The New Jedi Order: A Vision of Confluence

XVIII: Unfettered

The Imperial battlebarge Samothrace hung in space like an ancient cathedral, running lights winking in the dark, distant sunlight glinting along gilt ornamentation and rippling over bulky cobalt armor plates. The Imperium requested a rendezvous in a neighboring star system to Eboracum, a move that had the Wraiths talking about how it was a statement that the Imperium wasn’t bound to just one star, even if they were asking for help in navigation. Leverage, Luke observed, showing that while the Imperium might need the New Republic, they didn’t need the New Republic. That or it was just the hallmark paranoia of the Imperials to not want other ships over their world, not after last time.

Coasting into a massive hangar, filled with bulky snubfighters and gunships and one large and much more recognizable cruiser – Penitent Queen, now appearing a total mess with slapdash armor plates, space junk and empty tanks welded all over it. Waiting for the Wraiths and Jedi was a welcoming party just as martial as anything else the Imperium proudly displayed – Lieutenant Thiel awaited them as they debarked the sloop borrowed from the Order’s small fleet, helmet tucked under one arm and as sternly implacable as Anakin and Mei remembered. Three other Astartes stood behind him in an inverted chevron, while two platoons of humans in complicated and extremely ornate uniforms formed an honor guard. Flamboyant shakos with the Imperium’s ubiquitous U shaped emblem sat on their heads and the soldiery held long rifles made of silvered metal and polished wood at attention.

All of them snapped to attention with a ring of heels on durasteel decking.

“Welcome aboard Samothrace,” Thiel rumbled.

Luke gave a short bow, followed by Mei and Anakin. Face, Drayson and Veers offered salutes.

“It’s an honor, Lieutenant Thiel.”

The Astartes gestured to the three behind him. One was of height with Thiel, in similar armor, with a rugged and scarred face, appearing older than the Lieutenant. The other two were unlike Astartes Anakin or Mei had seen – both appeared far more youthful, smooth faced, shorter, and their armor was more piecemeal, exposing fatigues beneath. Still they were nearly as tall and broad as the Lieutenant and the other.

“This is Sergeant Ascratus, and neophytes Zalthis and Solidian. They will be accompanying you to Obroa Skai.”

“Colonel Garik Loran and Lieutenants Bhindi Drayson and Zev Veers,” Luke said.

“And you are Luke Skywalker, Master of the Jedi Order, and uncle to Jedi Solo.”

“A Jedi Master, Lieutenant. Not Master of the Jedi Order.”

“Then you are not in command?” As he spoke, Thiel motioned and turned, leading the New Republic group down the corridor made from soldiers sharply at attention. Walking beside the Astartes, Luke brushed off the question.

“Not in the way you think. I am a Jedi Master, among Masters.”

“Then who is the master of the Order?”

“No one. I teach and I guide, but the path of a Jedi is one that the Force directs.”

Thiel grunted and asked no more.

Samothrace was a maze and an art museum. If the exterior looked drippingly baroque, the interior matched. Nothing was purely utilitarian, as far as Luke could see. Thiel led them down the hangar, past the Penitent Queen, as the soldiers arranged for honor guard fell out and dispersed. Wheeled carts, no doubt for ferrying ammunition or fuel to the starfighters bore decoration, hatches they passed had lintels emblazoned with symbols. Guard railings were twisted and woven metal, rather than simplistic lengths.

Of course, the most obvious example was Thiel himself. The Lieutenant’s armor bore a golden U on the chest, flanked by spread wings, every single feather detailed. His helmet, tucked under one arm, had similar wings across the faceplate and a nodding crest of hair, white and black. Gold rimmed huge pauldrons and a cloak with intricate stitching billowed at his back.

They might call themselves an Imperium, but nothing Luke saw reminded him of the stark and clinical severity of the Empire.

What he saw was age. Not in the sense of being worn out, but age in existence. Hundreds, maybe thousands of years packed into the symbology and decoration. It put him into mind of the Old Republic, the spaces left untouched by the passage of Palpatine’s Empire, where Luke could feel the thousand years of peace that had come before.

“-then with these drop-pods installed on Penitent Queen, we’ll be able to detach ourselves? Or will Rhonabeq be in control of firing us off.”

“Controls will be linked into the Sergeant’s wargear. He will have control of all the drop-pods, decoy and actual.” Thiel pointed forward as he answered Face, indicating an array of teardrop shaped capsules clustered together around the mentioned cruiser. As to be expected, all were painted the same oceanic blue as most of the vehicles, striped with hazard colors around what looked like large, hinged hatches.

