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

​

 

[Dominic Praxon]

"I operate under my Nabooian family name of Praxon...but Trozky is fine for you," Dominic said. Internally, it was as close to 'my friends call me' as he dared get.

"Oh, Dominic. You and Bastila are being far too demure. I more than suspect that you know each other better than first introductions," said the Countess who like the devil she was imitating, flicked her tongue off her top teeth.

His expression soured as he glanced at the woman on his arm. Her response was sheer joy at his discomfort. He would remember to mark this one for future avoidance. Clearly the type to not care how many bridges she burned.

"Countess Skol. Would you be so kind as to organise that meeting with the CEO of Hanictra that you had offered? Now would be a most advantageous time," Dominic said in the calm, but commanding tone he had grown into.

She looked insulted. Wounded. As if Dominic was casting her aside when the gossip-feast was about to hit an all time high. Still, she knew when she was not wanted. "I suspect he is too busy to meet with you, Praxon. However. He does owe me a dance." And she relinquished his arm and was off, along with her entourage.

He turned back to the cadre of nobles around Bastila. He avoided more than a glance at her. "It is a pleasure to meet you all," he said, and then finally to Bastila, "and good luck for your families nomination."

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

The silence that followed Dominic’s noted congratulations was brief.

Good luck for your family’s nomination.

She didn’t move. She didn’t do anything for just a moment's more than it was worth, some would have noticed, the finer elements of Naboo nobility were not so easily fooled.

She resisted the urge to flinch, or to roll her eyes, even fire something back. Instead, she turned slightly, letting her gaze move over the tray just arriving with fresh drinks, her voice measured.

"Thank you. Though I imagine luck has very little to do with it." She offered a curtsy that would make the Queen herself blush.

“Certainly not,” said one of the nobles nearby, Frelen again, adjusting his posture to look more involved. “House Sal-Soren’s charitable initiative was one of the few that actually turned measurable yield. Half the board at Civil Development said so.”

“It was the trees,” Rheane said wryly, easing back into the conversation. “We can’t resist someone who saves trees.”

She became overly aware of Rhaene’s arm settling on hers again and with her gaze pulling away from Dominic she allowed herself to be turned and pulled away into the next cluster of nobles stirring with new whispers, their energy scattering like startled birds.

Dominic however didn’t move with them, instead he stood with glass in hand, and didn't retreat. He didn’t need to. He simply… stayed with his own orbit; still and quiet as the room moved around him. His attention wasn’t fixed on Bastila, but he didn’t look away either. It was more maddening that way.

Rheane, ever the diplomat, gave a smooth laugh as she led Bastila away “I do hope you two aren’t going to force the rest of us to pretend we don’t notice,” she said cheerfully, looking back towards Dominic briefly. “Because frankly, I haven’t seen this much unspoken tension since the Alderaan delegation had to sit next to the Mining Guild at last year’s Republic Summit.”

“I can assure you,” Bastila said smoothly, nodding towards one of the older delegates nearby “if there were something to say, I would say it.”

She finally allowed herself a sip of the cider. This time, she swallowed. The sweetness was less soothing now; tempered by something else. Something unsettled. They both intermingled into another group, Rheane again announcing her as if nobody had ever heard of the Sal-Soren’s before. It was starting to grate on Bastila, Dominic’s presence clearly throwing her. Her lip hurt, her side heart and now her gut did too.

“Was it always like this?”

Rheane turned, caught slightly off guard at Bastila’s seemingly random remark. “Like what?”

Her gaze lingered on the far doorway, then returned to her friend. “The dance behind the dance. The weight beneath the compliments.”

Rheane smiled, but it was a slower one now. Older. “Yes. But you used to laugh more while doing it.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her hand brushed the fabric at her hip again, grounding herself. The gown was beautiful, but it still felt like it was hiding something, the hurt beneath it.

One of the younger nobles in this new group, a sharp-nosed boy who hadn’t yet learned to blink before speaking, leaned in. “So… what was that about?”

The group grew silent. Some were curious. Some were hungry, but all eyes were on her suddenly.

Bastila tilted her head slightly, just enough to let her hair catch the light. Her smile was brief and dry.

“What was that about?” She knew what they were asking, “It’s all just politics.”

And that, as far as she was concerned, was the end of it.

The moment managed to diffuse and talk turned to the award presentations, the after-party by the lakeside, the sudden spike in Ternari gemstone prices. Bastila wasn’t listening anymore. She had suddenly become very acutely aware of just how much her lip was hurting, she pressed her thumb against it testing the numbing cream that had been applied by the staff, again doing wonders on a girl who just kept rocking up with a beaten face.

