Private Spira-ling out of control

[Scherezade deWinter]

Naked apple cheeks. That was all she really needed for a few breaths, and she stared at those apples openly, seeing no reason to even pretend otherwise. It took more than she cared to admit to tear her gaze away and listen to his words. And suddenly he was there, noses brushing. Instead of drowning into it, she gave a small growl as she reached for the offered skewer. Food first, then the rest.

She tore into it with ease, chewing thoughtfully. Oh, Scherezade knew she was a dangerous person. But she also knew that some could easily mistake her for a little chaotic canine puppy sometimes. Especially when she ate.

"Used to be," she mumbled around a mouthful of grilled meat, "that I'd get notes like that every few weeks. Not so clean, though. Usually scrawled in some dead dialect on recycled synthpaper, slipped under a table leg or into my boots."

Another bite. She licked her fingers. "Back then I worked with the Agents. Or maybe in the Agents. Hard to tell. There weren't many lines between freedom fighter and accidental terrorist. Or actual terrorist, come to think of it, when you're blowing up comm towers and recruiting warlords with charm alone."

Her gaze softened for half a second, just enough to let something unspoken pass through before she blinked it away. "I stopped opening the notes after a while. Figured if someone wanted to reach me that bad, they'd bleed for it. Lots of them did, eventually."

She looked over at him, grin lazy but eyes sharp. "But this one's different. Polite. Like it's inviting me to afternoon tea instead of a trap. Makes my teeth itch."

Another bite. Then, more quietly: "I was going to totally ignore it earlier. But now, I want to go. Not just to see what it is. It's like...." she paused for another bite, gathering her words first inside her head. "I don't know, I just do. Do I really need a reason?"

She tilted her head, studied him for a moment longer than necessary. "Do you have to do your recon work in person or do you get to stay here with me until it's time to leave?"

Kaelon Virex

 

[Kaelon Virex]

Kael watched her devour the meat like it owed her money, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. He didn't say a word while she talked—just let her fill the space with that brutal honesty of hers, raw and crackling like an old war story told with half a smirk and half a ghost behind the eyes. He'd seen it before, but it was different when it came from her.

He leaned back on his hands, stretching out on the couch like it was a throne, legs long and careless. But his eyes—those weren't lazy. They tracked her the way predators tracked movement, as if everything she said was a map to something far bigger than a simple note.

"That itch in your teeth?" he said finally. "I know it. It's instinct. It's how we don't die young."

A pause. Then he added, "And yeah… I prefer to do recon in person."

His expression shifted a little, the grin fading into something steadier, more grounded. "I trust tech, but I trust my eyes more. The weight of a place. The way people breathe in it. You can't program that into a drone." His gaze locked with hers. "Besides, if this is some high-thread invitation or bait, I don't want to be somewhere else when it unspools. I want to be exactly where you are."

There was a beat of silence before his smile returned, this time sharp and amused. "But I'll stay here with you until it's time. Meat, mischief, and you? I'd be a fool to leave early."

He tilted his head, his voice dropping slightly. "I like seeing you like this. Sharp teeth, dirty fingers, stories half-told." A pause. "You're not pretending to be anything else. Neither am I."

Then, lighter, "So go on, finish that skewer. I'll plot us the safest unsafe route in the galaxy while you decide whether this is tea or bloodshed."

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Scherezade didn't just finish the skewer. She eviscerated it.

With the grandiosity of a woman playing to an invisible audience, she raised the last hunk of roasted meat high like it was a prize from a battlefield. Then, never breaking eye contact with Kael, she slowly, oh so slowly, dragged it off the stick with her teeth, letting the juices roll down her fingers, her lips, her chin. She licked them clean with deliberate flicks of her tongue, every motion half-mocking, half-hungry.

"Meat," she declared, flinging the empty skewer over her shoulder like a queen tossing a spent blade. "Done."

