Lightsaber dueling was widely considered the coolest class at the Jedi Temple. (Reath preferred Ancient History, but he was in an extremely small minority.) All the emphasis on dueling obscured one simple truth: this was a situation a Jedi would almost certainly never encounter even once in a lifetime of service. Only other Jedi carried lightsabers; Jedi did not fight each other in the field or anywhere else, for that matter. Ergo, dueling was effectively useless except as exercise.

So Reath had argued, and he still felt like he was right in principle. At the moment, however, dueling practice was the only thing keeping him alive.

Dez Rydan, wild-eyed, went at Reath again and again, relentless. His obvious injuries hadn’t sapped his strength; if anything, Dez was going berserk with adrenaline, almost incapable of rational thought. It was like approaching an injured animal—you could try to take care of it, but it would only snap and claw at you.

Parry. Position two. Twist and parry. Block high, block low, position four. Reath’s body knew the stances and drills so well that he could defend himself without conscious thought. But that was all he could do—defend himself and prolong the fight.

The only other option was maiming or killing Dez Rydan.

“Cut him with the blade that burns,” growled one of the watching Drengir, all of whom seemed highly entertained. “Cook the meat for us.”

Reath wasn’t sure which one of them the Drengir was speaking to, but he didn’t like that instruction either way.

I have to wake Dez up, he thought. Make him hear me, if he even can. How am I supposed to get through to him?

Then Reath remembered another voice saying, when he’d been complaining about the frontier assignment, “How am I ever going to get through to you?”

“Master Jora,” Reath said. “Remember her? Our master?”

Dez hardly seemed to understand what Reath was saying. So Reath reached out with the Force, filling his mind with memories of Jora Malli: her warm smile, her surprisingly deep laughter, her insatiable cravings for Bilbringi food—

And then the knowledge that she was dead, far away, never to be seen again—

Reath had managed to create a connection with Dez’s mind just in time to flood it with grief and pain. Dez pulled back and brought up his lightsaber for another blow. Sooner or later, he was going to hit harder than Reath could parry.

Dez stopped mid-movement, as though frozen. His expression remained glazed, but in his eyes there was some evidence that he was at least trying to make sense of what Reath was saying.

Sweat slicked Reath’s skin. The air was thick with moisture and the smells of soil, sap, and mold. He stood there in defense stance, keeping his eyes locked with Dez’s, not knowing how long the respite would last.