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​