She leaned forward, elbows on knees, predator to predator now. "So. The note." Her voice lost its playfulness, dipped into that low register she reserved for things that mattered. "If it's bait, I want to know who left it. If it's a trail, I want to know who they think I am now. Either way…"

Her fingers tapped her thigh thrive before her grin returned, slower this time. "I say we find the sender. Crack open whatever hole they're hiding in. And if they're the kind of fool who thought sending me a calling card was clever," She reached up and mimed twisting a head off, complete with a soft pop. "We educate them."

And then her tone shifted again. Heat returned to her gaze. She crawled across the couch toward him, straddling his lap without ceremony, hands braced against his shoulders. Her nose brushed his, lips ghosting over his without committing.

"I like it when you don't pretend," she murmured. "When you watch me like that. Like you're deciding whether to kiss me or devour me. Or both."

She didn't move away.

Didn't lean in, either.

The tension thrummed between them like wire ready to snap.

Abruptly, Scherezade pushed off him and stood.

"I need a shower," she announced brightly, walking away without another word, hips swaying with exaggerated swagger. "If I'm going to tear open new buttholes tonight, I'd rather not have their scent mix with ours."

And with that, she'd disappeared into the refresher.



Kaelon Virex

 

[Kaelon Virex]

Kael watched her go with a slow exhale, his head tipping back against the couch cushion as her hips vanished into the other room. "Damn," he muttered to no one, letting the silence stretch and ripple in the wake of her.


His hand drifted toward where the note had been left, fingers brushing over the edge of the folded synth-paper like it might burn him. His eyes narrowed as he opened it again, rereading it—this time with his mind clear of distraction and his pulse no longer riding the high of her straddle.


He pulled his wrist com closer, thumbed it alive with a low beep.


"Arq," he said as the comms connected. "Tell me you're not tangled in glitter and drama right now."


The voice on the other end oozed velvet exasperation.


"Kael Virex. Darling. It's Nar Shaddaa, of course I'm tangled in glitter and drama. Chelsee's understudy is threatening to set her boa on fire in protest of being cut from the solo routine. I haven't even had breakfast."


Kael snorted. "Glad to know some things haven't changed."


"What do you need? Because if this is a social call, I swear to spice—"


"It's not. I've got a note. Coordinates, weird phrasing, no sender. Says: '2300.'"


A pause.


"…2300," Arq repeated slowly, the mood shifting. "You sure that's all it says?"


"Word for word."


"It… rings familiar. That number—years back, there was a comm line. Decommissioned, encrypted as hell. The Veil only heard whispers—'2300' was slang for a dead drop. High risk, no names, no returns. Might be more, but I'd have to shake a few trees."


Kael sat up straighter. "Shake 'em."


"Already in motion," Arq replied, voice crisp now. "I'll reach out to Saul. He owes me. That slippery bastard's knee-deep in half the backchannels that touch our scene. If this is a trap, I'd wager he's heard it spring before."


"Thanks, Arq."


"Don't thank me yet. You're playing in someone else's orchestra now, and I hate it when my dancers get pulled off stage mid-act."


Kael smirked. "I'll keep it center spotlight." He sarcastically replied.


"You'd better."


The call ended with a soft click, and Kael let the silence settle for a breath. The weight of what Arq said lingered—a dead drop... no names… no returns.


He ran a hand down his face, then across the back of his neck, feeling the heat still coiled there from Scherezade's lap invasion. Whatever was waiting at the time of 2300, it was personal. She'd already decided they were going. And honestly? So had he.


He stood and tossed the note aside like it was just another card in a losing deck.


Then—without a single ounce of hesitation—he walked toward the refresher.


The door hissed open.

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

She stepped out of the shower like she was walking into battle.

Water still clung to her skin, running in slow, lazy trails down her arms, between her shoulder blades, over the curve of her thighs. The towel was wrapped tight, but it wasn't modesty, it was containment. The air outside the refresher was cooler, the dim lights casting long shadows across the floor, but her blood still sang like it hadn't realized they'd hit pause.

Her eyes swept the room. The skewer was gone. So was the note.