“A concern is survivability, Colonel.” Thiel beckoned them closer and what Luke recognized from the brief as a ‘Magos’ activated a pod, hatches hissing and sighing outward, thudding down to the decking to form makeshift ramps into the interior. The magos bowed to the Astartes Lieutenant, mechanical tentacles making complex shapes in the air as he, she, or it, Luke wasn’t sure, retreated.

“Survivability?” Face stepped up onto the ramp of the pod, peering into the darkened interior.

“These pods are intended for Astartes use. The deceleration shock is considerable. It will very likely kill an unaugmented human.”

“Ah, right, that. We brought along an inertial dampener.” Drayson jabbed a thumb back toward the sloop, hundreds of meters down the enormous hangar. “I can work with one of your ‘magos’ to install it, that should cut down all g-forces to safe levels.”

Thiel turned toward the technical specialist, the woman wilting slightly under his intensity.

“What is the provenance of this ‘inertial dampener?”

“I – I don’t follow.”

“Where was it constructed?”

“…I have no idea?”

“The magos will not accept it. Find another way.”

“Hold on-“

Letting the Wraith and the Astartes argue, Luke joined Face, looking into the ‘drop pod’. The interior was dark, illuminated only by the lights in the hangar. Arrayed in a circle were twelve large physical harnesses, rotated up and awaiting passengers. Everything was brutally bulky and utilitarian, sharp contrast to the decoration of Samothrace. It looked like a vessel intended for a one way trip, and with how the Lieutenant described it, Luke likely had the right thought.

Peering around the interior, then at the harnesses, Luke stepped back down.

“I have another solution,” he said, cutting into the back-and-forth between Thiel and Drayson. “We can use the Force to soften the landing.”

A strange look passed over Thiel’s face.

“This…Force…is implied to be some form of mental power, as I understand it?”

“You could call it that. The Force is an energy field that binds all life, all beings together. Jedi, and those sensitive to the Force, can feel it, and shape it.” Gently, Luke called his lightsaber from his belt, gently rotating it in midair before him, before replacing it.

Thiel’s expression darkened.

“Witchery.”

Luke smiled.

“I’ve met witches. Some of them are good friends.”

With the matter of surviving the landing on Obroa Skai settled, Thiel led them from the hangar, allowing the magos and other workers to begin installing the drop pods onto Penitent Queen. Luke knew intimately how to use the Force to handle pulling heavy gs, a technique he used almost unconsciously when piloting, and Anakin had learned from Jaina. Mei understood the principle and he was sure with some pointers and a little training, she could pick up the technique too. If not – he could certainly handle all three Wraiths and both Jedi too.

“I’d like to meet the Primarch, Roboute Guilliman,” Luke ventured, as Thiel escorted the party to what he called an ‘arming chamber’, where they could plan what equipment was necessary for the undertaking and familiarize each other with unfamiliar technology. The Astartes did not even pause in his stride, nor look down at Luke before replying simply:

“No.”

Unfortunate, but expected. Clearing his throat, Luke halted, Anakin almost bumping into him. Reluctantly, Thiel took another two strides before coming to a halt as well. The neophytes looked between the Lieutenant and Luke, while the Sergeant appeared uncaring, glancing off down the emptied corridor.

“You misunderstand me. Lieutenant Thiel, I would like to speak with the Primarch.”

The press of Force behind his words was no attempt to impose or alter will, but enough that though Luke did not raise his voice, his words felt like they echoed down the passage. Thiel peered at him for a long moment, then looked to Anakin, Mei, then the Wraiths.

“The Primarch is busy.”

Busy, but Thiel didn’t say not here. Samothrace was no longer in the Eboracum system, but Luke had felt something strange on approach. Something he couldn’t place his finger on, that eluded him, but something there nevertheless.

“I don’t need long.”

“I do not speak for the Primarch.”

“But you advise him,” Luke stressed the word. “An audience is all I ask. I’d like to meet the leader of the Imperium and I think he would like to meet me.”

“The Emperor is the master of the Imperium,” Thiel remarked, purposely obtuse. “I will pass along your request.”

Stonewalled, but not insurmountable. As was described by the brief, and holos taken, Thiel wore the same massive sword on his back. Luke fingered his lightsaber at his side.

“How about a wager, Lieutenant?”

“I prefer not to gamble. The universe has seen fit to demonstrate ill luck.”

