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Chapter Text

The stars blur into lines as the Jedi starfighter slides through hyperspace. The cockpit is still, quiet, save for the gentle hum of the ship’s systems and the slow, practiced breathing of Jedi Master Plo Koon. His gloved hands rest lightly on the controls, though the autopilot handles the trajectory now. His golden, goggle-shielded eyes remain closed beneath his mask, attuned not to the console before him, but to the Force that ebbs and flows like an unseen tide through every fiber of his being.

He is a seeker today.

The Council tasked him with locating potential Force-sensitive children in the Outer Rim. A simple directive, one given to many Jedi over the centuries. The task is honorable, even sacred: finding the next generation of peacekeepers, guardians, and protectors of the Republic.

But Plo Koon is restless.

The moment he left Coruscant's orbit, he felt it... a subtle tug, a thread in the Force that brushed the edge of his awareness like the whisper of a wind through temple trees. He could have ignored it. He almost did. The destination the Council gave him was far from here, on the other side of the sector.

But the feeling returned, again and again. Stronger with each parsec.

Now he watches the swirling blue veil of hyperspace and opens himself completely. The Force speaks not in words, but in feelings, impressions, and visions that shimmer on the edges of comprehension.

And it is _calling_ him. Southward. To the Mid-Rim. To a world ancient and dense with life.

To Kashyyyk.

He disengages the hyperdrive.

---

The jungle moon is a cathedral of green. Towering wroshyr trees spiral toward the sky like titanic pillars carved by the gods themselves. The air is thick with heat and moisture, the scent of pollen and damp earth clinging to Plo's robes as he walks. Sunlight filters through the canopy in shifting golden shafts, catching on the dew drops that lay untouched on leaves.

The force sings to him. Not with chaos, not with danger, but with urgency. It threads through the bark, hums through the roots, and pulses beneath his feet as if the very soil waits in anticipation.

He moves cautiously, though he feels no immediate threat. His boots press softly into mossy paths, his hands resting by his sides. Creatures chitter and hoot in the treetops. The occasional vine-lizard scurries across a branch. A wroshyr spider retreats silently into its web.

Then, the forest holds its breath.

Stillness.

Plo Koon stops.

The force becomes dense. Compressed. Heavy.

His fingers twitch reflexively toward his lightsaber… but he does not draw it.

The sense of something… someone… approaching comes to him not through sight or sound, but a tremor. A living pressure moving through the thickets, beyond sight but not beyond awareness.

And then it bursts through.

A flash of red and black. Snarling. Snapping. Sharp teeth and wild eyes.

Plo is tackled to the ground, his cloak flaring behind him as he lands hard in the underbrush.

A child, no more than six years old, straddles his chest, hissing and clawing with small but powerful hands. His skin is the deep, crimson shade of blood, striped with jagged black marks as if painted by war. Tiny horns, like the budding stumps of a crown, rise from his scalp.

A Zabrak.

But he is feral. His teeth are sharp. His eyes, sun-yellow, tinged with orange, glow with unblinking hate. Not fear. Not confusion.

Only rage.

Plo Koon does not resist. He doesn't need to. The force wraps around them like a cocoon, and with a mere thought, he stills the child's limbs.

The boy's fists falter.

His panting slows.

For a moment, the fury fades... and what's left behind is confusion. Exhaustion. Hunger.

And something that stabs at Plo's chest with aching familiarity: pain.

The child stares down at him, lips curling in suspicion. His arms are still tense. But his body, small and thin beneath the grime, is trembling. As if he doesn't understand why he attacked in the first place—only that he had to.

Plo lifts a glove hand slowly, gently. "I am not your enemy, young one."

The child snarls.

But it's weaker now. Less certain. Plo sits up slowly, allowing the boy to remain atop him. He makes no sudden moves. Only studies the child through the blue tint of his mask, as the force begins to weave its message into full clarity.

This boy is not from here.

And yet, here he is, dropped like a forgotten weapon in the thickest jungle, surviving against all odds. His presence in the force is a storm cloud; turbulent, charged, barely contained. A tempest buried inside a fragile form.

He is powerful. Untrained, unanchored, and above all, wounded. 

Plo breathes deeply. He reaches again into the current of the force, searching for the story behind this boy.

And he sees.

A cold world. Red skies. Iron walls. A shadow in robes. Screams and drills. The flash of a red blade. Chains. And severance... the brutal, unnatural breaking of a bond between mother and child.

Plo Koon's heart aches.

He looks at the boy again. Still atop him. Still confused.

"… What is your name?" Plo asks gently.

The boy's lips curl. "Maul."

A single word. Spoken with such venom that it feels like a weapon. As if the name was hammered into him, forged like a blade instead of given in love.

Plo nods. 

And then, he speaks the truth he now knows.

"You were not meant to be left here. But the force brought me to you. You are not alone anymore, Maul."

Something flickers in the boy's eyes. A tiny flicker, a breath of hesitation.

And, for the first time in his short violent life, Maul doesn't strike.

Plo slowly shifts, easing Maul into his lap, careful not to disturb the delicate equilibrium forming between them. Maul squirms for a moment, his gaze never leaving Plo's. The intensity of his earlier ferocity has faded into a wary stillness. Plo studies him... not as a threat, but as a child. A wounded child. One who should never have had to bare his teeth to survive.

"You're very strong," Plo says gently, voice filtered and clam through the modulator in his mask. "But you shouldn't have to fight to stay alive."

The boy squints at him, confused.