Good. That meant he read it before he'd joined her. That meant gears were turning.

She dragged fingers through her wet hair and let them snag. A hiss of breath escaped between her teeth. Not from pain, just pressure, caught between her temples, beneath her ribs, everywhere. The kind that never really left. The kind that only sharpened when the noise faded and silence crept in with its bloody little thoughts.

She didn't reach for clothes right away.

Instead, she moved toward the window, bare feet soundless on the floor. The stars had already begun to twinkle in the skies like always, smug and ancient, pretending they didn't remember her. She glared anyway. She knew what she was. What she'd done. What she was still going to do.

Her hair was still wet after she's gotten into her armour (x), but she didn't mind it. Numerous knives had already been hidden all across her body, many of them not even visible to the naked eye. A few though, had been strapped to her thighs and arms, slowly and deliberately. It was almost like meditation before battle. And while Scherezade would always claim she was always battle-ready, there was something in the ritual of dressing one that always made it feel slightly different.

"Enough playing house," she said to no one in particular, her voice rough velvet. "Time to make a mess."

Her hands moved to her datapad. Coordinates. Maps. Signals that hadn't pinged in years suddenly pulsing back to life. Her fingers danced over the screen with unspoken urgency. For all the rest of the galaxy knew, Scherezade suddenly existed again on the holonet.

She didn't say another word.

But her mouth was curved in a grin that tasted like blood and foreplay. All she needed now was Kael's greenlight, and they could go. They could go, and finish this whole messy business, and go back to playing house. Just like she wanted to, with him.

Kaelon Virex

 

[Kaelon Virex]

Kael stepped out of the refresher, water beading on his skin like quicksilver. He wrung a hand through his damp hair, letting thick strands fall into his eyes before brushing them back. Silence filled the loft, but his gaze found Scherezade immediately—armored, poised, every muscle coiled and ready.

He gave her a slow, deliberate nod.

Turning to the wardrobe, he pulled on a pair of faded, skin‑tight blue jeans—scuffed at the knees but reinforced with stealth‑weave fibers beneath the surface. Next came the boots: matte‑black, low‑heel combat style, soles etched with micro‑treads for grip on any surface.

His shirt was simple—a dark charcoal tank top that clung to lean muscle, exposing the faint scars crisscrossing his torso. Over that, he shrugged into his signature leather jacket: midnight black with a deep V of reinforced plating along the collarbone and shoulders. Under the left lapel, a hidden pocket held a compact data‑scrambler; under the right, a credit‑chip dispenser.

At his waist, a belt of interlocking ceramite and durasteel plates bore a pair of aptly named vibroknives—slender blades that hummed with low‑frequency oscillators, sheathed at his hips. On his right thigh, a magnetic holster cradled a sleek, custom stun‑blaster; on the left, a wrist‑holster housed a grappling‑hook emitter, its cable coiled like a sleeping serpent.

He snapped his wrist com into place, its holo‑interface flickering to life across his forearm. A final glance at Scherezade, blades strapped and datapad in hand, and he found the greenlight in her eyes.

"Ready," he said, voice low but certain—every inch the rogue operative, every ounce devoted to her side.

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

His greenlight was all that she needed.

Scherezade moved without a word, pace in perfect sync with Kael's. The datapad guided them across Spira's sun-drenched façade, through the resort's back alleys where the cobblestones were still warm from the day's heat, past shuttered wine bars and closed vendor stalls. Neon danced across her armor and his leather like a mockery of the silence they carried.

The coordinates led them to a pier no longer on public maps.

There was no signage. Just a narrow causeway that curved beneath a canopy of palms, eventually vanishing behind a gated arch flanked by inactive droids with sand crusted into their joints. Scherezade scanned the lock, and then again with a different frequency. Biometric. Ciphered. Shielded from satellites.

Good. The sort of secrecy that screamed serious business.

A chime acknowledged her clearance. The gate opened with a soft hiss.

Inside, all was silent.