Continuing as if Thiel hadn’t spoken, Luke held up the quiescent ‘saber.

“A duel. A friendly duel, and if I win, you’ll get me an audience.”

One of the neophytes actually laughed, receiving an elbow to the ribs that clacked against armored chestguard.

“If you win, I’ll let it go.”

“A poor wager,” Thiel mused. “If I should win, I’ll claim your blade for the Primarch. He collects unique weapons, you see.”

Anakin’s mouth fell open and Luke felt his nephew’s shock, indignation, and anger and gently he reached out in the Force, equivalent of roughing the boy’s hair and Anakin bit back whatever he wanted to say.

“Deal,” Luke said, bouncing on his feet. Ignoring shock on the Wraiths and an almost…hungry one on Mei, Luke gestured forward. “Lead on.”

Thiel lightly slid aside the Jedi’s probing lightsaber. Arcs of electricity spat and plumed. The two sized each other up, both stripped to trousers and boots, chests bare in classic form. Where Skywalker was wiry, muscled in an athletic way, Thiel loomed massive. Sockets glinted from limbs and chest where his armor, safely aside in an arming rack, interfaced. Discoloration tinted his torso, black carapace fusing his ribs into a single plate.

“Consider this theoretical,” Thiel began, carefully side-stepping, point of his electromagnetic longsword eerily still as he held it interposed. Skywalker brought his blade back to guard, matching Thiel’s motion as an opposite orbit. “The Empire’s Death Star has appeared in the Yavin system. Evacuations are only just beginning from the fourth moon. You and your squadron launch to content with the battlestation, but upon rising from the moon, you find yourself far afield among distant and uncharted stars. You know that out there, that battlestation moves ever closer to all you treasured and defended.”

Mei, watching along with all the others, couldn’t hide her incredulity.

“They’re having a conversation?”

Metal blurred and met plasma once, twice, thrice, was still again. All in under a second, both duelists returning to guard before the echo of their clash even rebounded.

“Would you not spend every moment bent on returning to your responsibility?”

Skywalker sprung forward with a pull on the Force, propelling him beyond the speeds a mortal could achieve, lightsaber held two-handed and searching. Aeonid twisted, with greater reacher and distance afforded by the man-sized blade caught and slid the glowing blade along his longsword’s magnetic field. Fields of hidden force screamed and whined and then the Jedi Master was behind the Astartes, already pivoting, ‘sabre darting for his shins. Thiel did not move to avoid, catching again the smaller mortal’s blade in a gentle redirect that skimmed the very tip of the green ‘sabre past his trouser clad ankles.

Then they were circling again, at guard, positions reversed.

Thiel placed his longsword through the Jedi’s body, but the Jedi was no longer in that space and Thiel met only air. Bent like a reed, Skywalker kicked into a curling somersault, smoothed by the Force, landing feet firm and braced. Aeonid grimaced. It was like fighting an Eldar.

“I understand,” the Master said, nodding. “I’ve known the feeling. Leaving something half-finished…or not even started at all. The choice between doing what is in front of you and leaving it all for what you know is more important.”

Only an Astartes’ reflexes could follow Skywalker’s quick slashes, none meant to connect, instead to corral and place Thiel on the back foot. They were conservative, quick, never leaving much of a space in the Jedi’s guard, but Aeonid had dueled monsters and men alike and ‘little space’ was not the same as ‘none’. Skywalker’s initiative was blunted as he ducked a hissing span of metal, broad as two hands put together.

“But you can’t split your focus. I learned that lesson too many times. You’re here now, Lieutenant Thiel. You can’t go back.”

“It is not yet certain,” the Astartes disagreed, a mountain of stubborn intent in the shape of a human. “The impossibility remains to be seen.”

“Then consider this instead. What if we helped you?”

The Jedi’s words, not his blade, gave the Astartes pause. He gave a foot of distance as he looked over the much shorter man.

“You would offer aid in matters you still do not know?”

Skywalker shrugged in the lull of their duel.

“If you help the New Republic in this war, it’s only fair the New Republic would do the same. Isn’t that what allies - friends - do? I haven’t known you long, Lieutenant, but you’re shining in the Force. I don’t sense bad intent from you. Or evil.” The Jedi span his blade, shaping a complicated pattern, dropping into a wide stance, blade held back, canted forward, two fingers pointing outward from extended arm.

