Private The Art of the Stroll

[Dominic Praxon]

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.

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

​

Word, as it is often wont to do in circles of influence, had travelled with remarkable speed: the Sal-Sorens had a younger sister. In fact, it moved like wildfire through the receiving rooms of the highest nobility on the planet, causing collective whiplash. The populace already knew of Bastila—at the height of Baros Sal-Soren’s empire, she had been the doted-on princess who could do no wrong: often spoken of, rarely seen. But her sudden re-emergence into the public eye sparked a frenzy of speculation and tea-spilled theories. Now, Bastila found herself doing what her father had always intended—or at least what she remembered of him—paying homage to the Sal-Soren legacy, presenting herself as its most polished creation to date.

That meant reintegrating into a society that, after her time on Jakku, felt as familiar as a snowstorm might to someone from Tatooine. Elegance wasn’t like riding a bike. It took work—holding her back straight again, remembering which fork belonged to which course, and resisting the ever-growing urge to flee for the treetops.

But under the delicate boughs of a nylaan tree, the filtered light danced over the golden-yellow gown she wore—the first ‘gift’ returned to her from the family estate—and she had to admit, begrudgingly, that it was working. She looked… well. Expensive.

This was Bastila Sal-Soren. Not the dirt-smudged girl playing Jedi in the orchard with her brother, but something else entirely. A refined mixture of what had come before—beauty, grace, and the faintest glimmer of rebellion—ready to bloom now that no one was hovering to prune her.

As the group strolled, Bastila kept her remarks minimal—just enough to appear polite, not enough to be memorable. Most here had dealt with her siblings, a few with her father. But Bastila? She was the new dish at the banquet, and everyone was still checking the ingredients.

She watched Lady Marrik and Baron Quane—unfailingly civil so far—trade jabs with one of the younger men. Trozky? Or Girade? The house names blurred together like bad poetry. No, Trozky. Definitely Trozky. She filed it away with the rest of the mental flashcards her tutors were drilling into her skull nightly.

The lake beside them rippled with stillness, calming and vast. Bastila found herself momentarily transfixed—until a glance back at the group caught Dominic Trozky watching her.

Only a glance. Nothing showy. But their eyes met, and it was… something.

Heat prickled her cheeks. She turned quickly, making a great fuss over a waterbird crash-landing into the lake. Dignity intact. She hoped.

Everyone else in the families had been just as she remembered—old, moneyed, vaguely amused by everything. But this boy… Dominic? He was different. Young, striking, and clearly the sun around which his group orbited, whether he meant it or not. He reminded her of the Jedi apprentices who drifted through the outer temple corridors back on Jakku—exceptional, confident, not quite untouchable but rarely touched.

She blushed again. Ugh. She’d liked some of those Jedi boys too.

That was it. Dominic Trozky simply reminded her of the feeling. That youthful awe. Nothing more.

And then it happened.

The invitation. The sudden shift. She was pulled—metaphorically—into the heart of the conversation by a casually tossed line.

“Then I fear I’ve brought the wrong collection of donors entirely. Miss Sal-Soren seems to have raised the stakes.”

The blush tried to return, but this time she boxed it away like a pro. She nodded toward him, then let her pace drift inward, closer to the main orbit of the group. If she was among lions, so be it. She’d bite back.

“Mr. Trozky,” she began, her previously unassuming face now shaped into a soft smile, “you really are too kind. Though I must warn you—if you were expecting the classic Sal-Soren, I’m afraid you’ve been sent a limited edition. Slightly scuffed. Very much out of storage.”

A few laughed. Good. Let them wonder whether she was joking or dangerous.

“I do thank you all again for the invitation. It truly is a beautiful stretch of the lake country,” she continued, her gaze returning to Dominic with just enough of a spark to sting. “Though I’d hate to think I’m only here to be seen and spun about the social floor. Unless, of course, that was the plan... in which case, I’d appreciate a cue card next time.”

​

Dominic Praxon ​

 

[Dominic Praxon]

Dominic caught the slight lilt in Bastila’s voice, the way she aimed her words with precision disguised as charm. The delivery was elegant, the tone just self-effacing enough to beguile. A well-polished performance. And one he appreciated.

“Miss Sal-Soren,” he began, inclining his head with practiced ease, “our families are old friends. Call me Dominic.”

The weight behind the offer was feather-light but deliberate—neither demand nor flirtation. It was permission. Or perhaps, expectation.

“Or else I’ll be forced to call you ‘Lady Bastila,’ and I fear what the gossip pages might do with that.”

That drew a laugh from Lady Marrik, high and crystalline.

“Oh stars, imagine the headlines. ‘Rogue Trozky Tames the Youngest Sal-Soren!’ I can already hear the pearls hitting marble floors.”

Baron Quane gave a low grunt of amusement.

“More likely they'd print ‘Trozky Spotted Begging Sal-Soren Heir for Support.’ That would be more accurate, wouldn’t it, boy?”

Dominic gave a gracious shrug, as if to concede the point.

“Only if they spell ‘begging’ with four syllables and an honorific.”

Talonne raised a brow, the edge of her painted smile curling as she stepped closer to Bastila, her tone light but laced with calculation.

“You know, Bastila dear, it’s the quiet ones we watch closest. First you reappear on the arm of nobility, and now you’re walking among would-be Senators. One wonders what’s next—dominion?”