The passage led downward, beneath the boardwalk, where waves slapped against the pylons and the salt hung thick in the air. The lighting shifted from natural to artificial in shades of gold, diffused, too perfect to be real. The walls here were coral-inlaid durasteel, carved in swirling patterns meant to mimic ocean tides. Fake beauty. Intentional.

At the end of the hall, a single room.

And a man.

He stood alone beneath a skylight of reinforced transparisteel, where Spira's moonlight shimmered down in silver beams. The scent of saltwater mixed with ozone, and the faint hum of security fields was barely audible to those without enhanced hearing.

His mask was black and polygonal, faceted like a jewel carved from voidstone. It caught the moonlight wrong, absorbing more than it reflected, making his face vanish into angles. No mouth. No eyes. Just the illusion of both.

Only then did she remember the first instruction. Come alone.

Instinctively, her arm reached out to block Kael from taking another step, and shielding him. From what? So far, from nothing, but she knew how quickly that could change. And though he had his own means that had kept him alive thus, she knew without a doubt that if he ended up being in any real danger, this little meeting would come to a very brutal end, very fast.

"Speak," she commanded the masked person. There would be time for bullcrap later.


Kaelon Virex

 

[Ecks]

The man didn't move. Not at first.


Not when the gate hissed closed behind them.
Not when Scherezade's voice cut through the hush like a blade.
Not even when her hand raised in defense of Kael.


Only when the silence had drawn tight enough to snap did he tilt his head—slightly. A predator's acknowledgment. A machine's calibration. Something in between.


The voice that followed didn't emerge so much as vibrate, processed through a modulator that rendered it at once too sharp and too deep. It was like hearing ten versions of the same sentence at once: one whispering in your ear, one grinding into your chest, and the rest crawling up your spine.

"You came."

He didn't sound pleased. Or impressed. Just…correct. Like the galaxy had ticked the next box on a list it never intended her to see.

"That was the first test. Most don't follow coordinates without a name. Fewer still bring someone else."

The mask tilted toward Kael—barely. A flicker of attention, but somehow no warmth, no interest. Just data being logged and ignored.

"He's irrelevant. You are not."

Scherezade's stance didn't change, but the temperature in the room might as well have dropped.


The man stepped forward once. Slowly. Deliberately. His boots didn't make a sound on the coral-inlaid floor, which was perhaps more unsettling than if they had. He was dressed in a long coat of matte black synthhide, stitched in patterns that echoed the walls—tidal, recursive, endless. Beneath the coat: armor plates. Compact. Purposeful. Unbranded.


A gloved hand reached into the coat's folds, pulling out a small square device, no bigger than a palm. He set it on the low table between them. With a faint click, it activated—a holoprojection flaring upward to reveal… combat footage.


Ten seconds long.


Twelve fighters.
No weapons.
No rules.
Only four survived.


The replay ended with a red sigil hovering in the air: a stylized mask formed from concentric triangles. The same angles as his.

"Spira is known for beauty. Opulence. Excess. But in the dark, where no holofeed dares go, we offer a different currency."
"Skill. Brutality. Blood."

The final word echoed, drawn out by the modulator like a tolling bell.

"You're invited, Scherezade. Not as a spectator. As a contender."

He leaned forward, ever so slightly. Just enough to suggest he was watching her eyes behind that featureless mask.

"Win, and you're owed favors. Secrets. Clearance codes that even the Hutts would bleed for. Lose, and… well."

A pause.

"You won't."

His confidence wasn't flattery. It wasn't even a challenge. It was fact. Cold and mechanical and unwavering.

"Games begin at 2300. two cycles time. You'll know the way, as you came here, you'll find another note with instructions back at the home of the irrelevant."

And just like that, he turned his back to her. Not arrogantly. Not dismissively. Just done.


As if her next choice was already predicted.


As if she was already part of the game.

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

She didn't move at first either. Not when the modulated voice dissolved into silence. Not when the masked figure turned his back on her like she was already counted. Not even when the strange weight in the room lessened, as though the invitation itself had mass.

