⟨ＴＨＥ ＳＰＡＲＥ ＳＯＮ⟩
The Volaris Estate shimmered like a promise above Nabat's canyon winds. Lanterns hung from marble terraces, their gold light reflecting in the glass of the upper halls, where the banners of House Avaron swayed in rhythmic counterpoint to the music drifting from within. It was said that when the suns set over this ridge, the estate itself seemed to breathe, the white stone warming with color, as if to remind all assembled that Ryloth's beauty was born of hardship and flame.
Dominic Praxon had arrived at sunset. He was not late, the Senate frowned on tardiness, and his father despised it, but neither was he early. Punctuality, like most virtues, was a matter of optics. His father had made that clear on the last encrypted holo-call from Brentaal. House Avaron must be kept friendly, the elder Praxon had said, their mining concessions are critical for Trozky Holdings' transport initiative. You will finalize the arrangement personally.
It was always personally.
Dominic's mouth twitched faintly at the thought. His father was likely pacing the estate's balcony right now, surrounded by Imperial banners and too many eyes that weren't servants. The occupation had changed Brentaal, stripped it of pride but not of expectation. And so, here he was, halfway across the Rim, expected to smile for trade stability while pretending his parents weren't living under someone else's flag.
The senator's reflection glimmered in the mirrored walls of the ballroom, sharp suit, neatly folded cuffs, expression unreadable. Around him, conversation rose like the hum of insects. Nobles preened, offworld envoys laughed too loudly, Twi'lek dignitaries stood at careful ease. It was all performance. He had long ago learned that diplomacy was less about truth than about endurance.
When the steward announced the entrance of House Avaron, the music softened. Dominic's attention shifted instinctively toward the marble stair where the hosts descended.
He inclined his head as Lady Avaron approached. "Lady Avaron," Dominic greeted, voice level but edged with the clipped precision of Core Worlds diplomacy. "Dominic Praxon of Naboo. My father sends his compliments...and, regrettably, his instructions. I have spared you the latter."
A faint smile. Controlled, but real enough to soften the words.
"I understand you're overseeing much of tonight's proceedings," he continued. "That may make you the only soul here who knows precisely how thin the ice beneath our feet is."
His gaze flicked briefly to the hall's chandeliers, where the lights trembled with the estate's aging power grid. A murmur of static rippled through the ambient hum of the orchestra. He dismissed it, though unease lingered in the periphery of thought, a diplomat's intuition rather than a Jedi's, but sharp all the same. Something was off.
"If I might impose upon you later," he said quietly, "I would value your insight. Naboo teaches us to gild our troubles. Ryloth, it seems, endures them."