Plo slowly reaches up, his hand open, unthreatening. The boy stiffens. For a moment, it looks like he might bolt into the undergrowth again. But the Jedi Master does not falter. He gently lays a hand on the boy's shoulder. The skin beneath his glove is warm, too warm. The boy is running on instinct and adrenaline, baked in the jungle heat, and so very, very thin. His breath shudders once, but he doesn't pull away.

"I want to help you," Plo says,. "There is a place I can take you. A home. A temple. There, you would be safe. You wouldn't have to run or fight anymore."

Maul stares at him, yellow eyes wide. For a heartbeat, the jungle holds its breath again. 

Then Maul pulls back… not violently, not yet… but like a spring being compressed. His small fists clench.

"No," he says, voice shaking. "Can't leave. He'll be mad."

Plo tilts his head. "Who?"

The boy's eyes flick towards the deeper woods, as if expecting shadows to lurch out from the trees.

"My…. my master," Maul says quietly, voice breaking the word in two. "He'll know I talked to you. He always knows. If I leave, he'll find me. He'll be angry. He'll hurt me again."

The last word hits like a blow.

Plo Koon's heart clenches in his chest. He lowers his hand, not in retreat, but in mourning. What kind of being uses pain as a leash…especially against a child.

"I see," he murmurs. "He has hurt you before."

Maul doesn't nod. He doesn't need to. His eyes turn glassy for a second. He sniffs but refuses to cry.

He makes me fight," Maul mumbles. "Even when I'm tired. Even when I'm bleeding. He says pain makes me strong. If I cry, he hits harder."

Plo exhales slowly, silently. The shadows grow heavier beneath the trees. The force trembles with sorrow.

"And do you believe him?" Plo asks.

Maul blinks, thinking for a moment before a small shrugs passes across his shoulders. "I dunno."

Plo places a hand over his own chest, where his heart thuds steadily beneath the layers of his robes. "Strength is not only pain, Maul. Sometimes, strength is knowing when to be gentle. When to care. And when to let others care for you."

Maul looks down at his own clenched fists.

"He tells me I'm bad," he whispers. "Not fast enough. Not strong enough. Not angry enough. That's why he hurts me."

Plo lets out a regretful sigh and reaches down to lift the small boy as he gracefully stands to his feet. For his part, Maul only sucks in a small breath, his fingers finding purchase in Plo's robes and gripping them tightly. 

"Maul," he says, voice firmer but no less gentle. "You are not bad. You are not what they made you to be." 

Maul blinks rapidly. He bites his lower lip.

"I can take you to the safe place," Plo murmurs. "No more hiding, no more pain. At the Jedi Temple, there are people, children, you can learn peace, not punishment. Discipline, not cruelty. You can learn there. Grow. Heal."

Maul trembles as he looks up at Plo.

"Will… will he find me?" he asks.

Plo lowers his head slightly, forehead nearly touching the boy's. 

"If he tries," Plo says, "he will face me and the entirety of the jedi order. And I will not let him hurt you again."

Maul's breath shudders again. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, slowly, he slumps forward. His forehead touches Plo's shoulder. His arms fall to his sides.

"…okay," he whispers, almost inaudibly. "Okay."

Plo wraps both arms around the small, shaking frame. Not as a captor. Not even as a Jedi. 

But as a guardian.

The jungle breathes once more. The force pulses around them, calm now.

---

The stars stretch back into place as Plo Koon's cruiser exits hyperspace.

The void of space surrounds them, deep and silent, broken only by the hum of the ship's engines and the occasional flicker of a control light on the console. Ahead, the navigation system charts their course to Coruscant, the gleaming heart of the Republic, where the Jedi temple rises like a beacon above the city-planet's infinite sprawl.

The Kel Dorian sits in the pilot's chair, his posture calm, but his mind far from still.

Behind him, nestled in a padded passenger alcove, sits Maul.

He hasn't spoken since they left Kashyyyk. He sits cross-legged, back to the bulkhead, arms folded tightly over his knees. His golden eyes scan the chamber with a quiet wariness of a feral animal in a too-bright cage.

Plo watches him in the reflection of the transparisteel canopy.

He is small, far too small for the weight he carries. Even now, the force around him pulses with turbulence. Not chaos, no longer violent. But like a storm that had passed and left the sky shattered, still roaring in memory.

Plo reaches out with his senses, gently…not to probe, but to listen.

What he feels troubles deeply.

The boy's connection to the force is raw and immense, but twisted at the edges. Not broken… scarred. Like iron forged with too much heat and not enough care. The currents swirl around Maul not with peace, but hunger, instinct, desperation. Emotions left untempered. Emotions used.

The dark side lingers in him, not like a possession, not an external taint. But like residue. Like soot clinging to the inside of a chimney.

Plo turns slightly in his seat, speaking gently across the small cockpit. "Are you hungry?"

Maul doesn't look up. "No."

It is a lie, thin and instinctual. Plo does not press. The ships systems will prepare rations if the boy decides to eat. Hunger, he knows, is not just of the body. And Maul's spirit is starved in ways food cannot reach.

He turns his eyes back to the stars.

The journey to Coruscant will take a few more hours. Time enough to think. Time enough to worry. 

What will the council say?"

HE has broken no code, not truly. Jedi are instructed to bring potential initiates for evaluation. But this is different. Maul is not an infant handed over by hopeful parents. He is not a child from a peaceful world found through routine testing. 

He is a weapon. A child torn from whatever life he once had, forged by unseen hands, and left to survive in the wild like a discarded blade. And still…

Still, Plo cannot ignore the will of the force.

It was not chance that led him to Kashyyyk. It was not coincidence that pulled his ship from its charted course. The moment Maul lunged from the jungle, Plo knew.

This boy was not meant to be forgotten.