Scherezade just stood there.

The silence that followed wasn't comfortable. It wasn't empty. It was pressure. Pressure that came not from the man in the mask, but from inside her. The kind that stirred old instincts. The kind that once made her tear through dimensions just to feel something raw and real.

Her eyes didn't flick to Kael. Not yet. Not until the silence broke on her terms.

"Of course I came," she whispered, not to the man's back, as he was already gone, but to herself. Her voice was a thread pulled tight with memory, blood, and the knowledge of who she used to be. She moved toward the table slowly, crouching before the holoprojector like it was some ancient relic. The red sigil still hung faint in the air, those cold triangles staring back at her like a promise carved from bone.

Favors. Secrets. Clearance codes the Hutts would bleed for. Games begin at 2300.

She reached out and pressed her palm to the table's edge, letting the slight heat of the device soak into her skin. It was a game, yes. But also something else. What exactly, she wasn't sure, but she had felt it as the masked man spoke. His words, they were just words. Not important. But beneath those words… She could swear she could feel something that was different.

Her eyes finally cut toward Kael, just for a breath. Just long enough to remind herself he was there, and not part of the next step.

"Let's go," she said, straightening. The words were too calm for what her heart was doing, even if she didn't have any clue why it was doing that.

She turned on her heel, all trailing curls and storm-heavy footsteps, and stalked out the way they'd come. No explanation. No discussion. Not yet. Even if she bailed on the game, something had been put into motion.

Most her life, she hadn't really been invited anywhere. More like just showed up. This time, an invitation had come… But it wasn't what she wanted. Especially not in the middle of her vacation with Kael.

It was such a silly thing. Of course she would win something like that. No weapons? She was a weapon. But then why did it keep scratching the inside of her mind?

By the time they were outside again, the Spiran night was thick and damp, perfumed with sea salt and tropical blooms. Somewhere in the distance, drums thudded in ritual rhythm, a reminder that for most people on this moon, it was still just another night of revelry.

Scherezade didn't speak right away. Not until they were halfway down the winding path that led back toward their borrowed speeder. Her steps were fast, too fast for leisure, but not quite urgent. It was how she moved when she was chewing on something she couldn't name.

Then she stopped.

"It's just a stupid thing, right?" she asked, turning to Kael, "what are you thinking?"


Kaelon Virex

 

[Kaelon Virex]

Kael had been quiet through it all, the same way a fuse stays quiet right before it reaches the charge. But now, as they stood beneath Spira's moonlight, her question hung between them like a blade waiting to be named.


He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. "Right," he said, "just a stupid thing." Then he laughed once—short, dry, a little sharp. " 'irrelevant?"


He kicked at a shell on the pathway, sending it skittering into the dark. "Man in a polygonal death mask invites you to a blood sport, drops coordinates like it's some special club, and pretends I'm invisible?" He gave her a look, hand on his chest like he'd been mortally wounded. "I am deeply offended."


But the sarcasm cracked, and his gaze sobered as he exhaled. "No. There's something off. Not just the setup—him. Like the words were saying one thing, but his aura said something else…" He trailed off, shaking his head.


"I don't know, babe. It wasn't just a game. Not to him. And definitely not to you."


He stepped a little closer, voice lower now, softer. "You don't have to do this. But if you're going to—don't do it out of reflex. Don't do it because some mask called you out and you feel like you've gotta answer."


He paused, searching her expression. "That said… might be good to blow off some steam. I think you're wound tighter than a tripwire since we looked at him.... Just—" He held up his hand, fingers spread like he was warding off the whole damn island.


"Just go in knowing it screams death match. Whatever this is, it's not for sport. It's a challenge. A hunt. He looked at you like someone he already counted among the contenders."


Kael tilted his head, the easy grin returning—but only just. "You're gonna do what you're gonna do. If you go into that blood pit, I'll be there. Watching. Cloaked. Maybe even messing up the scoreboard for fun. Because that's what we do."


