Private Steady Trials

[Cassian Abrantes]

Observatory
Moenia, Naboo
Shade ​

The meeting with Palpatines Sacntum was sleek, cold, and precise like most things in Damos Rennar's domain. The lighting was low, the holo-projectors humming softly in the recessed panels, casting shifting blue across the gathered officers' faces. Every datapad, every gesture, every breath seemed measured against protocol.

Cassian stood at the far end of the table, posture straight but composed, hands folded loosely behind his back. He'd been summoned to brief, but the topic—Shade—wasn't one he was content to let drift into bureaucratic limbo.

Director Rennar's eyes, pale and sharp as frost, flicked from the dossier hovering before him to Cassian's face. "You've worked with her directly." he said, his tone clipped, every word as deliberate as the man himself. "Your reports speak highly of her performance. Still, she's an irregular candidate for advancement. Limited tenure, classified operational record."

Cassian inclined his head slightly, he replied evenly. "Shade's discretion and precision make her an asset. She completes objectives without collateral, maintains full operational secrecy, and she's earned the trust of several here in less time than most recruits learn their first cycle of training and deployment."

Across the table, one of the liaison officers a woman in grey with Republic insignia pressed sharply against her shoulder spoke up. "Her file also indicates several instances of working outside the direct chain of command." she said. "That kind of independence can be problematic in Intelligence, Cassian."

Cassian met the officer's gaze without hesitation. "It can be." he agreed, voice calm. "But it can also be the difference between a dead agent and one who adapts under pressure. Shade doesn't go rogue. She will operate within the mission's spirit when the letter fails her. You don't find many like that anymore."

Director Rennar leaned back, steepling his fingers, studying him. The silence that followed was long enough for the hum of the holo-displays to fill the room again.

"You speak of her as if she's already earned the title." Rennar observed.

"She has." Cassian said simply.

That earned him a thin, ghost of a smile from the Director rare and unreadable. "Confidence and counsel from you carries great weight here, Cassian." Rennar said. "But understand what you're asking for. Agent is not a ceremonial promotion. It's autonomy. Command access. Independent field discretion. If she fails, her failure reflects on you as much as her."

Cassian didn't flinch. "I accept that."

The Director regarded him for a long moment, the quiet testing of one leader measuring another. Finally, he gestured to the liaison. "Run the authorization review. If her psychological and performance evaluations align with your report, her rank will be formalized at the next cycle."

The woman nodded and began keying in commands. Cassian let the smallest exhale leave him not relief, but a sense of resolution.

As the meeting began to disperse, Rennar's voice caught him just before the door. "Administrator." he said, the faintest trace of curiosity beneath his composed tone. "You seem to have taken an unusual interest in her development. Why her?"

Cassian paused at the threshold, the light glinting faintly off the insignia on his collar.

"Because she doesn't need to be managed." he said, glancing back with that quiet, certain calm that had earned him the Director's respect more than once. "She just needs to be trusted. You give her the title, she'll make it mean something again. Our agents are spread to thin right now, finding rare gems like this mean everything. Especially if we want to get to the truth behind our other matter." Rennar studied him for a heartbeat, then gave the smallest of nods. "Then let's hope your faith is well-placed, Cassian."

Cassian turned, the door sliding shut behind him with a quiet hiss. The corridor beyond was still, the hum of the ship steady beneath his boots. For the first time in a long while, he felt the rare sense that something was aligning not just another operation or assignment, but the quiet forging of a partnership the Republic would come to rely on.