He leans back in the pilot's chair, listening once more. The dark side clings, yes…practically snarls at him from where Maul is seated despite the somber look on the boy's face. It is heat that brushes against his own presence within the force. But beneath it, deeper than instinct, deeper than the pain and fear, Plo senses conflict within the child…a war being waged that perhaps Maul isn't even aware of, a war of light and dark, and that gives Plo hope.

He is a child, a child with potential for either salvation or devastation. The path ahead will be perilous, Plo knows this. He knows there will be resistance, doubt, and fear.

But Plo has already made his choice. He will not abandon the boy. Not now. Not ever.

---

The shuttle descends through the endless shimmer of Coruscant's cityscape, dwarfed by the high towers and weaving traffic lanes. Even at dawn, the sky is choked with speeders, droids, and glistening transports. Light glints off the durasteel and transparisteel alike, the-planet bathed in eternal motion. 

From the cockpit, Plo watches as the temple's five towers pierce the skyline like watchful sentinels. His hands tighten slightly on the controls, not out of fear, but resolve.

In the seat behind him, Maul clutches the hem of his robe.

As the cruiser touches down on the Temple's private landing pad, Plo unbuckles his harness and rises, turning to kneel beside the boy. "We've arrived," he says quietly.

Maul's gaze flicks around the hangar. White stone, golden light, a gentle breeze stirred by repuslolifts. It's the cleanest, brightest place he's ever seen, and he looks at it as one might look at a storm cloud.

Plo extends a hand. "You're safe here."

Maul doesn't speak. 

But after a long moment, he takes the offered hand. 

They step into the temple together.

And the silence breaks. 

The first jedi they pass is a knight in golden robes, walking with a serene Togruta Padawan. The knight glances up at Plo with a casual curiosity—then stops mid-step, eyes falling to the small figure at his side.

To Maul.

There is a blink. Confusion. A second of unease.

Then the Togruta whispers, "… Why does he look like that?"

Plo hears it So does Maul.

They walk on.

As they pass into the main corridor, bustling with initiates, padawans, and masters alike. The whispers grow louder.

"Is that a Zabrak?"

"Those markings, they are not tribal…they're unnatural."

"His aura…it feels…"

"Dark."

"He shouldn't be here."

Plo says nothing. His stride is steady, robes flowing behind him like a cape of twilight. His hand remains at Maul's back, steadying, anchoring. But the boy begins to falter.

He can feel it.

The stares.

The fear.

The hatred.

Even in this hallowed place, Maul is an outsider. He doesn't understand the words, not all of them…but he understands tone. He knows the sound of disgust when he hears it. He knows what it looks like when someone looks at him like a thing. 

He presses closer to Plo, clutching the hem of the Kel Dor's robes.

Plo gently places a hand over Maul's shielding him from view as best he can.

"It's alright," he murmurs, low enough only Maul can hear. "Their fear does not define you."

Maul's voice is a whisper. "They hate me."

"They don't know you."

"But they hate me."

Plo sighs through his mask. "Some Jedi are still learning the lessons they were meant to teach."

A group of older Padawans part like water around them. One, a human boy of perhaps eleven, stares too long. His eyes narrow.

Then he speaks. Loudly.

"You brought the dark side into the temple?"

Plo stops walking. The corridor goes silent. Every eye turns to them. The Kel Dorian master takes a breath before he speaks, his voice calm, but it echoes like thunder.

"I brought a child into the temple," he says. "One in need. That is our calling. Or have you forgotten it already?"

The padawan flushes and turns away.

The silence lingers only a moment longer before Plo continues walking.

They pass into the repulsorlift where Plo presses a button on the panel, and instantly they are moving.

They remain silent as Plo guides Maul to his rooms. Closing the door behind them, he instantly kneels down and brings the boy into his arms.

"You are not dark," Plo murmurs. "You are not what your former master made you to be."

"The….then what am I?"

"You are whatever you want to be," Plo says softly. 

Maul opens his mouth to reply, but before he can, Plo's commlink crackles to life.

"Master Plo Koon, you are requested in the council chambers," Mace Windu's voice says through the device.

Taking a breath, Plo Koon lifts his wrist and speaks into the mic. "I shall be there shortly."

Giving one last glance down at Maul, he takes the boy by the hand. "Whatever happens, I shall be with you," he says softly. 

Maul holds his gaze and nods.

Together, they leave and return to the repulsorlift, riding the elevator to the highest floor where the presence of the collective jedi masters is like a wall, guarding their emotions.

When the grand doors of the Council Chamber open, it is as if walking into a storm's eye.

Eleven Masters watch them enter, their expressions guarded.

Mace Windu, silent and stern.

Yoda, seated upon his small rounded chair, ears still.

Depa Billaba, Saesee Tiin, Ki-Adi-Mundi, Adi Gallia…all watch as Plo steps into the chamber with the child beside him.

The vast chamber is quiet as the doors close behind them.

Plo gently places a hand on Maul's back and guides him forward into the center of the room.

Maul clings to the hem of his robe, head bowed low beneath the scrutiny of the most powerful jedi in the galaxy.

The silence holds. Until Mace Windu speaks.

"Master Koon," he says, tone clipped but respectful. "You were not scheduled to return to Coruscant. You were dispatched to the Outer Rim to scout for initiates on Ferrix."

Plo inclines his head. "That was my assignment. But the force… redirected me, I felt a disturbance, a pull. It led me to Kashyyyk. There, I found the child."

"Found," mutters Ki-Adi-Mundi, steepling his fingers, his long brow furrows as his gaze shifts to Maul. "That child radiates with the dark side of the force."

