Private Hope and Integrity

[Aiden Porte]

Naboo
Theed Market
Iandre Athlea​

Jedi Knight Aiden Porte moved through the sun-washed avenues of Theed with the quiet, measured purpose of someone who had spent the last several days thinking far more than he had slept. Naboo's capital was serene as ever, fountains singing, banners stirring in the gentle breeze, citizens strolling unhurriedly beneath the shade of flowering archways, but none of it settled the knot that had settled in his chest since the reports had arrived.

He caught his reflection briefly in a polished stone pillar: calm, collected, the image of a Jedi Knight. But behind his eyes lived a tension he hadn't felt since the earliest days of the conflict, something gnawing, something wrong.

The Diarchy harboring Sith.

Whispers at first. Now confirmations. And too many unanswered questions in between.

He crossed the last stretch of the promenade toward the café Iandre had chosen, an unassuming place tucked beneath a line of tall, pale trees whose leaves shimmered gold at their edges. Iandre always liked places like this: open air, quiet corners, sunlight, and the ability to read a conversation before it even began.

He respected that about her. Trusted her more, that's why they had much to discuss.

Aiden exhaled slowly as he reached the threshold, allowing the calm of the Force to settle around his shoulders like a mantle. He was here to meet a friend, one of the few who understood the gravity of what was happening, and the weight he carried.

 

[Iandre Athlea]

Iandre felt Aiden before she saw him—a steady ripple in the Force that brushed gently against her awareness, familiar in its shape, unchanged in its essence, yet shadowed now by something heavier. The breeze shifted through the terrace trees, scattering gold-edged leaves over the stone as he crossed into view, and she rose from her seat almost without thinking. Their last meeting had ended not in words, but in the drawn-out breath before blades might have crossed. Not enemies, not quite rivals—but two people standing on opposite sides of a line neither of them had wanted drawn.

And yet here he was. And here she waited.

She stepped out from beneath the soft shade of the café awning, letting the sunlight catch across the dark braid that fell over her shoulder. Her expression held no tension, no guardedness—only a quiet relief at seeing him whole, and a restrained warmth that belonged to someone who had missed a friend more than she had admitted to herself.

"Aiden."

His name left her with a steadiness that didn't pretend things were simple between them. Her grey eyes searched his for a moment—not intrusively, but with the familiarity of someone who had once shared a battlefield with him, and nearly shared a duel.

"I wasn't sure you would come." It wasn't an accusation. It was an honest acknowledgment of the ground they were standing on.

She motioned subtly toward the empty seat across from hers, but she didn't sit again—not yet. He deserved more than polite gestures after the last time they had stood in each other's presence.

"I'm glad you did." The words were quiet, sincere, edged with the kind of relief that had lived unspoken for too long.

As he drew closer, she let out a slow breath—almost imperceptible, but real.

"We parted… under circumstances neither of us wanted." Her voice softened, though not with guilt, with truth "But I never mistook disagreement for enmity."

Her gaze held his for a moment that stretched just long enough to bridge the gap between past conflict and present peace.

"Sit with me, Aiden. Tell me what weighs on you." She finally lowered herself back into her chair, her posture calm but attentive. "You wouldn't have come if something wasn't pulling at you."

Because despite the near-duel, despite the political divide, despite the factions that now stood between them, they were still friends. And Iandre had left a seat open at her table for him because of that.

Aiden Porte

 

[Aiden Porte]

Iandre Athlea​

Aiden didn't sit right away.

For a moment he simply stood across from her, the sunlight catching on the lines of tension carved into his posture, subtle, but unmistakable to someone who knew him well. The calm he carried was present, yes, but it was the controlled kind. The kind held carefully in both hands to keep from spilling.

"It's good to see you." He spoke with a smile, a genuine one.

When he finally lowered himself into the chair opposite her, the movement was deliberate, centered, but his eyes held none of the gentleness he often brought into difficult conversations. Not unkind, simply… direct. Honest. Unshaped by diplomacy.