Dominic chuckled softly and glanced toward Bastila once more. The sunlight caught in the strands of her golden gown, rippling like the lake below them.

“Whatever the next step is,” he said, “I suspect it won’t be taken quietly.”

Lady Marrik fanned herself lazily, the feathers of her fan rustling like whispers on the wind.

“Well, she is a Sal-Soren. If history has taught us anything, it’s that they never enter a room unnoticed... nor leave without taking something valuable with them.”

The trail curved again, the lake opening up beside them in a gleam of blue and silver. Dominic’s gaze lingered not on the water, but just briefly on Bastila—awaiting her reply, and the next move in a game they were both, it seemed, quite ready to play.

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

“Indeed, Mr. Trozky, I could.”
Bastila’s left eyebrow rose by a fraction—just enough. She knew he’d notice; Dominic was the type who heard tonal shifts the way others heard music. This was his arena. And she? She’d only been permitted entrance because he opened the door.

“For you however, Miss Sal-Soren will suffice,” she continued, tone cool. “We wouldn’t want to give the gossips too much to work with—”

Lady Marrik laughed, sharp and high.
“Oh, stars. Imagine the headlines: Rogue Trozky Tames the Youngest Sal-Soren! I can hear the pearls hitting marble already.”

“—to think there’s anything more than cordiality between us,” Bastila finished, unbothered. “I leave the theatrics to my siblings—they stir the waters well enough on their own.”

“More likely,” the Baron cut in, “they’d print: Trozky Spotted Begging Sal-Soren Heir for Support. That would be more accurate, wouldn’t it, boy?”

Bastila didn’t bristle. Let them think she was the subject—better they see her as an object of conversation than the architect behind it. Let them underestimate her.

She didn’t mind the whispers. She rarely cared what people thought of her. But she would not—would not—let a room full of second-tier aristocrats walk over the Sal-Soren name just because one of the elder siblings wasn’t here to stand guard. If nothing else, they would learn that Bastila was no less the heir than Blaire, Brandyn, or Briana. And if Baros still lived… she could very well have been the chosen one.

It was then she felt it—an almost imperceptible shift in the breeze, a thread of fragrance drifting down from the overhanging trees. Faintly sweet.

And trailing it, as if summoned by the scent itself, came Talonne.

For the briefest of moments, Bastila nearly mistook her for a familiar presence. Nearly.
But she caught herself.

No one here was a friend.
They were all knives—glinting, smiling, waiting to strike.

“You know, Bastila dear,” Talonne said, too sweetly, “it’s the quiet ones we watch the closest. First you reappear on the arm of nobility, and now you’re wading among would-be senators. One wonders what’s next… dominion?”

Bastila offered only a warm, practiced smile in return. The kind you gave a viper before stepping on its head. She opened her mouth to reply—but Dominic spoke first.

“Whatever the next step is,” he said with a half-smile, “I suspect it won’t be taken quietly.”

Lady Marrik’s amusement dimmed. She fanned herself lazily, bringing the feather dangerously close to Bastila’s cheek—close enough that Bastila had to resist the urge to swat it away.

“Well,” Marrik said, voice dipped in honey, “she is a Sal-Soren. And if history teaches us anything, it’s that they never enter a room unnoticed… nor leave without taking something valuable with them.”

Bastila almost bit.

But these were not enemies to duel—they were rancors in silk. You didn’t win by striking first. You won by being the last one standing.

“It is a well-documented historical fact,” she replied, smooth as ever. “From the moment I stepped off the shuttle, I’ve been noticed by everyone. In fact, I seem to be the talk of the town.”

She turned her gaze to the center of the group, feeling the moment begin to pivot.

“Baros Sal-Soren’s youngest daughter—presumed dead—returns on the arm of her brother, who so valiantly holds the family name aloft after tragedy. Now, she mingles with the lesser nobility, the would-be future rulers of the Republic… as if she’s looking for something.”

Then, slowly, she met Lady Marrik’s eyes—those painted, empty eyes—and let the silence stretch.

“As if she’s searching for something valuable before she leaves.”

A stillness fell over the group, the kind that comes when everyone realizes something true has just been said.

And then, Bastila turned—easily, naturally—back to Dominic. Still the conductor, still guiding the tempo of the room like a symphony only he could hear.

“It’s a sad story, really,” she said, voice quiet but clear. “And I suppose the moral is this: she simply hasn’t found anything worth taking yet.”

​

Dominic Praxon

 

[Dominic Praxon]

The silence after Bastila’s final line lingered like a breath held too long. It was sharp, perfect—delivered with the restraint of someone who knew exactly how far to stretch the blade without drawing blood. Dominic had to give it to her. She had presence now.

But Marrik had overstepped.

“Careful, Lady Marrik,” Dominic said smoothly, his voice even but edged with something cooler. “You speak of the Sal-Soren name as if it were up for appraisal. I assure you—it’s not.”

His pace slowed slightly as they began to descend the final hill toward the lakeside clearing, the estate rooftops glinting just below through a veil of tree branches. The path widened, sunlight catching in threads of silk and polished boots.

“Briana Sal-Soren is the jewel of Naboo’s new court. Her brother Brandyn is as flawed as any man who dares to love the galaxy too deeply, and their father—Baros—built half of the Naboo's prosperity before the controversies took its due. And if we’re counting lineage, then let’s not forget their mother, Teyla of House Ee’everwest—a family equal to any seated in the Palace.”

