Private The Starlance Tournette

[Dominic Praxon]

Dominic had once imagined that aristocratic events like this—sunlit valleys, noble steeds, silk banners fluttering in the wind—might stir in him some long-dormant connection to his Nabooian youth. But seated as the token youth on the judges panel of the Starlance Tournette, he could not help but feel as though he were some ornamental piece of fruit arranged for garnish. Presentable, perhaps even palatable, but never the centerpiece.

The grandstands overlooked the Moontrack, a serpentine course framed by shallow canals and soft grassy berms, all ringed by a lattice of flowering archways. The air smelled of fresh clover, polished leather, and overbrewed tea from the hospitality pavilion behind him. In the distance, a quartet of nalargon strings floated a pastoral melody above the hush of spectators.

Dominic shifted in his seat—fine navy brocade, high collar, silver-threaded cuffs—elegant, but designed more for visibility than comfort. He folded his gloved hands over his lap and offered a polite smile as yet another reporter leaned forward with a sparkle of mischief in her eyes.

“Lord Praxon, how thrilling to see the Senate’s young blood among such established equestrian experts. Are you planning to launch a career in fashionably late horsemanship?”

He tilted his head ever so slightly, hazel eyes flicking to her holorecorder.

“Only if the horse is exceptionally forgiving. I’m told some prefer riders who can’t actually interfere with their brilliance.”

A few soft chuckles rose from the press box.

“But you are scoring today’s performances, yes?”

“I am… participating. In spirit. I believe the term they used was symbolic inclusion. My scores don’t affect the outcome. Which, depending on your faith in my taste, is either a tremendous tragedy or a great mercy.”

He offered a dry smile, drawing a glance from the true judges beside him—an elderly Baroness of House Sovann draped in cream velvets and pearls, and a solemn cultural attaché from Spinnaker Island, whose posture was so erect it seemed carved from the cliffs themselves.

“Youthful charm is no replacement for discipline,” the Baroness muttered under her breath without quite looking at him.

“I could not agree more,” Dominic said amiably, reaching for his cup of sweetened leafwater. “Though I must confess, charm tends to get me invited back.”

He sipped.

There was, somewhere deep down, a flicker of restlessness. He had agreed to this for optics. For House Praxon. For the Senator. For the sake of appearances—always appearances. But as his gaze drifted across the field, his attention caught on the next rider lining up beneath the starting arch. There was something in the posture, the tilt of the head. A familiarity. A grace.

He sat forward.

His pulse, quite without permission, picked up its pace.

And perhaps—for once—the afternoon would not be entirely ornamental after all.

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

The air on Naboo had a softness Bastila had almost forgotten.

It wasn’t just clean. It was intoxicating. The fields stretched like green-gold velvet, stitched with wild clover and sun-warmed grain, the scent rising in slow waves as if the valley itself was breathing. She inhaled once, deep, and it hit her like memory—the kind of scent you’d want as your last, if the galaxy ever gave you the choice.
Above her, the sky played at imagination: clouds shifting like they were performing for an audience no one else could see. One moment they were palaces, the next warships, the next a crown dissolving into blue. It stirred something in her. Not nostalgia. Not quite. But the echo of girlhood dreams she’d long since filed under "irrelevant."

She stood just behind the archway of the starting gate, one hand resting on the reins, the other curled around the high pommel of the saddle. Her mount—a sleek silver mare with a gaze like polished glass—shifted beneath her, alert and humming with coiled elegance. They were a matched pair, deliberate and precise. Though only one of them was aware of what was at stake.

Bastila sat tall in the saddle. Her posture was court-perfect, her riding attire a modern twist on her Sal-Soren colors: tailored red and muted gold, marked with subtle family crestwork and Nabooian detailing at the seams. Her hair was drawn back in formal Naboo coils, though a few strands had rebelliously escaped, fluttering near her cheek like they had ideas of their own.

Today, she wasn’t hiding.
She felt the gaze of all in attendance as she came around to the starting arch, but through all of them she felt one set of eyes in particular, his gaze, not like heat, but like memory. A particular pressure, subtle and unmistakable. Her chin lifted, just slightly.
There he was.
Dominic Praxon. Composed. Regal. Uncomfortably decorative in that high-collared brocade. Seated among nobility with that familiar look of reluctant obligation—and surprise. There had been a rumour he was among the judging panel in the build up to the event. Bastila having it confirmed by one of her lady-maids in the lead up to her ride.
She saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes. That moment where the world tilted half a degree. He hadn’t known she’d be here it would seem.

Good.

The trumpets sounded. The mare tensed beneath her, ears flicking forward.
Bastila kicked off the line like a shot from orbit.
The field opened before her like a story already half-written—soft dirt paths trimmed with flower-wrapped archways, sculpted hedgerows framing the inner circuit, and a course of white-painted jumps arranged like delicate punctuation marks across a sentence only a horse could read. Bastila didn’t blink. She let the breath leave her body slow and deep, her gloved hands steady on the reins.
The mare beneath her was a Naboo-bred Skyturner—fleet, intelligent, and responsive to the lightest command. Bastila gave the subtlest squeeze of her heels, and they began to move.
The field smelled like the last breath you ever wanted to take—sun-warmed clover, fresh hay, a hint of damp stone from the fountains lining the course. The sky above was indecently perfect: clouds idling overhead in courtly shapes, playing castles and empires with your imagination as if the whole day were suspended between dream and memory.

Then came the first jump. Bastila rose slightly in her saddle, heels low, eyes fixed ahead.
They cleared it like a note held in tune.
She did not rush. That wasn’t the nature of the Starlance Tournette. It was not about speed—it was about poise, rhythm, connection. And she had that now. The next jump came on a bend, half-shadowed by the western canopy. She adjusted her approach with a whisper of pressure and the mare responded like breath to lung.
Over they went.
The grandstands breathed with her, murmurs of appreciation rippling along the rows. She caught none of it. Her focus was fixed. Another jump. A double. Then a tight turn and a water element—a shallow gleaming pool with white railings and silk banners fluttering at its edge.