Again they rejoined, blades dancing, clashing, sparking, before withdrawing. Feeling strangely moved, Thiel inclined his head, bringing his sword up to guard before his face.

“You honor us. Should you succeed here; the Primarch would be most interested.”

“Do or do not, Lieutenant,” the Jedi said, laughter in his voice. “There is no try.”

And then Thiel was on the backfoot, reeling, before a whirling hurricane of light.

He thought he had a gauge on the Jedi Master’s technique before, in their probing exchanges. The mortal human was swift, canny and agile, but Thiel had not needed to draw on the true depths of his training, nor the benefit of his form. In truth, he had been more interested in feeling out the Jedi than concluding the duel immediately, so he had humored Skywalker in more conservative exchanges.

Thiel threw everything he assumed aside, adrenaline surging through veins, chemicals spiking from his endocrine system, flooding his corded muscles and stimulating his second heart. Where before Skywalker had been cautious and quick, acting as hypo-training had taught him the alien Aeldari did, now the mortal reminded him more of-

Thiel backstepped, swayed aside, caught the lightsaber on his blade and wrestled with it, shock filling him as Skywalker wrestled right back. Locking blades was catastrophic in a duel, yet Thiel had expected that with his already prodigious physiology to batter aside the Jedi. Across the short span of space between them, and down, for the Jedi reached barely his gorget, Thiel saw that Jedi Master Luke Skywalker was grinning.

Grinning wildly, eyes alight.

The mortal reminded him of another Astartes.

At times it felt almost impossible to do anything but defend and the Jedi seemed to shift effortlessly between almost diametrically opposing forms. He might press Thiel with rapid, sharp strikes that the Astartes could only catch aside with the tip of his blade, then launch into strange aerial acrobatics, suited more for show than practicality, but for how the Jedi’s lightsaber always managed to interpose when Thiel made to take advantage.

All his attention narrows to the mortal before him. Sounds of shouts and cheers from the sidelines faded away, the world around greying and narrowing. The only thing that held color was Luke Skywalker and his gleaming green blade.

He had not felt this focus, this moment of flow and form since the terrors of the halls of Macragge’s Honour. Then, it was misshapen forms of flesh and hair and salt and gore that assailed him, coming from every angle, their every ravening strike shaped by insensate fury and depthless hunger. Thiel sunk into the moment, feeling his gifted electromagnetic longsword like it was an extension of his body, sensing every jarring strike like a kick in the shins.

The Jedi was strong, ferociously strong, strong enough to give an Astartes pause. In other times, Thiel might have curled his lip at the witchery of the Force, no doubt at fault, but all conscious thought had fled him.

There was only now. Now and a blade. Forever and an edge. Green cracked and magnetic lightning thrummed. Air sizzled. Sweat ran in runnels. Aeonid Thiel never considered himself any great artist with the blade. That was for champions, for Tetrarchs. He was competent, better than competent, but he had no mastery of it. Until he took up his Primarch’s sword, he’d only ever used a chainblade. Simpler, more brutal, more direct.

When the Jedi challenged him, Thiel was amused by the hubris.

Now, he wondered at how he could have missed the consummate skill packed into the mortal. Time trickled like thick oil, slowed down as his body steamed and forced himself to his peak and beyond. His teeth ground together, jaw clenched tight, every tendon, every fiber, every ounce of him bent toward one goal.

To not be bested by a mortal. An unaugmented human, a man younger than him.

Hissing plasma struck close enough to his face to warm his skin. Blackened scorch marks tattered his loose trousers, cleaving close enough to sear the fabric, only moments and one mistake from his own skin.

Thiel did not know how long they remained like this. After, he remembered little of the duel. He remembered no particular moves, no strikes, no practical. He remembered only one slowly growing feeling as Skywalker’s face burned itself into his retinas. The Jedi looked joyful, carefree, utterly intent and completely at peace. Contrasts and contradictions.

Thiel would remember only the feeling that he would not win.

The Jedi was water, he was air, he was everywhere but where Thiel expected. His lightsaber was not swung, it merely appeared where it needed to be to catch the Astartes’ blows. The Jedi was everywhere at once and nowhere at all, superpositioned, a ringing paradox made of flesh and blood and what Thiel knew in his hearts to be skill he had barely seen before.

Limbs burning, muscles hot, Thiel was amazed. He wondered if even the Tetrarch Lamiad could match this, then denied the thought as soon as it came. Skywalker still had not landed a convincing blow yet. Knowing the danger of using live weapons, though the Jedi had explained the Jedi trained regularly with each other with their lightsabers, each weapon capable of catastrophic physical damage at any mistake, it was agreed that a sufficiently near-blow, unchecked, counted as landing a hit.