That struck. Even Talonne gave a sharp little exhale, and Baron Quane had the sense to avoid Dominic’s gaze.

“Well,” the Baron muttered with forced levity, “no one ever accused the Praxons of lacking memory.”

“Or loyalty,” Marrik added quickly, tucking her fan away with a gracious smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s good to see that honored still.”

Dominic let the correction hang for just a beat longer before softening his expression again.

“Forgive me. I’m not in the habit of correcting friends. But the past few years have taught me to guard what matters.”

He let his eyes shift—deliberately—to Bastila. Just a moment. A recognition. Not the girl with scraped knees and orchard-stained skirts, but the woman who had just met aristocratic venom with measured fire.

“…and to recognize when someone has become more than I remember.”

The clearing opened ahead of them now, a soft roll of trimmed grass sloping toward the party pavilion. Elegant lanterns floated between trees, already flickering against the late afternoon light. Voices could be heard again—music, laughter, the clink of cut crystal.

Dominic slowed slightly to let the group level out beside him.

“It’s easy to forget in moments like these,” he said lightly, “but I brought you all here for more than a stroll and scandal.”

That drew a chuckle from Talonne.

“Stars, you mean you don’t collect gossip as currency?”

“Only if it buys me votes,” Dominic returned. “In truth, I hope I can count on each of you to extend your support for Senator Vonn's campaign this season. Enarc’s representation is fragile—distant, easy to forget. But with the right voices behind us, we can speak louder than our borders suggest.”

He let the words settle. Purpose, politics, and poise—woven together in his tone like silk and steel.

Another glance toward Bastila, smaller now, but meaningful.

“The next chapter will be written by those who remain standing, after all.”

Bastila Sal-Soren ​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

Dominic had clearly positioned himself as the knight in shining armour—stepping from his place of power to remind the gathering of exactly who the Sal-Soren's were. Their lineage stretched deep into the foundations of the Republic, and Bastila, though often overlooked, belonged to that legacy. She knew it. More importantly, so did he.

She hadn’t minded his intervention. In truth, she had enjoyed it. Watching the lesser nobles be cut down by one of their own—by the very ally they had hoped would lend them favour—was a particular kind of satisfaction. Their whispered barbs and forced smiles dissolved under Dominic’s precise, almost theatrical rebuttal. Bastila made a mental note to commend him when they were free from prying ears. That had been a victory, and one well played.

“Indeed,” Bastila said, her agreement measured as the conversation turned toward the legacy of the Praxons. She masked her pleasure with diplomatic poise, even as Merrick's subtle invocation of loyalty deepened the stakes. “It’s almost as if the honoured traits that forged this very Republic endure strongest in those families who continue to sacrifice for its future. Some would do well to remember such principles.”

Her gaze settled on Dominic, holding this time, steady and unblinking.
“For the good—and strengthening—of us all.”

The narrow path gave way to a broader area, and with it came a striking shift. The last rays of the late afternoon sun painted the world in burnished auburn. Jakku had been all dust and blinding light, but here... here was a corner of the galaxy rich in wonder. Lanterns floated lazily between trees, casting warm glows across the dimming scene. Music and laughter drifted in on the breeze—subtle signs that the opening moves had been played. The real game was about to begin.

Senator Vonn’s votes were the stated goal. Dominic had made that clear. But Bastila couldn’t ignore the tone he used—the way he said us. As if the senator’s success was secondary to something far more personal. Perhaps she was reading too much into it, still unversed in the layered theatre of high politics. Or perhaps she simply saw what others chose to ignore.

Either way, it wasn’t the time to ask questions. Not yet.

“The next chapter will be written by those who remain standing,” he had said.

Those words landed harder than anything else that evening. They echoed in her mind, settling into the space where uncertainty once lived. They all underestimated her. She knew it. She had been discarded—hidden, forgotten. Left to decay on the edges of relevance.

And yet, here she stood.

She was a Sal-Soren, forged in silence and flame. And now, she was ready to roar.

Dominic Praxon—this daring son of Trozky—might yet prove useful to her. Just as she intended to be useful to him

As the laughter and music grew louder, and they stepped fully into the soft lantern light, Bastila moved ever so slightly toward Dominic—close enough that no one else would hear, her voice barely more than breath.

“Later,” she said, her tone calm but deliberate, her gaze still forward. “Dominic, We speak.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She didn’t need one.

​

Dominic Praxon

 

[Dominic Praxon]

Dominic’s chin dipped almost imperceptibly in response to Bastila’s whispered promise. It was not acquiescence. Not quite. It was acknowledgment. Quiet, calculated, and clear.

They would speak. And he was already preparing for it.

The last steps of the descent carried the party out from the trees and into the outer circle of the estate gardens. Laughter drifted across manicured hedgerows. Lanterns hovered mid-air like captured stars, their golden glow reflecting on glasses, jewels, and the occasional polished medal.

It was Lady Talonne who broke the spell, smoothing the front of her gown with delicate precision.

“I do hope, Dominic, that you’ll forgive us if some of our portfolios are... momentarily inflexible. Between taxes and our dear Baron’s investments in that navbouy firm, well—let’s just say discretionary spending requires discretion.”

Baron Quane gave a low chuckle, unbothered.