“Rheane, we should find our seats.” She proposed, and begrudgingly the young socialite agreed, having just sparked a conversation with the son of one of the more wealthy shipping moguls on Naboo, and took her arm once more. “These heels are killing me.”

The tables, round elegant pieces, had been arranged in the next room in such a way that you both felt secluded and surrounded all at once. The design was to look upon the grand golden stage, with its inlays and holographic projectors, with absolute clarity so that no matter where you were in the room it felt like the stage was on top of you. Bastila and Rheane were led by an attendant to Bastila’s seat, as a nominated party it was naturally one of the ones front and centre, drinks already prepared and waiting in clear crystal stem glasses.

“This is lovely.” Rheane said, turning over the place card in hand written basic to look at Bastila’s name. “I'm somewhere in the back, Daddy clearly hasn’t been spending enough on the queen this year.” There was no resentment in her tone, just humour. “Although you’re going to have some good company at least.”

Bastila raised her eyebrow and looked quizzingly back at Rheane. Then down to the place card she was looking at.

Dominic Praxon

“Frakk.” She said before she could stop herself.

She sat down, again touching her lip as the room started to fill.

“Bastila,” Rheane said as she moved to her own table. “I knew it, you like him…Play nice!” Then she disappeared.

Dominic Praxon

​

 

[Dominic Praxon]

He had to admit, Bastila's departure from the circle came as a relief.

Not because her presence was unwelcome. Quite the opposite. But the discussion had curved too close to precision, to yield metrics and boardroom accolades and the kind of polished praise that left him oddly hollow. A knot had formed in his chest somewhere around the mention of "measurable civic success." It eased only once her perfume had faded from the immediate air.

Dominic drifted from the group with a practiced ease, slipping through clusters of conversation like a ship breaking small waves. He exchanged brief words with a shipping heir whose name escaped him. A Chancellor's aide nodded as if they shared a secret. One of the minor royals from House Valarrin stopped him just long enough to praise his father's recent trade speech.

"It struck a chord," she said.

"It was rehearsed to," Dominic replied with a soft smile, and moved on.

The hum of the gala was changing now, shifting toward the inevitable seating procession. Servers adjusted their bearing. Conversations condensed. Even the chandeliers seemed to dim fractionally in preparation.

He was halfway across the room when a familiar voice caught his ear.

"I see you've shaken me off, and yet you still orbit close."

Countess Skol emerged from beside a decorative column, a drink in one hand and something like amusement in the other. Her entourage had thinned. Her grin hadn't.

"I orbit nothing unintentionally," Dominic said without pause.

She chuckled, her eyes sharp as ever. "You were rude, you know. That'll cost you."

"Send me the invoice," he murmured, eyes already scanning the gathering crowd. "I'll have my assistant ignore it."

"Mm. Be careful, Praxon. Eventually someone will match your wit and outpace your charm."

"They already have."

She blinked at that, surprised perhaps by the sincerity in his voice. But before she could answer, he offered a curt bow, the Nabooian style, all restraint and grace, and turned to continue on his way.

The dining chamber opened like a breath. Gold and crystal and soft music held in suspension. The tables, arranged in deliberate elegance, reflected the hierarchy of the evening like clockwork. His eyes scanned for the name. Then they found it.

Dominic Praxon. Beside it, Bastila Sal-Soren.

His steps slowed. For a second, the noise of the room dulled.

He approached without altering pace again, every movement exact. A chair pulled, a nod to the steward. His gaze flicked once to her, her lip touched, her posture upright, but rigid. She had noticed.

"Sal-Soren," he said in quiet greeting, settling into his seat. No smile. Just the shadow of one.

The distance between them was measurable now. A matter of centimeters and everything else.

He adjusted his cufflink. "Let's try not to cause a diplomatic incident before dessert."

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

Bastila chose not to look up when he arrived. She didn’t need to because she knew exactly when it was, she felt it; like a shift in air pressure. A flicker of warmth that threaded down her spine before the chair beside her even moved, just like it had been before the summit, it had always been like that with him. Predictable only in how completely he could rearrange her focus without even trying or indeed wanting to.

She waited while he adjusted himself to his sat, gave him just long enough before she then turned with a slow and very deliberate grace. Her chin high and her-lips curved in the softest, sharpest shape of amusement.

“So,” she said, tone feather-light, overly professional “they’ve seated me next to the most diplomatic man in the room. I’m not sure if I should feel flattered or in danger.”

