Sword of Shiraya
Lorn leaned against the cool durasteel railing of his balcony, the morning sun warming his scarred face. Shiraya's Rest stretched out before him, the training pit a dusty amphitheater of sweat and struggle. It felt like only yesterday he'd been slogging through those same trials. Now, he was the one watching. Commander Lorn, a title that still felt…new.
The recent skirmishes on Hapes and Naboo had been brutal. The constant barrage of blaster fire and desperate defenses had taken its toll. His muscles screamed for rest, the old aches in his bones a constant reminder of close calls and fallen comrades. He yearned for a moment of peace, a chance to simply breathe, but duty called. The Vanguard was depleted, their ranks thinned by war. They needed fresh blood, new warriors to stand beside them.
Below, the hopefuls were going through hell. Blaster fire zipped past their ears in a hailstorm of laser bolts. The clash of vibroblades echoed with each parry and strike. Force obstacles twisted and turned, testing their control and agility. He knew the process was harsh, unforgiving, but it was necessary. The Vanguard wasn't a daycare, it was a shield against the darkness.
Lorn scanned the faces in the pit, searching for a spark, something that set them apart. A hidden strength, a stubborn refusal to quit, a flicker of raw potential amidst the exhaustion. Today, he wasn't just a Commander, he was a prospector, sifting through the grit and grime for a diamond in the rough. He needed warriors, true, but he also craved the hope that a new generation could reignite, that they would stand against the tide of darkness with unyielding resolve. The fate of the Republic, in some small way, might rest on the decisions he made this very day.
