The Corellian Knight
Location: Coruscant | Jedi Temple
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The steady hum of holo-displays, the faint rustle of fabric as Jedi scholars moved between the towering shelves—hell, even the droids assisting in cataloging had the decency to work in silence. If there was a place in the galaxy where boredom could manifest into a living thing, it was here. And yet, here he was. Sifting through centuries of Jedi wisdom, trying to piece together what to expect on Ilum—a planet he had never set foot on, but one his Padawan would soon be journeying to.
A soft blue light bathed his face as the holo-display flickered to life, projecting maps of Ilum's frozen surface. The terrain was harsh—endless snow-blasted plains, jagged mountains of ice, and a network of crystalline caverns beneath the surface that had swallowed generations of Jedi whole. Extreme cold. Treacherous terrain. The cave system itself… shifting? Gil squinted. "Oh, great. An ancient, mystical, Force-powered death maze. Fantastic."
He leaned forward, arms resting on the table as he scrolled through first-hand accounts from Jedi who had undergone the Gathering, the rite of passage where young Jedi retrieved their Kyber crystals. The writings were old, poetic, full of deep reflections about destiny, the Force, and self-discovery.
What they were not—was practical.
"It is in the silence of Ilum that one hears the whisper of the Force…"
"The cold strips away all but the truth of oneself…"
"The crystal does not choose you; you must become worthy of it."
Gil exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple with two fingers. "For kriff's sake, could just one of you have written down a simple packing list?"
He wasn't an idiot—he understood that Ilum wasn't just about getting a fancy crystal. It was a test. A personal, spiritual challenge. Every account hammered home the same lesson: Jedi didn't just find their Kyber. The crystal called to them, revealed something about them. That was what concerned him.
He knew what it was like to stare into your own mind and not like what stared back. He had spent years trying to outrun certain memories, certain betrayals, and he had the scars—both inside and out—to prove it. His Padawan? They had scars of their own, and Gil was not too eager to force the young

But Ilum had a way of cutting deep.
Leaning back in his chair, he let his gaze drift upward toward the endless rows of holobooks and data records that lined the archives. The Jedi had been going to Ilum for thousands of years. That kind of history had weight, and that weight pressed down on him now. Gil had built his saberstaff out of necessity, from crystals given to him by his old master in the heat of war. He had never done this the right way, never walked the same path as those before him. His bond with his weapon had been forged in the fire of war, not in some serene moment of enlightenment inside a mystical ice cave.
And now, his Padawan was about to take that journey, and he had no idea how to guide them through it.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck before tapping a command into the holo-terminal. More files loaded—historical threats on Ilum, reports of looters, old records of Jedi encountering unexpected dangers. Because as much as the Jedi loved to wax poetic about inner truths and spiritual discovery, Gil knew the galaxy didn't give a damn about enlightenment. There were always raiders, thieves, and scavengers looking to cash in on Jedi relics.
Even now, in an era of relative peace, Ilum was still a target.
His fingers tightened around his saberstaff, the cool metal grounding him for a moment. No matter how personal the Gathering was supposed to be, he would not let his Padawan walk into that alone. Not in this galaxy. Not with what he knew. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he shut off the display and stood. If Ilum was going to throw surprises at them, then he'd learn every trick these archives had to offer.
Because when the time came, his Padawan would not go in blind.