"He does," Plo admits. "But he is not Sith…not entirely. He has been abused, what you sense is not malice…it is pain."

Yoda shifts in his seat, ears twitching slightly. His gaze is already on Maul, calm and unreadable.

Hurt, he is," the ancient master murmurs. "Wounded in spirit. A life twisted before it could grow straight. See it, I do."

There is more than hurt," growls Saesee Tiin, eyes narrowing. "I feel aggression, hatred, like hot coals under his skin…it boils. Master Koon, you know the risk."

Plo does not look away. "I also know what it means to offer hope where none has ever existed."

Maul flinches at the word hatred. He's trying not to shake, but the presence of all the Jedi is overwhelming. Their thoughts, their judgment…it presses into him like cold glass. He can feel their stares, like stones stacked upon his back.

One of the Masters, Depa Billaba, leans forward slightly.

"Child," she says, voice cool, "what is your name?"

Lifting his head, wary, the boy replies. "Maul."

"Is that your real name?"

He hesitates. "It's the only name I got."

Depa's lips rise in a small smile. "Who taught you?"

"My master," Maul answers slowly.

"And who is this master?" Ki-Adi-Mundi asks, this time more sharply. "Do you know his name?"

Maul looks at the floor again. "I dunno, I never saw his face. He talks to me, makes me do things. If i don't… I get hurt."

"You mean tortured," Plo corrects gently. He turns his gaze to the others. "What was done to this child was not training, it was conditioning. Brutal and unnatural."

"There are many orphans in the galaxy," Mace says. "We do not invite them all into the temple."

Plo turns his mask towards Windu.

"And how many of them were taken by a dark master and molded to be weapons? How many radiate with force potential like this boy, simply waiting to be bent?" 

Maul steps closer to Plo, half-hiding behind his robes now. His voice small. 

Yoda hums low in his throat. "Anger, strength brings. But also chains, it forges."

Maul frowns. "Chains?"

Yoda nods. "Anger, fear, hatred—heavy, they are. Drag you into darkness, they can. Make you think you are free, while binding you tight."

Adi Gallia crosses her legs and leans forward. "He is powerful, I'll grant you that. But can we risk the temple's safety? We train children free of such shadows. The dark has already touched him."

"Then we teach him." Plo replies firmly. "We show him another way. If we do not, someone else will."

Mace's gaze hardens. "And what if it's too late?"

"It isn't" Yoda says, interrupting. His tone calm, but final.

Every head turns.

Yoda's gaze remains on Maul. 

"Darkness clings to him, yes. But deep within… a seed of light remains. Protected, it must be. Or lost, it will be."

The words settle like a weight.

The council sits in long silence, eyes flicking between each other—silent discourse flowing through the force.

Finally, Mace speaks.

"You will take responsibility for his training."

Plo doesn't hesitate as he nods. "Of course."

Mace nods once. "Then he will remain. On probation. Watched. Guided. If we sense corruption—"

"You will not." Plo says evenly. "Because I will not let him fall."

The council murmurs, but the decision is made. Plo bows to his fellow council members before placing a protective hand on Maul's back again. "Come," he says gently. "Let's show you your new home."

Maul doesn't speak, but his hand wraps around two of Plo's fingers and doesn't let go.

Chapter Text

 The temple is quieter at night.

The sun has set beyond Coruscant's skyline, painting streaks of gold and silver over the domes and spires.

Within his new bedroom inside of Plo Koon's quarters, Maul sits cross-legged on a meditation mat within the dim chamber, eyes shut tight, jaw clenched. The holos around him show flickering candlelight—part of an early lesson in stillness. Focus. Connection to the force.

But the force does not feel calm.

It hums behind his ribs like a storm caught in a bottle. Every time he tries to focus on the light, his mind wanders backward... to voices that shout, to fists, to fire, to pain. His knuckles crack as his hands tighten into fists.

Then a voice, deep and kind.

"You're not at war anymore."

Maul opens his eyes. 

Plo stands in the doorway, backlit by the soft glow of the corridor. His hands are folded in his sleeves, but his posture is relaxed.

Maul looks down. "I'm trying."

"I know."

Plo enters and kneels across from him. For a long time, he says nothing. He simply breathes. After a moment, Maul tries to match him.

The storm doesn't go away.

But it quiets. A little.

---

The next day, whispers return like birdsong through the halls. 

"Is that him?"

"The one Master Koon brought in?"

"I heard he's a Sith."

"Why would a council member take in someone like that?"

Maul walks the hall with Plo beside him, his steps echoing against marble tiles. he tries not to look at the other children. Or the knights. Or the masters who stare just a second too long before lowering their gazes.

The temple is beautiful. Grand. Filled with gardens, libraries, training halls, and towers that scrape the sky.

But beauty doesn't hide the looks.

He's not one of them. 

Not yet.

He passes a group of younglings in simple robes—Togruta, human, Nautolan, Mirialan—all whispering in a tight circle as he passes. One of them speaks too loudly to be a mistake.

"Maybe he's here to spy for the Sith?"

Maul stops walking. His shoulders stiffen.

Plo watches him carefully but doesn't speak.

The younglings freeze. They didn't expect him to hear...or to stop.

Maul turns slowly. 

"I'm not a sith," he says, each word strained like metal bent by hand.

The children stare.

One, an older girl, crosses her arms. "You look like one."

"You feel like one," another mutters.

Maul takes a step forward, only to stop when Plo places a hand on his shoulder. 

"Let it go," he says gently.

Maul's breath shakes...but he nods. "Yes, Master," he whispers before turning and walking away.

---

Plo begins with the basics.