There, the mare hesitated.
Just a moment. A flicker of doubt.

Bastila leaned forward, voice low and steady. “Now.”

The horse surged, and they cleared the water with inches to spare. She landed lightly, the reins flexing under her grip as they continued—seamless, practiced, like a duet composed in real time.
As they passed the final arch, Bastila slowed her pace to a graceful trot, guiding the mare in a wide circle until they came to a halt at the edge of the arena.

She lifted her head and turned toward the judges’ stand.
There was no flush of triumph on her face. Just calm. Purpose. A cool composure that belonged more to a queen than a competitor.
She inclined her head in formal acknowledgment. “It is a privilege to ride in the company of such tradition. House Sal-Soren extends its respect.” she said, voice carrying without force.

The Baroness of House Sovann gave a polite nod, while the Spinnaker attaché pressed his hand briefly to his heart.
Then Bastila looked to the third chair.

Her eyes found Dominic.
There was no smile. No expression of surprise. Only a pause—a deliberate moment long enough to make its presence felt. Her gaze didn’t ask for permission or recognition.
It simply… landed. Like it had always meant to.

​

Dominic Praxon

 

[Dominic Praxon]

He had not expected her.

Dominic sat forward in his seat, as though some part of him had sensed the moment before it arrived. The delicate clink of a polished stirrup. The particular way silence fell just before a great performance. And then—there she was.

The rider at the arch.

Not simply elegant. Architectural.

The slope of her posture, the line of the reins through gloved fingers, the harmony between her and the silver mare—it all landed with the quiet force of a dream remembered too clearly. Her riding colors—deep red and muted gold—caught the light with every movement. Familiar. Painfully familiar.

A storm of recollection curled in his chest like a ribbon pulled too tight.

For a moment, Dominic forgot how to play the part. Forgot the performative elegance expected of him. Forgot the reporter to his left, half-preparing another disarming quip. His gaze tracked her every turn along the Moontrack, and though he made no sound, he felt something inside him echo each jump. A strange synchrony. Not admiration, exactly. Something closer to recognition.

The kind that unsettled.

She was impossible not to watch.

The silver mare—he recognized the breed now, a Skyturner. Rare. Responsive. Not easily won. And yet, Bastila rode as though the mount had been trained solely for her hand. Every motion was poised, unforced. Regal, yet unshowy. Like a line of poetry spoken aloud only once, then forgotten by the wind.

He inhaled deeply, the scent of sun-warmed clover and distant fountains cutting sharp into the memory of her voice, her silences, her refusal to flinch. She was not riding for him, and yet—he could not shake the feeling that he had been invited to bear witness.

He straightened his cuffs, suddenly uncertain of his posture.

As she passed the final arch, her pace slowed. A ceremony in motion. She turned. Lifted her head.

And Dominic’s breath hitched—

“Lord Praxon, a moment, if I may!”

A voice from below the judges' dais. A dignitary or some press affiliate—he didn’t quite register who—leaning over the rail, waving a folded communiqué.

He turned instinctively, that half-beat too slow, gaze pulled away not by interest but by obligation.

“Now?” he asked, blinking. The woman was already gesturing again, the note in hand.

When he looked back up—

She had already turned her eyes away. The moment—whatever it might have been—was past.

Dominic exhaled through his nose. Composed himself. Smiled politely to no one at all.

And suddenly, the collar of his brocade felt impossibly high.

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

The low murmur of the crowd rolled toward the stables in softened waves—laughter, applause, the clink of glasses. Bastila had meant to pause here, just long enough to steady herself, to catch her breath beneath the quiet eaves of the tack house. The scent of oiled leather and crushed grass still clung to her gloves, grounding her in a way the perfume-thick air of the upper courtyards never could.

She reached to unfasten the clasp of one riding glove when a shadow crossed the sun-warmed cobbles.

“I was beginning to worry you’d vanished into mist,” came a smooth voice, cheerful and warm, with just enough polish to suggest he was used to being heard.

She turned to find him already dismounting the low stone step—Alem Quanen. Not a stranger. Bastila had met his father not long ago and she remembered Alem from the Spring Summit gala when she was younger, and the late autumn senate dinner before that. Always in impeccable tailoring. Always with that slightly crooked grin that made his charm seem less practiced, even if she suspected otherwise.

“Lord Quanen,” Bastila greeted, the corners of her mouth lifting in welcome. “You tracked me well.”

He made a modest bow. “A gentleman learns to read hoofprints when the trail is this captivating.”

She gave him a look, half amused, half warning—but not cold. “And what did the prints tell you?”

“That you dismounted without assistance,” he said, offering his arm. “An oversight I hope to remedy.”

She hesitated for only a moment before accepting, gloved hand resting lightly on his offered sleeve. His jacket was dark forest green, offset with subtle bronze embroidery—elegant, understated, the kind of choice that spoke of quiet ambition.

“Your performance was extraordinary,” he said as they began walking up the path, the garden canopy ahead awash in late afternoon gold. “Not just technical, but… poetic. The kind of ride people pretend not to watch too closely, so no one sees how moved they are.”

“That’s generous of you,” she said, her tone gentle but steady. “I just wanted to land each jump.”

“You did,” he said, then added, “and raised expectations in the process.”

She glanced at him sidelong. “That sounds like a complaint.”

“On the contrary,” he said easily, smiling. “I rather like a world in which excellence keeps surprising us.”

They stepped out from the last row of trees that made the run towards the field arena, the main terrace unfolding before them like a painting—a wash of silk gowns, murmuring fountains, and curved balustrades heavy with blooming vine.

“I suspect the judges will still be discussing your ride at dinner,” he continued. “And your family’s likely surrounded by well-wishers.”

“No doubt,” Bastila murmured, if any of them were even here. She had never felt more disconnected from the other Sal-Soren’s then now, when she was closer then she had been for several years. “This part is harder than the course.”

