Mother of the Rebellion
She lowered herself, folding into a cross-legged position as she closed in on the floor, her wrapped fingers brushing the Holocron's surface, its weight far heavier than its physical form suggested. The nameless one who had lent it to her had done so with neither warning nor reassurance, only a knowing glance that spoke volumes. This was no mere relic of Jedi or Sith wisdom. This was the archive of knowledge and power few could wield.
Even now she felt the length of her scar; there was a deep pulsating under the flesh -- the Nameless creatures of legend had left their mark, and with it took or suppressed her abilities somehow. She had been the first of any to survive that she could find in any records anywhere. However, her cerebral prowess remained.
As she reached out with her mind, the Holocron responded in kind, a whisper threading through her consciousness like a blade slipping between ribs. Mastery? The voice of Je'gan Olra'en was neither welcoming nor dismissive—merely expectant, as though he had been waiting for her all along, as though he could read her mind.
A flicker of movement danced at the edge of her vision. The chamber had no windows, no flickering torches, yet shadows slithered across the stone walls, forming outlines where none should be; or so she thought...
It was illusion, but illusion so finely woven it blurred the line between deception and reality.
She exhaled, steadying herself. She was no novice to such trickery. Her own mind had carved its place in the void of the Force, bending thought and will with ease. And yet, before Je'gan Olra'en, the finest mentalist in recorded history, she was but his second, a traveler at the threshold of something far deeper.
The Holocron's glow dimmed, then flared with sudden intensity. Show me what you know, the voice beckoned, laced with something ancient, something watching.
She closed her eyes, and the world around her unraveled.
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"What have I sacrificed? Everything..."
