the spare son
The woods around Lake Varyelle shimmered beneath the soft Nabooan sun, each step through the winding trail releasing the scent of dew-drenched moss and the faint perfume of blooming thistleblossom. Light filtered through the tall, sweeping branches of nylaan trees, dappling the forest floor in golden ribbons, and the distant call of lakebirds echoed gently over the low murmur of the breeze.
Dominic Trozky walked at the center of the formation, polished boots silent on the dirt path, one hand tucked into the pocket of a slate-gray coat whose cut was Brentaalan in origin but unmistakably Naboo in soul. He moved with the unhurried pace of someone who did not need to command attention—only permit it.
Around him strolled the usual suspects of Naboo’s second-tier aristocracy: the kind who dined with royalty but lunched with moneylenders.
Lady Renniva Marrik walked closest, her pale pink silk shawl drawn up like a curtain sheathed against scrutiny, though her laugh, bell-like and practiced, made no such efforts. She tilted her chin toward Dominic. “You’ve been quieter than expected, my lord. Is it politics or heartbreak that keeps your wit sheathed today?”
Dominic offered a slow smile. “If it were politics, I’d be performing. If it were heartbreak, I’d be composing poetry. So you see, Lady Renniva… it must be neither. Only the unpardonable sin of reflection.”
At that, Baron Tovis Quane—a balding but baritone-voiced industrialist of considerable means and unfortunate tailoring—gave a snort. “Ash gods spare us from reflective men. They end up in power or in ruin. Often both.”
“And you speak as though they’re mutually exclusive,” Dominic replied with a touch of theatrical pity. “Tell me, Baron, are you planning to fund my ascent to the former… or cushion my fall to the latter?”
Laughter echoed around them, but none from the youngest in their company—Bastila Sal-Soren, walking just a little behind the main cluster. Dominic’s eyes flicked her way only briefly. Twenty now, wasn’t she? Strange, he still half-expected her to carry a wooden practice saber and interrupt conversations with exuberant half-curtsies. Now, though, she walked with a quiet grace that no longer begged to be underestimated.
Still, she was a Sal-Soren. And he knew better than to romanticize any flower from that garden—however delicately they now bloomed.
Countess Veira Talonne, whose lavender dress had been tailored to suggest a youth she no longer possessed, edged closer. She smiled with too much softness, her painted lips curling as though she were already scripting his campaign announcement. “You’ll have my support, Dominic. Of course. I daresay a future Senator ought to keep his promises, though.”
“I daresay he’d be a fool to make them too freely,” Dominic replied, sidestepping her hand with a gentleman’s ease. “Though you’ll find I’m rather fond of... dependable patrons.”
Veira looked momentarily pleased, and then slightly suspicious, which meant the balance had been struck perfectly.
A small silence fell as the party rounded a bend in the path, revealing the lake below—a sheet of crystalline blue so still it seemed cut from glass. White-winged waterfowl floated in gentle arcs across the surface, and the domed rooftops of the lakeside estate glittered like polished coin through the trees.
Baron Tovis exhaled heavily. “Beautiful. Shame we’ll all be asked for credits the moment we arrive.”
Dominic smiled without showing teeth. “Oh, Baron. If you were being asked, I’d be insulted.”
The group laughed again. Dominic took the moment to let his gaze drift—lightly, casually—toward the youngest Sal-Soren once more. Not a challenge, not quite admiration. An observation.
“Though if we’re measuring value by beauty today,” he added, with a flick of amusement toward the group, “then I fear I’ve brought the wrong collection of donors entirely. Miss Sal-Soren seems to have raised the stakes.”
He offered her a gracious nod, dipped in just enough jest to keep the moment airy—but deliberate enough to signal her inclusion in the game.