He laughed softly. “If you’d rather vanish again, I can create a distraction. Stage a riding boot disaster. Or fall dramatically into a potted fern.”

She glanced up at him, eyes crinkling with a rare flash of mirth. “That would be a tragic loss to horticulture.”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to settle for escorting you through the lions’ den.” He offered his arm a touch more firmly, not as insistence, but solidarity.

And she let herself lean into it—just enough to acknowledge his presence, not enough to owe him anything.

They stepped into the swirl of garden light and conversation, the formalities waiting like a tide ahead.

Immediately, a trio of older women intercepted them with fluted glasses and head dresses the size of sails.

“My dear,” one cooed, “you rode like a sovereign. The mare—was she from your family’s stables?”

“From the estate, yes,” Bastila replied with a diplomatic nod, the practiced tone of nobility sliding back into her voice like a familiar cloak. “Though most of the credit belongs to her, she is a magnificent animal.”

“Such poise for one so young,” another chimed in. “You reminded me of the late Countess Vevyne—grace under pressure. Even Lord Sierann applauded.”

Alem leaned in just enough to murmur, “They compare you to legends. Be flattered. Or wary.”

“I’m always both,” Bastila said smoothly.

They moved further through the terrace, the crowd parting gently for them. More well-wishers offered nods, lifted glasses, or voiced their approval in passing — “Marvelous form.” “Cleanest arc I’ve seen all season.” “You’ve raised the bar, Lady Sal-Soren.”

She responded to each with the required measure of warmth, though her mind was already drifting ahead. They came to a small rise in the stonework overlooking the Moontrack again — just as the next rider took the field. A younger competitor, all nervous energy and too-tight reins.

Alem paused beside her, gesturing lightly to the field. “Do you think the judges will be forgiving of a shaky landing?”

Bastila made a sound of polite agreement, but her eyes weren’t on the horse.

Across the field, Dominic remained seated with the judges. Still poised, still playing the part. But there was a tightness to his posture now. Not discomfort, exactly—more like constraint. A readiness wound too tightly around formality. She saw the way he tilted his head just slightly when the rider’s horse stumbled, the way he folded his hands a breath too slowly.

And yet he hadn’t looked toward the crowd again. Not since earlier. Not since her.

She should have looked away.

Should have cared more about the young rider on the course or the nobleman standing beside her. But her gaze lingered on Dominic a moment too long, unblinking, quiet.

Alem noticed the silence, glanced toward her. “Distracted?”

She blinked, smiled faintly. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit,” he said, his tone easy, unaware of the currents beneath.

“Sometimes,” Bastila said, her eyes returning to the field just as the rider cleared their final jump. "Sometimes, I find it's the dangerous ones who are the only ones of worth…" She smiled to herself, almost like an inside joke she didn’t fully understand had flashed around in her head.

He chuckled softly, offering his arm again. “Shall we rejoin the lions?”

She took it, her smile polite.

But her gaze — that had already drifted once more, unspoken and unread.

​

Dominic Praxon

 

[Dominic Praxon]

“Eight-point-five,” Dominic said crisply, lifting his elegant silver score placard with an air of mock solemnity.

The Baroness of House Sovann didn't even glance at him. The Spinnaker attaché pursed his lips faintly. Neither had acknowledged his previous score of eleven-point-two, nor his poetic justification for why a rider’s dismount reminded him of an opera overture gone delightfully off-key.

He leaned slightly toward the holocam operator. “Do let the record show I’m judging with my heart, not my head. The latter is far too political.”

There were a few polite chuckles from the press seats.

“Dominic Praxon, ladies and gentlemen,” drawled the event host through the loudspeakers, “here to remind us that tradition is not without its flair.”

He rose from his seat with a subtle bow, excusing himself as a new figure slid into his place—a glittering starlet in silver-pinned curls and a pearl-laced riding bodice. Celene Virell, the face of three holodrama campaigns and one terribly expensive cologne.

“I hope you're not fleeing the moment I arrive,” she teased, sliding into the seat beside him with the sort of practiced elegance only someone filmed doing it knew how to achieve.

“Only because I was warned about your reputation,” Dominic said with a smile that had won him more political endorsements than he'd ever admit. “You have a talent for making men say things they don’t mean.”

“That’s not a talent. That’s chemistry.” Her fingers briefly touched his sleeve in a whisper of fabric and implication.

He laughed—warm, automatic, and just a touch too empty.

“I’m afraid I’ve become far too serious for chemistry.” He gave her a polite nod and stepped away from the judges’ stand, his smile dissolving the moment he was turned.

---

The terrace was awash in silk and murmurs, garden lights spilling amber over flowered balconies and polished stone. Servers passed with glittering flutes and cooled carafes of something that smelled like pear and fortune.

Dominic wandered—not aimlessly, but without destination. His hands clasped behind his back, eyes scanning the crowd with the air of someone avoiding being caught doing either.

A familiar laugh drew his attention.

There, framed in the warm spill of late afternoon, stood Bastila. Her posture immaculate. Her expression measured. And beside her—Alem Quanen.

Dominic recognized him immediately.

Their families had danced the same circuits for years. He knew that walk, that lean, that falsely casual tilt of the head. Charming. Ambitious. The sort of man who spoke in compliments that left no place for rebuttal.

They stood too close to be formal. Not quite intimate, but undeniably comfortable. Bastila’s gloved hand rested lightly on Alem’s arm, her gaze not searching, not restless.

Dominic slowed his steps.

Then stopped altogether.

He watched long enough to know he shouldn’t. And when a passing guest waved him over toward a nearby cluster of officials, he turned with the faintest nod and made for the opposite direction instead.

Not retreating.

Just… choosing another garden path.

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

The garden light held steady in the soft clarity of mid-afternoon, casting bright amber tones across silk gowns and polished marble. Shadows fell in crisp outlines—short, deliberate—as though the day itself refused to fade. Overhead, lanterns remained unlit, their glass panes glinting like quiet sentinels above the heads of nobility and dignitaries. The air was scented with citrus blooms and something spiced and rare, drifting from the long banquet tables under the terraces.

