Private In the wake of empires

[Kasmion Duum]

He felt her tension ease and tried to relax himself. He wanted something to do with his hands, sitting here by the sealed ramp. The old ship lifted off with a lurch and a rattle, bound for the Mandalorian border and then Chalacta.

"If I'm ever in that position, perhaps I'll have an answer. So far the carving out is nearly all I can manage."

And remittances, but he wasn't about to parade his charity.

"Do you have people?"

W Writer

 

[Writer]

Aielyn exhaled softly, though whether it was a breath of thought or restraint was uncertain. Her gaze flickered to the sealed ramp, then back to him, studying—not out of suspicion, but habit.

"I did." The answer came evenly, without embellishment. "Once."

The words lingered, hollow and unfinished, as if their true weight rested somewhere deeper than what she was willing to say aloud.

Her fingers tapped idly against the table, a quiet rhythm of thought. What did it mean to have people? Once, she had an entire world behind her. A court. A family. A name that meant something. Now, all she had were ghosts and the uncertain threads of alliances that had yet to be woven.

"Those who stood beside me are either dead, scattered, or waiting for a battle they do not believe will come." A wry smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, though there was no humor behind it. "So no, not anymore."

She could have left it there. But something about his words—about the way he spoke of carving things out rather than claiming them—made her hesitate.

"You don't ask that kind of question unless you know what it's like to lose them yourself."

A pause.

"So tell me, Kasmion—who were your people?"

Kasmion Duum

 

[Kasmion Duum]

"The Keshiri. The Sith enslaved us and then assimilated us, centuries ago. We made it through the Dark Age as ourselves, with our own identity, but about forty years ago, the Bryn'adul — the government of a massive, xenocidal alien species, the Draelvasier — purged and terraformed many worlds farther out from here. They're called the Scar Worlds today. Kesh, my homeworld, was one of them. They've had lesser or greater degrees of environmental reclamation, resettlement, rebuilding. For any given Scar World, there aren't many survivors. None of us were true interstellar species with vast diasporas. Keshiri, Kubaz, Glottalphibs, Brubbs, Targonnians, Hurrikaneans, Pa'lowick, Sakiyans..."

W Writer

 

[Kasmion Duum]

There was, after a suitable interval of showers and refreshments and rested knees, a reconvening. The ship had passed the Mando border safely and was docking with a trade station off Chalacta. W Writer would have had quite a bit of time to get the measure of the old exploration ship and its largely Scar Worlds crew.

"Aielyn," said Kasmion seriously over the very same dejarik table, "for both our safety, we should talk about the large bounty that's been posted on you. Are you aware of it?"

 

[Writer]

Aielyn sat with one leg crossed over the other, a hand resting near her lips in idle thought, though her posture was practiced, intentional. Calm. Unbothered. Regal, even in exile. But there was a flicker—just behind the eyes.

"It's strange," she said lightly, speaking to some unseen hand. "How time stretches and twists when you're not looking. Days blur into weeks, moments slip between hyperspace jumps, and suddenly—there's a bounty on your head."

She looked up at him as he spoke, as though surprised by the question. Not startled—no, never that. But as if the subject were some distant curiosity, not the very thing that had kept her awake most of the previous night.

"Mm," she mused, voice soft. "Word travels in strange ways out here. I caught wind of it last night. Wasn't sure if it was real until now." A light shrug followed, delicate, measured. "These things have a habit of… inflating."

A pause, long enough to let the silence breathe. Then, the smallest trace of a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Though I must admit—'treasonous specter of the old regime' has a certain dramatic flair."

She reached out, lazily pushing one of the dejarik pieces across the board—more for effect than strategy. Still not looking at him, but her tone dipped, quiet and cool beneath the surface.

"I suppose now we find out who's hunting ghosts…" Her gaze flicked up, finally locking with his—serious, now. "…and who shelters them."

There, at last, was the tension behind the mask. Not desperation. Not fear. But readiness.

Kasmion Duum

 

[Kasmion Duum]

"You'll note that we're having this conversation beside an airlock to a civilian station," Kasmion said. "I don't know that shelter is on the table. If what I'm about to share prompts your exit, feel free."

He wasn't watching the cinematography of her, the precisely chosen affectations, how she presented herself. He was barely watching her at all; his attention stayed in his mind's eye. Watching her emotional state for a little extra notice - and a few more options - in case she decided to take precipitous action.

"Promises were made, most handsome offers, but I'd like your honest assessment, the circumstances notwithstanding.

