Mission Embers of Taris | High Republic | Great Houses

[Duncan Avaron]

Ryloth
Avaron Estate
0800
Seris Travin-Avaron
​

The first thing that Duncan always noticed was the dust. Everytime he woke up and looked across the landscape. It clung to everything on Ryloth, skin, silk, stone, memory. It coated the landing pad in a dull red haze and crept into the folds of his cloak. But most of all, Duncan welcomed it. Dust was honest. It told you where you were, and whose world you stood upon.

He paused at the foot of the ramp as the ship powered down behind him, amber eyes lifting to the distant mesas silhouetted against the twin suns. Somewhere beyond them, weapons were changing hands in shadows, blasters and explosives meant not for defense, but for prolonging suffering. Somewhere, the Great House, House Valcaryn believed itself clever enough to bleed Ryloth quietly and profit from the chaos.

They were mistaken.

Duncan adjusted the signet at his collar, the mark of House Avaron catching the light. Most knew who he was, he was not a stranger here among the City of Nabat, he was here as a negotiator, a concerned noble responding to unrest among his people. That much was true. What he did not announce, what could not be announced, was his intent to follow the trade routes no one spoke of aloud, to listen where others dismissed anger as savagery, and to find the proof that would turn whispers into accusation.

War would be easy. Ryloth had known too much of it already.

They would be meeting with the heads of House Valcaryn, to negotiate the events happening. But more so to try and catch them in a lie.

He thought of the insurgents, fighters born of broken promises and occupied streets, taught to see the Republic as another distant master with clean hands and bloody outcomes. Most did not trust him, as they believed his acts of goodwill, patience and care were a front for something far more sinister. when one was used to dealing with betrayal at every turn. It was very difficult to trust, even a well respected noble such as him. To win their trust back, it would take patience and careful words.

Duncan exhaled slowly, steadying himself.

This mission was not about crushing rebellion. It was about removing the poison that fed it. Expose the intermediary. Sever the supply. Give Ryloth room to breathe again without igniting a war that would scorch every House involved. He stepped onto the soil of his homeworld, boots sinking slightly into the red earth.

"Carefully," he murmured, as he looked over to Seris.. "We do this carefully."

Because if peace was still possible, Duncan Avaron intended to find it, before the galaxy decided for them.

 

[Seris Travin-Avaron]

Seris had already stepped down the ramp by the time he spoke, boots settling into the red dust with practiced ease. The wind caught the hem of her cloak, tugging it once before letting it fall, as if Ryloth itself were testing her balance. She did not brush the dust away. She never did.

Her green eyes followed the distant mesas for a moment longer than Duncan's had, reading the land the way some Jedi read currents in the Force. Tension lingered there—not loud, not immediate, but threaded through the ground like a fault line waiting for the wrong pressure.

When she turned to him, her expression was calm, but not gentle. "Carefully," she echoed, not as agreement but as commitment.

She moved to his side, close enough that their shoulders nearly aligned, presenting a united front without a word needing to be spoken. To anyone watching, she was simply Lady Avaron—composed, attentive, unthreatening. Those with sharper instincts might notice the stillness beneath her posture, the readiness held in reserve.

"House Valcaryn believes subtlety makes them untouchable," Seris continued quietly, eyes still on the horizon. "But subtlety leaves patterns. Supply routes. Intermediaries. Fear that has learned where to look for relief."

She finally looked at him then, really looked—not at the signet or the title, but at the man who carried both with restraint.

"They are counting on anger to speak first," she said. "On desperation to make mistakes. If we deny them that…" a brief pause, thoughtful, "…they will talk."

The Force around her was steady, muted—not pushing, not probing—simply aware—a quiet bulwark against escalation.

"The insurgents don't need another enemy," Seris added. "They need proof that someone is willing to listen long enough to remove what's hurting them."