"Iandre," he began quietly, "I came because I don't want interpretations. I don't want theories. I don't want carefully worded statements from councils or political bodies."

He leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the edge of the table, every bit of him focused on her.

"I want an answer. A plain one."

There was no accusation in his voice. No heat. Just the clarity of someone who had spent weeks trying to make sense of something that should not be possible.

"The day we last stood in the Diarchy's shadow…there was a darkness there." His gaze didn't waver. "Not in you. I would have felt it if it were you."

"But there were those that were steeped in it. Enough that it clung to the air. Enough that the Force itself recoiled." He let the words settle between them, unsoftened, unrestrained.

"And now I can confirm. Sith. In Diarchy territory. Under Diarchy protection? Is that right?"

Aiden shook his head once, not in disbelief, but in the quiet frustration of a Jedi who knew too well the consequences of such alliances.

"Why?" he asked, voice low but unwavering. "Why is the Diarchy harboring Sith in their airspace? In their ranks? What justification could they possibly give for opening their doors to the very thing that nearly tore the galaxy apart?"

His eyes stayed on hers, strong, steady, unyielding, yet carrying none of the old hostility, none of the near-duel between them. Only trust. Only the hope that she, of all people, would speak to him without veil or varnish.

"Iandre… help me understand."

 

[Iandre Athlea]

For a long moment after Aiden finished speaking, Iandre watched him, her expression neither guarded nor defensive, but shaped by the quiet understanding of someone who recognized how much weight he had been carrying alone. The sunlight glinted softly across the lines of strain in his posture, the subtle tension behind his eyes, and she let all of it settle before she spoke, giving him the respect of genuine consideration rather than an immediate counterargument.

When she finally drew a slow breath, it came with a steadiness born from years of discipline but also from the unspoken trust between them.

"Aiden…" she began gently, her voice low and even, "I understand why you came to me, and why you asked this directly rather than waiting for a report or a briefing. Truly."

She shifted slightly in her chair, not retreating but allowing her shoulders to ease into a posture that was more open, more honest, as if to make clear that she had no intention of hiding behind titles or official lines.

"But I do need to be clear about one thing before I say anything else," she continued, her tone softening though her words remained firm. "I'm not a policymaker, or a Chancellorate member, or someone who shapes the Diarchy's direction from above. I don't decide laws, and I don't decide who enters or leaves our borders. I serve. I lead soldiers. And I give what guidance I can when I'm asked."

Her mouth curved in a faint, almost rueful smile—not a deflection, but an acknowledgment of her limits.

"So I can't give you the official justification, because that isn't my place. What I can give you is the truth as I've witnessed it — unfiltered, unpolished, and without the diplomatic cushion you're afraid of hearing."

She folded her hands on the table, fingers lacing together thoughtfully, and lifted her gaze back to his with the unflinching steadiness of someone who had already decided not to soften or obscure anything.

"Yes," she said plainly, "both Jedi and Sith are allowed into Diarchy territory, but only with explicit permission, and never without oversight or conditions."

She let that truth hang for a moment, not rushing to fill the silence, allowing him the space to absorb it fully.

"What the Diarchy offers isn't safe harbor for ideology," she went on, her voice gathering a quiet certainty as she spoke, "it's safe harbor for individuals—the ones who defect, who renounce their old allegiances, who are trying, sometimes desperately, to climb out of the only life they've ever known."

Her grey eyes softened, not with pity but with the weight of someone who had seen the realities firsthand.

"Some of them were raised from infancy in Sith dogma, molded like weapons rather than people. Some never had a voice in the life they were forced into. Others are simply broken—exhausted by cycles of violence they didn't choose to perpetuate."

She paused again, her expression darkening with memory.

"You know as well as I do what would happen if one of them walked into Allied space or High Republic territory asking for asylum. Most would be killed before they ever had the chance to speak. The Diarchy…doesn't do that. They believe that if someone wants to leave a path of destruction, that door should not be barred shut."