"The force is not a weapon," he tells Maul, seated cross-legged beneath one of the many trees in one of the many gardens. "It's a living current. It binds all things. When we act, we must listen first, feel before we move."

Maul listens with rapt attention, his golden eyes wide and steady. His body twitches sometimes, tension still living in his muscles like a memory, but his mind is sharp. Every concept Plo teaches, Maul seizes like a starving man. He repeats terminology perfectly. He masters breathing sequences faster than children twice his age. He trains twice as long, and never complains.

He wants to be worthy.

Worthy of this place.

Worthy of Plo.

---

When Plo attends Council meetings, long, tense affairs, Maul slips away unnoticed.

He goes to the Archives.

He never speaks to the other children when he arrives. He doesn't need to. The archives aren't a place for talking. They're a place for silence, for clarity, for secrets. And Maul has lived his life surrounded by secrets.

He moves through the polished halls and terminals like a shadow. Most avoid him, especially the older Padawans. They see his crimson skin and coiled stillness and go the other way.

But he doesn't mind. The archives are peace.

One afternoon, he searches the terminal for a holobook Plo mentioned in their most recent lesson—The Nature of the Living Force: Volume I. He scrolls the menu awkwardly, small fingers tapping commands. The listings feel endless, layered in categories and subfolders.

"You're in the wrong classification tier," says a voice behind him…crisp, sharp, not unkind, but clipped like she's already lost patience.

Maul turns.

Madame Jocasta Nu stands a few feet away in her elegant librarian's robes, arms folded. She frowns down at him, her hair tightly bound, her presence exact.

Maul bows his head slightly. "Sorry, ma'am."

She arches a brow. "This section is for intermediate padawans and above. You aren't supposed to access these files without permission. "

"I was just… trying to find a holobook," he says quietly. "Master Plo said it was called The Nature of the Living Force: Volume I. I just want to make him proud."

Jocasta's expression doesn't change and for a moment, Maul feels his hearts drop. 

"What is your name?"

"…Maul."

There is a pause. Then, with a soft sigh through her nose, she steps past him and begins typing at the console.

"You should have asked for assistance instead of trying to brute-force your way through the library systems," she mutters. "Even council apprentices don't get to bend the rules."

"I didn't mean to," he replies, voice quiet. "I just…wanted to learn before he had to explain everything again."

Jocasta glances down, studying him yet again.

She says nothing else, but retrieves the correct holobook from a secured shelf nearby and hands it to him.

"Don't lose it," she says. "And return it when you are finished with it."

"I will," Maul promises.

---

Days pass. Then another visit. And another.

Each time, Maul seeks out texts that correspond to Plo's lessons; early writing of Master Odan-Urr, the history of saber forms, various histories of different planets and the cultures of their inhabitants. 

And each time, Jocasta notices.

She still doesn't smile much. But her voice softens. her instructions grow less clipped.

Then, one evening, as she catches him retrieving Jedi Philosophies: An Expanded Treatise, she walks over to stand behind him.

"That one can be… dense for a child, you might want to start with the abridged commentary. It will give you context before diving in."

Maul glances up at her. "But I want to read the whole thing."

Her eyes twinkle. Just faintly.

"I suspected you would," she says before pausing. Then after a long moment, she adds, "You remind me of another student, once. Diligent. Quiet. Curious. He turns out to be one of our finest scholars."

Maul's eyes widen slightly. "Did people… think he was bad, too?"

She considers that. "No," she says finally after a moment. "But he had his own battles. Everyone does. It's what we do with our thirst for knowledge that defines us, not what others fear we might become."

Maul nods slowly, clutching the holobook to his chest.

"I won't let Master Plo down."

Jocasta Nu studies him, no longer with suspicion, but with the gentle skepticism of someone who has seen many paths begin.

"I hope not," She replies softly. "He sees something in you. Maybe, in time, others will too."

---

The History of the Galaxy class is one of Maul's favorites.

The holos flicker with ancient wars, treaties, and figures lost to time. He listens carefully as the instructor speaks of the fall of the Sith Empire and the birth of the Republic. He takes notes, quiet and focused. For a time, he forgets the stares. The whispers.

Until one voice cuts through like a blade.

"Do you like that part, Maul?" says a human boy across the aisle, his voice oily with mock innocence. "All about your ancestors."

Sever students snicker. The instructor glances over but says nothing.

Maul stiffens. He keeps his eyes on the screen, knuckles white around his stylus.

The boy leans in again. "I wonder which Sith Lord you're descended from. Darth Ruin? Or maybe Bane? You've got the skin for it."

More laughter. Maul breathes hard through his nose.

"Maybe that's why Master Plo took you in," The boy continues. "A little pet project. Teach a Sith to sit still."

The air around Maul seems to hum. His chest burns. He stands up suddenly. His chair topples backward with a loud clatter. Everyone stares. 

The Instructor calls his name, but Maul is already gone.

He doesn't know how long he runs.

Down hallways, across meditation gardens, past towering pillars of golden stone. His feet carry him instinctively to the one place in the temple that seems to calm him… the Room of a Thousand Fountains.

He slips behind a wall of carved stone, beneath a flowering arch, and crumples to the floor. The sound of water masks the sounds of his sobs.

He presses his hands against his face, willing the heat and shame to go away.

"Why does it still hurt?" he whispers to no one.

Plo finds him by sensing the tremor in the force. The moment he enters the garden, he feels the ripple of pain like a thread tugged across a great loom. He follows it until he finds Maul curled beneath a patch of green moss, half-hidden by vines and mist.

The boy looks up as Plo approaches, cheeks wet, eyes red.

"I didn't hit him," Maul says, voice raw. "I wanted to. But I didn't."

