Rheyla didn’t primp.
She didn’t own dresses. Didn’t paint her face. Didn’t hover in front of reflective panels wondering what the galaxy would see. The idea alone made her vaguely itch. She understood the value of appearance—how a certain tilt of the head or cut of fabric could disarm, distract, and control a room without saying a word. She’d watched others weaponise beauty like a vibroblade. And she'd be lying if she said it didn't work. If it didn’t look good.
But that game had never been hers.
She leaned against the wall just outside her own quarters, arms folded across her chest, one boot braced against the bulkhead. Waiting.
It was still strange—having someone else in her space. Her bunk. Her fresher. The galley already felt less like hers with two mugs in the rack. She’d given permission. Freely. Reflexively, even.
And she hadn’t retracted it. Wouldn’t. But stars, it itched.
She didn't know why she'd said yes. Not really.
Maybe it was the caf. Perhaps it was the Pazaak. Or maybe it was the way the Senator had smiled like she knew the punchline to a joke Rheyla hadn’t even realised she was telling.
The ship shuddered as it exited hyperspace—a soft groan of worn stabilisers kicking back into realspace. Rheyla didn’t move.
Outside the viewport, Teysha Minor glittered like a lie told with confidence: a jewel-cut little pleasure moon wrapped in silver rings and atmospheric shimmer. Up close, the spires of crystalline architecture rose like spun sugar from velvet valleys, all designed to impress.
Rheyla snorted to herself.
Somewhere down there, they probably did serve symphony liquor in ice goblets. Somewhere down there, someone probably would call her star-blessed with a straight face. She could already hear herself trying not to punch them.
The cockpit argument with landing control had been brief, gruff, and just rude enough to secure a pad. No names given. No titles claimed. Just a transponder ping and a refusal to pay a guest registration fee.
They landed anyway.
Now, as footsteps padded softly up the corridor, Rheyla tilted her head toward the sound without fully turning.
“You done making caf into cosmetics in there?” she called with a dry tease.
“Or should I prep a gift basket for the spa?” No real bite behind the words—just that crooked edge of sarcasm she always wore when unsure what to do with herself.
Still not looking, she added:
“Welcome to Teysha Minor. Hope you’re ready to be called ‘star-blessed’ by a man in decorative gloves.”
And maybe—just maybe—her mouth curved into something that could be mistaken for a smile.
The click of approaching steps echoed down the corridor.
Rheyla didn’t straighten, didn’t shift her weight. She just exhaled slowly through her nose and let her arms stay folded, one boot still pressed against the bulkhead wall. When Velyra appeared, she caught her first with peripheral instinct—then turned, just slightly.
And yeah.
She looked.
The jacket—hers—hung open just enough to hint. Not enough to flash. Just enough to suggest that whatever had been scorched beneath it had been covered in something cleaner, tighter, and criminally well-fitted. The curls were tucked, the cheekbones sharpened with something subtle, and the glint in Velyra’s chartreuse eyes had returned full force.
“...Huh,” Rheyla muttered, mostly to herself. Her eyes captivated Velyra a second longer than normal.
No other comment. No compliment. Just a flick of the brow, the almost-smile that said she’d noticed and chose not to elaborate.
She pushed off the wall with a slow, casual roll of her shoulders and reached to key the hatch release. The ramp hissed, then began to lower—metal groaning into the high-humidity air of Teysha Minor. The scent hit first: syrup-sweet florals and some kind of expensive atmospheric filtration, probably designed to smell like nothing at all except wealth.
Rheyla made a face.
“Smells like a perfumed bank vault.” She almost regretted it, almost.
She started down the ramp with that easy, loping gait of hers—half-glide, half-threat. She didn’t look back to see if Velyra was following. Just spoke as she walked:
“Okay, ground rules: I don’t pay cover. I don’t wear collars. And if anyone asks, I’m your disgruntled bodyguard—fired halfway through the night, stuck around for the drinks… and maybe the company.”
A beat.
Then, with a glance over her shoulder—dry smirk, voice low and amused:
“Unless you’ve got a better story, Red.”
The breeze caught her lekku as she stepped off the ramp—night wind warm with planetlight shimmer, the kind that didn’t come cheap. Ahead, the landing pad glowed with subtle underlights, polished to a mirror’s sheen. Past it, a shuttle bay offered sleek passage into the entertainment district proper—tiered balconies, translucent crystal walkways, faint music drifting down like perfume.
It was too clean. Too polished.
Too Teysha.
Rheyla hated it already.
They didn’t make it five steps before the guards arrived.
Three of them, in charcoal armour trimmed with tasteful silver, already moving the second the landing struts hissed. No weapons drawn, but hands hovered near holsters—casual stances with trained weight behind them. Their helmets were smooth, unreadable. The lead one tilted his head just slightly, sizing her up like a burn mark on marble.
Above, security drones swept past with soft, chiming tones—elegant little whispers that said: you don’t belong here.
Her ship creaked behind her like an insult in steel.
Rheyla didn’t reach for her blaster.
Yet.
She just stopped—boots solid on the spotless pad, shoulders loose. Let the silence hang a second. Then muttered under her breath, just loud enough for Red to hear:
“Let me guess,” she muttered under her breath, just loud enough for Red to hear.
“The decor doesn’t scream ‘fire hazard,’ but I do.”
But when she glanced back—just for a moment—and saw Velyra Vonn beside her, composed and radiant, somehow turning borrowed clothes and caf-pigment into political weaponry…
She almost didn’t mind.