She reached for her glass, letting her fingers play just a touch too long along the stem before lifting it between them.

“To not planning on causing incidents,” she murmured, the words honeyed with mock sincerity. She leaned in slightly, not enough for anyone to notice, but enough for him to. “Although I can’t make any promises.”

She took a drink, slow enough to not annoy her still cut skin, yet not slow enough to seem obvious.

The light orb along the center of the table caught the curve of her jaw, reflecting off the pristine ivory sheen of her dress. She kept her voice on the mannerisms of the table, private beneath the noise of shifting chairs and clinking silver.

“How is your Senator doing, Praxon?” she added, not making it clear which senator she was referring to, his employer through which most of his reputation was attached, or the one Bastila had imagined was not real for days after the last time they had met. “I do hope you aren’t being worked too hard.”

The first course arrived, it was something local, dressed in edible flowers and a strange glittery foam. She gave it a glance, her eyes focusing down at it. It was strangely artistic for something everyone was about to eat.

“I’ve missed our chats if I’m honest Dominic.” Bastila finished softly, her gaze drifting lazily toward the far end of the hall. “I’ve had to fill the time with all sorts of crazy undertakings just to keep sharp. Restraint’s never really been my specialty.”

Now she did smile, just a little. As she had thoughts of pirates and Jedi training sessions.

The conversation at the table had begun around them. House politics. The award sequence. Scandal in the Varynne estate. But Bastila stayed poised, chin in hand, letting the room believe she was only half-listening.

Because to her the truth was this:

Even If Dominic didn’t say a single word all evening, amongst this lot; she’d still have the most interesting conversation in the room.

Dominic Praxon

​

 

[Dominic Praxon]

Dominic's eyes flicked sideways as Bastila spoke, but he didn't turn his head. Her voice struck that familiar chord, deliberate, and tinged with something almost theatrical.

"They've seated me next to the most diplomatic man in the room. I'm not sure if I should feel flattered or in danger."

"I imagine they're rarely different," he replied without looking at her. "But if it helps, I've been assured I pose little danger to seated parties, at least during the entrée."

The corner of his mouth twitched, but it didn't quite reach a smile. She raised her glass. He did not. Not yet. His fingers steepled briefly near his plate, then lowered again with a quiet breath.

"To not planning on causing incidents… Although I can't make any promises."

"Then I'll plan accordingly," he murmured. "Though restraint has never been the strong suit of…anyone in this room."

He let the last few words hang in the air between them before the arrival of a server offered an out. "Drink, sir?"

Dominic didn't look up. "Do you have any Brentaalan Nythal tea? Black steeped, light spice."

"Yes, sir."

He nodded once, appreciative but brief. A Naboo vintage cider had already been placed at the table. He ignored it.

"How is your Senator doing, Praxon? I do hope you aren't being worked too hard."

This time, his gaze did shift to her. "She's well." The words were clipped. "Though we no longer share much proximity, professionally or otherwise. You needn't feign concern."

He returned his attention to the strange crystalline plating before him, edible flowers and decorative foam. It was a statement pretending to be sustenance.

"I've missed our chats if I'm honest, Dominic... Restraint's never really been my specialty."

He said nothing for a long moment. His fork touched the plate but didn't move. Then he tilted his head slightly, eyes fixed forward. "That...I remember."

He didn't say what came next, because he refused to admit it, to her, or to himself. But the truth was inconvenient and clear. Her presence still stirred something vital in him, something inconveniently close to alive. Invigoration masquerading as irritation. It was the sort of feeling that no amount of diplomacy could fully kill.

Around them, conversation rose and receded like soft breeze. He could feel her half-turned toward him, poised, ready, and already dissecting every silence between them.

And still, still, he felt the pull of her voice long after it had gone quiet.

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

He spoke that quietly weighted line, That...I remember and Bastila let it settle, choosing not to answer immediately, instead she lifted her fork with slow elegance and prodded the artful arrangement on her plate. It gave no resistance.

“I see the chefs are still doing that thing,” she said lightly, finally breaking the silence. “Where food is more metaphor than substance.”

She didn’t look up yet, instead concentrating on the now ruined masterpiece of some faceless chef. The curve at the corner of her mouth betrayed her amusement.

“It’s a shame, really. I could murder a nerf stew. Something rustic. Messy. With actual weight.”

Only then did she glance sideways; enough to catch the flicker in his expression. Interest, or perhaps a well-disguised smile. Either way, it was a crack in the mask that only she knew was there.