From beyond the carved balustrades came the clear, formal cadence of the race announcer, his voice cutting clean through the murmur of conversation. “Rider twenty-one: Lirae Sovann of House Sovann, on Giltmane, Skyturner lineage, fifth generation—” A pause for applause. Then, with theatrical pride, “—current record-holder of the Eastreach Moonrun.”

There was no music. Only names and numbers, applause and comment, the constant rustle of movement—like courtship folded into ceremony.

Bastila stood beneath a stone arch embroidered in ivy, its climbing vines casting shifting lace shadows that caught in her dark hair. Her expression was perfectly arranged: measured, polite, touched by serenity. The kind of poise that looked effortless but had been built, layer by layer, like lacquer on porcelain. Around her, a ring of courtiers ebbed and flowed, laughter light and compliments practiced.

“You made it look effortless, Lady Soren,” said a man in House Sierann livery, his voice warm with admiration and just enough self-interest. He extended a glass filled with something crystalline and tinged the faintest blue. “I doubt even the judges knew how to score such composure.”

Before she could lift a hand, Alem took the glass with a flicker of a smile, his movement seamless—elegant, calculated, unmistakably possessive. “She’s far too kind to correct you, but the judges certainly knew. I expect a revision of the point system next season.”

A ripple of laughter. The man dipped his head, bowing out with the stiffness of someone who understood the conversation had ended without him.

Bastila glanced sideways at Alem. The corner of his mouth still wore the trace of that smirk—half pride, half performance. She knew what it meant. Every polished gesture was a note in the symphony of display.

He leaned toward her, voice just low enough to avoid the others. “You shouldn’t have to entertain lesser praise. Not when the whole court saw it.”

She met his gaze with a practiced smile—gracious, opaque. “Sometimes I prefer the quiet kinds.”

“You won’t find much of that tonight,” he said, offering his arm again with a flourish. “Though I’ll shield you from the worst of it.”

And in his way, he did. He intercepted would-be suitors with casual charm, deflected invasive questions with practiced wit, and remained close—too close—without ever seeming to demand it. It was deft, effortless. Like someone used to being seen beside something valuable.

And still—

Something shifted.

The air, the moment, the stillness between thoughts.

The Force stirred within her. Not as a warning. Not danger.
A single ripple spreading across an absolutely still lake.

Like being looked at across a quiet room.

Her body responded before she could name it—chin lifting slightly, lashes narrowing against the light as she scanned the crowd with the pretence of idle curiosity. But her thoughts had already aligned toward one fixed point.

Dominic.

He stood just beyond the outer terrace, half-obscured by a trio of dignitaries draped in Commission silks. The light hit him obliquely, catching on the metallic thread of his collar. He was speaking, gesturing lightly with one hand, the other held behind his back. His stance was formal, but his expression—detached, unreadable. Not guarded. Removed.

He had already turned away.

And the ripple of the Force quieted.

Alem’s voice returned like a thread pulled taut. “Still watching the field?”

Bastila blinked, recovering. “Only out of habit, never know what you might find among the battlefield.”

He followed her gaze and, finding nothing noteworthy, gave a pleased little smile. “I’ve found the afterglow of victory suits you even more than the act itself.”

She did not answer.
Because she was no longer listening.

She was thinking of the space he had left behind. The moment he’d chosen not to remain in.
The absence that still managed to hum in her bones and the painful pull in her heart that felt all too familiar to panic.

She let out a soft laugh at something Alem said—just enough to maintain the rhythm—and stepped lightly aside under the guise of admiring a cascading floral display along the balustrade. The motion was seamless, fluid. The sort of shift no one would question. But she was watching. Quietly. Intentionally.

Not for the flowers.

For him.

Dominic’s presence clung at the edge of her perception—less like a signal, more like a magnetic pressure. Not Force-bright like danger, but weighted all the same. Familiar. Inevitable.

Alem returned to her side before she had fully stepped free of his orbit.

“They’ll be bringing out the Aurilian pear tartlets soon,” he said, once again offering his arm. “Unless you’re hoping to be intercepted by more fawning admirers, it might be a good time to change out of your riding outfit and into something more, fitting.”

She rested her fingers against his sleeve, polite but impersonal, her gaze already drifting beyond the hedgerows. The crowd had thickened near the edge of the reflecting pool, where delicate debates about policy masked social positioning. Just past a row of lanterns, she saw him.

Dominic.
Speaking with someone from the Avarell Commission, posture sharp as ever. But this was not performance—it was deflection. His voice, too far to hear, moved with precision. His eyes never strayed.

Not to her.

Still, something in her shoulders pulled straighter. Some part of her, however stubborn, moved toward awareness.

Alem followed her line of sight.

The silence shifted.

And then, quiet—too quiet—he said, “Ah. Of course. The Trozky lineage leaves its mark.”

Bastila turned her head slowly, her expression a mirror held still.

He smiled, but it was tight. Thin. “You’d think their line would’ve fallen out of favor by now. All that righteousness tends to curdle when left in the sun too long. Yet they seem to have their fingers in everyone’s interests enough to stay relevant.”

Nothing in her face changed.

But the air around her did.

“I didn’t realize we were speaking plainly,” she said, tone light but with a subtle undercurrent—like silk hiding a blade.

He tilted his head, a touch too quick. “I’m not sure I follow Lady Bastila?”

“You will,” she replied, voice quiet as pressure. “When you remember your father’s position depends on knowing when not to speak.”

The silence between them hung like a fine thread drawn taut.

And then—calmly, deliberately—Bastila slipped her hand from his arm and turned away, disappearing into the current of conversation and colour. Not toward Dominic.

Not yet.

But now she moved with purpose.

And whether he saw her or not, whether he turned again or continued his path—

She knew where he was.
And in the soft pull of the Force,
she knew, she made sure of it - he would feel it, too.