She reached out then, not to take his hand, but to rest her fingers briefly against his forearm—grounding, deliberate, a reminder that he was not carrying this alone.

"You speak for Ryloth," she said softly. "I will watch the spaces between the words."

Her gaze lifted toward the city ahead, toward the negotiations waiting in shadowed halls.

"If peace is still possible," Seris finished, voice quiet but unyielding, "we will give it every chance to survive."

She stepped forward beside him, dust rising around their boots as they moved—two figures advancing not toward war, but toward the dangerous, deliberate work of preventing it.

Duncan Avaron

 

[Duncan Avaron]

Seris Travin-Avaron
​

Duncan inclined his head slightly at Seris's words, the gesture subtle enough to pass for nothing more than a shift against the wind. Her presence at his side steadied the moment, not by softening it, but by sharpening it into something deliberate. He began walking, pace unhurried, boots crunching through the red dust as the city drew closer. Each step forward was measured, intentional. Ryloth had taught him that rushing only stirred old wounds.

"You're right," he said quietly, voice kept low for her alone. "Valcaryn survives because no one wants to look too closely. Because accusation feels louder than suffering." His gaze moved across the horizon, not lingering on the mesas now, but on the roads that wound toward the city, trade routes, lifelines, veins that could just as easily carry poison as relief.

He adjusted his cloak as they walked, the House colors visible but not ostentatious. "Anger would serve them. So would fear. We give them neither." There was resolve in his tone, tempered by something more restrained, an understanding of how easily righteous action could become the very thing they claimed to oppose.

As the distant structures of the meeting complex came into view, Duncan slowed just enough to match Seris's stride. "I'll listen," he continued. "Not just to what they say in those halls, but to what they refuse to name. If they believe me a concerned noble, let them underestimate that concern."

His eyes flicked briefly to her then, gratitude unspoken but present all the same. "Your watch may be the difference between a conversation and a catastrophe."

He drew in a slow breath, shoulders settling as the weight of the coming negotiations pressed in. "Ryloth deserves more than another lesson in endurance," he said. "If proof exists, we will find it. If peace can be preserved, we will protect it, even from those who think chaos is profitable."

Polished stone and pale metal, a long table set beneath banners that were intentionally equal in size. Even the light was curated, soft, diffuse, meant to keep faces readable and tempers cool. Duncan could smell the faint bite of disinfectant under the incense they'd tried to mask it with, and the red dust that followed them in like an uninvited witness.

House Valcaryn was already seated.

Their lead, Lord Maelor Valcaryn, rose the moment Duncan entered, the motion practiced and perfectly timed. He wore dark formal robes cut like military dress, a signet heavy enough to be a threat in jewelry form. The smile he offered was cordial, almost warm, and entirely controlled.

"Lord Duncan Avaron," Maelor said, voice smooth as oiled stone. "Lady Seris. Ryloth's sun does not often grant us the honor of your House."

Duncan returned the greeting with the same measured courtesy. He did not smile too widely. He did not bare teeth to a wolf and pretend it was friendliness.

"Lord Maelor," Duncan replied, taking his seat with Seris at his right. "Thank you for meeting on short notice."

The Valcaryn delegation sat in a tidy line: a factor with a datapad already open, a security attaché whose eyes never stopped counting, and a quiet woman in the back who carried no visible rank, only the kind of stillness that suggested she didn't need one. Duncan marked them all, then looked past them to the other end of the chamber. A representative of Ryloth's local council sat there too, Twi'lek, older, her lekku adorned with modest bands. She looked tired in a way that no cosmetic could hide. Beside her was a Republic liaison, too crisp, too clean, too eager to label the room 'productive.'

The insurgency sat between them all, unseen. An unspoken attendee with a chair reserved in every pause. Duncan placed his hands on the table, fingers relaxed, posture open, inviting dialogue without offering weakness.

Maelor gestured lightly. "Please, tell us how Valcaryn can assist. We are, as ever, invested in stability."

