Private In the Presence of Gravity

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

The Amidala House Awards Gala, Naboo​

Naboo often held the scent of lakewater and lilacs, especially during the evenings while the sunlight cast it’s last efforts across the landscape; but tonight it was tempered by the smell of formality; silver-polished, rose-scented, and the ever consistent humming beneath chandeliers. The Amidala House Awards Gala was not a military ceremony, nor was it a noble court function, but it had all the trappings of both. Held by a council of Noble Houses in the ageless vaulted atrium of a former palace wing in Theed, the building now repurposed for cultural gatherings and youth investitures, it was the kind of event designed less to inspire and more to confirm. To reassure and investigate who mattered. Who belonged to the inner circles of the Naboo Nobility.

Bastila Sal-Soren stood near the tall glass walls that overlooked the river. Her posture, as ever, was precise, rigid in the right way. The bruises along her ribs from the recent scuffle in the Ch’hala Grove made sure that she had to work for it however. She inhaled shallowly, careful not to tug at the healing skin beneath her side, letting the cool Naboo air sweep in through the open terrace doors and catch the fabric of her gown and cool her face, the mid-summer heat still present in the evening air.

The dress was a new commission, something both modest and powerful, fit for someone who’d politely declined most other offers of attention in the last year. Clean Ivory and white, drawn from the hues of the water lilies that grew around the Sal-Soren Estate ponds at this time of year, the gown had clean lines that echoed a senator’s robe but was softened for her youth and elegance. A high collar framed her throat without swallowing it, open just slightly at the collarbones, and long sleeves tapered into delicate cuffs over her bare hands. The fabric shimmered subtly in movement, it wasn’t sequined, but threaded with fine filaments of silksteel, catching the light in ways that whispered rather than sang. It was a Sal-Soren piece through and through and yet again allowed Bastila to steal the show even if her body was wishing she wouldn’t.

Her dark hair had been gathered into a low twist at the nape of her neck, pinned in place with fine golden combs shaped like the Naboo crest. A few strands curled loose near her temples, softened by the humidity. She hid no lightsaber and she wore no armor, today she was just the polished daughter of House Sal-Soren, here to receive a medallion for “outstanding civic support and preservation efforts in Republic-aligned territories.”

She wondered, not for the first time, who had submitted the nomination. Certainly not her.

A steward passed with a tray of tall crystal flutes, each full of Naboo blossom cider a faintly pink and brilliant looking liquid. Bastila accepted one, and although she held it as one should at such events she didn’t drink. She could feel the murmurs of conversation behind her. Youth awardees mingled with minor royals and House representatives. Older senators clapped backs, teachers clasped hands, and courtly types lined up to speak to the event’s patrons. Somewhere nearby, a pair of musicians tuned their instruments ready for the presentation march.

It all felt… civil. She didn’t feel detached but it certainly felt like just another layer of paint over the cracks.

Bastila turned slightly, letting her gaze sweep the room. She was careful not to wince as she shifted. The bruises were mostly hidden, but every movement reminded her they hadn’t faded. Neither had the memories from Cularin — the shouts in the grove, the pain that had followed.

She caught sight of herself in one of the mirrored panels between the columns: She stood so tall and composed like a distant stranger. It was not her really, or maybe it was more her then any other Bastila she put on display. That was what tonight demanded.

Somewhere across the room, a door opened. The sound of new arrivals stirred a brief wave of motion through the gathered crowd. Bastila didn’t look immediately, but among those voices she heard him and something in her spine told her to stand up straight.

“Bastila I thought you’d be inside.” The voice wasn’t his, but it was part of the group and suddenly they were heading upon her, encircling like wild dogs.

Game Face.

Don’t turn. Not yet. But soon.

Dominic Praxon

​

 

[Dominic Praxon]

There was not a lot left to say, but somehow Dominic still kept the conversation going. He had been talking with Brulaun Maveik for a good ten minutes. It was nothing more than the normal surface level aristocratic gossip that made Dominic's toes curl. Unfortunately, Maveik was rich. And an active political donor. So, Dominic played his role.

He always played his role.

"Dear Brulaun, can we still Dominic away from you for just a moment?" The voice was akin to a purr.

Dominic's eyes moved only enough to catch the profile, high cheek bones and all, of Countess Freya Skol. His eyebrows lifted only briefly in response. Her eyes sparkled in his moment of subtle recognition.

"Oh. Of course. No bachelor wants to be talking to an old man all night," said Maveik. His expression gave more the impression of teasing than his tone did.

"I deny any claims that suggest that I was by any means beleaguered by your company," Dominic countered, but did not say no to the Countess' invitation. The elder man just grinned, and offered a backhanded wave to 'shoo' Dominic away.

Dominic offered a simple dip of his head to end his conversation with the senior aristocrat. Even before he could turn, he felt his arm pulled - and the rest of him followed. He quickly noticed that this was not a pairing, but he had rather been pulled into a circle of young nobles.