“She’s being polite. Our funds are locked tighter than a Sith temple vault. Temporary, of course. All bets on Five Veils. We’re expecting clarity soon.”

Dominic didn’t miss a beat. His response was crisp, diplomatic, but edged with quiet awareness.

“Of course. The navbouy sector is vital, and Enarc’s positioning on that corridor places your venture at the nexus of the decision. I imagine the Committee on Trade Routes will be watching the bid carefully.”

He offered them both a small, practiced smile.

“And if your confidence proves justified, I trust that future generosity will reflect past... understanding.”

Talonne nodded once, her expression unreadable, but there was a flicker of agreement in her eyes.

Lady Marrik fluttered her fan again and glanced back at the estate.

“Well. The evening calls. And I should like to find the first violinist before someone sends him to the wine table.”

With murmured goodbyes and half-curtsies, the group began to scatter—absorbed into the sea of music, murmured politics, and expensive charm that defined the gathering.

---

Time passed.

The moon had risen, and the light from the floating lanterns had deepened to amber and violet. They drifted not just above the garden but now across the lake’s surface—skimming it, illuminating it. A delicate hush had fallen over the event’s edges, where conversation softened and stars took over.

Dominic stood alone at an ornate balustrade that overlooked the water. The marble beneath his hand was cool, smooth. Somewhere behind him, a string quartet played a soft variation on an Alderaanian waltz. The breeze stirred his coat just enough to break the stillness.

He stared across the lake, jaw set. Not brooding—measuring.

This was not a romantic pause, though the scene invited it. It was calculation. Reflection. Strategy.

He was a Trozky of House Praxon.

And tonight was only the opening act.

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

As the party proceeded down toward the estate grounds, Bastila used the moment to quietly slip away. She had no need to make public alignments like the others. Let the Lady and Baron chase attention and speculation. Her financial ties and loyalties weren’t for their ears, nor did she care to fan the flames of their jealousy.

With her final whisper still lingering within the air of Dominic’s ear, she melted into the crowd and left him with the circling vultures.

In the glow of the lanterns, Bastila Sal-Soren was radiant. Her honey-amber gown shimmered, gold inlays catching the light with every step, painting her in brilliance that drew more than one curious glance. She noticed the whispers, the half-greetings. Every nod and half-bow was returned with deliberate grace.

The smile was her armour. Let it shine, let it disarm. Let it hide the child who still quivered inside, terrified of the snakes that wore silk.

Back straight.

Her spine obeyed before her thoughts caught up. A sharp, quiet gasp escaped her. That voice.

His voice.
Clear. Present. Impossible.

She didn’t dare look around.

Smile and engage with them all. Don’t show them the fear inside.

Baros Sal-Soren.

Her father.

He stood beside her, one hand resting on her shoulder—the pressure familiar, steady. For years, that touch had guided her through ballrooms, through courts, through everything.

But the estate was gone. So was the crowd. Replaced by cold grey marble, golden arches, and the sweeping emptiness of the Corellian ballroom.

Their ballroom.

She looked up at him. He loomed, just as he always had. But now, the height was cold. Distant.

His eyes met hers—and something inside her broke.

There was no light in them. No life. Just hollow reflection. Like staring into a mask.

“Father…” Her voice cracked beneath the weight of the word.

Yes, my Sweetsteam.

Her knees nearly gave way.

Sweetsteam. A silly Corellian pastry. She was the only one who liked them, and he never let her forget it. He used to tuck one into her hand when no one was looking. Call her that name when she was overwhelmed. He'd whisper it like a shield, like a secret spell only for them.

She had been his miracle, his perfection, his fourth and final child—but his first in everything that mattered. And to her, he had been the constant sun she orbited. Unquestioned. Unshaken. Until the galaxy had stole him.

“...you’re here?” she whispered, already knowing he wasn’t. “Please be real.”

They want to rip us apart, Bastila. That is why I am here. That is why you are here. With me. So we can let them try.

His hand squeezed too tight. For a moment, it hurt. And then it didn’t. A ghost’s touch.

You’re like me, Sweetsteam. They are worth nothing compared to you. You’ll destroy them all—piece by piece.

Her breath hitched.

“I, I don’t want to destroy anyone,” she whispered. “I want them to see that our family is still here. That you were real. That I’m real.”

The words stung. “I’m not you Father, I’m not strong enough for this. Not like you.”

That’s where you’re wrong, child. You are me.

His eyes locked on hers—now sharp. Unblinking. Empty of love. Empty of him.

This is OUR arena. And you must always remember one thing.

She tried to look away. She knew.

We will burn them all.

She flinched.

And the vision shattered.

Lanterns returned. Gardens glowed. Conversations hummed back to life. Her chest rose in sharp, shuddering breaths.

For one unbearable moment—she had been back in his arms. And now she wasn’t.

“Lady Sal-Soren, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The voice was kind, uncertain. A young man with bright blue eyes. Augulian, perhaps.

She shook her head gently, reclaiming her mask.

“No, not at all. I was off with the Mynocks, it seems.” Her voice light, practiced. The dream still echoed in her bones.

---

The moon had risen fully now, casting a pale silver sheen over the estate, only broken by the soft amber glow of floating lanterns as the conversations grew more intimate, more carefully curated.

Bastila had endured. She had smiled and charmed, toasted and nodded, spoken and slipped away. It was an art, and she performed it well.