Plo kneels beside him. "I know," he says gently.

"I was doing everything right," Maul whispers. "I was learning, I was quiet. I didn't fight. Why do they still hate me?"

Plo rests his hand gently on the boy's shoulder. "Because they are afraid. And fear makes people cruel."

"I hate them," Maul blurts, then immediately covers his mouth. His breath shakes. "I-I don't want to. I just...I don't know how not to."

Plo nods and leans in closer. "That's why we train. Why we meditate. Why we listen. Not to be perfect... but to try again, every day. That's all the force asks of us."

Maul sniffles and climbs into his Master's lap. "Will it ever stop? Feeling like this?"

"Yes," Plo answers, rubbing his hand soothing up and down Maul's back. "Not quickly. Not all at once. But yes, It gets better. Especially when you have someone who sees you." He places his hand over Maul's. "I see you, Maul. And I'm not leaving."

The boy closes his eyes, and this time, when the tears come, they fall quieter.

Not from rage. But from hope.

---

The days blend into each other now, dawn meditations, structured classes, quiet evening. But for Maul, time still feels like walking a narrow ledge, always watched, always judged. After the incident in the sparring chamber, after the harsh whispers and stifled laughs in the Archives, and after his collapse beside the fountains, something shifts. Not in the Temple. Not in the younglings. Not even in the other Masters.

But in Plo.

And that is enough.

They walk together in silence more often now, through quiet gardens or long, echoing corridors. Plo does not speak unless Maul initiates. He lets the boy exist without pressure, without performance. That, more than any lesson, has begun to teach Maul the meaning of peace. 

One morning, after a particular stilted group lecture in "History of the Galaxy"...where Maul is asked no questions and made to sit on the farthest bench from the others...Plo does not take him back to the training rooms.

Instead, they ascend. Up through winding halls and curved walkways until they reach one of the highest meditation chambers in the temple, its round walls lined with stained-glass and its roof open to the filtered light of Coruscant's sky. The air is warm and still, humming softly with the breath of the force. 

Maul hesitates in the doorway, uncertainty filling his mind.

"We're not going to the hall?" he asks, eyes flicking to the empty room.

"No," Plo answers simply. He enters the chamber and turns to face Maul. "Not today."

Maul blinks p at him, confused. "Did I do something wrong?"

"Quite the opposite," Plo folds his arms into his sleeves. "I spoke to the council. I will be continuing your training privately from now on."

Maul stands frozen for a heartbeat, absorbing the words. Something clenches tight in his chest…fear, expectation, disbelief. "Because…because they don't want me with the others?"

"Because," Plo says, with the calm finality of truth. "Your learning will thrive in an environment of trust and understanding. The others are still children. They do not yet see you as I do. As you will."

Maul's throat tightens, and he nods. Slowly, he moves forward and stands before the Kel-Dorian. He holds his master's gaze for a second and then lowers himself to sit, legs folded, spine straight, hands resting on his knees.

Plo lowers himself opposite him and begins, not with doctrine, not with philosophy but with breathing exercises.

"Inhale. Through the nose. Count to four. Hold it."

Maul obeys.

"Now exhale. Slowly. Feel it leave."

And so the lesson begins, not with lightsabers, or battle forms, or the ghosts of history, but with silence. With breath. With presence.

"Picture the force like water," Plo says. "It flows through you. Around you. When your mind is clouded, the current thrashes. But when you breathe…deeply, slowly…you let the current settle. You begin to see."

Maul closes his eyes.

The rage is still there. The old voice, the ache in his fists, the sting of insults in the classroom. But it doesn't roar the way it used to. It lingers, like distant thunder on a warm breeze.

Over the following days, the change becomes a rhythm.

They no longer follow the council's prescribed curriculum. Plo adapts everything, tailoring each lesson to fit Maul's mind, not someone else's model. They discuss the dual philosophies of the Living and Unifying Force. They study the Jedi code not just as words, but as ideas. Maul asks questions. Plo always answers.

One day, as they walk through the temple gardens after a reading on the precepts of Master Fae Coven, Maul glances up with furrowed brows.

"Why do we keep talking about… feelings?" he asks. "I thought Jedi don't feel."

Plo stops walking and turns to face him, kneeling down to be on his student's level. "A common misunderstanding," he says. "We feel deeply, Maul. That is why we must train deeply. We do not suppress our emotions. We learn to guide them. To understand them."

"But anger… hate… those are dark," Maul says softly. "Those are what… he used. My old master."

Plo nods. "Anger becomes dangerous when it controls you. But anger itself is only a signal. It tells you something is wrong. If you listen, if you breathe, you can choose how to act…not react."

Maul chews on that. "So it's okay to feel, like I did in the classroom?"

"Yes," Plo says. "It is only natural. You are not less because you feel. You are not dangerous because you feel. You are a jedi because you learn to respond with peace."

Maul doesn't respond right away. But the next time they meditate, his breathing is slower. Steadier. His hands don't tremble. He doesn't flinch when Plo says the word anger.

---

The courtyard is quiet in the hour before first light.

Mist rolls low over the grass, curling like breath through the temple's sacred groves. The soft hiss of the irrigation system has not yet begun, and the meditation stones glisten with dew. Coruscant's eternal hum lies muffled beyond the high walls.

Maul sits alone at the center of the garden, legs folded, eyes shut, breath slow and even.

He does not feel the same as when he first arrived. The storm is still inside him, but it no longer drowns out the world. It sits…caged, not by chains, but by his growing understanding.

A soft rustle breaks the silence. The tap of a wooden cane against stone.

Maul's eyes open slowly.