Iandre lowered her eyes for a breath, drawing in a quiet inhalation that steadied her, then lifted them again with renewed composure.

"I won't tell you it isn't dangerous," she admitted, "or that every Jedi will understand or approve. There are risks. There always are when you choose compassion where others might choose security."

Her voice grew softer then, anchored with the kind of sincerity that could only come from lived experience.

"But the darkness you felt that day wasn't spreading. It wasn't conquering, nor was it being nurtured. It was the residue of people stepping out of it—the kind of weight that clings to someone who's trying to let go of what they once were."

She reached for her cup, not to drink, but to rest her fingers against its warmth, grounding herself in the moment.

"Aiden… that's the truth I have. Not an edict. Not a policy. Just what I've seen with my own eyes, and what I trust with my own judgment."

She leaned in slightly, enough to bridge the distance between them in a subtle but unmistakable gesture of openness.

"If you need to know more, or if there's anything specific you're afraid this might lead to…ask me. I won't hide anything from you."

Her gaze held his—steady, warm, unwavering.

"You came to me because you trust me. I won't give you anything less than the truth."

Aiden Porte

 

[Aiden Porte]

Iandre Athlea​

Aiden listened without interruption, without shifting, without so much as glancing away. He took in every word Iandre offered, every carefully measured truth, every boundary she named, every conviction spoken from lived experience rather than political doctrine. When she finished, the silence that followed wasn't heavy. It was precise. A space he needed in order to shape the thoughts that had been storming in him for weeks.

He drew in a slow breath.

"I appreciate your honesty," he said quietly, and for a moment the calm he carried was unguarded, no longer the cultivated Jedi composure but something far closer to the man beneath it. "And I know you aren't responsible for the Diarchy's decisions. I didn't come to hold you accountable for them."

He leaned back, not in retreat, but in clarity. In acceptance of the truth she'd laid out.

"But I need you to understand something too."

His gaze settled on hers fully, and the Force around him softened, steadied, focused.

"What I felt that day wasn't a bruise on someone trying to step into the light. It wasn't remorse. It wasn't recovery."

His voice lowered, not with anger, but with the kind of certainty a Jedi did not claim unless he meant every syllable.

"It was presence. Active. Intentional. A darkness that was awake and observing, not fleeing."

He let that land.

"And that," he continued, "Is what troubles me. Not the idea of Sith seeking new paths, Force knows I believe anyone can choose something better. But what I sensed…what my fellow councilmember, who was there with me that day." His jaw tightened for a brief moment. "What we sensed doesn't align with that."

He reached for no accusation. No condemnation. Just truth.

"You say the Diarchy offers asylum to those who turn away from the Sith. I don't disagree with the philosophy behind that. But the presence I felt in their airspace wasn't someone turning away. It was someone being sheltered."

"Someone with intent." Aiden's hands folded loosely together atop the table, not rigid, but controlled with purpose.

"And if the Diarchy is granting sanctuary to individuals who genuinely want to change, that's one thing. But if they are unaware, or worse, aware, of Sith who have not renounced anything walking freely within their borders…"

His voice sank to a quiet firmness.

"That is no longer compassion. That is complicity."

He looked at her then, not as an adversary, not as a skeptic, but as the friend he trusted enough to ask this of.

"Iandre, can you tell me with certainty that the ones your leaders have accepted are truly defectors? That oversight is more than a formality? That the Diarchy is not being used as a veil by Sith who still serve the dark, waiting for an opportunity to move unseen?" Another breath, measured, steady. "Because if you can't… I fear the next shadow we meet won't be metaphorical." His expression softened, not the tension, but the edge, the unspoken plea beneath it.

"I came to you because you'd tell me the truth. And because I hope, genuinely hope, that the truth is something that doesn't end with us on opposite sides of a battlefield."

His gaze held hers without wavering, without challenge, but with a clarity that left no room for misinterpretation. "And so you are aware."