He reached out and gave her hand a light squeeze—quick and sentimental, just enough to remind her she wasn't alone.

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Kael spoke. And for a moment, just a moment, everything in her head paused.

Not stopped. Not silenced. But… suspended, like breath held just before a scream or a kiss. Her head had been going in endless circles at the speed of light, weighing pros and cons, but when his voice tore through it, she listened.

Not to the words themselves, since she'd parse those later. Break apart. Analise. Maybe replay obsessively. But now, now she listened to him. To the crack of sarcasm giving way to something earnest. To the glint in his eye that was sharp and steady, like he'd found some line inside her that even she hadn't realized was fraying.

She was close spiralling. She knew it.

Her thoughts had been doubling back on themselves like a snake eating its tail ever since that damned polygon mask had come into view. She kept circling the same questions about the fight, the invitation, about who she used to be and who she wasn't anymore and whether any of it still mattered.

And the more she looped, the less she recognized the person in the middle of it all.

But Kael… Kael wasn't looping. He was just there. Present. Steady. Infuriatingly clear-eyed. Being himself in that way that somehow felt like a lifeline and a gut-punch all at once.

You don't have to do this, he'd said. And she knew he meant it. Knew he'd say it again if she needed to hear it again. But he wasn't stopping her either. Wasn't clipping her wings, wasn't afraid of what he might see if she said yes. It shouldn't have felt so rare.

And still…

Still…

She ran a hand through her hair, looking down at their joined hands, the squeeze he'd left still lingering like an echo. Kael didn't make the chaos go away. He just reminded her that it didn't have to swallow her. Not unless she let it.

She took a breath. Then another.

Then lifted her gaze and smiled at him. A small thing, tight at the edges, but real.

"Well of course I'm going!" she almost shouted, but let his hand go instead of squeezing it back a little bit harder. Because of course she was still going. And if she was going, Kael was going, regardless of what she had to say about it. Of course she preferred to leave him on Nar Shaddaa with the dangers that were already like a second shadow to him. He was used to that. But the man in the mask? That was new territory. And she would be ridiculously afraid for what could be done to him.

Especially, since in a little corner of her heart, a corner she wasn't quite ready to reveal, Kael was something she'd never had before. Not in any way that mattered. He was a weakness that could very easily be used against her.

"C'mon," she half ordered, grabbing his hand again, and pulling him with her. She walked fast, almost broke into a run. Their vacation was over, there was no point in mincing words about it anymore.

"I don't think I can keep you away from this if I'm going, no matter how much I want to," she explained as she power-walked them, "so we're going to do something first. And you're going to promise me, no, you're going to swear to me, that if it comes to it, you do what I'm about to ask you for."

Her thoughts were still running inside her mind. But they weren't looping anymore. They were calculating. Because if she was invited to such a game to the death, without weapons, it probably meant that something about Force powers would be done too, which meant in turn that she couldn't just assume her blood hound abilities were going to serve her in it.

But she'd be damned if she let Kael walk into that den without any protection.

If he tried to talk to her during the walk, she hadn't heard it. Her mind had shut him out completely. It was a mean thing to do, but she needed her thoughts to quilt together instead of fray in random parts. Focus. Focus. Focus.

Only once they were back at the house did she let go of his hand, and take herself right to the kitchen, rummaging through cabinets and drawers until she found what she needed. It wasn't as good as what she had on her ship, but they weren't on her ship right now.

There were two tiny bottles of alcohol she'd found, barely enough for a single shot. It would do.

"Kael," she called to him, for him, removing one of her knives and slicing along her arm. The blood welled at the cut, deep and dark red. She started to collect it in the two little bottles. He wasn't going to like it. She didn't like it either. Knowledge of the Force, of the hound, of the witch education she'd received both as herself and from her grandmother's memories, all joined together.

