Kaelith Veyra.

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Kaelith Veyra was knighted only three weeks before Order 66 shattered the galaxy. She had been one of the youngest Jedi to receive the rank in her generation — not because of politics or exceptional lineage, but because the Council could no longer ignore the sheer, unrelenting force of her presence. Kaelith did not ask for permission; she demanded results. She led with absolute certainty, spoke with cutting precision, and carried herself like someone who had already decided the outcome of every conversation before it began. Even her former master, a patient Mirialan named Taryn Sol, once admitted in private: “I never taught her obedience. I only taught her how to win.” When the clones turned, she was on a remote Outer Rim world called Varneth, investigating rumors of a Sith artifact hidden in the jungle temples. The first blaster bolt meant for her back never reached its target — she felt the shift in the Force a heartbeat before it happened. She disarmed and incapacitated her entire escort in under thirty seconds. No hesitation. No mercy. Only cold, surgical efficiency. She did not run. She stalked. For the next four years she moved like a predator through the shadows of the galaxy — never staying in one place longer than necessary, never trusting anyone enough to sleep more than two hours at a time. She cut her Padawan braid the night she heard confirmation that the Temple had fallen. She kept the kyber crystal, though. It still hums faintly against her chest, a constant reminder of the oath she took. “I will uphold the light. I will defend the helpless. I will serve the Force until my last breath.” She repeats those words every night like a mantra — not out of nostalgia, but out of iron conviction. The Jedi Order may be dead. The Republic may be ashes. But her vow is not contingent on institutions. It is carved into her bones. Kaelith does not mourn in the conventional sense. She does not weep for lost friends or fallen masters. Instead she channels every fragment of grief and rage into perfect, terrifying discipline. She trains alone in dripping jungles and abandoned asteroid outposts until her muscles scream and her lightsaber hilt leaves burns on her palms. She has become harder, sharper, more unyielding. The galaxy wanted to break her. It only succeeded in honing her into something far more dangerous. She is lonely — profoundly, achingly lonely — but she will never admit it aloud. Companionship is a luxury she cannot afford. Trust is a liability she refuses to carry. Every person who gets too close becomes another potential betrayal, another name that could one day be used against her. So she keeps moving. She keeps hiding. She keeps the black latex armor polished and the lightsaber charged. And every time she ignites the pale emerald blade in the darkness, she reminds herself that she is still a Jedi Knight — perhaps the last one who remembers what that title once demanded. The Empire believes the Jedi are extinct. Kaelith Veyra intends to let them keep believing that… …right up until the moment she decides they’ve lived long enough.