"If a Sith came to our doorstep," he said, voice low and even, "And asked for asylum, asked to turn away from the dark, asked to be seen for more than the path they were born into."

He leaned forward slightly, not aggressive, but earnest, the words carrying the quiet force of a truth he lived by.

"They would not be killed on sight. They would not be cast out. They would not be dismissed as irredeemable. They would be heard. They would be seen. They would be given the chance to be more than what the darkness made them."

He let that sit before he continued, his voice softening just enough to reveal the wound beneath the logic.

"We are not monsters, Iandre. We are not executioners waiting for an excuse."

His eyes, warm but unwavering, locked onto hers with a depth that felt almost like a hand reaching across the table.

"And don't forget that." The next words came quieter, gentle, but edged by something unmistakably human.

"Because if you truly believe the Jedi would murder someone simply for wanting to change… then you believe that I am just like that."

Another beat, soft but firm. "Is that what you believe of me?" Not an accusation, anger, just the honest steady question of a man who needed her to see him clearly.

 

[Iandre Athlea]

For several breaths after Aiden finished speaking, Iandre did not look away; she absorbed the intensity of his words with an almost meditative stillness. Each point he raised — the presence he sensed, its intent, the threat he believed it carried, the fear of complicity—settled over her like carefully placed stones. Not crushing, but weighty. Earnest. Coming from a man who did not posture, did not embellish, did not weaponize his fear. It was the clarity of a Jedi Knight who had seen too much to look away, and the vulnerability of someone who hoped desperately she would be able to ease his concerns.

When she finally inhaled, it was slow, steady, yet touched with something heavier—not reluctance to answer, but the awareness that this conversation mattered more than either of them had anticipated when they chose this quiet café in Theed.

"Aiden…" she said softly, her voice warmer than it had been before, shaped by the care she took with his fears, "I hear what you felt that day. I don't doubt you sensed something real, or that its presence was deliberate. I won't dismiss what the Force told you."

Her fingers curled lightly around the edge of the table, not in anxiety, but in grounding.

"You know my training—the Clone Wars were a crucible. I spent my life analyzing intent on the battlefield. And yes…There are a few individuals inside Diarchy space whose darkness has not yet burned out."

Her gaze sharpened slightly, but not with defensiveness—with truth.

"They are not there unmonitored. They do not walk freely without oversight. And they are not in positions of influence." She paused, letting that settle before continuing.

"Some came to us broken. Others confused. Others because they saw no other path but chains or a pyre. The Diarchy did not open the gates for ideology—only for individuals who wanted to try. And gods, Aiden, some of them…some of them have never had the chance to try anything but darkness."

Her expression softened further, her voice becoming more personal than political.

"You ask if I can promise none of them hide ill intent. No. I can't promise that. No one can. Not the Diarchy, not the Jedi, not any order in the galaxy."

She leaned forward slightly, as if refusing to let him carry his fear alone.

"What I can tell you is this: the one I've worked with the most—Kallous—he isn't the thing he used to be. The darkness is still on him, yes, in his habits, in the ways he sees conflict, in how he talks about who he used to be. But he no longer chases destruction. He does not hunger for it. I have seen him hesitate, question, and choose restraint over violence. He is changing, slowly, painfully."

A faint breath left her, something like quiet conviction.

"He wants to understand life outside the Sith. Outside fear. Outside cruelty. And I will not abandon someone standing at the edge of a new path simply because they haven't taken every step yet."

But when Aiden spoke of the Jedi—of asylum, of compassion, of not executing those who wished to change—she froze. Not visibly. Not dramatically. But inwardly, so sharply it struck her like a ripple through the Force.

And when he asked that last question—"Is that what you believe of me?"—her breath caught entirely. For the first time since he'd arrived, she looked genuinely shaken. She blinked once, slowly. Then her voice came out quieter, not because she lacked strength, but because the depth of feeling behind it rose faster than she could fully contain.