"Master Yoda," he says, voice calm but uncertain.

The ancient Grand Master steps forward, robes brushing over the damp grass. His ears twitch slightly, his wide eyes appraising.

"Early, you rise," Yoda says, smiling faintly. "Earlier still, your mind awakens."

Maul bows his head. "I didn't want to waste time. Master Plo says every day is a lesson."

Yoda hums, low and quiet. "Wise, that is." He circles the boy slowly, not looming, but watching with curiosity.

Much change in you. I sense," Yoda says. "Stormy you were, when first arrived. Loud, the dark side was in you. But now…" he pauses. 

Maul shifts. "Is it… still there?"

Yoda stops beside him, leaning slightly on his cane. "Echoes remain. But louder, your light becomes."

Maul lifts his gaze to the Jedi Master. "Do you think…I can be a Jedi?"

A long silence.

Yoda does not answer immediately. Instead, he seats himself beside the boy with a quiet grunt, folding his robes beneath him. For a moment, they sit together, the only sounds being the rustling of leaves and distant hum of morning power converters.

"Long the road is," Yoda says at last. "Twists it has. Doubts, detours, dangers. But walked it can be." He turns, his expression softer than Maul expects. "Hard your path will be, yes. Heavier than many. But choice…always yours, it is."

Maul stares at the moss-covered stones beneath his knees. "Sometimes I still feel like I don't belong. Like I'm just waiting to mess up."

"Hm." Yoda taps his cane lightly on the ground. "Deserve, none of us do. Given, the force is. Shared, the light is. Worthy we become, through choice. Through effort, through being."

Maul frowns. "What if I fail?"

Yoda leans closer. "Then try again, you must."

The boy nods slowly. For a long while, they sit in silence again. Master and student, ancient and young, light and dark sharing space. There are no words left that need to be spoken. No judgment in Yoda's presence. Only stillness. When Plo arrives some time later, Maul is still seated in the courtyard, a look of quiet contemplation on his face.

Yoda nods to his fellow council member. 

"Stronger, he grows."

Plo nods slightly. "He's beginning to believe in himself."

Yoda smiles. "As he should."

Chapter Text

The archives are quiet this time of day. Midday light pours in through the tall arched windows, painting long bars of gold across the floor.

Maul sits alone at one of the small reading alcoves, tucked away behind at shelf of political holocrons. He doesn't notice the shadows stretch across the floor or the footsteps that approach. His attention is consumed by the datapad in front of him…an annotated translation of The Dawn Wars: A Republic Forming.

He reads slowly, lips moving in silence as he works to understand the interwoven perspectives. Politics. War. Peace. Betrayal.

And again and again, the way Jedi chose restraint.

He doesn't understand all of it yet, but it matters to him that he tries.

"Is that interesting?"

Maul startles, turning quickly, ready to rise from his seat. But the boy standing a few paces away isn't an instructor or archivist. Just another youngling.

The boy is about his age, maybe slightly older. Pale skin, ginger hair cropped close. His face is open but unreadable, curious but not mocking. His tone carries caution without an edge.

Maul blinks, unsure. "I… yes, it is."

The boy nods and steps a little closer. He glances at the title on Maul's datapad and tilts his head. "That one took me forever to finish. Master Qui-Gon said I asked too many questions."

Maul says nothing, unsure if the other boy is teasing him or testing him. But there's no sneer. No derision. Just a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

"Do you… come here a lot?" Obi-Wan asks.

Maul nods slowly. "Its quiet."

"That's what I like about it, too," Obi-Wan pauses. "I've seen you here before. And in the temple halls. But… we've never spoken."

"I didn't think you wanted to," Maul replies, more bluntly than he means to. "People don't usually talk to me."

"I'm not people," Obi-Wan says simply.

A moment passes before the older boy clears his throat, shifting slightly. "Master Qui-Gon wants me to do extra saber drills this week," he says. "He says I'm too rigid with form 4. he wanted me to find a sparring partner for tomorrow. But I haven't found anyone." he rubs the back of his neck nervously. "So… I thought… if you weren't busy…"

Maul blinks again. "You want to spar with me?"

Obi-Wan shrugs. "You train with Master Plo. I figure you know how to hold a saber."

At this, Maul cringes. "I haven't…sparred with a saber." he admits. "My former…master," he sighs. "Didn't like lightsabers."

Frowning, Obi-Wan shrugs. "Then I guess I could teach you what I know," he smiles.

Maul hesitates. He isn't sure if this is a trick. If someone put him up to this. But Obi-Wan's presence doesn't ring with deceit in the force. Only a thin thread of nervousness and… sincerity.

"Okay," Maul finally says quietly. "I'll come."

"Great," Obi-Wan shifts back a step, clearly relieved. "Third form hall, mid-morning. "I'll see you there," He grins before turning and walking away.

Maul watches him go, the datapad forgotten in his lap. For a long time, he doesn't move. No one had offered to train with him before. He isn't sure what tomorrow will bring. But for the first time, it doesn't feel like a test. It feels like an invitation.

---

Maul found Master Plo in one of the temple's smaller meditation gardens, a place tucked between two spire where the wind stirred the branches of low-slung trees and the scent of clean stone and flowering vine perfumed the air.

The Kel Dor sat cross-legged on a stone platform, his breathing slow, deep. His presence in the force was still, serene, vast, unshaken. Maul stands at the edge of the garden, hesitating. He did not want to interrupt, but Plo turned his head slightly before Maul could speak.

"You may enter, Maul," Plo says, his voice calm behind his mask. "Sit, if you wish."