"Dar sha kareth veth," came the words from her mouth. It had been… So long. Not since she'd created the blood magic rite that had pulled her sister from an alternate dimension and put it in her body had she used it. It was the darkest of the dark Force abilities or magic she could conjure at a moment's thought, "Sha veth sei thal…" the glow of her eyes intensified. She wasn't looking at Kael now, but at one of the bottles as she collected it in her left hand, "Ulon dar… ulon risht…" She was getting there. She was getting there. But it wasn't enough. Her free hand dipped into her blood and began to use it to trace symbols on the outside of the little bottle. "Zen'kai veth, sha sei thurim."

There.

Her eyes let out another wave of light before dimming to their usual brightness, the symbols she'd etched with her own blood on the bottle vanishing into it as though the glass had out right absorbed it.

It felt like she only now remembered to breathe.

The Sithling looked up, her eyes falling on Kaelon, and she smiled. Smiled big and genuinely, as though all the worries in the world had left her. Her arm was still bleeding, but she'd take care of that later.

"This is for you," she breathed harder than expected as she held the bottle out for him, "And if you ever have any reason to believe someone could steal this from you, you need to destroy this."

He'd want to know what it was. She would tell him. Everything. Always. And of course, there was the matter of the second bottle…

"I'm not going to pretend that drinking blood isn't super icky," she explained herself, "but this isn't blood anymore. Well… Not just blood. If your life is ever in danger, if you're out of your own tricks to get out of the situation, if it's die or drink this… That's when you drink it. I don't know… This… Is a kernel of my power. It will last anywhere between a few minutes to a few hours, depending on too many variables for me to properly explain right now. And you have every right to refuse this. But if you're coming to the 2300 thing with me, you have to have it. Or I will find a way to keep you from going there."

She had made assumptions. She'd jumped to conclusions. She'd set a line in the sand that she wanted to build entire walls around for his safety. And maybe she was going too far. Maybe he would just burst into laughter and take his naked apple cheeks away for this.

But if she was unwilling to chance it, then this dream would end sooner rather than later anyway.

"Please?" she remembered to add in a tiny whisper.

Kaelon Virex

 

[Kaelon Virex]

Kael stood there, watching every movement with that same careful intensity he reserved for detonators and high-stakes sabacc. But this? This was something entirely different. This was her detonating—for him. For them.


He didn't interrupt. Not when she sliced her own arm. Not when the air thickened with old magic and power curled like smoke around her words. Not even when her eyes lit up with that haunting, golden glow that said this is the part of me you should run from—because he wasn't going anywhere.


By the time she looked up and offered him the bottle, breathless and blood-streaked, his heart was already doing something he'd never quite given it permission to do.


He stepped forward, took the tiny glass vial with both hands, like it was something sacred. And to him, it was.


"Scher…" he murmured, voice lower than usual, quieter too, but no less sure. "You know I'm gonna take it. Right? You didn't even have to ask. But I'm glad you did."


His eyes met hers, steady. "Because I love it when you go full Lady in Command. Freaking terrifying, yeah. But also… impossibly hot."


He winked, softened the weight of it with a lopsided grin, and tucked the bottle gently into an inner pocket of his jacket with all the care of handling a live crystal charge.


Then, before she could spin off again, before she could lose herself in another storm of worry, he reached out and took her wrist—lightly—and tapped his fingers against her palm.


"I want us to have a signal. Something no one else would catch. Just in case things go sideways at that... arena-slash-death-club we're about to waltz into."


He flipped her palm up and drew a quick, simple gesture into it: a curved line, two taps, and a twist of the wrist.


"This," he said. "If I do this, I want you to follow my lead, no matter how dumb or theatrical or completely off-book it looks. If I start making chaos, you trust there's a reason. Deal?"


He didn't wait for her to answer. Instead, he moved to the cabinet near the back of the kitchen—the one he'd sneakily stocked earlier when they arrived—and pulled out a dark green bottle of Corellian Black Reserve, easily worth more than the speeder they'd rented. One of his last bottles.


For a moment, the mood shifted. Gone was the heat of blood and spellcraft. In its place: a strange calm.