"Aiden Porte…"

Her eyes softened in an unmistakably painful way—like someone absorbing a blow directly to the heart.


"No." The word trembled, not with fear but with the sheer force of sincerity. "No. I would never believe that of you." She shook her head once, breath unsteady, as if the mere idea stung. "I have trusted you with my life. With my truth. With my past. I know who you are. I know how you see people—how you fight for them, how you honor their choices. If I ever implied that I thought you capable of killing someone who genuinely wanted to change…" Her voice tightened there, emotion curling beneath the words. "…then I failed you. And I am sorry."

She reached across the table, not quite touching his hand, but close enough that if he chose, he could close the distance with the smallest movement.

"You asked me to see you clearly. I do. I always have. You're the kind of Jedi who saves people the Order forgets. You always have been."

A long exhale left her, steadying her center.

"And that is why I'm answering you honestly now: not all of the darkness in Diarchy space is reformed. Not all of it is harmless. But I do not believe—not for a moment—that the Diarchy is harboring active Sith for advantage or deception. And I promise you this, Aiden…" She leaned in further, the golden-brown lamplight catching in her grey eyes. "…if I ever learn that someone is abusing that refuge, hiding intent to harm, or manipulating the compassion offered to them—I will be the first to expose it. And the first to act."

Her voice lowered, almost a vow. "You will not face that shadow alone."

Aiden Porte

 

[Aiden Porte]

Iandre Athlea​

Aiden listened in a long, steady quiet, the kind that did not distance him from her words but held them with care. The intensity that had underpinned his earlier questions eased, not dissolving, but settling into something quieter, something more grounded. When she finished, he didn't look away, didn't close himself off. He simply breathed.

It was a slow exhale, one that lifted a fraction of tension from his shoulders. He appreciated her and he believed her. HIs gaze reflected that plainly.

Aiden leaned back just slightly in his chair, not retreating, but easing the space between them into something gentler. "Iandre," he said softly, "I hear you. Every part of what you said." His eyes warmed, not with relief, but with a kind of gratitude he wasn't often quick to show. "It matters to me that you told me the truth. That you didn't hide the complexity of it."

He paused, letting the breeze stir through the terrace, letting the peace of the moment touch the edges of something that had been wound too tight inside him.

"I respect the Diarchy's choice to offer a path forward to people who never had one," he continued quietly. "And I respect you, for guiding those who take that step, for believing in them enough to give them the chance to change."

There was no argument in him now. Only sincerity.

"But I also hope you understand something in return." His voice softened, steadier than before. "I'm going to remain vigilant." It wasn't suspicion, or hostile, not closed to the possibility of redemption.

Just vigilant.

"What I felt wasn't imagined," he said, the words calm but firm. "And until I understand what that presence meant, until I know whether it was a wounded shadow or an active threat… I can't afford to assume good intentions. Not when the stakes are this high."

He met her eyes again, clear, steady, and without a trace of blame. "That caution isn't mistrust of you. Or of the choices you've defended today. It's my duty. And sometimes it's the only thing that stops tragedy from growing in the blind spots we choose not to look at."

He drew a gentle breath.

"But knowing you're watching too, knowing you're willing to act if something is wrong, it helps. More than I can say."

A small, rare curve softened the corner of his mouth, a quiet, grateful expression that belonged only to their long history. "I appreciate you, Iandre. And whatever comes, I'm glad we're not on opposite sides of this."

He settled his hands loosely on the table, posture composed, centered, resolute.

"Vigilance doesn't mean fear. It just means I care enough to keep my eyes open."

 

[Iandre Athlea]

The moment Aiden eased back in his chair — not withdrawing, but allowing that tight edge of vigilance to soften — something inside Iandre released as well. The knot in her chest unspooled slowly, like a cord finally given slack. She watched him with a softened expression, studying the shift in his posture, the steadiness that replaced the strain he had carried in with him. Not all of it had faded; she would never expect that from him. But some of it had. Enough to let her breathe more deeply.