​

Dominic Praxon

 

[Dominic Praxon]

“Lord Praxon, such eloquence during the scores! That eleven-point-two might start a fashion.”

Dominic smiled faintly at the woman in Avarell Commission blue.
“I believe in scoring with the heart. It’s the only organ still underutilized in government.”

Light laughter. A cluster of advisors took it as an invitation to linger. He let them.

Another approached—a tall man in a high-collared coat, subtle accents of the mining guild around his cuffs.

“Your father once said that satire was the only safe method for speaking truth. You seem to have inherited his timing.”

“Yes, but not his restraint,” Dominic replied smoothly, lifting a flute from a passing tray without spilling a drop. “Though I’ve been assured restraint is optional if you’re charming enough.”

The circle rippled again with amusement, one or two nodding slightly too long.

---

He drifted through the press of conversation, exchanging compliments with polite remove, glancing once toward the terrace where Bastila had stood moments before. The space was empty now—though the ivy remained.

He didn’t hurry.

Instead, he allowed himself to be caught in a conversation about textile tariffs, offering just enough insight to satisfy without revealing how thoroughly he’d read the relevant legislation. A young delegate called him “an unrepentant idealist with a politician’s smirk”. He accepted the title with a shallow bow.

---

But eventually—

He found her.

She stood just beyond the reflecting pool, the crowd thinning at the edges of the lanternlight. Bastila’s silhouette was unmistakable—composed, poised, sharper than the handcarved stone around her. She looked as if she belonged there. As if she'd been carved for the scene and left behind to haunt it.

Alem Quanen had vanished, though the shape of his absence lingered.

Dominic crossed the space between them without fanfare, without rustle. Just presence.

“You’ll forgive me if I’m mistaken,” he said quietly, halting just beside her with the illusion of accidental timing, “but I could’ve sworn I saw Lord Quanen wiping a tear near the pear tarts. Very moving. Almost poetic.”

He didn’t smile, not really. Just let the comment settle, dry as Naboo gin.

“Or perhaps it was a spice allergy. There’s so much pollen in the air tonight.”

He turned to look at her properly then—finally. No pretense. Just a long, slow glance like a memory taking inventory of the present.

“Lady Sal-Soren.”

And with it, the smallest dip of his head. Not performative. Not required.

Simply… meant.

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

The laughter of the day had already begun to sour at the edges. That veiled remark about the Trozky line still lingered like an aftertaste—sharp, metallic, and meant to wound. She’d answered it with clipped elegance, her voice velvet over steel, but the effort had drawn something tight across her chest, a thread pulled a little too far.

She stepped back into the current of the party, letting its warmth consume her like an over-sweet perfume.

Voices swelled around her—bright, brittle, and ravenous.

“Lady Sal-Soren—your second approach through the central gate was masterful. That hesitation before the fourth turn? I nearly wept.”
A senator’s wife, swathed in Serren lace and a shawl heavy with the crests of conquered sectors, smiled as she addressed her.

Bastila returned the compliment with a practiced laugh—light, sincere enough to disarm. “Then I’m grateful you weren’t watching my first attempt.”

“Oh, but we were,” murmured another—some northern cousin of a faded noble line. “I’ve never seen a rider recover so quickly. Tell me, were you truly trained at Lothal’s academy?”

“No,” Bastila replied smoothly. “I simply learned not to fall twice in front of the same audience.”

Laughter rippled through the circle, accompanied by the subtle shift of glances—approval, envy, calculation. She moved through it with the ease of someone long accustomed to navigating curated admiration. Compliments passed like currency. Fragments of old alliances surfaced beneath harmless gossip. A Trade Family representative angled for her opinion on her brother’s rumoured stance regarding the Five Veils Trade Route; she parried with a question about saddle leather and moved on before the angle could sharpen.

But even as she smiled, answered, flowed—


She was no longer in it.


Her body carried her forward while her mind drifted backward—elsewhere. Back to the haze of metal and heat in the pirate enclave. The sickly yellow sky. The scent of rust and fuel clinging to every surface. The subtle weight of the datachip now concealed beneath the hem of her riding boot. The man who had recognized her, lips sealed behind bloodied teeth, eyes wide with something like fear.

No answers. Not yet. The coordinates had been obscure, the coding partial. A trail leading nowhere.

And beneath the leather of her riding gear, beneath the illusion of poise, her bruises still whispered their presence. Yellowing now, fading to green, their ache dulled by time and technique. Artists had done their work well—no shadow marred the sculpt of her cheek, no trace of pain touched her expression. But it was there, deep in the marrow. Echoes of fingers too tight on her jaw. Of a fall she hadn’t quite broken.


She moved almost without knowing it.

The rhythm of the party faded behind her, giving way to a hush of water and wind.

At the edge of the garden, the reflecting pool awaited—serene, silvered, untouched by the swirl of politics and performance. Lanterns shimmered above it, casting golden ripples across the water’s surface, which in turn shimmered with her own distorted image.

Not the diplomat’s smile.

Not the Jedi discipline.

Just the echo of a woman strung between the weight of purpose and the ache of not knowing.

She drew a slow breath.

Closed her eyes.

Let it go.


And when the breeze shifted—carrying something subtle, something other—she didn’t move.

The night around her was hushed, the last murmurs of the party softened by distance. Somewhere in the background, crystal laughter fractured on marble. But here, everything slowed. Here, the moment bent.

And then—


His voice.


It landed behind her like a ripple across still water. Not loud. Not insistent. Just… present. As if it had always meant to find her here, at this exact hour, across this precise stretch of polished stone and quiet reflection.

Her pulse betrayed her. A jolt beneath her skin, small but unmistakable.

She turned—slowly, deliberately. Like it was nothing. Like it was everything.

And when her gaze found him—when his silhouette clarified through the lanternlight’s interruption—she answered the tilt of his head with a single word. Not a greeting. A recognition.

“Dominic.”

No title. No smile.

Just the truth of it.