The quiet pulled her like a tether, through flowering hedges and manicured paths, until her breath found her again. She moved quickly—faster than she meant to—but the tension had risen too high, the walls had come too close.

A breath. A pause. Her hand landed on a marble column near the garden’s edge. Her mind still echoed with her father’s voice, phantom-tight on her shoulder.
Burn them all.
She exhaled sharply through her nose, forcing the memory back into its place.

The ringing in her ears-stopped.

She breathed. Let her shoulders fall.

It’s fine. I’m fine.

And then—movement.

She caught the silhouette just past a staircase, half-shielded by greenery. A figure standing with his back to the path, outlined by moonlight. Broad stance. Arms crossed. Still, but not aimless. Watching the lake.

Dominic. There was no mistaking the silhouette.

He hadn’t noticed her yet, so Bastila lingered a moment, studying him.

There was an ease in his posture, but not relaxation—more the calculated stillness of someone waiting for a game to move. His jaw was set, eyes forward. She knew that look, she had seen it many times from the men and women in her life, especially her father. Absolute mental calculus behind a veil of calm. It was like he was measuring his next steps, his next words, placing himself on the board five times in front of the rest of the whole galaxy.

She had to admit, he radiated confidence and assurance. He was dangerous in the way only those who understood the rules could be.

And yet—he was alone.

Interesting.

Bastila smoothed her expression, letting something soft return to her eyes—not vulnerability, exactly, but openness. An invitation without demand. Then she stepped forward.

“Mr. Trozky,” she said lightly as she approached, her voice warm and effortless. “It seems even the most stalwart branches of the social tree are drawn to solitude tonight.”

She came to stand beside him, her gaze flicking toward the lake. The water shimmered, moonlight scattered like glass.

A pause followed. She tilted her head just slightly, the corner of her mouth pulling into the beginnings of a knowing smile.

She could feel it—the shift. No need for words. He hadn’t planned for her yet. Or had he, maybe she had misplayed.

Her gaze remained on the water, but her voice carried a gentle gravity now.

“These are the parts they don’t plan for, you know. The moments between the strategy. When the calculations are forced to stop.” She had altered something. She had announced the game openly. She gave him a playful smile, “I do hope I am not intruding on a reflective moment.”

And just like that deep beneath her practiced smile and careful distance, past the ache of memory and the performance of legacy, something rooted itself. Quiet and certain.

A pull on the force. A thread that even she couldn’t ignore.

Not chance.

Not coincidence.

Fate.

​

Dominic Praxon

 

[Dominic Praxon]

Dominic hadn’t heard her approach.

A rare thing, that. He prided himself on noticing things—shifts in tone, sidelong glances, the change in weight when a conversation was about to turn. But her voice arrived like the breeze: unannounced, entirely present, and just cool enough to still the surface of the lake.

He turned his head, slowly.

There she stood, bathed in lamplight and moonlight alike. Amber gown glowing faintly, curls drawn back with effortless precision, every line of her posture suggesting serenity—and yet, something deeper hummed beneath it. Not poise, but purpose.

For a moment, Dominic said nothing. Then, he spoke.

“Lady Sal-Soren,” he murmured, and for the first time that night, the title did not sound like a formality.
“You startled me.”

His voice had dropped into something lower. Not intimate, exactly—but unguarded.

“Though I suspect you meant to.”

A pause. The lake shimmered beneath them, its surface catching reflections from the sky above. Somewhere across the estate, laughter floated over from the far terrace, but here, it was quieter. Here, it was just the two of them.

Dominic looked away first, his gaze slipping toward the water.

“It’s strange,” he said after a beat. “To see you here. The last time we spoke, you were—what? Ten? Eleven?”

His smile curled, wistful at the edges.

“I remember you trying to storm into the dining room mid-debate, trailing ribbons and shouting about some terrible injustice involving peaches.”

A soft breath of a laugh escaped him—rare, genuine.

“You were all noise and courage back then. Now you’re…” He trailed off, eyes returning to her fully. He didn’t finish the thought. Perhaps it didn’t need finishing.

Instead, the charm slipped back into place, like a hand finding its glove.

“I’m pleased you joined us tonight. You’ve given the old guard something to think about.”

He leaned forward slightly, resting one hand on the balustrade, the other slipping into his coat pocket with familiar ease. His voice turned lighter—but no less intentional.

“Though I admit, I hadn’t planned for your return to be so… theatrical.”

A breathe of a moment passed in urgent silence.

“That line—about not having found anything worth taking yet?” His brow arched faintly. “I think it rattled poor Talonne. She looked positively unstrung for a full half minute.”

He smiled again—then let the moment rest.

The water rippled below, catching the drifting lanterns like fireflies tethered to unseen threads. The marble under his hand was still cold, but the tension had eased.

For a second, just a second, Dominic was silent in a way that wasn’t calculated.

Then, the mask returned.

“Of course, I imagine you didn’t come here for small talk and memory.” He turned back to her. “So then—tell me, Bastila. What do you want?”

He didn’t ask it like a challenge. He asked it like someone prepared to listen. Like someone who knew that every player had a reason for sitting at the table—and was finally ready to hear hers.

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

Bastila didn't answer right away.
She studied him—not with suspicion, but with the careful pause of someone deciding whether to say what she truly meant, or what would be easier to hear.