"Is the fatuous demagogue I spoke with the kind of man who would honour those promises?"

W Writer

 

[Writer]

Aielyn didn't answer right away.

Her eyes flicked briefly toward the airlock, not in alarm—but in consideration. The reminder was not lost on her. The offer of an exit was both a courtesy and a test. She had been given many like it in her life. Most had come with a blade beneath.

She leaned back slightly in her seat, just enough to suggest comfort, but not enough to pretend she was at ease. The flicker behind her eyes—the one she never quite let go—shifted. The poise didn't falter, but the calculation sharpened.

"Karis," she said softly, as if tasting the name. "Was once a man of vision. Of duty, even."

Her gaze settled back on Kasmion, meeting his without flinching.

"He is now a man of ambition cloaked in righteousness. A tyrant who wraps his orders in eloquence and insists he's the only one who can save the world he helped ruin."

A pause. She considered how much truth to give him—and gave more than she meant to.

"He'll honor his promises… long enough to make sure he no longer needs you. And when that moment comes, he won't hesitate." Her voice was quieter now. Still even. Still composed. "Not out of cruelty. Just… efficiency."

She let that settle before adding—dryly, with the barest trace of gallows humor.

"I'd suggest you start with a planetary deed and end with an escape plan."

Kasmion Duum

 

[Kasmion Duum]

"One of those. Yes, I've known the type. My mentor wasn't dissimilar - a Kubaz academic turned guerrilla leader, terrorist even. Thank you for a fair assessment."

Kasmion leaned back in the bench, laced his fingers over his belly, and thought about all this for a long moment. The big cargo airlock irised open and crew and crates began to go back and forth, handing things off to Ithorians and their Foreign Legion, all somewhat ragtag and Outer Rim diverse.

"I hope you don't take this as bravado, flippancy, or zeal. I'm considering options. If your enemy was killed, what do you think the consequences would be?"

W Writer

 

[Writer]

Aielyn's expression didn't shift. Not in the way one might expect. No flinch. No gasp. Just a soft inhale through the nose—controlled. Contained.

But behind her eyes, something flickered. Not fear. Not hope. A memory.

A weight.

She watched the cargo crew move beyond the glass, their world continuing unbothered by the idea just spoken aloud. The death of a tyrant. The end of Karis. It wasn't the first time the thought had been voiced—just the first time it hadn't come from inside her own mind.

"If Karis dies," she said at last, her tone even, but quieter now, "Valisca won't celebrate. Not at first."

Her gaze lowered slightly, lost for a second in thought. "He controls the council, the military command structure, the communication relays. His death would create a vacuum—one that wouldn't fill itself cleanly. The loyalists would turn on each other, and the opportunists would come out of hiding."

A breath. She looked back at him, and now there was something sharp in her tone—not reckless, but honest. Bitter.

"It would be chaos."

And then, more softly, like an echo of something she hadn't meant to say: "But maybe chaos is what it needs."

She let that sit, then folded her hands in her lap, gaze narrowing with precision.

"If he dies without a successor—without someone strong enough to claim the flow of power—then everything burns." Her eyes locked on his. "If he dies, and I am not ready… my people will suffer for it."

The implication hung unspoken... She had to be ready.

Or not at all.

Kasmion Duum

 

[Kasmion Duum]

"Well, perhaps. Or perhaps your people are stronger than you think. Self-determination is a muscle that can grow back from atrophy. I have no taste for rightful heirs and destined bloodlines replacing autocracy with autocracy."

He'd been trusting himself to come up with the right idea. Fishing for it, even, in the back of his mind. Now he hooked one and found himself smiling.

He kept the idea to himself.

"He offered my people a safe enclave, land, infrastructure, a paradise under tight control. Promise me some plot of land — ownership, free and clear. And a fair share of representation with dignity in whatever government you replace him with in the end, if this succeeds."

W Writer

 

[Writer]

She didn't answer right away. She knew the shape of a pretty lie—had worn the crown of one long enough. His words hung in the air between them, sharp but fair. There was a truth to them she couldn't ignore.

Her fingers lightly traced the edge of her cup, the movement idle. Thoughtful. She didn't speak for a long moment, and when she finally did, her voice was calm—but no longer veiled.

"I never asked to inherit anything." A quiet admission, though no less firm. "And I've no intention of rebuilding the same golden cage with a different crest above the door."

Her gaze flicked to him now, meeting his with a new kind of clarity.

"You want land—free and clear. You'll have it. Not as a gift, not as tribute, but as recognition. A place for your people, untouched by the terms of tyrants."

