Private Steps in the Mist

[Xian Xiao]

She froze as his words brushed the nape of her neck, a shiver racing down her spine. The closeness, the weight of his presence, made her heart beat faster, yet she did not step back. Instead, she drew in a deep breath, feeling the storm's echo in her veins, and let herself lean into the moment—the tension of the past days, the grief and sorrow over her King, pressing against her one final time.

"I came here for this," she whispered, voice low, almost trembling. "To let it go. To stop carrying it inside me." Her fingers flexed slightly, tracing the edge of her connection to the Force, then relaxed as a slight, resolute shiver ran through her. "Not to bury it. Not to forget…but to be free from it. To feel, and to move forward."

Her chest tightened as the mist coiled around her, bending in response to both her presence and the lingering weight of Veyran's shadow. She could feel the pull he had spoken of, the hunger, the ache—but now it felt different, quieter, almost like a challenge rather than a torment.

"I felt the storm," she admitted quietly, voice barely above the whisper of the wind. "It spoke to me, answered me—but it's not just grief I feel. It's more than that…dangerous, and I want to understand it." When she said dangerous, her voice purred a touch. Then she drew a slow, steadying breath, letting the last shards of the storm wash over her. "I'm not here because I seek pain. I'm here because I need to understand it. The storm. The silence. Myself." Her gaze lifted to meet his, quiet but resolute.

"I will not pretend I'm untouched. That would be stupid," she continued, voice firmer now, almost defiant. "But neither will I surrender. I will see what lies beyond the storm, yes…but on my own terms. I am letting go. I am choosing freedom."

The mist and the fading storm seemed to acknowledge her intent, curling gently around her as if bowing to her resolve. Her pulse raced, a mixture of fear, curiosity, and the faint thrill of the pull he had named—but she stood her ground, ready to follow wherever the path beyond grief might lead.

Veyran Solis

 

[Veyran Solis]

Xian Xiao​

Veyran's expression shifted almost imperceptibly, the faintest quirk of his jaw as her words reached him. The storm still murmured around them its voice no longer howling but low, reverent, like the dying echo of something vast and living. Lightning still pulsed faintly in the clouds above, its afterglow painting her features in fleeting silver.

He didn't interrupt her. The Sith knew the power of silence; he understood that the right words, once spoken, needed space to breathe—or to burn. When she said she had come to let it go, he watched the trembling in her hands, the strength that lived inside it. The Force shimmered faintly between them, not in violence, but in recognition.

When she spoke of grief and freedom, his gaze softened only slightly but the darkness behind it sharpened like a drawn blade.

"Freedom." Veyran said at last, his voice quiet, threaded with something dangerous and knowing. "That is a word the weak misunderstand. They think it means release. Relief. The absence of burden."


"I am not free, I am still a slave." Veyran chuckled lightly as he shook his head looking up to the storm that was conjured. "As much as I hate to say it, it infuriates me." He looked off to the distance and let out a small sigh. "Time is cut short though. Free yourself from the pain, before it destroys you."

"Farewell, Xian. The talk was much needed." And with that the sith disappeared into the mist once more. He was gone.

 

[Xian Xiao]

Xian remained still long after the mist swallowed him, the echo of his words lingering like smoke in the air. Freedom… The word rolled over her tongue, strange, sharp, and heavy with meaning. His warning, his understanding of pain and its weight, settled over her chest like a storm left behind.

The Force hummed faintly around her, steady and watchful, as though acknowledging her presence without demanding anything in return. She let herself exhale slowly, feeling the tremor in her hands ease. For the first time since the news of Caelan's death, she allowed herself to feel the ache fully—sharp, hollow, consuming—but no longer paralyzing.

Tears pricked her eyes. She pressed a hand to her mouth, holding them back for a moment, savoring the quiet space he had left her. No one sees yet… not yet. The wind stirred around her, brushing across the remnants of the storm, carrying away the last of its fury and leaving only the soft, lingering hum of rain and mist.

She sank to the ground, knees drawn close, letting the silver afterglow of lightning paint her skin in fleeting, cold light. And finally, she let the tears fall. Freely. Not for him, not for anger, not for the temptation of power—but for the loss that had shaped her, for the sorrow she had carried alone for so long, and for the quiet hope that she could move forward, unshackled from its weight.

"I… I will carry it," she whispered, voice trembling yet firm. "But I will not let it break me."

The storm had ended, the mist had cleared, and the world seemed to breathe with her. Alone, but not defeated, Xian let herself lean back, feeling the gravity of grief finally soften into something she could bear. She was free to mourn, free to heal, and free to choose the path she would walk beyond the storm.

The sky, bruised from the storm, stretched wide above her, the mist curling faintly around her. She remained seated on the wet stone, letting the tears fall freely, each one a weight lifted, each one a memory acknowledged. The Force hummed softly, a quiet pulse mirroring the settling world around her. The air smelled of rain and ozone, and the last flickers of lightning cast fleeting silver across her skin.

Alone, yet unbroken, she let the sorrow wash through her, felt it ebb and fade like water returning to the sea. The grief was still there, but it no longer held her captive. She breathed deeply, feeling the first true calm in days, a fragile freedom woven from loss and resilience. In that stillness, she finally understood: the storm could rage, the world could change, but she could endure—and in that endurance, she was alive.