 

[Shade]

Shade stood just beyond the chamber’s threshold, where the soft glow of the Sanctum’s sigils stretched across the floor in molten lines of gold. The hum of the conduits filled the silence — low, rhythmic, a mechanical pulse that steadied the air as much as her breathing.
She didn’t move. Stillness had always been her shield. Each breath was measured, precise, as if drawn through the same discipline that had carried her through every trial leading to this one. What happened beyond the sealed doors would determine whether her work continued as it had — or whether she stepped into something greater. Promotion. Recognition. Or silence.
The weight of her armor felt heavier now, not from strain, but awareness. Every mark on it was earned — proof of endurance, of restraint, of knowing when to fight and when to wait. She kept her gaze fixed forward, crimson eyes faintly aglow in the reflected light.
You have done the work, she told herself. You have earned this.
But beneath that quiet certainty, another thought lingered — uninvited, persistent. A sense that her name hadn’t reached this chamber by her merit alone. Cassian’s voice came to mind — steady, composed, edged with that rare patience he reserved for those he trusted to stand their ground. He would never admit to interference, not outright. But she knew the weight of unseen advocacy when she felt it.
A faint exhale ghosted through her lips — not quite a sigh, not quite gratitude. Just acknowledgment.
Her gloved fingers brushed against the wall beside her, tracing the faint vibration of voices within — indistinct, but deliberate. Debate, not dismissal. That was something. She kept her expression neutral, though a quiet current of tension ran beneath the composure, the awareness that something within that room was shifting — perhaps because of her, perhaps because of him.
If he had a hand in this, she thought, then I will not waste the chance it brings.
Her eyes returned to the door, steady, unblinking. Whatever verdict came, she would meet it standing — unshaken, unbent, and ready.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

The doors parted with a measured hiss the sound of authority disguised as calm. The light from within the Sanctum stretched across the threshold, cutting through the shadows at her feet like a judgment made manifest.

Cassian stepped through it. The contrast between the dim corridor and the cold blue glow of the chamber behind him framed him in sharp relief a man carrying the weight of decisions, yet somehow unburdened by them.

For a moment, he said nothing. Just that subtle pause he always allowed, the one that let a room breathe before he did. Then he came to stand beside her, posture composed as ever, hands folded behind his back.

"The review's complete." he said, voice steady, even. He then showed a big smile. "Rennar approved the recommendation. Your commission is confirmed. Effective next cycle."

"They'll send the formal brief later." he continued, quieter now. "Your clearance level will update automatically. You'll be operating under Intelligence designation, with full field autonomy."

"It's done." Cassian confirmed. "And you earned it, congratulations Shade. I'm proud of you."

He let the words hang a moment before adding, "I did speak for you, but you stood on merit. Rennar doesn't grant titles as favors."

 

[Shade]

Shade remained where she had been waiting, letting the faint light of the Sanctum trace her armor in fractured slivers of silver and crimson. She did not move forward; she did not need to. The confirmation of her promotion settled in her chest like a slow pulse, steady and deliberate. Recognition from the Republic, from the system she had long navigated alone, was rare, and Cassian's unspoken advocacy had made it possible. She would not waste it.

Her posture was exact, controlled, yet beneath it a quiet shift passed through her—a subtle, almost imperceptible release of tension. Pride still held her upright, steady, but the sharp edge of solitary vigilance softened just enough to let acknowledgment in. "I…accept," she said, voice measured, precise. Each word carried weight, each syllable a promise to honor not only the title but the responsibility and trust it represented.

Her eyes lifted to him, scanning not for judgment but for that steady presence she had come to rely on. He had chosen to speak for her, to risk standing with her when the Republic could have overlooked her. That was not unnoticed. And in that quiet, professional moment, a trace of something more threaded through her awareness — not desire, not need, but a careful curiosity. The man beside her had earned attention, had gained recognition without demanding it. She did not yet name it; she noted it.

Her hands, still steady at her sides, clenched lightly once before releasing. She felt the weight of her armor, the reflex of solitude, the years of discipline that had made her survival possible. And yet, for the first time in many cycles, she allowed herself to acknowledge the possibility that she did not have to navigate everything entirely alone. Cassian's presence was a quiet certainty, a tether to the world beyond constant calculation and solitary endurance.

She inclined her head ever so slightly, a nod of acknowledgment toward him — a gesture small enough to be overlooked, yet carrying the subtle poetry of gratitude. Her lips curved in the faintest suggestion of a smile, more acknowledgment than expression, almost imperceptible, and only because she permitted it in this rare private moment.

