The Vault of Balance thrummed softly with a rhythm that was not mechanical, nor purely organic. It was a cadence felt through the bones—a pulse of purpose echoing from ancient stone. The Force here did not roar. It resonated, deep and constant like a river beneath a glacier.
Mara Jade stood in the central chamber, hands folded behind her back, lights dimmed to a gentle amber as she watched the gathered trainees. Each of them summoned by the system. Each with a spark—some barely visible, others already burning.
They were not Jedi.
Not Sith.
They were new.
And they were hers to guide.
Her lessons were unorthodox.
That was by design.
"The Force," she began that morning, "is not a ladder to climb. It's a field you must move through."
She paced slowly across the etched floor, where balance glyphs shimmered in shifting hues—blue for calm, red for conflict, silver for clarity.
"The Empire taught obedience. The Jedi taught detachment. Both can blind you."
She extended a hand. "I don't want blind followers. I want aware protectors. Warriors with conviction—not dogma."
One trainee, a Cathar woman with a feral streak and a violet saberstaff, raised a brow. "Conviction can become fanaticism."
Mara nodded. "So can restraint."
They paused at that, absorbing the weight of the contradiction.
That was lesson one.
From a distance, Count Dooku observed.
He sat upon a raised stone tier carved from the vault wall, his expression unreadable. He had attended three sessions now. Always silent. Always watching.
Today, he spoke.
"You teach like someone who has made mistakes," he said, loud enough for all to hear.
Mara didn't flinch. "That's how I know the cost of them."
He rose and walked forward slowly.
"You denounce the Jedi and the Sith both. But that leaves no center. What structure replaces them?"
Mara turned to face him. "I'm not here to build a temple. I'm here to prepare people to stand on their own."
He considered her words carefully.
"It's a dangerous thing," he said, "to teach independence without grounding."
"And it's a dangerous thing," she replied, "to teach structure without allowing thought."
Dooku inclined his head—not conceding, but acknowledging the merit in her stance.
Later, in a private chamber lit by the vault's inner pool, Mara sat across from both Dooku and Alis.
The water glowed faintly as they spoke.
"You speak of balance," Dooku said. "But what you teach borders on anarchy."
Alis chuckled. "No. It's freedom. Something the Jedi fear and the Sith abuse."
She trailed her fingers through the mist rising from the pool. "The Nightsisters walk with shadow because nature demands it. The tide pulls both ways. Only those who respect both understand the current."
Mara leaned forward. "And the Jedi taught that emotion must be suppressed. That attachment is dangerous. But what did it cost them?"
"Their compassion," Alis said softly.
Dooku didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
The next day's session was different.
Mara brought the students into the meditation hollow, where a ring of ancient obelisks surrounded them. Each was carved with Force glyphs—light, dark, grey, and unaligned.
She stood before them with a practice saber at her belt, but did not draw it.
"Today," she said, "we talk about fear."
She called one student forward—a quiet, silver-eyed boy who had demonstrated immense precognitive potential.
"What are you afraid of?" she asked him gently.
"Losing control," he whispered.
She nodded. "And that fear will haunt you until you understand it."
With a flick of her hand, she ignited a training orb behind him—fast, erratic, weaving blaster bolts.
"Don't fight it. Feel it."
He flinched at first.
Then slowly, through her guidance, he began to anticipate—then move—then flow with the motion.
He wasn't fighting anymore.
He was dancing with the danger.
By the end, the orb shut down, and he stood panting, smiling.
The others applauded softly.
Dooku said nothing.
But his fingers were clasped behind his back tighter than usual.
That night, Alis stood with Mara beneath one of the open skylight gardens high above the vault.
"You know," Alis said, "if the Jedi had taught like this, they might still be whole."
"They thought they were saving the galaxy," Mara replied.
Alis turned her gaze to the stars. "So did the Nightsisters. And the Sith. Everyone believes in their rightness. But belief alone doesn't make truth."
"No," Mara agreed. "But belief with understanding… that can."
The Vault responded to them all in subtle ways.
Rooms that had been closed opened quietly after each lesson. New glyphs revealed themselves on the walls. The Force here was not only ancient—it was alive. Responsive.
Dooku passed one of those rooms late one evening, the air around it warm and humming.
Inside, he saw a mural that had not been visible before.
It showed a robed figure walking between two shadowy beasts—one of light, one of dark—each growling, each restrained not by chains, but by the figure's will.
It was a depiction of mastery.
Not over others.
But over the self.
He stood there for a long time, watching the image flicker.
And for once, he didn't try to explain it away.
He simply listened.