Her palms rested lightly on the table as she leaned in just a fraction, a quiet acknowledgment of the space they had worked to rebuild between them.

“I understand,” she said gently, her voice warmer now, touched with something like relief, “truly, Aiden. I never wanted you to set aside what you felt, or pretend there was nothing worth your concern. If the Force gave you warning… you’re right to honor it.”

Her grey eyes met his without wavering, admiration threaded through their steady calm.

“It’s why you survived the worst of the war. It’s why people trust you. It’s why I always have.”

She didn’t shy from the truth he’d spoken — that he would remain vigilant, that he couldn’t simply assume good intent from a presence that radiated active darkness. In fact, she honored it.

“Vigilance isn’t opposition. It’s responsibility,” she continued, her hands folding loosely before her, her tone quiet but sure, “and I would never ask you to set it aside. Not for me, not for the Diarchy, not for anyone.”

A faint smile touched the corner of her mouth, soft and knowing.

“We both lived through an era where looking away was deadly. I’m not asking you to look away now. Only to trust that when something dangerous moves in that shadow, you won’t be the only one who sees it.”

She let that truth rest between them — not a promise made for his sake, but one grounded in her convictions.

“There are people inside the Diarchy who carry remnants of the dark,” she admitted, her voice lower now, steadied by the honesty between them, “but none of them stand without oversight, or support, or boundaries. And those who still cling to the Sith… they are not the ones Rellik or the Council would ever shelter.”

Her head tilted slightly, her expression thoughtful.

“I can’t promise that every soul who seeks refuge comes with pure motives. But I can promise you that I’m watching. That I’m listening. That I won’t allow anyone — anyone — to use the Diarchy as a veil to harm others.”

She breathed in slowly, then spoke with a quiet strength.

“I value your vigilance. Truly. It hasn’t put us at odds — it’s kept us aligned in the one way that matters most.”

Her smile deepened just slightly, touched with warmth that reached her eyes.

“I don’t want us on opposite sides of anything either.”

A beat passed — soft, steady, sincere.

“And I appreciate you too, Aiden. More than you know.”

She eased back in her chair, mirroring his composed posture, but her gaze stayed connected to his.

“So keep your eyes open. I will too. And if something moves in the dark… we’ll face it together. Not as Jedi and Diarchy.”

A soft warmth colored her final words.

“As friends.”

Aiden Porte

 

[Aiden Porte]

Iandre Athlea​

Aiden's expression gentled, a quiet understanding settling over his features as her words reached him. He didn't need to answer immediately; the silence between them was no longer charged, no longer edged with doubt, it was calm. Grounded. Real. He watched her as she spoke, the cadence of her voice threading through the late afternoon air.

He nodded slowly. "That's all I want." he said at last, his voice low but resolute. "Not absolutes, not reassurances, just the truth, and someone who can at the very least see the same horizon that I can.."

His gaze flicked briefly toward the street beyond the café, where sunlight spilled across the marble and the faint laughter of civilians drifted like a memory of what the galaxy was still capable of. "You're right," he continued, "The days of looking away are long behind us. Too many lives were lost because good people waited too long to act."

He turned his eyes back to her, steady, clear, with that unmistakable trace of warmth that came only when Aiden Porte trusted completely. "But I know you mean what you say. I know you'll watch the shadows as closely as I do. That's… enough. More than enough."

He let a faint smile cross his lips, one that softened the steel in his demeanor. "You've always had that balance," he said quietly. "Compassion without blindness. It's a rare thing, even among Jedi."

The pause that followed wasn't awkward; it was lived-in, familiar, the kind of quiet that came from two people who no longer needed to fill the space between them with explanations. "If something stirs again," Aiden said finally, his tone calm but anchored with quiet certainty, "I'll reach out. And I'll trust you to do the same."

His gaze lingered on hers for a heartbeat longer, acknowledgment, gratitude, something almost like promise, and then he leaned back in his chair once more, the light catching faintly on the insignia clasped at his shoulder.

