Count Dooku had visited many worlds in his lifetime. He had walked the polished corridors of Coruscant, traversed the icy wastes of Ilum, felt the endless decay of Mustafar. But this place… this world was different.
It didn't shout in the Force. It didn't whisper.
It breathed.
From the moment his ship breached atmosphere, Dooku had sensed it—an equilibrium unlike anything he had encountered. Not imposed order, nor untamed wildness. It was as though the Force itself had chosen to settle here, as if the currents of light and shadow found respite in the soil.
Balance. Not as theory, but as truth.
He had scoffed at the thought initially.
But then he arrived in Elysiar.
And found himself unsettled.
The city sprawled like a dream—fluid architecture interwoven with the natural world, glowing lines of energy pulsing in time with the very heartbeat of the land. There was no pretense of Republic grandeur, nor the austere minimalism of Jedi structures. It was vibrant, alive—utterly alien to his upbringing and yet… calming.
He hated how much it appealed to him.
Meeting the so-called leader of this place, Dooku expected posturing. Arrogance. Some wide-eyed idealist playing god with misplaced power.
Adam was not that.
He was young. Far too young to command such influence. And yet, there was something about him—some quiet weight in his words, a steadiness in his gaze—that reminded Dooku of a seasoned commander.
Not a Jedi. Not a Sith.
Not even a politician.
Just a man with purpose.
And then there was the woman beside him.
Mara Jade.
The name meant nothing to him. But her presence in the Force was unmistakable. A storm tempered by discipline. A weapon sheathed in curiosity. She watched him not like a master studies a rival—but like a predator studies a fellow survivor.
When she spoke of the Vault of Balance, her voice was careful, layered with intent. She didn't overshare. She tested him.
And Dooku, for the first time in years, found himself wanting to pass.
Seeing Alis here as well had been unexpected. He knew of the Nightsisters, of course—Dathomir's shrouded magic and ancient traditions. They were feared, dismissed, hunted. But Alis carried herself with quiet confidence, her power carefully restrained. There was no fanaticism in her, no reverence. Just understanding.
She belonged here.
That disturbed him.
Because he was beginning to think he might, too.
The Vault of Balance was unlike anything he had ever encountered.
Its halls did not resonate with light or darkness. They pulsed with something else—truth, perhaps. Or acceptance. The teachings etched into its walls were not dogma, but paradoxes. Lessons not meant to guide obedience, but to provoke reflection.
One chamber had presented a scenario: a Jedi Master forced to choose between saving their Padawan or preserving a diplomatic treaty. Neither outcome was clean. Neither right. The Vault did not offer answers.
Only perspective.
That was what struck him hardest.
The Jedi had become obsessed with clarity. The Sith with power.
But this place?
It offered understanding.
He found himself returning to that central tenet: Balance is not stillness. It is movement between extremes.
The Republic had lost itself in bureaucracy. The Jedi, in stagnation. The Sith, in selfish ambition. Dooku had left the Order because he no longer believed in it. He saw its flaws—its complacency, its refusal to adapt.
But he had not yet chosen an alternative.
And now here stood an option that was neither Light nor Dark. Neither rebellion nor conformity.
An option that demanded thinking, not faith.
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And then the sky had opened.
Dooku had been walking one of Elysiar's upper garden tiers when it happened.
The Force rippled—no, shuddered. Like a string pulled taut and suddenly released. The air thickened. Wind stopped. Birds fell silent. And then the pulse came.
A column of light burst from the central spire—clear, sharp, and impossibly high. It extended like a pillar into the heavens, its base glowing with runes that flickered across half the city before slowly receding. The hum that followed wasn't a sound—it was a feeling. It settled in Dooku's bones. His breath caught.
He clutched the rail of the terrace and simply stared.
It wasn't dark. It wasn't light.
It was something beyond.
He didn't know what had happened.
But he knew it meant something.
The next day, he saw him.
A man clad in dark, ancient armor walked the main promenade—no escort, no pomp. His sword, though sheathed, radiated authority. Civilians paused to let him pass, eyes drawn not by fear but reverence. The Force clung to him—not in storm or fire, but as weight.
Dooku narrowed his eyes, standing at a distance.
He watched as Adam approached the knight—not issuing orders, but speaking with quiet purpose. The warrior nodded only once.
But that single gesture spoke volumes.
The man was not a servant. And Adam was not a tyrant.
It was mutual respect.
And to Dooku, that kind of leadership was more telling than any doctrine.