She took a sip from her own glass. “How many of these have you attended this year?”

“Six,” she guessed before he could answer. “No? seven? Including that Chancellor’s engagement dinner. The one with the holographic koi.”

“I’m always impressed by how you endure them,” she said. “Even when the conversation collapses into trade routes and ‘the future of sustainable diplomacy.’ You manage to look like you’re paying attention. Sometimes, even I believe you.”

The corners of her mouth curved again, and this time the humor was genuine.

“But then,” she added, softer now, “you were always good at pretending not to be bored.”

The conversation around them continued, everyone from senators, aides and young heirs all comparing funding strategies and artistic patrons. The names floated past, meaningless for the moment.

Bastila turned just slightly, angling toward him. So she was present, just for him in the moment.

“I meant what I said earlier,” she said, quieter now. “I have missed our talks.”

She ran a thumb along the rim of her glass, thoughtful.

“I don't think either of us ever really said what we meant, but... we always seemed to understand each other anyway. That was rare.”

Her fingers stilled. “Still is.”

Then, before the air could grow too heavy, she exhaled through her nose, reached toward his cider; the untouched one and took a sip.

A teasing smile ghosted over her lips. “Not bad. Still prefer your tea?”

She placed it gently back by his plate.

There was no audience for this moment right now, no Countess Skol, no Rheane, no sidelong glances from gossip-hungry nobility. Just candlelight, clinking cutlery, and the faint scent of evening blossoms drifting in through the open veranda doors beyond the far wall mixing with her own aroma of peaches during a summer evening.

“I imagine you still take it steeped within a millimetre of bitterness,” she said. “No honey. No fruit. Nothing soft.” She tilted her head toward him again, brow slightly raised, eyes shining with quiet mischief. “Just like you.”

Dominic Praxon

​

 

[Dominic Praxon]

Dominic’s fork paused just above the glittering surface of his plate. He didn’t look at her immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch for one breath longer than was polite, enough to register, not enough to sting.

“I see the chefs are still doing that thing where food is more metaphor than substance.”

His brow lifted, just slightly. “That’s Naboo, isn’t it? Eating disorders, artfully presented.” He finally sliced into the dish with surgical precision. “Our tragedies are meant to be admired, not tasted.”

“I could murder a nerf stew. Something rustic. Messy. With actual weight.”

That earned a quiet, almost imperceptible smile. The kind that lingered more in the eyes than the mouth. “You miss the sort of meal that stains the fingers and leaves no room for conversation. You’d cause panic in half this room. And you would love every minute of it.”

He sipped the tea he’d ordered, steam curling like breath from an old story. The familiar Brentaalan aroma was soothing despite its bitterness.

“How many of these have you attended this year? Six… seven? Including the Chancellor’s engagement dinner.”

He inclined his head. “Eight, actually. You forgot the opening of the Sernpidal Diplomatic Archive.” His voice lowered slightly, a thread of wryness beneath the neutrality. “They unveiled a treaty that hadn’t been ratified. No one noticed.”

“You manage to look like you’re paying attention. Sometimes, even I believe you.”

“I’ve had practice,” he said. “And an alarming tolerance for ornamental nonsense. It’s a Praxon family trait. That, and dying young.”

“But then, you were always good at pretending not to be bored.”

He glanced sideways, lips quirking. “So were you.”

She angled toward him. He felt it. Not the movement, but the intention behind it, like a candle shifting its glow. Damn her.

“I meant what I said earlier. I have missed our talks.”

He didn’t answer right away. The quiet was not avoidance. Instead, he calculated every syllable. “As have I,” he said eventually. Then, without looking at her. “Though they were rarely just talk, were they?”

His fingers tapped once against the porcelain. His posture shifted slightly.

“I don't think either of us ever really said what we meant, but... we always seemed to understand each other anyway.”

“Understanding is rarer than honesty,” he said. “And more dangerous.”

She touched his glass. Took a sip. He watched it without watching her. The curve of her wrist, the ghost of a smile, it was all very well choreographed. But something about it still disarmed him.

“Still prefer your tea?”

“It’s dependable,” he replied. “Unfashionable. And it doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not.”

“I imagine you still take it steeped within a millimetre of bitterness. No honey. No fruit. Nothing soft.”

Her eyes were mischievous now. Testing. Perhaps remembering.

“Just like you.”

He met her gaze fully at last. “You say that like it’s a flaw.”

He should have stopped there. Should have kept his mouth shut, let the silence do the work. But something in her, the scent, the timing, the proximity, pulled his next words forward before he could audit them.