She let that settle before continuing, more carefully:

"As for government…" A pause. Her voice was thoughtful now—lighter, but tinged with gravity. "I can't promise what doesn't exist yet. But if I have any hand in shaping what comes after, then yes—there will be a seat. And a voice. And dignity."

She exhaled slowly, then offered him the faintest nod—an acknowledgment. A pact not yet formalized, but not empty.

"No thrones. No divine right. Just the chance to build something better."

And for once, she didn't speak like a queen.

She spoke like someone trying to become more than what she was born for.

Kasmion Duum

 

[Kasmion Duum]

Kasmion turned the particulars over in his head until he was satisfied — with them, and with the sense he got of W Writer 's intentions. Trust had many facets beyond whether someone was telling the truth, but truthfulness was a good box to check off.

He didn't insult the agreement by formalizing it. An adult made honest deals or they didn't.

He took his attention back to the here-and-now and met her oddly colored gaze.

"All right, then. What does our enemy know about what's possible through the Force?"

This was his first intimation, as far as he could recall, that he could use it.

 

[Writer]

She drew a quiet breath through her nose, not in hesitation but in thought—as if replaying an old truth she'd tried not to speak aloud.

"He understands the Great Flow," she said at last, her tone measured. Then a faint shift, a small correction: "The Force." She gave a slight tilt of her head, acknowledging the difference—and the convergence.

"Karis was trained—sharply, thoroughly. Beyond anything I was ever meant to be. He doesn't just move through the Force… he commands it."

Her eyes tracked the edge of the table for a moment, not as a distraction, but as if following something unseen—a memory, maybe, or the echo of a moment that still left a mark.

"I remember the shift. When I stopped feeling him in the current, and started feeling the current shaped around him." Her voice lowered, but never trembled. "That's when I knew he'd changed. Or maybe… that I hadn't seen him clearly to begin with."

Her posture remained upright, regal even now—but there was a stillness in her shoulders, the kind that only came with restraint.

"I don't fear him because I lack strength. I fear him because he's discarded limits—and because I remember what he was before that."

She looked back to Kasmion, eyes calm but watchful.

"Why do you ask?"

Kasmion Duum

 

[Kasmion Duum]

"It limits my tactics and changes my risk profile. A common-or-garden autocrat can be made to jump off a dais, or be mistaken for an intruder by his most loyal guards, or gloat over an illusion of you that conceals a bomb droid. A Master could, but not dependably. No, for this I'd need to call in someone better at that kind of engagement. Not a hero who could complicate what needs to happen, you understand, and not an institution that could take over, but someone practical and reliable with no taste for the kind of power that sits on a throne. Fortunately, I know four of them to one extent or another. They all have downsides attached.

"Candidate one: extreme physical strength, a wanderer and exile, a fortunetelling mystic. Sith-trained - a Sith marauder - but broke from their ways many years ago. I believe the Jedi would call him a 'light sider' or possibly a monster, depending how much of his past they know. The downside is the reputational risk.

"Candidate two: an Ithorian nature priest with an unorthodox allowance for violence in situations like these. She's easily the strongest of the four candidates - you don't cross Ithorian nature priests no matter how long you've swung a lightsaber - but best for, oh, making plants grow, calling on the aid of flocks of birds, bringing rain.

"Candidate three: the mentor I mentioned. We did not part on the best of terms, and he's more radical and bloodthirsty than I'd like, but Professor Skajin var Imret has killed many Draelvasier in personal combat with his extremely specific skillset. He could do the job very cleanly. I'd simply owe him a favour it could be challenging to repay.

"Candidate four, and maybe the best balance of strength, practicality, reliability, and risk. The downside - and I can virtually guarantee this - is that you would need to promise to get him a ship of some kind by barter, purchase, or outright theft. I can't spare any of my small craft and he wouldn't be terribly interested in them anyway. Novelty is what matters.

"Do any of the four sound like suitable instruments?"

W Writer

 

[Writer]

Aielyn listened in silence, her arms folded across her chest, fingers tapping once against her sleeve—a small, thoughtful beat of tension she didn't let reach her voice.

"Those are your instruments?" she echoed quietly. Her tone wasn't mocking—it was careful. Studying the shape of what he was offering, and what it said about the world she'd wandered into.

A pause followed. Then—

"The Ithorian… interests me. Not because she's the strongest, but because she sounds like she still believes in balance. In preservation, not just destruction."

She let that sit before adding, more to herself than to him: "But preservation of what, I suppose, is the question."