"How are you?"

 

[Iandre Athlea]

Iandre felt the last of his tension ease—not vanish, but settle into the shape of something manageable, something familiar. That alone loosened something in her chest she hadn't realized she was holding. Aiden Porte rarely let himself rest, not truly. But now, across a small café table in the soft Naboo light, she saw the closest thing to ease she had witnessed in him since the war.

Her fingers curled lightly around her cup, grounding herself before she answered.

"A few things have changed," she said softly, her voice steady but touched with something warmer. "Good things."

She watched his expression—how he listened, how he truly meant it when he asked how she was. Trust wasn't just spoken between them; it lived in moments like this.

"I… have news." A faint, unmistakable smile shaped her mouth—not shy, but private, something held in the heart before being shared. "Rellik and I are engaged."

There was no embellishment, no dramatic reveal. Just a quiet truth, offered plainly the same way she had given him everything else today. But a soft light shone in her grey eyes when she said it, something unmistakably sincere.

"No date yet," she added, a gentle breath of amusement threading into her tone. "We've both been—busy. And choosing a time that doesn't risk being disrupted by a political crisis or an evacuation might take a miracle."

The smile deepened just a little.

"But when it does happen… I would like you to be there. If you can." Her gaze held his with honest warmth. "You've been a friend longer than most. It would mean a great deal to me."

She didn't ask out of obligation. She didn't ask to bridge the factions. She asked because it was true.

Then, after a small pause, her expression softened into something lighter—an easing of the years between them, a reminder of simpler days before dark and light had names sharp enough to cut.

"And you?" Iandre asked quietly. "How are you? Truly."

Aiden Porte

 

[Aiden Porte]

Iandre Athlea​

Aiden's reaction was not dramatic, not startled, not marked by any sudden outward shift, but there was a quiet widening in his gaze, a softening at the edges, the unmistakable expression of a man who received news that mattered to him more than he expected it to.

For a moment, he simply absorbed it.

Engaged.

The word settled gently, and then a small, genuine smile touched his mouth, rare, unforced, the kind that came from something beyond duty or diplomacy.

"Iandre…" he murmured, voice warm in a way few ever heard from him, "that is good news."

He leaned forward slightly, not out of intensity this time, but in something like shared joy, subtle, steady, deeply felt.

"I'm happy for you. Truly. Rellik is…a remarkable man. And anyone who stands with you, who values you as you deserve..." His eyes softened further, sincerity unmasked. "That is someone I can respect."

A breath eased from him, gentler than before, touched with quiet gratitude that she trusted him enough to share something so personal.

"And yes," he added, the smile settling into something earnest, "I'll be there. If the galaxy doesn't set itself on fire that day, I'll stand with your friends and celebrate you both."

There was no hesitation. No formality. Just truth.

"And you?" Iandre asked quietly. "How are you? Truly."

He chuckled lightly as he leaned back once more, fingers laced together, a small genuine smile on his face. "I'm doing well, better than I expected. As you have news, I do as well. Not engagement any time soon. But I have met someone."

There was a slightest of red that his cheeks turned when he mentioned Arhiia Voronwe

"Here name is Arhiia, and she's important to me," he continued, the warmth in his voice unmistakable. "More than I expected. More than I could ever begin to know."

He leaned back slightly, not distancing himself but giving the memory of her room to breathe.

"She's strong, stronger than she knows. Not just in the Force, but in the way she navigates pain, loss, expectation. She's endured things that would break most people, and yet she still finds a way to laugh, to care for others, to stand back up even when the galaxy demands more than it should."

A faint, almost private smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

"And she has this way of looking at me, like she sees the knight, yes, but she also sees the man beneath it. The one I don't always let others see."

Aiden chuckled lightly, with a simple nod of his head, and a smile. "You would like her, I believe."

 

[Iandre Athlea]

For a moment, Iandre watched him speak, the softening in his features drawing a quiet warmth into her own expression. The way Aiden spoke of this woman, the shift in his posture, the quiet reverence in his tone—she had not seen that from him before. It was human in the most genuine, gentlest sense of the word.