Stability, Duncan thought, was a word that could mean peace or a leash. He nodded once. "Ryloth has endured a long season of unrest," he said, careful to keep the condemnation out of his tone. "There are people taking up arms who believe violence is their only language left. I don't intend to answer them with more violence if it can be avoided."

The councilwoman's shoulders shifted, a fraction of relief at hearing it said aloud.

Maelor's smile held. "A noble sentiment."

"A necessary one," Duncan corrected gently. "War is an expensive habit. It costs lives first, credits second, and trust last, trust being the one thing no House can replace once it breaks."

That landed. Not with Maelor, his expression did not change, but with the factor, whose stylus paused for half a heartbeat.

Duncan continued, still calm. "We are here because the insurgency has acquired weapons beyond what their means should allow. Organized supply. Repeated lots. The kind of pattern that suggests an intermediary is moving product with discipline, not desperation."

Maelor leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers. "And you believe Valcaryn is involved."

"I said nothing of belief," Duncan replied, voice mild. "Only that there is a pattern. And when patterns emerge on trade lanes, I look first to those with the shipping reach to notice them."

Duncan looked over to Seris, with a small genuine smile to see if she had something she wanted to add in this.

 

[Seris Travin-Avaron]

Seris did not speak immediately. She let the pause exist—long enough to be noticed, not long enough to become awkward. It was a practiced stillness, one she had learned not from courts alone, but from watching how power revealed itself when it believed it was being observed rather than challenged.

When she did speak, her voice was calm, even gentle, but it carried with it the quiet authority of someone who understood rooms like this not as places of conversation, but as fields of pressure. "Patterns," she echoed softly, her green eyes lifting from the datapad on the table to Maelor Valcaryn himself. "Are rarely accusations. They are questions waiting for honest answers."

Her hands rested lightly atop the table, fingers relaxed, posture composed—no defensiveness, no aggression. She did not look at the factor when she spoke next, but she knew he was listening. "Insurgencies do not sustain themselves on ideology alone," Seris continued. "They require consistency. Supply lines. Predictability. Those things do not come from chaos. They come from structure."

Her gaze shifted, briefly, to the tired councilwoman at the far end of the table—acknowledging her presence without centering it—before returning to Valcaryn. "House Avaron is not here to name enemies," she said, her tone measured, almost reassuring. "We are here to prevent a future in which Ryloth is forced to choose between endurance and survival yet again." She inclined her head a fraction, a courtesy offered, not owed.

"If Valcaryn's trade lanes are as transparent as its reputation suggests," Seris added, "then this conversation should be a simple one. Shared records. Open verification. A joint assurance that no House profits—knowingly or otherwise—from suffering disguised as instability." There was no accusation in her expression. No challenge in her posture. Only patience. "Stability," she said quietly, "is strongest when it can withstand scrutiny."

She leaned back slightly then, ceding the floor without retreating, her presence steady beside Duncan's—not echoing him, not overshadowing him, but reinforcing the space he had deliberately created. Her eyes flicked to him briefly, not for permission, but in quiet alignment. The question now sat in the center of the table, calm and unavoidable. And how Valcaryn chose to answer it would speak far louder than any denial.

Duncan Avaron

 

[Duncan Avaron]

Seris Travin-Avaron
​

Duncan did not interrupt Seris, not once. He let her words settle where they belonged: in the center of the table, laid down with the kind of care that made them difficult to dismiss without revealing something ugly underneath.

He watched Maelor Valcaryn as she spoke. Not the smile, Valcaryn smiles were made for halls like this. He watched the small adjustments: the slight shift of weight, the fraction of tension at the jaw, the way Maelor's fingers pressed together a touch harder when Seris said joint assurance. Those were the tells that mattered. Not guilt, necessarily. But pressure.

When Seris leaned back, Duncan waited a heartbeat longer than etiquette required. Not to create drama, only to make it clear that the silence was chosen. That they were not here to fill the air. They were here to hear what Valcaryn did with it.

