruthless exterior.
With a sigh, Lorn turned away from the darkness and back towards the warmth of the campfire. He rejoined the revelry, raising his own cup of wine to his lips. Though his heart ached for a love that felt as though it was lost, he found solace in the laughter and camaraderie of his fellow soldiers. He was surrounded by brothers-in arms, men who had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him in the face of war, men whom he had come to love just as family, and on this special night, that was enough. He was a Knight, a warrior, and he would lead them into battle as he always had. It was time to put the past behind him and face the future.
---
Time blurred, and then they were there, their movements solemn, their faces etched with a gravity that went beyond their years. They emerged from the barracks, their eyes finding him on the precipice. They moved slowly toward him
One of the older members, a seasoned warrior named Kael, stepped forward, his hand extended. In its palm lay the Vanguard pendant, a symbol of office, of the responsibility and the burden that came with it. The pendant, forged by the unit's own blacksmith, was more than just metal and a few markings. It was a testament to their shared history, their hopes and dreams. It was designed to be worn by the Commander until their last breath, a visceral reminder of the weight of their calling.
Kael approached Lorn, his gaze serious, a mixture of loss and hope shimmering within them. He stood before Lorn, the pendant resting in his palm. "The Vanguard has spoken, Lorn." Kael said, his voice rough with emotion. "You are our Commander."
With a nod, Lorn rose, his body moving with a weariness that belied the strength that he would have to display. He faced the group, his jaw clenched. Kael placed the pendant around Lorn's neck, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat of the rising sun. As it settled on his chest, it felt like a physical weight, a tangible manifestation of the responsibility he now bore.
The other Vanguard members lowered their heads in respect, a silent acknowledgment of the transition. The silence was broken by a soft, mournful hum from one of them, a traditional tune used to honor a new leader. Soon, others joined, their voices weaving together, creating a mixture of sound that echoed through the courtyard, their song a pledge of loyalty.
An older member, Aella, stepped forward, holding a small, intricately carved wooden bowl. Inside, fragrant oils swirled, their scents reminiscent of Naboo, a symbol of strength and stability. Dipping her fingers into the bowl, she marked the sign of the Vanguard on Lorn's forehead, her touch reverent, her eyes full of a mixture of grief and a wellspring of hope for a future. She then made the same mark on his forearms, her hand steady. This was a blessing, a way to fortify Lorn for the challenges that lay ahead.
The others followed suit, using their hands to smudge the oil on Lorn's head and shoulders. Each touch was an offering, a transfer of their trust and their faith in his leadership. The oils soaked into his skin, a balm that seemed to soothe the rawness within them. He hadn't known where this tradition had come from, yet it oddly comforted his resolve.
Finally, the group stood back, their gazes fixed on Lorn, their new leader. He looked back at them, his eyes somber but resolute. He knew then and there that the path ahead would be hard, it would require great strength and sacrifice but he would not falter. He was the Vanguard's Commander, Lyra's legacy, and he would see them through their losses and their victories. He would lead. The weight of dawn was his, and he would wear it with honor. And so, Lorn, Commander of the Vanguard, had been made.