The syllables felt strangely unfamiliar on her tongue. As though she’d said them before—once, but not in this lifetime. A name laid gently across the air, satin-wrapped and softly offered, like something returned rather than spoken.


The moment held.


Then—

“Tragic,” she said lightly, picking up the thread of his previous remark with a precision that bordered on art, “to be undone by a fruit course. Though in Lord Quanen’s case, I suspect it was the fragrance of personal defeat. He’s terribly allergic to not being the most interesting man in the room.”

Her mouth curved. Slowly. Deliberately. It could have passed for amusement. But underneath—

Something softer.

Brighter.

Almost unguarded.


She tilted her head again, this time with the languid grace of someone assessing a puzzle she already knew the solution to. “Did the Avarell woman recover from your scoring philosophy, or must she be peeled from the balcony with care?”

The tone was playful. Controlled. But even she could feel the tension threading through it—tight and humming beneath her skin.


The force of him was real.

Present in the air between them, like static before a storm.


Her gaze dipped—taking in the fine lines of his coat, the precision of the stitchwork near his cuff. And then, with a motion as light as breath, she reached out. Two fingers brushing his sleeve. A gentle, deliberate tug.

“Gold thread?” she murmured, as if testing the truth more than the texture. “Bold choice, Dominic.”

Her hand fell away before the touch could linger. But the sensation of it—the connection—remained.


She stepped half a pace back. Reclaimed her posture. Composed herself in the space between breath and wit.

Her eyes flicked once toward the party—the blurred motion of dancers, the laughter from the upper terrace—before returning to him.

And yet, though her body was poised and every word precisely chosen, her chest told a different story. There was something moving inside her—quiet but unstoppable. Not stillness, but a tide turning.


And at the center of it—

He stood. Calm. Certain. Unaware, perhaps, of the gravity he’d placed in motion.


Or maybe not.

Maybe, just maybe, he’d felt it too.

"So what brings you out here tonight Dominic," She locked her eyes with his and did not move them, knowing that his wouldn't move either. "What more of m y reality do you seek for me promise for you tonight?"

​

Dominic Praxon

 

[Dominic Praxon]

She said his name like it was a memory misplaced, then found again in perfect condition.

He blinked once—slowly. A breath neither shallow nor deep. And the night rearranged itself.

“You’ll forgive the gold thread then,” he murmured, voice smooth, though not entirely steady. “It seemed safer than declaring my intentions in rhyme.”

He offered a tilt of his head, just enough to acknowledge the sting and the humor coiled beneath her remark. Her touch on his sleeve still lingered like heat after light. Gone, but not unnoticed.

“As for the Avarell woman,” he went on, reclaiming the banter with a flicker of dry amusement, “she’s been safely removed from the balcony. The upholstery, however, may never recover.”

He let the pause that followed hang lightly—measured, almost delicate.

Truthfully, it wasn’t the flirtation that caught him off-guard. He knew the rhythm of this kind of exchange. Knew how to dance around compliments like they were court gossip or fencing parries.

It was the way she looked at him. Like she saw through the corners of things. Like she measured truths instead of performances. And somehow still expected both.

Her gaze was not cruel. Not cold. But it had the weight of someone who had endured, not simply arrived. It stirred something beneath the surface of him—not panic, not even discomfort, but the faintest note of… caution.

Not for her. But for himself.

He could be charming for hours. But he wasn’t sure that would be enough here. And somehow, she made that thought almost appealing.

“You ask what I’m seeking,” he said at last, eyes still fixed to hers, “and I’d answer—politely, of course—that I only came for the tartlets.”

His smile faltered momentarily.

“But I think we’ve both been at this long enough to admit we don’t arrive at garden edges by accident.”

He watched her—closely, carefully—but with no pressure behind it. He didn’t move closer. He didn’t look away.

Just stood where she had drawn him. And waited to see if she would leave the door open.

“So tell me, Lady Bastila—”

A softness entered his voice then. Still dry, still amused, but… quieter somehow. Like he was laying down a mask just far enough for her to notice.

“What do you offer the bold, foolish men who follow you out into the quiet?”

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

A curl of wind moved through the garden, brushing against the fitted lines of her riding coat, tugging loose a strand of dark hair that had slipped its braid. The scent of chamfered stone and blooming citrus lingered in the air. Somewhere beyond the hedges, laughter still rang out—sharp, golden, irrelevant.

Bastila watched the ripples in the reflecting pool. One of the lanterns flickered, and her reflection fractured—no longer a whole, but a scattering of lines and light.
Not the diplomat. Not the warrior. Not the mask.
Just the bruises—still healing, artfully hidden by masters who knew how to make a face look unblemished, even when the soul beneath it was anything but.

“Don’t apologize for the thread,” she said, voice low and stained with positive humour. “My brother is the dotting romantic one, declaring your intentions in rhyme would’ve forced me to walk directly into the pond, and I still don’t know if I can swim or not. I’m sure you don’t need an excuse to rescue me though.”

Her mouth curved—faint, unforced. It didn’t quite reach her eyes. But it came close.


“That poor, poor woman,” Bastila said, lifting a brow with careful mock solemnity, “I wish her swift healing. Though in fairness, the upholstery should’ve known better. It’s what you get for picking word fights with someone in Golden thread.” There was almost a laugh, just on the side of mocking. “A Fatal mistake, especially in this high society.”


She stepped slightly to the side—not toward him, not away. Just into his orbit a fraction more. The soft leather of her boots scuffed gently against the garden’s stone path. Her shoulders were still held in disciplined ease, but the tension hummed beneath—not from him. From what he saw.

Because he looked at her like she was whole.
Like she wasn’t just another Sal-Soren to entertain and have on your side,

Like she wasn’t a cheap and easy version of trying to gain the affections of the busier older members of her family.
Like she was just her, Bastila, the young almost princess from a noble house nearly ruined by grief.

And because part of her wanted to believe it.

“You came for the tartlets?” she echoed, voice edged with something wistful. “Of course. We’re all drawn by hunger, eventually. Although personally they are not my chosen final course.”