"Dominic. You simply must tell us about Alassa Major."

The overly ambitious subject matter got a groan from Dominic immediately. The Countess, who still clung to his arm, gave her friend an evil stare. Dominic noted it, and permitted the corner of his lips a half-moment of a wry smile.

"Sensitive subject?"

This time the Countess' friend got a gentle swat on the arm. There a was a brief, and humorously played, moment of banter between the two as the small cadre of young nobles made their way to a door.

"No. The night worked out well for me," Dominic said casually. He pushed his way through the door first. The new room, one of pillars and mirrors, was well populated, and Dominic was distracted by his company.

"Sponsoring House Sal-Soren for an award while sleeping with the competition," said the Countess with a wicked grin, "you are a devil...Dominic."

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

“Bastila Sal-Soren, I thought you’d be inside.” The words landed like a stone in a still pond, causing Bastila to turn and avoid them seeing her posture tense.

“Rheane Talli,” she replied, allowing a flicker of something genuine to warm her voice. “You’ve somehow gotten taller.”

Rheane laughed and crossed the few steps between them, her deep blue gown rippling behind her like water. Her dark curls had been twisted into a cascade of pinned spirals that shimmered with dusted silver. She still smiled with her whole face, Bastila considered her one of the few who ever had.

“I thought you’d vanished,” Rheane said, embracing her briefly. “They said you were off-world. Then they said you were meditating. Then they said you’d joined a monastery. And for some reason, someone swore you were married to a Wroonian senator.”

“That one’s new,” Bastila said dryly. “And unlikely.”

“Well, good. I prefer you with sharper edges.” Rheane gave her a wink and tucked her arm around Bastila’s without waiting. “Come. We’re halfway through humiliating Count Frelen. He’s denying everything.”

“I maintain it was terrain sabotage,” came a distant protest.

The salon was shaped like a long oval, ringed with fluted marble pillars that glimmered faintly with inlaid crystal. Between them, the walls were mirrored from floor to ceiling; meant to multiply light, but also to multiply presence. One could never be entirely certain who was watching. Gilded fixtures floated above like stylized suns, while flowered lanterns nestled in wall sconces threw warm, honeyed light across velvet settees and crystal drink trays.

A soft perfume of rose stem and chilled wine hung in the air. Lace fans fluttered open like gossip given shape.

As they rejoined the center of the room, the space seemed to hum with quiet, curated energy. There were nobles and political party members nestled into every part of the room, to Bastila they almost seemed to be arranged like petals around low, polished tables. A central chandelier of floating golden orbs hovered above them, casting a slow, dancing light as if the room itself were rotating. Around them servants in sleek uniforms glided through like shadows, trays balancing drinks poured into crystal glasses with long stems.

Rheane tugged Bastila into a crescent of conversation already in full swing; She could make out the laughter, the idle flirtation, the updates on dueling brackets, even faintly veiled power plays masquerading as anecdotes. Bastila recognized two other faces vaguely as she approached, someone from a trade summit and someone from a Senate youth retreat. They smiled with inherited charm and expertly concealed curiosity.

She let herself drift with it, until the moment sharpened.

“and speaking of devils,” Rheane said suddenly, her voice lifting just enough to be heard. She turned, gesturing. “I believe you two have never been formally introduced.”

Bastila pivoted on instinct, her hair swishing around her neck allowing the floral scent from the perfumed buds within spread across them and then time seemed to still.

Dominic.

He had appeared in the space like a ripple pushing outward. The light caught him at an angle, touching the edge of his jaw, casting his expression half into silhouette. His suit was as formal as she would ever expect it to be complete with the Naboo crest pinned just above his heart gleamed in quiet rebellion against the room’s soft dazzle.

“This,” Rheane said, smiling like a knife sheathed in silk, “is Dominic Trozky of House Praxon, saboteur of expectations and sponsor of too many ‘charitable initiatives’ to be trusted.”

Bastila felt his gaze settle on her, unflinching with those eyes that always saw beyond the pretend. There, to her, seemed to be no tension in his body, but every line of him was aware.

“And this,” Rheane continued with delight, “is Bastila Sal-Soren. The most mysterious breaker of hearts, and possibly the most composed person in this entire building. She was married to a Wroonian Senator apparently.”

There was a brief hush. It wasn’t awkward nor did it carry a substantial heaviness, but it filled the space.

Bastila tilted her head. “Mr Trozky.” Then she looked back at Rheane. “We’ve met once or twice before.”

Rheane looked between them and groaned. “I hate when I’m the last to know things.”

Bastila allowed herself a breath, it was meant to be a softer kind of exhale, instead it almost came out as a laugh. “You’re not. It was just… inconvenient timing.”

Through all this the music played on, and the lanterns had started to flicker like constellations overhead, and Bastila felt her centre of the room shift just a little bit as she took in Dominic, who last she had seen was as he palm connected with his face and the large group of nobles that now stood around them listening to every single whisper and word.

Dominic Praxon

​