"I don't know," she said, finally, truth it would be then. "I didn't come out here with a speech prepared. I didn't think I'd be asked that question tonight—at least not like that." Her voice softened, just enough to reveal the corner of something wry. "But maybe that's the only way I'd have answered honestly, otherwise maybe you would have got the Sal-Soren hard stare instead."

Her gaze drifted toward the lake, to the shimmer of lanterns casting their light across the glass still water.

"I used to think I knew. I wanted clarity. Justice. A clean line between what is and what should be. Something sharp enough to wield and prove to everyone that I was the perfect star they all said I was."
She folded her arms, not to close herself off, but to steady herself—as though the act of speaking gave shape to something long-held. "But that certainty I had? It cracked. Slowly. Quietly. One compromise at a time, each and every empty promise offered to me in the pursuit of vision and justice. I became the silence that I said I wouldn’t let stand. And now…"

She turned back to him. A brief quietness fell across them, interrupted only by the soft lapping of water on the lake shore beneath their vantage.

"What I want is harder to define. I want to know who I am when I'm not fighting to survive this cut throat world. When I'm not bending under the weight of what others expect me to be."
A pause, like breath before a plunge.

“I want to choose. My path. My legacy.”
Her words weren’t lofty—they were quiet, deliberate. Measured.
“I want to build something from the wreckage of what was lost—not just for me, but for everyone who still believes nobility should mean something more than wine and whispers. Like my father did. He believed we existed not to be served, but to serve. To give back to those who never had the advantage of a birthright.”

Her gaze lingered on him, steady now. Clear.
“My family meant something once. And while Brandyn and Briana have done an incredible job keeping the Sal-Soren name alive, visible—it’s not the same. Not yet.”
There was heat behind her words now, a fire that sharpened the edge of them.
“You used to only have to whisper the name Sal-Soren, and the other noble houses would pause. Reconsider. They’d remember their better judgment—if only for a moment.”
She let that memory rest in the air a beat before the tension eased.
“I didn’t come back to make a scene, not much of one at least.” she added, a wry note curling the corner of her mouth. “That just… tends to happen around me.” Then, softer and with a sense of genuine amusement she added, “Though I admit, the look on Talonne’s face was a satisfying bonus.”
She stepped forward—not commanding, just present. Rooted. Her eyes found his again, no mask between them.
"But I did come back to be seen. To be counted. And you…" Her voice dropped, gentled. "You always looked a little harder than the others. Even when I was ten and crashing formal dinners with ribbons in my hair and some urgent manifesto about peaches and fairness. Everyone else saw noise." She tilted her head, gaze never leaving his. "But you saw me."

Another moment passed between them, quiet and deliberate.

"So tell me, Dominic," she asked, the words almost a whisper, yet an emphasis as she used his name, "do you still see her—the girl with too many ribbons and too much to say about the rights of peaches?"

Her voice caught slightly like it got caught in a memory, then smoothed, softer still.

"Or is it someone else you're looking at now?"

​

Dominic Praxon

 

[Dominic Praxon]

For a long moment, Dominic said nothing.

He simply looked at her.

Not the way one studied a rival, or even a companion—but like a man reading a language he hadn’t expected to find spoken here, on this night, in this light.

Then he breathed in—softly—and exhaled a short laugh, low in his chest.

“Stars help me, I do still see her.” His gaze dropped—not in submission, but in memory. The smile that followed was faint, touched with something complicated. “She hasn’t changed as much as you might think. She’s just... quieter now. More dangerous, probably.”

Another pause. Another pivot.

“But I’m relieved, truly, that the Jedi didn’t steal all the Sal-Sorens away. The Order has enough power without claiming the ones who still make us believe in the weight of names.”

He said it without bitterness—but there was a glint of something else behind his eyes. Something personal. The kind of comment that might not seem like a jab… unless you knew the shape of the blade.

His posture shifted slightly. A lean back against the balustrade, not casual—controlled. Planted.

“As for the girl with too many ribbons and a war to wage over fruit rights…” His smile deepened, just a little. “I remember her because she interrupted a room full of diplomats and made everyone actually listen. She had no leverage, no title that mattered—not then. Just conviction.”

He straightened slightly, the moment drawing a shade cooler.

“And conviction, Bastila, is still the rarest currency in these halls. People dress it up as policy, as vision, as legacy. But what they’re selling is control. You…” He tilted his head slightly, hazel eyes narrowing with interest, “you still sound like you believe in something.”

Then, softer—too soft to be accident. “That’s dangerous.”

The lake behind them shimmered again, touched by a subtle breeze. A flicker of light from a passing lantern reflected in his eyes.

“But you’re not here to be safe, are you?” It wasn’t quite a question. Not really.

Dominic stepped forward—not looming, not encroaching—just enough to let his presence reach hers.

“You want to build something from wreckage. I can respect that. But if you mean to shape something real, Bastila, you’ll need more than ideals.”

Is forehead subtly wrinkled. “You’ll need allies.”

Another glance, direct now. The game of veils—dropped, for a breath. “And perhaps someone who still sees that girl—not as a relic—but as a warning.”

His voice lowered again. “Don’t let them tame her.” He didn’t smile this time. He simply stood there, waiting—not for agreement, but for what would come next.