Her gaze lingered.

He’d said it wasn’t an accident—this place, this hour.
And she’d known it too, before he said it.
Some echo of alignment still vibrating faintly in her chest.

Fate.
Or maybe something adjacent.

“I think you’re right,” she said finally. “Usually I prefer the exit rather then the edge of a garden, but something told me if I look into this pool for long enough I’d see something that would make sense of it all. So yes, I didn't come to this garden edge by accident.”

Her voice thinned at the end—less a retreat than a confession spoken into the dark.

And then, like a full stop on the situation, he asked what she offered.

What she gave to those foolish enough to follow her out into the quiet.

She gave him the first answer, because it was the only honest one.
But she gave him the rest because he’d asked with something that almost resembled reverence.

“Nothing, those poor foolish men chase me because I am the sister to Jedi Masters and political personalities.” she had said. Her gaze found his again, and this time, something shifted behind her eyes. A glint of play where iron had lived just moments before. That disarming edge of hers—the smile that looked like it had once belonged to someone less guarded.

“But the bold, golden-threaded senator…”

A beat.

“Witless devotion. Unasked-for honesty. A touch of exasperation, certainly. Possibly pears. Never the last one though.” She let it hang again, this time with intent. “Because that bold, golden-threaded senator, I think those damn eyes see through all that.”

The smallest tilt of her head followed—one that might have passed for coy in another context, if not for the sincerity braided through the dry humor.

“And you, Dominic,” she asked, softer now, her voice threading through the lantern light like the beginning of a story, “what does the bold, golden-threaded senator want with the throw away quiet girl from the estate down the way, who defends the rights of fruit and can ride the moonpath at an eleven point two average?”

She didn’t smile this time.

She didn’t need to.

Dominic Praxon

​

 

[Dominic Praxon]

He didn't speak right away.

Instead, Dominic moved slowly, deliberately, stepping away from her side just enough to begin a gentle arc around the fountain's edge. The lanternlight caught on the ripple of his sleeve, the faint glint of the infamous golden thread.

As he walked, he repeated her words—quietly. Not mocking. Not rehearsed.

Just tasting them.

"The bold, golden-threaded senator…"
A pause.

"Witless devotion. Unasked-for honesty. A touch of exasperation. Possibly pears…"

His head turned slightly, his profile lit in fractured reflections from the water.
"Never the last one, though."

He stopped near a sculpted fig tree at the far curve of the pool, one hand absently brushing the leaves as if steadying himself on something alive.

"It's quite an offer."

The words were gentle. Measured. They held no arrogance—but they did carry the weight of someone who knew exactly what had just been placed in his hands, even if she had wrapped it in silk and cleverness.

"All that for someone not yet a senator." A glance over his shoulder. "Though I appreciate the promotion."

He smiled faintly, but it didn't quite linger.

"You do know I haven't earned that title yet, yes?" His tone was lighter now—almost teasing. "Still under review. Probation, perhaps. There are committees involved. Likely a betting pool."

The quiet between them stretched, and when he turned to face her again, the humor didn't vanish—it just softened at the edges.

"And you—"

He stepped closer now. Not too close. Just enough to make his presence felt again.

"—are speaking like a woman who's already made a decision about someone she should be far more cautious with."

There it was. The smallest admission. Not of fear, but of awe—unease at being wanted so clearly by someone who, by all measures, should know better.

"I'm not my brother," he added quietly. "And I don't have the luxury of being uncomplicated."

His smile spoke for a lifetime.

"But I'm here. And I'm listening."

He looked at her—not past her, not around her, but at her. Like he was trying to memorize her not for memory's sake, but to know how to move forward with care.

"And you—"

His gaze grew weery.

"—are speaking like a woman who has made up her mind about someone she ought, perhaps, to view with a touch more skepticism."

His hand slipped casually into his coat pocket, fingers brushing the cool edge of a small, time-worn trinket. He didn't draw it out. Just held it there—for memory, not display.

His gaze drifted to the surface of the reflecting pool.

"I have known what it is to be caught in the gravity of affection," he said at length, voice quieter now. "But there is a kind of affection that offers less haven...more event horizon—and I fear I learned its contours the long way down."

He turned to her again, studied, but not unkind.

"So speak plainly, if you would." A pause. The faintest upward quirk of his brow. "Young Bastila."

The use of her name was gentle, but edged with irony—tender, and faintly teasing.

"Is this a kindness you offer me… or a jest? A courtly amusement for the evening, one of those delicate diversions which ends in laughter and leaves the poor fool wondering where, precisely, the joke began?"

A breath, barely visible.

"Because if so, I admit I am poorly suited to play the part—and far worse still at pretending I do not wish to."

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

A hush gathered around the garden like a held breath.
The lanterns flickered, flame caught in the whisper of wind, and the ripples across the reflecting pool danced in broken light. Somewhere beyond the hedgerow, laughter still curled upward—frivolous, distant, as if from a world that had long ago ceased to matter.

Bastila didn’t move. Not when he looked at her like that. Not when his voice wrapped around the truth so carefully, like it was something fragile that might shatter if spoken plain.
Her fingers brushed the edge of her sleeve, anchoring herself to the soft wool and tight seams, like stitching could remind her where her skin ended and someone else’s perception began.

And then—her chin lifted.
Not in grace. In challenge.
There was offense in his words, and she was sure he was used to that being the last line spoken—used to others bowing their heads and walking away without another word.
Not Bastila though. She couldn’t, even if she wanted to—the shattering reality around her blooming into a migraine that settled, hot and cruel, at the base of her skull.

“And you speak,” she said, low and even, with measured stillness, “like a man who believes affection is only survivable if kept behind glass. Wrapped in metaphor. Distant enough not to touch.” Her voice was soft, but it carried. Like steel warmed by fire. “Like if you dress it up in astronomy and irony, it might not burn quite so deep when it sinks its teeth in again.”

The words landed between them with a quiet, bitter finality.
And she didn’t let him look away.