He poured two glasses, the liquid dark as sin and twice as smooth, and handed one to her.


"To owning our lives," Kael said, lifting his glass. "No matter the cost. No matter the game."


He clinked it gently against hers.


"And when we win? We're really going on vacation. Somewhere boring as hell. With ugly furniture and terrible music and absolutely no masked psychos inviting us to death orgies."


Then he downed his shot and hissed through his teeth.


"Gods, I hate how smooth that is. We're keeping this last bottle for post-murder brunch."

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

She didn't breathe while he spoke. Not really.

The weight of the spell still clung to her skin like second sweat, blood drying in sticky veins across her fingers, down her forearm. But she held still enough to feel the pulse in her neck, still enough to listen. To really listen.

And Force, he listened back. Not with the passive stillness of a man waiting his turn, but with the kind of full-body focus that made her feel like every word, every motion she made had gravity. Like she was realer somehow, just for being seen by him.

When he took the vial with both hands, reverent, she almost lost her footing on the inside. Her heart flared, traitorous and molten, and it was only muscle memory that kept her expression neutral. Almost. Because he got it. The Force. The magic. The cost. The fear. The fire. All of it.

And then, just as easily, he was him again, teasing and warm, impossible not to lean into.

Scherezade snorted, the sound unexpected and short, her lips twitching with something that wasn't quite a smile. Not yet.

"You're an idiot," she said softly, voice rough around the edges. "A brave one. But still."

She didn't pull back when he took her wrist. Her hand stayed open as he traced the signal, the simple shapes like a secret pressed into skin. And she memorized it, curved line, two taps, twist, now burned it into the meat of her brain, right next to every other plan they hadn't spoken aloud.

No matter how dumb or theatrical, he'd said.

Gods help anyone who made her prove it.

"Almost a deal," she said, without hesitation. He wanted her to follow? She could. But not blindly. Not entirely blindly, anyway. "I'll want a signal too. In case it's me who sees things first. In case I can't speak."

She grabbed a marker from the counter, turned his hand over, and drew something quick across the skin. A pair of curved lines, spiralling outward like a tattoo, except hers shimmered slightly, an aftertaste of spellwork in every line. "If I do this," she said, "and I start walking? No questions. Follow. Deal?"

She took the glass when he offered it, her fingers brushing his for a breath longer than necessary. The liquor shimmered darkly in the light, like blood or ink or all the promises she wasn't sure how to make with words.

"To owning our lives," she echoed, voice steadier now. "Even if we have to rip them out of someone else's grip."

The clink of glasses was soft. Almost delicate.

But when she downed the shot, it burned like war.

Her grin, when it came, was wicked and real.

It was going to be interesting. Scherezade wasn't used to working with other people in the classic sense. People had tried to, but she was too wild, too chaotic for it to work. She did her thing, more often than not. Result varied. But… She was almost sure this was the first time she was letting someone else in on it. And agreed for the whole mutual thing. Force, it wasn't going to be easy for her to adjust her mindset for that kind of work.

But maybe… No, not maybe. Totally. Kael was worth it.

"I guess this vacation is officially over," she grumbled, "A shame, really. I could've gone for a few more hours on the floor with you."

Kaelon Virex

 

[Kaelon Virex]

He glanced up, catching the first distant flashes of lightning through the window—a slow thunderhead rolling in over the sea. His fingers curled around the glass, knuckles white.

"You bet your candy ass you've got a deal babe! I feel… fire coming," he murmured, almost to himself. His heart thumped a fierce rhythm against his ribs, the same three words shimmering on his tongue like fireworks bursting in the dark. He swallowed, lips twisting into that rogue's grin.

"You're right," he said, finally, looking straight into her eyes. "Vacation's officially over. But hey"—he blew her an air‑kiss, soft and reckless—"we've got your ship, the Giggledust. We can hole up there, run the days down, maybe sneak in a few more… embroideries on the floor."

He set his glass down, shoulders squared, every inch the partner-in‑crime she'd asked for.

"Let's go."

~Fin