Then he spoke.

"My lady is correct," Duncan said, voice calm, tone courteous. "We're discussing verification, not verdicts." He turned his palms up briefly on the table, open, empty, a gesture meant to disarm without begging. "If the lanes are clean, we confirm it. If they are compromised, we isolate where and how. That protects Ryloth, and it protects Valcaryn's reputation from being used as cover by someone else."

Maelor's smile returned with practiced ease. "A generous interpretation."

"A necessary one," Duncan replied, and kept his eyes steady. "Because the alternative is escalation. Rumors harden. Systems pick sides. And eventually someone decides a public accusation is worth the risk." He let the implication exist without sharpening it into threat. "I would prefer we never reach that point."

The Valcaryn factor shifted his datapad, already poised to object on technical grounds. Duncan didn't look at him yet. He kept his focus on Maelor, the only person in the room whose permission mattered.

"What we propose is simple," Duncan continued. "A joint verification process with clear boundaries."

He tapped the edge of his own datapad once, waking a prepared set of terms. No flourish, just readiness.

"Three elements," he said. "First: lane logs and consignor codes for the categories we've identified, industrial supplies, reconstruction equipment, and security materiel, restricted to the corridor in question and the last quarter." His gaze flicked briefly to the Republic liaison, then away. "Second: the carrier list you began providing, with the addition of any subcontractors those carriers used, names, not internal pricing or contracts." He angled his attention, finally, to the factor. "Third: a neutral verification party."

Maelor raised a brow. "Neutral."

"Auditors from the Twi'lek council," Duncan said, nodding once toward the exhausted councilwoman. "And one Valcaryn-appointed observer. One Avaron-appointed observer. No Republic security forces in the process." He let that land where it would: with the insurgents who weren't in the room, with the councilwoman who had to live with consequences, with Valcaryn who would rather avoid Senate fingerprints on their paperwork.

The councilwoman's posture lifted slightly, interest sharpening into cautious hope.

The Republic liaison's expression tightened. Maelor's smile thinned again, just a fraction. "You would exclude the Republic?"

"I would avoid giving the insurgents a story they can sell," Duncan replied evenly. "They already believe the Republic is an occupier. If our investigation looks like an occupation, the only thing it will produce is blood."

 

[Seris Travin-Avaron]

Seris did not move when the Republic liaison stiffened. She did not look at him at all.

Her attention remained on Maelor Valcaryn, patient and unwavering, as though the discussion had shifted from negotiation to something more exacting. When she spoke again, her voice was calm, precise, and deliberately unreactive to the tension now present in the room.

"This is not an exclusion," she said evenly. "It is a containment."

She folded her hands loosely atop the table, posture composed, neither leaning forward nor retreating.

"Ryloth has endured too many moments where oversight became spectacle," Seris continued. "Each time, the result was the same. Narratives hardened. Factions entrenched. And the people most affected were the ones least able to leave when the attention moved on."

Her gaze shifted briefly to the councilwoman, acknowledging the lived cost behind the words, before returning to Maelor.

"A quiet verification protects everyone at this table," she said. "Including Valcaryn. Including the Republic. And most importantly, including the civilians who will bear the consequences if this process is mishandled."

She paused, allowing the implication to settle without sharpening it.

"Transparency does not require an audience," Seris added. "It requires discipline."

The word lingered in the air, not as an accusation, but as an expectation.

"If your House has nothing to hide," she said gently, "then a limited, neutral review will confirm that quickly. If there is interference along the lanes, identifying it together prevents this matter from becoming something far less controlled."

She inclined her head slightly, offering respect without concession.

"This path avoids humiliation," Seris concluded. "And it avoids martyrdom. Both are currencies that the insurgency depends upon."

Only then did she lean back again, reclaiming her stillness, leaving the next move exactly where it belonged. Across the table. In Maelor Valcaryn's hands.

