Azure Phoenix
The moment Kaelos pressed his hands against the surface of the box, the Force responded, surging through him like ink swirling in water. Fleeting impressions bled into his mind—blurry, fragmented, frustratingly incomplete.
Fingers. Hands—too many of them. The box had passed through several, none lingering long enough to offer clarity. The touch of Jedi, yes, but also others—mechanics, merchants, people who had no business handling something tied to Braze. Had it been passed through decoys?
The vision shifted. A darkened space. Shelves stacked high with indistinct objects. A low murmur of voices, muffled and distorted, their words just out of reach. Someone—no, multiple someones—placed something inside. But the moment the lid closed, the vision warped. A void. A complete and utter dead zone. No impression of what was inside, as if it had been erased from time itself.
Pushing harder, trying to break through the static, to latch onto something—but the box resisted. Not just the object within, but the container itself. Crafted with intention. Not a simple wooden shell, but something layered, something protected.
A fleeting glimpse surfaced—Braze, seated alone in a dimly lit room. The box rested before him, open. His hands moved with deliberate precision, placing something inside.
But the moment it should have come into focus, the vision fractured.
Where the object should be, there was nothing—just a blackened void, as if the Force itself refused to reveal it. The edges flickered and burned like charred parchment, details consumed before they could be understood. The memory twisted around the absence, recoiling from it. The void wasn't just obscured—it felt wrong.
Braze's expression lingered—calm, unreadable, yet touched with the faintest glint of knowing amusement, as if he had expected someone to look. And then, just as abruptly, the vision collapsed into emptiness.
Then, a sharp jolt. A flash of white-hot heat—pain? No, warning.
Braze.
His presence flickered at the edge of the vision, not in memory, but in something else. Expectation. Amusement. Anticipation.
And just like that, the connection severed.
The box sat in his lap, unchanged, as though it had never stirred at all.
It should have worked. But it hadn't. And now, the mystery gnawed at him worse than before. What could possible be with in the box?