"I will do right by this," she murmured, voice low, deliberate, as if speaking not only to the room or the Republic, but to the promise she carried within herself. "By the Republic. By you. By the path I have chosen."

Her gaze swept briefly to the shadows, the quiet spaces she had always occupied, the armor that had long defined the boundaries of her world. And then, just for a heartbeat, it returned to him. She did not name the awareness that lingered there...the pull of curiosity, the subtle tension of recognition that this man, steady and measured, had begun to occupy a space alongside her vigilance.

She straightened fully, settling into the familiar rhythm of discipline. Still, the motion carried a soft grace, a rhythm measured not solely in defense or duty but in acknowledgment of something unspoken. A slow, unfolding realization that trust and perhaps something more could exist without undoing the self she had built.

For now, that was enough.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

When she turned to him eyes steady, voice low, promising to honor the trust placed in her. Cassian met her gaze evenly. No pretense. No rank. Just understanding.

"I know you will." he said. "And that's what makes you dangerous in all the right ways."

A faint curve touched the corner of his mouth, too restrained to be called a smile. The kind of expression meant for moments that didn't need to be shared beyond two people.

He could sense the unspoken questions beneath her words the awareness that he had stood for her, that his voice had carried weight in a room where silence usually did. He didn't confirm it; he didn't need to.

Still, he let the quiet hang a moment longer before speaking again. "You'll be out there alone more often now. But not without support, or backup." His tone softened on the last word, almost imperceptibly. "We are a team, and I'll always be here to help you. I promise you that."

Cassian showed a small smile before he glanced towards the exit. "So, would the newly made agent care for a celebratory drink? Or would you rather get straight to work."

 

[Shade]

Shade let her gaze linger on the softly glowing doorway of the Sanctum, the light tracing sharp edges across her armor. The faint curve at her lips was not a smile — merely acknowledgment, quiet and measured. Dangerous in all the right ways, she thought, weighing the words. It was not recklessness, nor arrogance; it was deliberate, precise, the kind of danger that demanded notice and earned respect.

"I'll take the drink," she said softly, voice low and deliberate, each word carrying the cadence of her careful restraint. "Knives stay sheathed. Celebration doesn't suit the blade."

She shifted her weight slightly, allowing herself the rare permission of pause. The newly granted autonomy, the recognition from both the Republic and him, settled in a quiet corner of her mind. She would be glad to move unsupervised, to test herself in her own rhythm, yet there was comfort in knowing someone reliable had her back. A partner, not a shadow. A team, not a leash. The thought was steady, patient.

Her crimson eyes met his again, steady but not guarded, and a subtle tilt of her head accompanied the unspoken promise he offered. I'll hold you to it. Trust, earned and watched over, even when given.

Beneath the careful armor of discipline, a flicker of curiosity stirred. The way he moved, the quiet assurance in his stance, the calm patience behind his words: small threads she found herself noting, cataloging. Nothing urgent, nothing she needed to act on, yet she recognized the pull of awareness, the slow recognition that some details were worth noticing. He is not like the others. Not yet a danger, not yet a distraction…But I will remember this.

A soft exhale slipped past her lips, almost imperceptible, as she allowed herself the moment to feel it: recognition of merit, patience, and understanding. She stepped slightly closer, letting the pause stretch, savoring the quiet acknowledgment of what had been risked on her behalf. For now, a drink will do.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian's brows lifted slightly at her answer barely a reaction, but enough for the light from the Sanctum to catch in his eyes, softening their usual precision. "Knives stay sheathed." He almost smiled at that. It was exactly the kind of line he expected from her: deliberate, clean, and yet carrying the faintest undercurrent of humor wrapped in iron control.


He shifted his stance, letting the tension of the meeting fade from his shoulders. "Then a drink it is," he said, voice low, even. "Something quiet. No ceremony." The last word carried the faintest trace of irony; they both knew how little place ceremony had in the lives they led.


