Not the gentle chill of a Coruscant evening, but a deep, ancient cold that seeps through thermal layers and settles into bone. It steals breath before it can form. The wind howls across endless plains of ice, carrying with it the whisper of something older than the Republic itself.

Y/n stands at the mouth of a cavern. Behind them, the Jedi shuttle rests on the frozen tundra, its landing lights casting long shadows across crystalline formations that jut from the ground like the teeth of some great beast. Ahead, darkness. Absolute, swallowing darkness.

Master Tera Sinube stands beside them, his grey robes whipping in the wind, his grizzled features calm as carved stone. He clasps his hands within his sleeves, tilting his head toward the cave.

Sinube gestures toward the cave.