Skywalker was unerring and unstoppable, but he hadn’t overcome Thiel yet, and he was not nearly arrogant enough to believe his own skill met or surpassed a Tetrarchs.

With this, he consoled himself as he sought any window, any chink, and break in the Jedi’s predictably unpredictable style. Skywalker was better than he, perhaps, but as Thiel recognized – he was no master duelist.

Then the storm was gone.

Thiel panted heavily, sucking in triple lungfuls of rich air, drenched in sweat, fingers so tight about the hilt of his blade that his knuckles ached. Skywalker faced him, two meters away, lightsaber humming at his side. The Jedi’s hair was plastered down to his scalp, chest heaving like bellows too. Wary, waiting for a resumption of the hurricane of light that Skywalker could transform into, the world slowly returned around Thiel, color slinking back into place, his vision widening until the arming chamber returned to his senses, the scent of lapping powder, hotel metal, chalk and sweat.

Sergeant Ascratus leaned on the railing that encircled the sparring square, gauntleted fists so tight it deformed. Beside him, both neophytes were wide-eyed, struck silent.

A lightsaber’s buzzing hum vanished and snapped Thiel’s attention back. Skywalker held his deactivated blade, then bowed deep.

“That was excellent, Lieutenant, thank you.”

Thiel found his tongue thick and took a moment to order his thoughts to speak.

“Neither of us laid a blow.”

His breathing evening out already, even as Thiel sucked in more lungfuls, the Jedi inclined his head.

“No. But there’s no need, is there?”

Thiel swallowed back a retort, fighting rising anger at the implication. He accepted the realization that he had no theoretical to best the Jedi, but for Skywalker to wave it in his face-

“For a Jedi, it’s never about winning. It’s about learning. I’ve never faced anyone quite like you. Call it a draw?”

Again, no different than with his blade, the Jedi surprised Thiel. A draw? A draw? Knowing the others to be out of earshot, Thiel lowered his tone, stepping closer.

“My honor does not need a salve,” he bit out.

“A salve? Lieutenant – Aeonid - when I said I’ve never fought anyone like you, I meant it. I don’t want to go farther. I’m afraid what could happen to either of us.”

“You would best me.” The admission stung, but he was Ultramarine. Information was victory. Thiel could never lie to himself and loathed speaking falsely to anyone, even an ally he hadn’t wished for.

“Maybe.” Skywalker shrugged his shoulders, hooking his lightsaber to his belt and then slowly beginning a few brief calisthenics, stretching arms and cracking his back. “We’re not enemies, Aeonid. I wouldn’t want to hurt you. Or be hurt by you,” he added. “My wife would kill me.” Rolling his shoulders, shaking out his legs and arms, Skywalker offered a hand in the space between them. “A draw. And a memorable duel.”

Slowly, Thiel encased the Jedi’s hand in his own, far more massive palm.

“I…will speak with the Primarch.” Thiel pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “He accompanied Samothrace without explanation. I daresay he anticipated this. A lesson then, Master Jedi. Never underestimate the Primarch. He will no doubt calculate that into his plans as well.”

Skywalker cocked an eyebrow, accepting a towel offered by the armored Jedi, Mei Taral. He wiped down his face, his chest. Thiel observed Taral eying the Master, likely checking for injuries on her superior.

“And Aeonid, one more thing.” Excitement colored Skywalker’s voice and he looked over Thiel, from boots to crown. “You’re strong in the Force.” On the other side of the dividing rail, Taral gasped and young Solo’s eyes grew wide. The three other humans, agents of the New Republic’s intelligence service, reacted similarly with surprise and open wonder. Likely some manner of as-yet unexplored cultural implication, Aeonid had no idea how to reply.

Opting for the most likely meaning, a praise of his skill in their duel, Thiel awkwardly offered the same in return.

“As are you?”

Skywalker’s surprise and delight proved his assessment wrong immediately.

“You sensed it as well?”

“I...” Thiel spared a glance at Ascratus, who gave nothing away. No ally there, damn him. “I apologize, I misunderstood the meaning.”

“No, it’s my fault. Of course, it wouldn’t make sense. Aeonid, remember what I spoke of earlier about the Force. The Force is in all living things. You, me, Mei, Face, all of us. Even in the smallest and simplest plants and bacteria. To be strong in the Force…it means that you can touch it, Aeonid. You are Force sensitive, just like any Jedi. I felt it, in our duel. Didn’t you?”