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

Bastila looked at him the way one might study a lock—quietly, with precise eyes—already searching for the click behind the mechanism before even beginning to turn the key.
“You’re relieved the Jedi didn’t steal all the Sal-Sorens away?” she said finally, voice even. “As if the Order was the only one laying claim to us.” Her tone didn’t accuse. It revealed. “This galaxy is full of people who think Legacy can be traded, diluted, spent in committee rooms or passed off as leverage.”
She allowed a pause, just long enough for the wind to pass between them.
“Legacy is what you protect when no one else remembers to. Yes it is power, but it is not leverage. It’s blood and memory. Family. The kind that doesn’t disappear when the records are redacted and the names start getting rewritten.”
Then she moved.
Not far. A single step forward. Deliberately closer. Into his arena and suddenly the space between them wasn’t conversational—it was intentional.
“So yes,” She continued, “I still believe in something.” she said, low. Barely audible, an invitation to come closer. “And yes you are right. That is dangerous.”
Her gaze sharpened, her Sal-Soren dark eyes locked to his, not asking for his attention –but daring him for it.
“Because it means I’m not trying to survive this place the way they want me to. I’m not here to climb, or integrate, or trade what’s left of my spine for a seat at a table already rotting from the centre. I’m a Sal-Soren, I own the room the table is in.” Then, a pause. Her head tilted just slightly, as if she’d found the vein. “I think that’s what unsettles you.”
The moment of silence that followed wasn’t accidental. It was placed, left to settle and to sit in his chest a beat too long. Forcing him to realise how temptingly close she had gotten.

"You speak with such certainty, as if you’ve studied me like a case file and drawn your conclusions. You offer observations dressed as compliments. But none of them cost you anything.” She let her voice fall–lower, smoother. The edge of something playful now curled into it. The note that followed wasn’t emotional. It was designed. She moved again–closer now. Close enough that the air between them grew taut, her words no longer carried, but shared. “You still speak in veils, keep yourself folded into the shape of whatever room you are stood in.” Could he hear her heart beat like she could his? “So let’s for a moment not pretend you’re just here to remember the girl I was.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if to narrow the path he could take out of this. “You’re here because you know I don’t owe this place anything. That makes me unpredictable.” Another step. Closer still. Her presence now brushing against his like a drawn line. “And it terrifies you.”
She looked at him then – truly looked, her teeth caught gently on her lower lip as she pulled back a fraction.
“And still,” She murmured, “you still haven’t said what it is you want Dominic?”
The quiet landed like a challenge. “What is it you believe in?” Her voice was barely audible now. “Or are you still choosing the version of you that best fits the room you have found yourself in?”
She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t have to.
“I can tell when someone is guarding something.” Then came the grin–sharp and wicked with play. “Maybe it’s not me you are afraid of.” Again if he could hear her heartbeat. “Maybe it’s the version of you that might still believe in something, too.”
She didn’t withdraw.
The next pause wasn’t silence.
It was pressure.
And she didn’t blink.

​

Dominic Praxon

 

[Dominic Praxon]

Dominic didn’t move.

She stepped closer—her presence brushing against his like a drawn line, breath warm against his skin—and he stood there, immovable. Composed. A monument of measured restraint. He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. But the pulse in his throat beat once—hard.

It was a battle of conviction now. And Dominic Praxon had spent a lifetime training for battles just like this.

His voice came low, smooth as obsidian, every word honed to precision.

“I see now,” he said slowly, “why you’ve returned to such a welcome disruption. You’ve always had a talent for knocking down doors without needing to lift a hand.”

His gaze held hers—no longer polite, no longer curious, but sharp. Responsive. Present.

“You speak with fire, Bastila. Dangerous words, wrapped in elegance. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to change the shape of the room entirely, not just your place within it.”

A half-smile ghosted the edge of his mouth. Not warm. Not cold. Just calculated.

“But then... change is exactly what Naboo needs.”

The space between them crackled. Neither moved. Not forward. Not back.

“The Five Veils proposal is more than a trade route. It’s a recalibration. Naboo is at a crossroads—between sentimental nostalgia and sharp-edged future. And the people who fill the void left by complacency… they’ll shape what comes next.”

He paused just long enough to let the implication settle.

“I’m tasked with building something durable. Stable. Quietly revolutionary. Something that doesn’t collapse the moment the next storm hits. But to do that—” his head tilted slightly, “I need people who can weather pressure, not perform through it.”

There, in the thin space between word and breath, his gaze sharpened again.

“I need people I can trust.”

Another pause. Just long enough to feel like a choice.

“I don’t need certainty. I don’t even need loyalty. But I do need truth. And if you’re offering that—”

His eyes dropped, just once, to where their proximity nearly touched—then returned, unreadable.

“Then yes. I’m asking if I can count on you.”

He didn’t touch her. He didn’t step back. The question lingered—hanging between two heirs to broken legacies, both too proud to bow.

“So tell me, Lady Sal-Soren...” The edge of something sly reentered his voice.

“Do I have an ally?”

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

Bastila’s gaze never wavered, fixed on his with quiet intensity. If he thought she spoke with fire, he hadn’t seen the true depths of what she could do. She wouldn’t flinch. Not when he spoke her name like a challenge, not when he wrapped his strategy in flattery, offering it like an invitation she already knew she wouldn’t refuse.

She studied him – like one would examine the lightsaber in another’s hand. Respecting the blade. Measuring the weight. Admiring the craftsmanship. Knowing exactly what it could do.

