You’re moving up in the world, Oswen, he told himself, barely a full Jedi for a week and fighting your first Sith already.
But he knew he wasn’t--he was fighting his second, and when lightning leapt from the man’s hands and pain lanced white-hot at the edges of his vision, the feeling was familiar.
It was a bad time to remember. A Jedi must be at peace in battle, the masters told him. Feel the Force flow through you; become one with it, and do its will. But the memory flooded him with the same confusion it always did, and the frustration that always followed--and in seconds the serenity he had wrapped himself in before entering the room was dissolving into rage.
But this time was different. This time he knew he could kill. When the battle was over and he stood, panting for breath, above what was left of the man’s corpse, he felt like anything but a Jedi.
“Do you always leave your enemies in twenty pieces?” quipped Kira behind him. A smirk was in her voice, but he wasn’t sure if the look she was giving him matched it.
Oswen schooled the stricken look on his face into a matching smirk before he glanced over his shoulder. “Usually twenty-five--I was feeling generous.”
