Bad Wolf
Qosantyra, Dosuun
The light caught on the kyber-inlaid floor like shards of a forgotten constellation, fractured and sharp beneath polished marble. Afternoon sun poured in through high, prismed skylights, its glow filtered by intricately carved glass to cast long patterns of light and shadow that shifted across the vast chamber. The Starlight Atrium, grand reception hall of the Hyacinth Palace, had been prepared to perfection, but not ostentatiously so. The space breathed diplomacy. It echoed with the weight of ceremony, the hush of poised violence, and the promise of legacy negotiated.
At the head of the chamber stood Grand Vizier Ivalyn Yvarro, framed beneath a vaulted arch of gilded stone and dusky lavender drapery. She wore a high-collared coat of midnight blue velvet trimmed in imperial silver, with a cream blouse of fine silk fastened by a single onyx brooch at the throat. Her gloves were pinned between her fingers, never quite worn, never quite absent. Her hair was swept into a style not unlike the old nobility of Dosuun, unapologetically aristocratic, but modernized just enough to be dangerous.
Every detail of her presence was intentional. From the line of her posture to the barely-there smile on her lips, Ivalyn stood not as a supplicant to power, but as its architect.
A string quartet played from behind a lattice of vine, wrought brass, their instruments tuned to the acoustics of the hall. The melody was Commonwealth, subtle, melancholic, threaded with restraint. Servants in obsidian-gray livery moved soundlessly across the atrium's periphery, setting down carved decanters of scarlet wine and trays of smoked fruits glazed in exotic spice.
Beneath the chandeliers of suspended kyber, the seating arrangement was carefully measured: a central table of pale marble with inlaid gold filigree, low enough to suggest conversation, but long enough to command distance. It was neither round nor square, no, its shape resembled the First Order's hexagon. It had no place for a throne.
Not today.
The Dark Council's seats awaited, set with quiet intention, neither raised nor diminished. This was not about theater. It was about intent. And intent, like everything else in this city, was a currency closely guarded.
From beyond the vaulted doors, bootsteps echoed, a signal of arrival.
Ivalyn inhaled once through her nose, sharp and slow, as if tasting the air for smoke. A quiet exhale followed, soft and even. Her gaze drifted to the mirrored inlays in the atrium floor, where her reflection gleamed like a cut stone. There was no fear in her. No reverence. Just the stillness of someone long prepared to be misunderstood.
And when she spoke, it was not for the servants, nor for the music, nor for the city pulsing quietly outside the palace walls. It was for herself. Today the Dark Council members would arrive polished and pristine, and Ivalyn smiled a dangerously polite smile, after all, things were only sharp when they shined.
The light caught on the kyber-inlaid floor like shards of a forgotten constellation, fractured and sharp beneath polished marble. Afternoon sun poured in through high, prismed skylights, its glow filtered by intricately carved glass to cast long patterns of light and shadow that shifted across the vast chamber. The Starlight Atrium, grand reception hall of the Hyacinth Palace, had been prepared to perfection, but not ostentatiously so. The space breathed diplomacy. It echoed with the weight of ceremony, the hush of poised violence, and the promise of legacy negotiated.
At the head of the chamber stood Grand Vizier Ivalyn Yvarro, framed beneath a vaulted arch of gilded stone and dusky lavender drapery. She wore a high-collared coat of midnight blue velvet trimmed in imperial silver, with a cream blouse of fine silk fastened by a single onyx brooch at the throat. Her gloves were pinned between her fingers, never quite worn, never quite absent. Her hair was swept into a style not unlike the old nobility of Dosuun, unapologetically aristocratic, but modernized just enough to be dangerous.
Every detail of her presence was intentional. From the line of her posture to the barely-there smile on her lips, Ivalyn stood not as a supplicant to power, but as its architect.
A string quartet played from behind a lattice of vine, wrought brass, their instruments tuned to the acoustics of the hall. The melody was Commonwealth, subtle, melancholic, threaded with restraint. Servants in obsidian-gray livery moved soundlessly across the atrium's periphery, setting down carved decanters of scarlet wine and trays of smoked fruits glazed in exotic spice.
Beneath the chandeliers of suspended kyber, the seating arrangement was carefully measured: a central table of pale marble with inlaid gold filigree, low enough to suggest conversation, but long enough to command distance. It was neither round nor square, no, its shape resembled the First Order's hexagon. It had no place for a throne.
Not today.
The Dark Council's seats awaited, set with quiet intention, neither raised nor diminished. This was not about theater. It was about intent. And intent, like everything else in this city, was a currency closely guarded.
From beyond the vaulted doors, bootsteps echoed, a signal of arrival.
Ivalyn inhaled once through her nose, sharp and slow, as if tasting the air for smoke. A quiet exhale followed, soft and even. Her gaze drifted to the mirrored inlays in the atrium floor, where her reflection gleamed like a cut stone. There was no fear in her. No reverence. Just the stillness of someone long prepared to be misunderstood.
And when she spoke, it was not for the servants, nor for the music, nor for the city pulsing quietly outside the palace walls. It was for herself. Today the Dark Council members would arrive polished and pristine, and Ivalyn smiled a dangerously polite smile, after all, things were only sharp when they shined.