"Maybe you’re right," she said, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "The shape of the room could use a little... adjustment. But not for my sake. Naboo has been clinging to the past for far too long. It’s time to bring it into something more... interesting." she said, her tone carrying the weight of quiet certainty.

He mentioned this trade route again, there was something about the name that sparked in the back of Bastila’s mind, although she couldn’t place it yet. He was clearly passionate about it , that was undeniable.

“You speak of building something lasting,” she said. “Something revolutionary. Quiet, but unshakable.” Her expression didn’t shift, but her tone lowered, solid with certainty. “But why come to a Sal-Soren for that?” A pause. “My family doesn’t do quiet revolutions, Dominic.”
The distance between them was small –just enough to make the air feel charged. She wasn’t here to seduce. Then why had she started to attempt it? She told herself it was sovereignty, although she was suddenly aware of the slight change in the field.
“We are not built to survive storms,” she continued. “We are the storm.” Her eyes flicked briefly to his mouth, then back up to his eyes. Calculating. A deliberate move, one she was learning to master.

Her breath was warm against his cheek, a whisper of summer flowers against the sharp edge of her words. “So if you’re asking me whether you have an ally...” She let the moment stretch, eyes never leaving his. “Yes. You have one.”

She didn’t move back. Not an inch. Her chin tilted up slightly—defiant, composed. She could feel the tension thick between them, the weight of unspoken possibility. She didn’t know if this was a challenge…or the air hummed, taut with promise, one touch away from something else entirely.

​

Dominic Praxon

 

[Dominic Praxon]

He didn't need to move.

She was close enough that he could feel the warmth rising from her skin, the charge in the air so tightly wound it could have split a hair. Her words echoed in the narrow space between them—not loud, not rushed, but heavy with deliberate pressure.

And then—he breathed in.

It was instinct, unconscious. A shallow pull of air through his nose meant only to steady himself.

But her scent hit him like a sudden memory: sweet, complex, and impossible to place. A brush of floral over something deeper—familiar yet new. It staggered his focus for just a heartbeat. Just long enough.

He didn’t lean in. But something in him tilted. For a moment, he wasn't calculating. He was simply... aware. Of her. Of the closeness. Of how quiet everything had become.

It wasn’t desire—not exactly. It was gravity.

And the moment threatened to win.

Until—“Dominic!”

The voice came from across the lawn. Light. Familiar. Unwelcome. Lady Marrik.

The sound struck the tension like a hammer. Dominic blinked, slow and reluctant, the spell shattered by obligation.

He stepped back. Not quickly. Not guiltily. But with the air of someone being pulled by invisible threads he could not afford to sever.

His gaze lingered on Bastila a moment longer. What flickered there was unreadable—but not empty.

“This has been... enlightening.” His voice was smooth again, the politician’s poise settling back into place, though there was something faintly hoarse beneath it—barely.

A glance to where Marrik waited. Then back. “I’ll be in touch.”

He offered nothing more. No promise. No bow. Just that. And then, he turned—almost unwillingly—and walked away.

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

She didn’t dare move.
Not when his breath caught.
Not when the moment tipped toward something unspoken.
Not even when the air between them felt tight enough to tear.
She felt the shift in him. The way Dominic’s instinct nearly overpowered his ever present calculation. The way stillness had begun to mean something more than caution—it meant gravity.

Bastila Sal-Soren held him in her gravity now, and Dominic had completely given up resisting.

She felt the moment stretch, tighten—ready to snap. No drama, no furlong longing, but with something older. Something elemental, like the smashing of nothing to create entire worlds.
Then—

Marrik’s voice cut through, slicing the tension clean.

The spell didn’t shatter. It fractured. A million pieces of glass falling around them at once.

Bastila didn’t flinch, but she saw it happen. The weight returned to Dominic’s shoulders, the sharpness reassert itself in his gaze. Duty, obligation—whatever ruled his world, it had come to collect him.

She watched him step back, slow and measured, and didn’t chase the space he reclaimed. That wasn’t her game, but still something inside her flared – sharp, fast and quiet. It was dangerous, unkind and Bastila had to use all of her self control to hold it.
Her expression didn’t flicker, not even as he looked back.

But inside, something marked the shift.

Enlightening, he said.

A softer woman might have laughed. Bastila only tilted her head, ever so slightly—acknowledging the remark, accepting the retreat, and saying nothing of the tension still humming between them like a struck chord. There was no bow. No farewell. Just a long, unreadable look as he turned and walked away.

She let him go and let the game end for tonight, her hand still on her piece, moments away from check and mate.

Only once his back had turned, once the illusion of formality resumed its reign, did she allow herself a breath. A real one. Quiet. Controlled. But not untouched. She shivered as she took it, blaming the chill of the evening, the lack of warmer throws. But she knew that wasn’t true.
That shiver had come from somewhere deeper.
Something had taken notice.
And again, the strings of fate drew tight—enough she could almost recognize the tune.

The youngest Sal-Soren turned, gaze lifting to the horizon, where the moon now rested in full embrace of the night sky. She was composed again. Inscrutable to any wandering eyes, but beneath the stillness, the tension beneath her skin was no longer the delicate electricity of possibility.
The storm she’d spoken of was already shifting.

Bastila Sal-Soren did not like being interrupted.

And if he thought this was the end of it—because of one lower-class noble arriving three minutes too soon...
He truly didn’t know her at all.

​

Dominic Praxon