Character
Eriadu never truly slept. Even at this hour, the skyline beyond the transparisteel panes burned with industrial light, freighters cutting deliberate paths through the haze as they aligned with outbound hyperspace vectors.
The lounge Lyssara had chosen occupied one of the upper districts overlooking the primary shipping lanes. It was not extravagant, but it was deliberate in its restraint. Polished durasteel columns broke up the open floor, amber lighting softened sharp architectural lines, and the conversations here were conducted in tones that assumed privacy rather than demanded it. Officers, corporate intermediaries, transport captains people who dealt in contracts and corridors rather than spectacle.
Lyssara sat near the wide viewport, not because of the view, but because the space around it felt less crowded in the Force. Fewer emotional eddies gathered there. Dathomir lay on the far side of the galaxy from where she had been. The path back required crossing trade arteries, re-calibrating hyperspace routes, accepting delays in places like this. She had not returned in some time. The thought of it sat in her chest like a stone that had been warmed slowly, not unpleasant, not entirely comforting.
The room moved around her in layered currents. Confidence brushed against anxiety at a nearby table where two executives negotiated percentages. A trio of junior officers radiated the brittle sharpness of men who mistook rank for weight. The bartender carried a steady patience honed from years of managing pride.
It was not louder than the others. Not brighter. In fact, it was quieter than most. A presence entered the room that did not spill over itself. Where others leaked irritation, ambition, hunger, this one held its shape. Balanced. Controlled. The Force around it felt aligned rather than turbulent, as if tension had been drawn into straight lines instead of allowed to fray.
Lyssara did not turn her head. She did not need to. The geometry of the room adjusted subtly, conversations bending just a fraction as attention redirected. Respect, or at least awareness, followed that presence in a ripple that was almost imperceptible to anyone relying on sight alone. She let it pass through her awareness without reaching for it.
A few minutes later, one of the junior officers at the far end of the lounge grew louder than the space warranted. His voice carried the edge of someone performing for his companions. He rose, chair scraping against the floor, and made his way toward the viewport, toward the quieter stretch of tables.
Toward her.
His emotional signature shifted from bravado to curiosity as he drew closer, curiosity curdling into something more pointed when he realized she did not acknowledge him. He paused within arm’s reach of her table.
“You can’t see the lanes from there,” he remarked, tone light but edged. “Might want a better seat.” Lyssara’s head inclined slightly in his direction. She could feel the minute tension in his wrist before he even placed his hand on the edge of her table. The decision had already been made the motion was simply its expression.
When he leaned in closer, testing boundaries he did not understand, she moved.
Not with haste. Not with anger. Her hand rose just enough to intercept his wrist, fingers finding the precise angle where balance gave way to leverage. She rotated her shoulder and shifted her weight by a fraction. His body followed the correction involuntarily, momentum redirected into his own instability. He found himself bent awkwardly beside her chair, knee striking the floor before he could catch himself.
The room quieted in a way that had nothing to do with volume.
Lyssara released him immediately. No flourish. No lingering threat. She settled back into her seat as though nothing had occurred. The officer muttered something under his breath and withdrew, dignity salvaged only by the speed with which he retreated to his companions. Conversation gradually resumed, though softer now, more cautious.
Lyssara lifted her glass, the cool rim brushing her fingers. Beyond the viewport, another freighter aligned with the outbound lane, engines brightening as it prepared to jump. She felt the moment of commitment before it happened, the precise instant when hesitation vanished and trajectory became inevitable.
Tag:
Quinn Varanin
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