Ascending Legend
The Diarchy's capital blended its order with quiet beauty — gardens climbing the faces of polished towers, narrow walkways lined with soft light, the murmur of fountains beneath the hum of airspeeders above. It reminded Iandre of Coruscant's upper levels, if Coruscant had ever learned to breathe.
She paused outside a glass-fronted atelier tucked between government spires, the sign above the door reading simply: Braze.
For a long moment, she hesitated.
She had faced the crucible of war, endured the collapse of an Order, and awakened in a time where the galaxy had changed beyond recognition — yet somehow, stepping into a place devoted to color and fabric made her uncertain.
The door opened with a soft hiss.
Inside, light played gently through suspended sheets of material — silks, armorweaves, something almost iridescent. Droids moved in slow rhythm, adjusting mannequins and measuring patterns projected in thin beams of blue light. The air smelled faintly of dye and metal polish, undercut by the warmth of creativity.
Iandre stepped inside, her dark cloak brushing the polished floor. Her usual attire — practical, spare, unmistakably utilitarian — stood in quiet contrast to the artistry around her.
"Braze?" she called softly, her tone calm but uncertain in its purpose. "Thank you for meeting me."
She paused near a display of pale blue fabric, tracing a fingertip along its edge. "I've… worn the same kind of robes for most of my life. Duty was the measure of what was right, not comfort — and certainly not expression."
Her lips quirked faintly, the smile more thoughtful than amused. "But I've been told that fashion can say things we don't have words for anymore. I want to learn what mine might say."
She glanced toward the workspace, open and patient, content to wait for the designer's response. The stillness of the atelier wrapped around her like a held breath — quiet, curious, and entirely new.
Braze
She paused outside a glass-fronted atelier tucked between government spires, the sign above the door reading simply: Braze.
For a long moment, she hesitated.
She had faced the crucible of war, endured the collapse of an Order, and awakened in a time where the galaxy had changed beyond recognition — yet somehow, stepping into a place devoted to color and fabric made her uncertain.
The door opened with a soft hiss.
Inside, light played gently through suspended sheets of material — silks, armorweaves, something almost iridescent. Droids moved in slow rhythm, adjusting mannequins and measuring patterns projected in thin beams of blue light. The air smelled faintly of dye and metal polish, undercut by the warmth of creativity.
Iandre stepped inside, her dark cloak brushing the polished floor. Her usual attire — practical, spare, unmistakably utilitarian — stood in quiet contrast to the artistry around her.
"Braze?" she called softly, her tone calm but uncertain in its purpose. "Thank you for meeting me."
She paused near a display of pale blue fabric, tracing a fingertip along its edge. "I've… worn the same kind of robes for most of my life. Duty was the measure of what was right, not comfort — and certainly not expression."
Her lips quirked faintly, the smile more thoughtful than amused. "But I've been told that fashion can say things we don't have words for anymore. I want to learn what mine might say."
She glanced toward the workspace, open and patient, content to wait for the designer's response. The stillness of the atelier wrapped around her like a held breath — quiet, curious, and entirely new.