“You know,” he said carefully, “for someone longing for something rustic and weighty... you do wear aristocracy rather well.”

He pondered his words, and their wisdom with a brief flick of his gaze downwards, and then back up.

“Tell me, Bastila…do you ever wonder what you might accomplish if you didn’t have to play at poise anymore? If all of this...” he gestured faintly to the table, the gala, the hush of nobility, “were the prelude, not the pinnacle?” He leaned slightly forward, just enough that only she would hear it. “There are worse fates than giving Naboo a Queen who prefers nerf stew.”

He returned to his plate, calm as ever, as though he’d merely commented on the seasoning.

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

She let her finger trace the rim of her glass, slow and thoughtful, as though divining meaning from the curvature. Her expression was composed each time he spoke, a smile here and there offered to match his words. She offered the sort of poise that came not from ease, but from years of treating silence as both shield and blade.

Then he dropped the last thing she had expected him to say; or at least what she thought he was saying. She nudged the glass back across the table, just off-centre from where it had begun in a subtle disruption to symmetry. A gesture with meaning, at least for someone like him and the others in this room.

“I’ve worn poise like a second skin for so long, I forget where it ends,” she said, with a rare softness. “But you… you always did have the bad habit of noticing the edges.”

Her gaze flicked up, catching him fully now.

“All of this?” her hand turned, indicating the glittering hush around them “It’s theatre. Generational, curated theatre. Every gesture rehearsed. Every silence weaponised. Each and every one of them bred to sit around and talk in the hope that one day it’s their house that can be risen into some circle of influence…” She sighed, it was heavy and drawn out. “It’s no wonder I crave something that stains.”

Her tone turned dry, not bitter but it lacked the usual warmth she filled . Not entirely.

“I’ve spent years being told I should smile more, speak less, and never ask for seconds. That wanting too much makes one difficult. Or worse, unworthy.” She knew what she had to do. “And yet here I am. Having someone suggest that I should be Queen.”

She let that hang a moment, a truth both ridiculous and terrifying, yet the strangeness of fate intersecting another important thread came across in the Force. It pulled hard at her mind, telling her that this was a point of importance and so she stopped and looked straight towards Dominic, taking in his face, his eyes, his…everything.

“Dominic, I hear you…” Then more softly, she added. “There's a slight, issue with your ppoposal.”

Her hand slowly and discreetly moved to sit on top of the table, fingers spreading and in one single fluid motion pulled his hand into hers with the Force.

“I’m not entirely certain a Sal-Soren is allowed the crown. Let alone me.” She gave him a quick apologetic raise of eyebrows before removing her hand slowly from his.

Dominic Praxon

​

 

[Dominic Praxon]

Dominic stilled as the glass was nudged off-center. It was a small rebellion, so precise it bordered on spiritual. A breach of symmetry in a room built for balance. He noticed, of course. He always noticed. Especially with her.

“I’ve worn poise like a second skin for so long, I forget where it ends. But you… you always did have the bad habit of noticing the edges.”

“Someone had to.” There was no smirk. No glint of satisfaction. Just the truth of it, that Bastila, more than most, was a tapestry others admired from a distance. He had seen the stitching.

“It’s theatre. Generational, curated theatre…”

His eyes followed her gesture, though his face gave nothing away. “The parts are inherited, the script unchanging. You read your lines too well. That’s why they fear you.”

“I’ve spent years being told I should smile more, speak less… That wanting too much makes one difficult. Or worse, unworthy.”

“Wanting has always made one dangerous. They whisper ‘unworthy’ when they mean ‘untameable.’” The teacup had long since cooled. He no longer reached for it.

“And yet here I am. Having someone suggest that I should be Queen.”

He let that hang a moment. She had spoken it aloud. That mattered. “You mistake me. I didn’t suggest it.” The space between them narrowed. “I recognised it.”

He took her hand in his, just for a moment. A share of his confidence in her ability.

“I’m not entirely certain a Sal-Soren is allowed the crown.”

Her brow lifted in apology. The contact ended. “Then let them try and forbid it." The fire behind the words was quiet, almost offhand, but it burned nonetheless. "Every name in this room was disqualified once. Until someone reminded the law it could be rewritten."

He adjusted his cufflink slowly, as though anchoring his point in the motion. "So what, pray tell, is such a thing as to prevent you from being Queen?" His eyes rose to meet hers again, and this time, the sharp edge was tempered by something older than ambition.

Bastila Sal-Soren​