M O B I U S
KNIGHTING OF TASIA PALPATINE
Seth Denko hadn’t grown up with ceremonies. Not the kind with sabers and silence, at least.
Back home, recognition came with credits, backslaps, or the kind of hush that settled over a room when someone didn’t come back from a job. Not applause. Not titles. But today—this knighting, this gathering—it meant something. Even if he was still trying to figure out what.
He stood just beyond the arch of the great stone doors, jungle light pouring in around him. His Royal Naboo Navy uniform was pressed, clean, but carried the slight stiffness of someone who’d never quite grown used to wearing it outside a cockpit. Clipped to his belt was the simple cylinder of a Jedi’s weapon—new, unfamiliar, and, if he was honest, still strange to carry.
The Order of Shiraya had only recently accepted him as a Padawan. He was one of many wearing two identities: pilot to the Republic, apprentice to the Jedi. And this, this moment, was his first true introduction to them all.
The enclave buzzed with life. Jedi, both seasoned and young, mingled beneath the golden light, their laughter and words drifting across the stone like music. Tasia, the newly knighted, stood radiant at the center, surrounded by the warmth of a people who had claimed her as one of their own. He didn’t know her. But the way they looked at her—like she'd fought for that name and earned it—said more than any dossier ever could.
He inclined his head politely as he passed through the crowd, offering soft “Afternoon.” greetings to those who noticed him. Not many did. He was new. Unknown. That was fine.
He preferred watching anyway.
It was the sound of a solid impact that pulled his attention toward the training ring. There, bare feet struck dirt. Sweat glistened. Fighters collided with the kind of grace born from pain and repetition. Lorn, if he caught the name right, had just been planted into the ground by one of the locals. Ala—smiling, disheveled, and apparently undefeated by her own robes—had rebounded like a dust-kissed cyclone and won her bout with a move that wouldn’t have been out of place on Nar Shaddaa.
Seth smiled despite himself.
There was something honest about it. No titles, no diplomacy—just grit and timing and the kind of instinct you couldn’t teach in a temple. It reminded him of fights back in the alleys of Corellia's loading docks or Nar Shaddaa’s old pit circuits. Back when the Force was just adrenaline and luck.
“Reminds me of home.” he muttered, voice low, the faintest edge of rough-city accent breaking through the Naboo polish.
He didn’t step into the ring. Not yet. He wasn’t here to posture.
He was here to learn.
And as the Order of Shiraya laughed, fought, and leaned into the moment, Seth Denko—new Padawan, rookie pilot, and lifelong outsider—quietly resolved that he would earn his place among them the same way they had:
One strike. One step. One breath at a time.
Back home, recognition came with credits, backslaps, or the kind of hush that settled over a room when someone didn’t come back from a job. Not applause. Not titles. But today—this knighting, this gathering—it meant something. Even if he was still trying to figure out what.
He stood just beyond the arch of the great stone doors, jungle light pouring in around him. His Royal Naboo Navy uniform was pressed, clean, but carried the slight stiffness of someone who’d never quite grown used to wearing it outside a cockpit. Clipped to his belt was the simple cylinder of a Jedi’s weapon—new, unfamiliar, and, if he was honest, still strange to carry.
The Order of Shiraya had only recently accepted him as a Padawan. He was one of many wearing two identities: pilot to the Republic, apprentice to the Jedi. And this, this moment, was his first true introduction to them all.
The enclave buzzed with life. Jedi, both seasoned and young, mingled beneath the golden light, their laughter and words drifting across the stone like music. Tasia, the newly knighted, stood radiant at the center, surrounded by the warmth of a people who had claimed her as one of their own. He didn’t know her. But the way they looked at her—like she'd fought for that name and earned it—said more than any dossier ever could.
He inclined his head politely as he passed through the crowd, offering soft “Afternoon.” greetings to those who noticed him. Not many did. He was new. Unknown. That was fine.
He preferred watching anyway.
It was the sound of a solid impact that pulled his attention toward the training ring. There, bare feet struck dirt. Sweat glistened. Fighters collided with the kind of grace born from pain and repetition. Lorn, if he caught the name right, had just been planted into the ground by one of the locals. Ala—smiling, disheveled, and apparently undefeated by her own robes—had rebounded like a dust-kissed cyclone and won her bout with a move that wouldn’t have been out of place on Nar Shaddaa.
Seth smiled despite himself.
There was something honest about it. No titles, no diplomacy—just grit and timing and the kind of instinct you couldn’t teach in a temple. It reminded him of fights back in the alleys of Corellia's loading docks or Nar Shaddaa’s old pit circuits. Back when the Force was just adrenaline and luck.
“Reminds me of home.” he muttered, voice low, the faintest edge of rough-city accent breaking through the Naboo polish.
He didn’t step into the ring. Not yet. He wasn’t here to posture.
He was here to learn.
And as the Order of Shiraya laughed, fought, and leaned into the moment, Seth Denko—new Padawan, rookie pilot, and lifelong outsider—quietly resolved that he would earn his place among them the same way they had:
One strike. One step. One breath at a time.