The room felt quieter for it. Not because the danger had passed. But because the choices were now unmistakably clear.

Duncan Avaron

 

[Duncan Avaron]

Seris Travin-Avaron
​

Duncan let Seris's final words settle like a seal on the air. Then he inclined his head once, measured, reinforcing without repeating.

"My wife is right," he said evenly. "Peace isn't performance. It's precision. If we deny this unrest new martyrs and new stories, we deny it momentum."

He kept his hands open on the table, posture calm. "A quiet review protects civilians first. It protects the council's legitimacy. And it protects Valcaryn from being used, whether by a rogue intermediary or by rumor."

Maelor Valcaryn's smile held for a beat, then softened into something more careful. "Agreed," he said at last. "Containment. Neutral auditors. Routing records. Vantheline included."

The factor nodded, already preparing the transfer protocols. Even the Republic liaison went still, forced into silence by the room's new gravity.

Duncan rose when Maelor did. The handshake was formal, gloved palm to palm, a brief clasp that meant we will act civilly. Yet the moment their hands met, Duncan felt it: not anger, not pride.

Fear.

It lived in the fraction too-long squeeze, in the tiny hitch of Maelor's breath, in the way his eyes flicked past Duncan's shoulder as if checking for a witness that wasn't there.

"Thank you for your cooperation," Duncan said, voice polite.

"Of course," Maelor replied. "For stability."

Duncan released the handshake and turned, Seris already at his side. As they walked out into the corridor's cooler air, the chamber door sealing behind them, he didn't look back.

But the feeling stayed with him like dust in a seam.

Something in House Valcaryn wasn't simply hiding.

It was afraid of what would be found.

 

[Seris Travin-Avaron]

Seris did not speak until they were several paces down the corridor, far enough that the low murmur of the chamber could no longer reach them, far enough that the moment could be examined without being overheard.

The polished stone beneath their steps reflected the cool light of the hall, and in that quieter space her posture eased only slightly. Not relief. Awareness. Her gaze remained forward for a beat longer, as if she were still tracing the shape of the room they had left behind, committing it to memory.

Then she turned her head toward Duncan, just enough to meet him in profile. "You felt it too," she said softly. It was not a question. She slowed her stride by half a step, allowing the thought to settle before continuing. "That was not the fear of accusation," Seris went on, her voice calm, precise. "Nor the fear of exposure alone. It was narrower than that. Focused."

Her green eyes flicked briefly back toward the sealed doors, then forward again.

"Whatever sits beneath Valcaryn's lanes," she said, "it is not merely a loose thread. It is something they have shaped themselves around."

She folded her hands lightly at her midsection as they walked, composed, thoughtful.

"They agreed too quickly," Seris added. "Not because they are innocent, and not because they are guilty, but because delay would have been riskier than consent."

There was no satisfaction in her tone. Only clarity.

"You did well," she said after a moment. "You gave them a path that preserved dignity while removing control. That is where fear shows itself most clearly." She glanced at him then, something quieter beneath the assessment. Alignment. Trust. "If they are complicit," Seris continued, "the records will betray them. If they are not, the auditors will expose the true hand without bloodshed."

Her expression softened just slightly. "Either way, Ryloth is spared another story built on accusation alone," she said. "And that matters."

They reached a junction in the corridor where light from the exterior windows spilled across the floor, carrying with it a faint trace of heat and dust. Seris paused there, turning fully toward him now. "Fear leaves residue," she finished quietly. "We will follow where it settles, not where it wants us to look."

She inclined her head once, resolute.

"Whatever Valcaryn is protecting," Seris said, "they believe it cannot survive daylight. That tells us more than denial ever could." And with that, she fell back into step beside him, steady and unhurried, already thinking several moves ahead, not toward confrontation, but toward the truth that fear had just revealed.

Duncan Avaron