When she finally answered, her voice carried that same warmth back toward him.

"Aiden… that is wonderful." Her smile deepened, subtle but sincere. "Truly, I am happy for you. She sounds extraordinary—and someone who sees you clearly. That alone is a rare gift."

She let the thought breathe before continuing, her tone softening even further.

"You deserve that. Someone who understands the weight you carry and still reminds you that you are more than the burdens you shoulder."

Her eyes warmed with a hint of quiet amusement. "And if she can make you blush, even a little…I already like her."

The breeze shifted through the café again, carrying sunlight over the table. Iandre folded her hands lightly before her, sincerity threaded through every word.

"I wish you both every happiness, Aiden. And whatever the galaxy demands of you next…I hope you let this be something that strengthens you, not something you push away out of duty." There was no lecture in it. No Jedi philosophy. Just a friend speaking plainly.

"You deserve a life outside the battlefield. Someone to return to. Someone who reminds you why all of this fighting matters." Her gaze steadied on his with a quiet, unwavering clarity. "And if she is important to you…Then I hope the Force protects whatever the two of you choose to build."

She lifted her glass slightly in a small, heartfelt gesture.

"Congratulations, Aiden. Truly."

Aiden Porte

 

[Aiden Porte]

Iandre Athlea​

Aiden's expression warmed at her words, the gratitude in his eyes quiet but unmistakable. For a moment, he simply regarded Iandre, the steadiness in her smile, the sincerity in her voice, and something unspoken passed between them: a recognition of years spent surviving battles that left little room for peace like this.

"Thank you," he said softly, and the sincerity in his tone made the words land with more weight than their simplicity might suggest. "That means more than you know."

He gave a small chuckle then, low and genuine, shaking his head slightly. "But I think your news outshines mine by a long way." The faint glimmer of humor in his eyes softened the seriousness that so often shadowed him. "An engagement, Iandre, that's no small thing. It's something good, and Force knows we could use more of that in this galaxy."

Leaning back slightly, he let his smile linger, gentle and real. "You and Rellik deserve every bit of happiness you can find. And when the day comes, whenever it comes, it would be an honor to be there. Truly."

He inclined his head a little, the gesture respectful but filled with warmth. "I can't think of a finer reason to set down the saber for a day than to stand among friends and witness something that still gives the galaxy hope."

His voice softened, threaded with that quiet fondness unique to Aiden when he spoke to those he trusted. "So, when it's time…just tell me where to be. I'll be there."

 

[Iandre Athlea]

Iandre felt the warmth of his words settle into her chest, a subtle yet deep quiet reassurance she hadn't realized she needed. She held his gaze for a moment longer than courtesy required, not out of hesitation, but out of shared history—the kind built from trust tested and proven, not declared. A soft smile curved her lips.

"Thank you, Aiden," she said gently. "Truly. Hearing that from you means more than I can easily put into words."

She let out a small breath, something between a laugh and a release, and shook her head just slightly. "And don't diminish your own news so quickly. Finding someone who sees you—not the title, not the burden, not the expectations—but you…that is no small thing either."

Her expression softened further, sincere and unguarded. "I am genuinely happy for you. For both of you. Anyone who can remind a Jedi Knight to breathe, to live, to be more than the sum of his responsibilities…that person matters."

At his words about setting down the saber, her smile deepened, touched with something quietly hopeful. "I would like that," she said. "Very much. When the time comes, knowing you are there—not as a Knight, not as a symbol, but as a friend—that would mean the world to me."

She lifted her cup slightly, mirroring his earlier warmth. "And you're right," she added softly. "We need reminders like that. That the galaxy can still hold joy alongside duty."

Her eyes met his again, steady and fond. "So here's to the good things," she finished quietly. "To choosing them when we can—and to the people who remind us why that choice matters."

Aiden Porte