“The Force is for your Jedi. For your New Republic. What you claim is impossible. Isn’t it?”

“Are you alive, Lieutenant? Then the Force is yours as well. The Force doesn’t belong to anyone, the Force is. Aeonid, have you ever had moments when the world made sense? Have you ever had moments when the impossible was possible, for just a moment? When you tried hard enough that it just worked, when maybe it shouldn’t have? I felt it just now. The Force was with you, even if you didn’t know it and couldn’t command it.”

“…”

Three warriors obstruct Aeonid Thiel. One is Sorot Tchure. Tchure blocks every strike and thrust Thiel makes, as surely as a practice cage set on maximum extremity level.

Sorot Tchure hears the noise his master makes. He is focused on his combat with the Ultramarines raiders, but he cannot help but turn his eyes for a second. Less than a second. A microsecond. Thiel sees his opening. His practical. It is infinitesimal, a tiny chink in the Word Bearer’s guard. It lasts a microsecond, and it will not be repeated.

He puts his sword through it.

The longsword shears the right side of Tchure’s helm away. Cheek, ear and part of the skull separate with it. Tchure stumbles, bewildered by the pain, the shock, the disorientation.

Jolted from the memory, put aside months ago, Thiel found himself speechless.

“You have,” Luke breathed.

“This is ridiculous,” Thiel insisted. “I am no witch.”

“You’ve said that before. I don’t know what it means, but the truth is what it is. You are strong in the Force, Aeonid, very strong.” Unerringly, unsettlingly, the Jedi’s bright blue eyes would not leave his own. “I can teach you.”

Scoffing, Thiel strode away, seeking his own towel and sponging off his torso. Skywalker followed as the other Jedi and Wraiths fell into excited conversation.

“Even if what you claim is true – which is not possible – what purpose would there be? I am Astartes, not Jedi. You cannot make me one of yours, my oath and my loyalty is to my Emperor, my Primarch, and my Legion. In that order.”

Resting his towel over his shoulder, Skywalker leaned against the railing.

“I’m a husband too. And an uncle, a retired general, a starfighter ace and a teacher. And I am a Jedi.” The Jedi looked over to Thiel’s arming rack, where his armor waited, quiescent and empty. “Just consider it. Please. If you don’t believe me, seek it out yourself.”

“Shall I ask the Force to give me a sign? I have spent my life removing false religion, Master Jedi. I will not seek one out.”

Acting as though he had not heard him, Skywalker spoke on.

“Take the time to meditate. Focus yourself. Empty your mind and calm your thoughts. Reach deep inside yourself and in time, the Force will answer you. My offer will always be there, Aeonid. It would be my honor to guide you.”

Thiel tossed his towel aside, where a servitor ambled over and collected it. The Jedi handed his off to its proffered hook-hand, murmuring thanks to the mindless automaton.

Skywalker was mistaken. There was no other option. No other practical. Theoretical? What might drive him to make such a claim? Impossible to determine. He would tell his Primarch and it would no longer be his concern. Thiel was Astartes, he was of Ultramar, he was a Legionnaire. The Force, whatever it might be, for he did not deny the powers shown by Skywalker and the other Jedi, not after all that Thiel had seen in the universe, had no purchase on him. He knew who he was, and no matter how well-meaning Skywalker might seem, he was a human from a deviant culture. Tremendously skilled, well-spoken and allegedly wise, but a man from a culture that did not know the secular truth.

“My thanks for the challenge,” Thiel offered, shifting the subject. “If Jedi are of similar caliber to you, then perhaps in the future we may find more to learn from each other.”

“I’m sure Mei and Anakin would love a chance. Those neophytes, they might be a good match for skill.” Skywalker hummed a moment. “Without live blades, I think.”

Eyeing the two neophytes, barely out of training, barely eligible for their carapace, Thiel had to agree.

“Without live blades,” he echoed. “I’ll speak with the Primarch. Before you take leave for Obroa Skai, he will see you. You have my word, as Astartes.” He offered his arm and intuitively, Skywalker clasped it, hand to elbow.

“You have my word, as a Jedi, that I’ll protect your men as if they were my own Jedi.”

Thiel barked a laugh, drawing attention from across the arming chamber. He’d never had a mortal promise the safety of an Astartes before. Today was most certainly a day of firsts.