Outside the Tenvale–Sal-Soren residence, the skyline of Coronet City glistened like glass teeth in the cold. Towers stabbed upward, their windows pulsing with wealth—every floor a fortress of quiet power. Theirs was an older building, austere in profile but dressed in new light. A quiet monument to a name now whispered with caution in Corellian society. Hovercars passed in silence. Below, a manicured skybridge garden was misted by automated rainfall. Somewhere far beneath the clouds, the poor might be sweating in alleys. Here, it was always crisp. Always curated.
The balcony doors were closed. The city was kept at a distance.
From the perspective of Bastien Sal-Soren
The jacket pinched.
It always did. No matter how many times it was tailored, adjusted, re-measured—somewhere between the seams, it found a way to make him feel like a mannequin. A decorative boy for decorative rooms.
“Hold still,” one of the dressers said, their tone practiced and clipped.
Bastien sighed through his nose, eyes flicking toward the nearest mirror. Two figures buzzed around him like trained wasps, tugging at cuffs, tightening clasps. The fabric was soft, the embroidery subtle. He hated it. Every stitch felt like someone else’s expectation.
"Why do I have to go to this ridiculous tournament?" he muttered.
From the lounge, the crisp sound of a datanote closing preceded his mother’s voice. "Because it is an opportunity. Because you are being noticed."
"Noticed for what? Wearing silk and smiling for cameras?"
"You're being sent as a representative of the House."
He didn’t answer. His jaw clenched as a servant twisted the collar too tight. Another flicked a speck of imagined lint from his shoulder like they were polishing a relic. Bastien waited until their eyes were off him and then deliberately undid the top button. No one noticed.
"Are we really doing this again?" he said, louder now. "Parading me around like I’m up for auction?"
Florienne’s voice didn’t rise. It never did. "That is vulgar. We are giving them a chance to see you."
"To see me? Or to see the name stitched into my sleeve?"
She didn’t answer. Just stood from her settee, graceful as ever, and crossed the room to examine him in silence. Her expression was unreadable. A sculpture carved from legacy.
"You’re seventeen," she said at last. "You don’t understand yet. But you will."
He rolled his eyes and looked away.
"This is for the family," she added, quiet now. "For your future."
He didn’t answer. Not really. Just muttered, "Funny how those are the same thing."
From the perspective of Florienne Sal-Soren
Florienne didn't look up from the datapad until she had read the final number three times.
The line had flatlined. Again. Oris' business venture—the one that was supposed to save them from the creeping rot—was failing. Her husband was either too proud to admit it or too occupied elsewhere. Possibly in the arms of that laughing woman from House Kaelren.
"Why do I have to go to this ridiculous tournament?" came the complaint of her only son.
Florienne closed the report without expression. Her fingers were steady. She let the sound of the latch carry down the marble hallway like punctuation. A warning, perhaps, to her son that conversation was no longer optional.
"Because it is an opportunity," she called out, voice composed. "Because you are being noticed."
She rose from the settee, smoothing her skirt. The room around her was flawless—arranged for the illusion of stability. The arrangements on the low table had been redone three times this morning. The petals needed to look effortless.
"Noticed for what? Wearing silk and smiling for cameras?"
She heard the edge in his voice, but she didn't flinch. "You're being sent as a representative of the House."
And you're all that's left, she didn't say. Not after Baros. Not after the girls. Not after the whispers that we were breeding idealists, traitors, dreamers.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him tug at a button, unfastening it behind the servant's back. She made no move to stop him. Let him feel clever, if it helped him wear the suit.
"Are we really doing this again? Parading me around like I'm up for auction?"
She turned slightly toward the window, gathering her breath. "That is vulgar. We are giving them a chance to see you."
Them being the Diarchy's outer court. Their more eccentric daughters. Their vast, resourced dowries.
"To see me? Or to see the name stitched into my sleeve?"
Florienne approached then, letting the silence fill the space before her reply. She looked at her son not with disapproval, but calculation wrapped in softness. He looked like Baros when he was angry. That had once been a comfort. Now it kept her up at night.
"You're seventeen. You don't understand yet. But you will."
His eye-roll was rehearsed. Familiar. She didn't react.
"This is for the family," she finished, gentler this time. "For your future."
"Funny how those are the same thing."
Florienne didn't show the sting she felt. She only returned to her chair, posture pristine, eyes distant. The boy didn't know it yet—but the walls were closing in. And he was her only door left.