Few Hours Later

The pub was unmarked, tucked between a courier outpost and an old artisan's shop that hadn't changed its signage in decades. The door slid open to a wash of muted conversation, the clink of glasses, and the low murmur of a sax-like instrument threading through the dim light. Inside, the air was warm, dense with the scent of wood polish and spice. The walls were lined with relics of old campaigns and outdated field maps—the kind of place where Intelligence operatives could pretend to be civilians for a night.


Cassian glanced toward a back table, nodding for Shade to follow. "Not the sort of place that attracts attention." he said quietly. "That's why people like us come here."

 

[Shade]

Following Cassian through the muted streets, each step measured, deliberate. Her heavier armor was left behind, replaced by a layered tunic and fitted underlayers that allowed movement without drawing attention. Dark, flexible fabrics hugged her form, concealing the weapons she kept at her side: a sidearm at the hip, knives discreet and ready. Even without the plates, the quiet hum of readiness lingered beneath her calm exterior.

The pub's door slid open under Cassian's hand, releasing a wash of muted conversation, the scent of wood polish and spice rolling out to greet them. Shade stepped inside, eyes scanning with effortless precision, noting exits, patrons, and the subtle angles of light. The low pulse of a sax-like instrument threaded through the air, giving the space a quiet rhythm.

They moved toward a back table, unremarkable, tucked away. Shade slid into the seat across from him, fingers brushing the smooth surface for balance, posture precise but relaxed enough to let the moment exist outside duty. The simple act of sitting, of leaving the street behind, felt ceremonial sufficient for her — a recognition not in speech, but in action. This will do, she thought.

A server approached, and Shade ordered a caf, the warmth in the cup a subtle anchor. She lifted it to her lips, letting the steam curl upward, catching the dim light, and, for a brief moment, she allowed herself to breathe in the quiet. This was the separation from protocols and watchful eyes.

Her eyes flicked to Cassian across the table, noting the faint lift of his brow as he watched her — a small gesture, unspoken, yet deliberate. It carried the weight of familiarity and understanding, a steadiness that didn't demand attention but refused to go unnoticed. That steadiness…she thought, the faintest tick of awareness brushing past her calculated thoughts. Not dangerous, not distracting, but…different.

She reminded herself to focus. The missions to come, the meetings, the caf. Yet the way he settled into the space with her — unhurried, composed — left a ripple in the edges of her perception, a quiet reminder that some connections didn't announce themselves with fireworks. Some simply lingered.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the cup, an almost unconscious acknowledgment of that presence, before she released it with controlled precision. She reminded herself: she had work to do, eyes to keep open, truths to uncover. This — the caf, the quiet, the unspoken understanding — was enough for now.

A faint nod of satisfaction passed through her, subtle, deliberate. She was here. She was recognized. She was trusted. And for today, that was ceremony enough.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

He let Shade enter first, noting how her movements adjusted to the space without effort. No armor, no pretense, just the unspoken discipline that made her who she was. The hum of conversation brushed against them as they crossed the room agents, handlers, analysts, all speaking in coded small talk that meant everything and nothing.

The server approached as recognition flickered, then a nod. It was clearly evident that he had been here a time or two. "Corellian whiskey." he said.

He lifted his glass slightly, a quiet acknowledgment across the table. "To new ranks," he said. "And to knowing when to keep your blade sheathed." he added with a flicker of amusement.

He set the whiskey on the table. The amber liquid caught the dim light, glinting like a promise he hadn't decided to make yet.

Cassian leaned back in his chair, fingers resting loosely on the edge of his glass. "You'll do well here," he said after a moment. "Not because you follow the rules, but because you understand when not to."

 

[Shade]

Shade lifted her glass just enough to meet his slight tilt with a quiet nod. "Acknowledged," she murmured, her tone low and deliberate. She took a slow sip, letting the warmth settle before setting it down with precise care.

Her eyes met his, steady, noting the faint amusement lingering at the corner of his mouth. "I'll keep it sheathed," she said, voice even, with the faintest acknowledgment of the humor she detected in him.

A subtle tilt of her head followed as she considered his words about knowing when to act and when to hold back. "Then I will see when caution requires discipline, and when discretion calls for…subtle action," she said, measured, each word carrying weight without need for emphasis.