Her gaze lifted back to Kasmion.

"The first… sounds like the kind of man I used to be warned about. But I've met enough Jedi to know that warnings aren't always fair." A faint tilt of her head. "What he sees in the future might be more honest than anything I've seen in the present."

There was no reaction when he mentioned the professor, only a subtle tightening of her jaw—a reaction more to the word bloodthirsty than anything else.

"Not him," she said simply. No judgment. Just a line she wasn't ready to cross. Not yet.

And then, the fourth.

Her brow lifted slightly. "He sounds… unpredictable. Dangerous, in a way none of the others are." A pause. Her lips pressed together, thoughtful. "But maybe that's the point. If Karis can anticipate what's coming, it has to come from a direction he'd never look for."

Her arms lowered, posture more open now—not relaxed, just committed.

"Bring me the fourth. I'll give him his ship. Somehow." A small breath. Her tone shifted—quieter, but certain. "I don't care if he's strange, or selfish, or morally untethered. As long as he doesn't want the throne."

She looked past Kasmion, gaze distant now. "I have enough people who do."

Kasmion Duum

 

[Kasmion Duum]

An incredulous laugh got out. "No, he's no possible rival. The only throne he's ever sought was a used starship lot in the bad part of Denon."

​

 

[Jerec Asyr]

SMASH CUT TO:
A USED STARSHIP LOT IN THE BAD PART OF DENON

​

Quekko's Choice Ship Emporium (Lum Rouge, Seven Corners, Denon) had been selling the finest pre-owned vehicles and vessels for almost forty-five years when Jerec Asyr wandered out to meet the new arrivals. He wore a cram-packed backpack with a large and evil gun over one shoulder and a scarred lightsaber at his belt. He had debated playing it cool, but truth be told, Kasmion Duum's pitch had been compelling, pending evaluation of whatever nifty ship W Writer had brought.

 

[Writer]

Aielyn stood at the edge of the lot, arms crossed beneath the fall of her cloak, the haze of repulsor exhaust catching faintly in the dusky light.

"This… is your monarch?" she asked Kasmion, voice just flat enough to make the sarcasm sting. "I can see the grandeur."

She stepped forward, boots tapping lightly against the permacrete as her gaze swept the cluttered sprawl of aging hulls, jury-rigged freighters, and retrofitted transports in various stages of dignity and disrepair.

Her eyes found the figure approaching—a backpack, a cannon, a lightsaber that looked like it had seen worse days than most battlefields. Her brow arched, slow and deliberate.

"Tell me that's not him," she murmured, half to herself.

But she already knew it was.

She didn't draw a weapon, didn't tense—but something in her presence shifted. A subtle centering, like gravity pulled more firmly to her frame. Just in case.

And then, dryly—"If this is your most stable candidate, I shudder to meet the others."

Kasmion Duum | Jerec Asyr

 

[Kasmion Duum]

And then, dryly—"If this is your most stable candidate, I shudder to meet the others."

"Stable might be an exaggeration, admittedly. You take the lead on this." He raised a hand in greeting and affected cheer. "Hello! Jerec Asyr, this is the client, Aielyn Veralas. Thank you for getting this far with us."

The heavily armed Ithorian gave the pair of them a blatant once-over. "I'm still on the fence, Duum," Asyr said, in apparent defiance of his own rucksack and loadout. "What's this dictator fight like? His guards?"

 

[Writer]

Aielyn inclined her head faintly as the name was offered—Jerec Asyr—and took in the man with a glance that revealed little but noticed everything. The scarred lightsaber. The weapon strapped like an afterthought. The kind of man who didn't just walk into danger, but made deals with it mid-stride.

"Client," she repeated softly, not correcting the title, but not accepting it either.

She turned slightly, allowing the angles of her posture to shift, deliberate as a blade being drawn—not hostile, just sharp.

"As for the dictator," she said, tone even, "he's charming, cultured, and calculated. Speaks of duty while twisting the knife. Wears civility like a cloak. And believes the galaxy owes him reverence."

Her eyes didn't waver from his.

"His guards are elite. Loyal. They've been trained since birth to serve the crown—my crown. Which now rests on his head."

There was no bitterness in her voice. Just fact.

A pause.

"He'll expect theatrics. He'll prepare for subterfuge. What he won't expect is someone who doesn't care about his stage."

She glanced sidelong at Kasmion, then back to Jerec.

"You don't need to believe in thrones. Just don't get in his way when he falls off one."

Kasmion Duum | Jerec Asyr