Maul steps forward, folding his legs beneath him as he sits across from the Jedi Master, and sits in silence for a moment. He presses his palms into his knees, the way Plo had taught him during their first few meditations, breathing to the rhythm they practiced, counting the space between each breath. 

Plo tilts his head. "Something stirs in you."

Maul hesitates, his hands curling slightly. "I… was invited to spar."

Plo's brows lift behind his goggles. "Were you?"

"Yes. By… Obi-Wan Kenobi," Maul says, the name still strange in his mouth, but not unpleasant. "He found me in the archives. He asked me to help him train his form four." He then pauses for another moment. The wind stirs within the garden again, ruffling the edges of Maul's tunic.  "I said yes," he added quickly. "I didn't want to refuse him. But…"

"But?" Plo prompts gently.

"I've never used a lightsaber," Maul confesses, the words tasting like failure. "Not really. Not in training. I know the forms… I know the names, the stances. But I've never done it." He looks down in shame. "He'll know. Obi-Wan. He'll see that I'm just pretending."

Plo doesn't answer immediately. And when he does, his voice is low but warm. "It is not a weakness to admit what you have not yet learned. It is wisdom."

Maul swallows but says nothing.

Plo shifts, resting his hands on his knees. "We have focused your mind, your presence, your control. These are the foundations. But it is time we move forward."

Maul looks up, his brows rising.

"Let us turn this sparring session into your first lesson in lightsaber combat," Plo hums. "You will not enter it unprepared. You will go with guidance."

"You'll teach me?" Maul asks, surprised.

"I will."

Maul nodded slowly, the knot in his chest loosening slightly. "Thank you."

"We'll begin tomorrow," Plo says. "Before your match with Obi-Wan. At dawn. Come to the northern training hall."

Maul rose to his feet, still processing the idea of it, sparring, training. His voice comes softer this time, uncertain but not afraid.

"Master… do you think I'll do well?"

Plo stands as well, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I think you will do as you always have, Maul," He answers. "You will try. You will learn. And in time, you will grow strong. Not by rushing, but by rising, one step at a time.

Maul feels his chest feel with warmth. "Thank you, Master," he says as he bows his head.

---

The northern training hall stands quiet in the soft breath of dawn, its vaulted ceiling gilded in light that spills from narrow windows high above. The air smells faintly of metal and wood polish, of stone warmed by the rising sun.

Maul stands at its center, eyes following the pale dust motes swirling in the golden air. He is not alone for long. the soft, unmistakable step of his master's boots echo across the smooth floor, deliberate and unhurried.

Plo approaches with a cloth-wrapped bundle tucked beneath one arm.

"You came early," Plo notes, sounding neither surprised nor displeased.

"I couldn't sleep," Maul replies honestly.

Plo nods and kneels on the floor, unwrapping the bundle with care. Within it lay several practice sabers, their hilts dulled silver, the kind used for sparring between padawans.

Plo selects one of the sabers and holds it out. 

"Try this one," he says. "To first understand the basics…you must let the form find your center."

Maul reaches for it, cradling the hilt in both hands. He thumbs it on. A pale, humming blue blade ignites with a soft snap-hiss. It was light…too light… and the length of it made him feel awkward and small, like he was holding someone else's weapon. He turned it in his hands once, twice, attempting the neutral stance he'd studied so many times in the holobooks.

But the weight felt wrong. He swings, slow and measured. Then again, adjusting his grip. It wobbles. The balance off. His frustration flares, subtle but biting. He scowls and tries again. 

Plo watches, saying nothing. After several minutes of Maul's increasingly stiff attempts, the blade disengages with a hiss as Maul lowers it, his jaw tight. "It's too short," he mutters. "It doesn't move right. It feels…"

"Small?" Plo offers.

Maul nods, unsure whether he should be embarrassed. 

Without a word, Plo turns back to the bundle and withdraws another hilt, this one longer than the others. Its grip is textured, and its frame is slightly heavier than the one that Maul hands back to him.

Maul's eyes track it with sudden interest.

Plo offers it to him. "Try this." 

Maul slowly takes it. It is as long as his arm, the balance centered precisely at its core. Gripping it, he turns it through the air, the movement felt different… fluid, weightier, more real. Maul spins it once, a wide arc over his shoulders, and the sensation thrills through him like a spark bursting into flame. He pivots his stance and swings again, then reverses it mid-motion.

The momentum carries him in a circle. He strikes the empty air, faster, tighter.

Plo finally speaks. "Good. But controlled, not wild. Power without discipline is wasted."

Maul nods quickly, adjusting his posture. He tries again, this time narrowing his center of gravity, following the balance points of the staff rather than brute-forcing the moments.  He falters as he feels a rush of energy through him. Taking a breath, he closes his eyes and opens himself to the sensation of the force. Continuing his motions, He feels a shift in his body as he guides the blade through the air.

When he halts at the end of the sequence, the staff still humming faintly in his grip, Plo steps forward and lifts his hand. "Show me again," he says.

They train like that for the next hour, Plo guiding his form and correcting his stance. Maul absorbs each lesson with silent intensity. The staff becoming less a weapon and more an extension of him, something that moves because he wills it, not because he forces it.

By the time the sun has climbed higher into the sky and the temple halls are stirring with life, Maul stands still at the center of the training room, his chest rising and falling in deep, steady breaths.

Plo approaches again, nodding once with quiet satisfaction. "You've found your rhythm." 

Maul gives a small, rare smile. "It makes sense now."

Plo rests his hand on Maul's shoulder. "Then go and meet Obi-Wan. Let this be the beginning, not the end, of what you learn today."

Maul nods, gripping the training staff as if it had always been his. "Thank you, Master."