She settled into the quiet of the moment, posture relaxed but alert, letting the space between them hold the understanding: she recognized his observation, his unspoken trust. A subtle awareness passed through her, too quiet to name, but enough to note: He notices more than he says. Not many do.

A flicker of satisfaction passed through her at the acknowledgment — both the promotion and the small ceremony of this quiet drink. She would hold him to the promise of support when the time came. For now, she allowed the moment to linger, letting the warmth of the caf and the careful steadiness of his presence anchor her.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade
​

Cassian leaned back in his chair, the whiskey glass balanced loosely between his fingers. The glow from the low lights caught in the amber liquid as he swirled it once before taking another slow sip. The burn was familiar sharp, grounding, uncomplicated.

" Took me a few years to stop watching the exits every time I sat down. Now I just make sure they're not blocked and call it progress."

The low hum of the bar filled the pause that followed soft laughter from a nearby table, the muted clink of glassware, the distant rain against the shutters. It was a quiet kind of peace, the kind that came rarely and never lasted long.

He glanced at her over the rim of his glass. "You'll get used to this part." he said. "The in-between. Not a mission, not downtime. Just… breathing. That's how you know you need it." Cassian said, taking a drink of the whiskey and setting the glass aside. He leaned his elbows on the table, tone softer now. "You did a great job. The rest can wait a night."

 

[Shade]

Shade watched him over the rim of her own glass, the muted light catching on the edges of her eyes as she took a slow sip — not to fill the silence, but to measure it — the warmth spread through her chest, slower than his whiskey but steady enough to anchor her.

"Progress is progress," she said quietly, a faint trace of humor threading beneath the even tone. "I still check the exits. Old habits die slowly." Her gaze drifted briefly toward the door, out of instinct more than thought, before returning to him.

The mention of breathing lingered longer than she expected. Her life had been built between one mission and the next, always moving, always sharpening the edge. Breathing wasn't something she often gave herself permission for. Yet here, in this dim light and quiet space, the word felt less like a weakness and more like an earned reprieve.

"It feels…foreign," she admitted after a pause, voice low, controlled. "Not unpleasant. Just...unfamiliar."

She studied him then — not as her superior, nor as the man who had vouched for her, but as someone who seemed to carry stillness differently. There was steadiness in him that drew attention without asking for it, the kind that made people trust him even when they shouldn't. It was a quality she respected — and one she found herself noticing more than she meant to.

Her hand brushed the edge of the glass again, precise, deliberate. "Maybe a night," she said softly. "Then the rest."

The words weren't a concession — they were an acknowledgment. And though her expression remained calm, a quiet ease had settled where tension had once lived.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian gave a small laugh the kind that didn't reach full sound but softened his expression all the same. He turned his glass between his fingers, watching the light catch in the swirl of amber before setting it back down. He leaned back in the chair, the leather creaking just slightly, and studied her across the table. There was something in the way she spoke that quiet balance between precision and honesty that reminded him of the agents who lasted, the ones who learned when to stop fighting the silence.

"Foreign's not a bad thing." he said after a moment. "Means you're somewhere new. Not lost, just... outside the usual terrain."

The jazz-like hum from the corner shifted into a slower rhythm, and for the first time that evening, Cassian let the quiet feel like part of the conversation instead of the absence of one.

"That's what this is." he added, a faint smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. "A little off-duty reconnaissance. Learning how to exist when the mission's over."

Shade's answer came in the form of that small, precise nod of hers acknowledgment, not agreement, but close enough to both.

Cassian raised his glass slightly, casual, unceremonious. "Then here's to a night." he said. "And to the rest, whenever we let it catch up."

He took the last sip, savoring the quiet burn. The kind of warmth that didn't demand thought, just a reminder that, for the moment, breathing was enough.

 

[Shade]

Shade's lips curved — not a smile, not quite — just enough to suggest she'd caught the echo in his words. The music had slowed to a softer cadence that seemed to fill the space between them more deliberately. She let the moment settle, taking another slow sip before setting her caf down beside his.

"Off-duty reconnaissance," she murmured, tone steady, deliberate. "I can adapt to that." Her gaze met his briefly — level, assessing — then drifted to the smooth surface of the caf cup. The warmth of the drink seeped through her palms, grounding, but her mind was quietly elsewhere.

Foreign isn't bad, he'd said. He wasn't wrong. It was just… rare. Shade wasn't accustomed to rare things that didn't demand something in return.

After a moment, she glanced up again. "And you?" she asked, her voice low, even, carrying a faint echo of the tone he'd once used with her on Bastion. "What are your plans for the rest of the night?"

It wasn't an invitation — not quite — but it wasn't distant either. Just a question balanced on the edge of curiosity, careful and deliberate, as if she were taking a quiet reading of his intent.

Her expression remained composed, the faintest glint of dry amusement flickering through her eyes. "If this is the part where agents learn how to exist after the mission," she added, "I assume there's a procedure."

The words carried no sharpness — just quiet humor, enough to let the air between them shift slightly warmer, softer. The kind of warmth that came not from comfort, but from the realization that, for once, she didn't need to calculate every step.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian leaned back, the edge of his glass balanced loosely between his fingers. The music had slowed, matching the rain outside, a soft percussion against the windows that felt more like Naboo than anything he'd heard in months.

"My plans?" he repeated, voice lighter now, a touch of amusement threading through. "Nothing impressive. I'll return to the barracks in Theed, maybe take a walk around Theed Square, enjoy the nighttime air." He had his home at Dee'ja peak, yet he hadn't returned home in several weeks. There was reasoning behind it, yet he couldn't bring himself to sleep without being restless. So the only comfort he would find was in the barracks.

He tilted his head slightly, watching the steam from her caf curl upward between them. "Haven't had a proper night off in weeks."

There was something easier in his tone now less the polished precision of the Administrator and more the man underneath. "Sometimes when I was home, I'll sit out on the balcony when it rains like this. It's quiet out near Deeja Peak, no traffic, no comms chatter, just the lake and the vineyards." He smirked faintly. "When I was younger, I thought I'd hate the stillness. Turns out, I'm getting used to it."

He took another slow sip, setting the glass down with a soft clink. "You start to realize there's a rhythm to it to being still. You can't chase quiet, you just have to let it catch you."

For a moment, he didn't look at her, just stared past the rim of his glass toward the window, where the streetlights turned the rain into threads of gold. "I think that's what keeps me here sometimes," he admitted, almost to himself. "All the noise out there, all the chaos Naboo's one of the few places that reminds me there's more to life than the next crisis."


Then his gaze found hers again, steady, calm. "So." he said with a small smile. "My big plan tonight is to enjoy a drink and maybe pretend I'm normal for a few hours. What about you, Shade? What are your plans?"

 

[Shade]

Shade's lips curved just slightly, not a smile, but enough to carry a trace of dry amusement. "You mean…the walk," she murmured, tone steady, deliberate, "the same path we took that night I tried to knock you out and haul you to Nar Shaddaa?" Her crimson eyes lifted to meet his briefly, measuring, then returned to the warm caf she held.

She let the cup settle in her palms, the heat grounding her, and took a slow, deliberate sip. A quiet sigh escaped, almost imperceptible, a small acknowledgment of how far she'd come since that reckless night. "Tonight…I return to my rented quarters," she said, low and precise, "no longer the office. Somewhere proper to rest, and keep my own hours."

Her gaze flicked to the rain-slicked streets outside, the streetlights tracing gold across the wet stone. Tilting her head slightly, she looked back at him, voice softening just enough to thread humor through the calm. "Quiet. Rest. Perhaps tomorrow…something deliberate, a mission or no," she added, letting the words hang between them.

For now, the caf, the evening, and the small, unspoken recognition were enough. The memory of that first walk lingered — the risk, the tension, the beginnings of trust — and now, in the quiet of the bar, she acknowledged it without fanfare. That history, threaded with the present, was enough for tonight.

Cassian Abrantes