“I understand that. I do. But don’t mistake me for something gentle just because I came dressed in wit and an apparent good breeding.” She stepped forward, boots whispering across the flagstones, steady as a promise. The lantern light caught the faintest gleam beneath her collarbone—an old scar, half-concealed by the edge of her braid. Her voice, when it came again, was closer now. More dangerous for how level it remained. “I’m not a kindness wrapped in courtly pretence, Dominic. You have no idea how wrong you are.”

Her breath clouded faintly in the cooler air. She didn’t flinch from it.

“I didn’t come to this garden to be charming. I didn’t say those things to amuse you.” She stared at him, those eyes of intense brown sharp as they refused him the chance to look away. “I said them because they were true. And because saying them made my hands shake.”

There was a tremor in her now, carefully buried beneath posture and poise. But it was there—like the last quake before a dam gives way.

“I’ve spent my whole life being placed—on a pedestal, in a corner, beside the louder names in the family ledger. A role to be filled. A shadow to be pleasant in.” Her throat moved as she swallowed. “And then you looked at me like I was something whole. Not a fragment. Not a name. Not a negotiation. Something worth your attention.” She blinked, slowly, like she might will herself not to feel it too fully. “And I didn’t know how much I needed that until you offered it.”

The light caught in her eyes now—too bright for indifference. Too steady for cowardice.

“You think I’m not skeptical?” she asked, and this time the sarcasm coiled beneath her words like a drawn bowstring. “Do you truly think you’re the only one to know what it means to be wanted only in proximity to power?” Her jaw tightened. Her hands had curled slightly, unthinking, at her sides. “Do you think I don’t watch every word, every step, every affection offered to me as if it’s another angle in someone’s game?”

The air between them was taut now—less romantic, more charged.
“I know exactly who you are. I know what your name costs. I know you’re not your brother, just as I am not my sister. I see the weight you wear when no one’s looking.” She let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh—except it wasn’t light enough.

“And I still meant every word.”

She moved again—just enough to bring her shoulder in line with his. Their reflections in the pool shimmered together now, fractured in the same broken lines.

“I’m not here offering purity. Or rescue. Or some tender fantasy you can wrap in silk and tuck away when the war gets loud again." Her voice was quieter now. But it cut sharper for it. “I’m here because I want something I didn’t think I was ever allowed to want. And I’m too damn tired to pretend otherwise.”

Her eyes found his, and this time she didn’t shield a single thing.

“No, Dominic. This isn’t a kindness. And it damn sure isn’t a jest.” She reached up—fingers brushing the strand of hair that had fallen loose, as if trying to reclaim some order from the night’s unraveling. “It’s just me.” And for once, there was no defense in her at all. “I just can’t resist being caught in the orbit of a Golden threaded Aide, and while I don’t know if it leads to an event horizon, all I know is I’d burn—gladly—just to give you the chance to see.”

Just Bastila. Standing still. And staying.

​

Dominic Praxon​

 

[Dominic Praxon]

Dominic stood in the stillness Bastila had created with her truth and let it swallow him. Her words—the fury, the clarity, the admission—had settled in his chest like a star gone nova. His usual wit failed him. His posture held, but just barely.

She had stepped toward him like conviction made flesh, and something in him—something usually immune to tremors—quaked.

He reached out without ceremony.

Fingers brushed the edge of her braid and stopped just at her jaw. His thumb hovered near the line of her cheek, so close to touching that the space between might as well have been a kiss.

He saw the faint gleam of a scar beneath her collarbone, half-obscured by the fall of her hair. His expression shifted—something quiet, something pained. “How many wounds do you carry beneath the polish?” he asked softly. “And do you think I’m a salve?”

The words weren’t meant to wound, only to warn. But his hand remained at her face.

“You stand before me like a supernova returned to mortal form. Not some wistful memory of a curiously strong-willed sibling of childhood friends, but something alive. A fire—reckless, brilliant, blinding.” His voice dipped lower. “And if I draw you to my chest, Bastila… I know I will burn.”

There was reverence in the admission. No attempt to hide it.

“You are not simply my equal. You are my mirror. My measure. You unsettle me because you do not demand to be chased—you demand to be known.”

His hand fell away—slowly. Not cold, not withdrawn. Just… mourning the contact before it had fully formed.

“That you would offer affection to me…” He laughed once, breathless and barely amused. “It should make me bloom. And it does.”

His eyes lowered for the briefest second. When they lifted again, they were clearer. Sharper. “But it also unmoors me.”

He stepped back half a pace. Not rejection—merely instinct. Like a man remembering there was still an audience, even if the hedgerows held their breath.

“You see, Bastila… I am not yet a senator. But I am expected to become one.” The words tasted like iron. “And on Naboo, the vote is not the only throne. We are a democracy—yes—but one gilded with courtly obligation. Favor, image, bloodlines… and eligibility.”

He said it plainly. No pride. No flinch. “My name is worth more unclaimed.” There it was. The crack in the marble.

“If we are to play this game—this dance of affection—then it must be guided. Measured. Enough to feed the tabloids, perhaps. But not enough to cost me the power they expect me to seize.”

He looked at her again, full in the face. And this time, he said nothing. Just stood there, soul half-open, trembling on the edge of wanting. On the edge of kissing her. And not moving.

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

For one simple, quiet moment, Bastila stood entirely still.

Not from shock—she had known what he might say. She understood the elegance of restraint, the cold arithmetic of politics. But hearing it, spoken with such raw honesty and sorrow, struck deeper than she expected. Her breath caught—not from pain, but from the ache of recognition.

This was not cowardice.
It was sacrifice.

“How many wounds?” she echoed. “Enough to make me clever. Cautious. Angry.”
If only he knew the truth of them—how few were flesh, and how many lived deeper.

She recoiled. A subtle shift—just the draw of her shoulders, the faintest backward sway, like a warrior assessing the edge of a blade they hadn’t seen, but knew was there. But her eyes never left his.

“I understand,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “More than you’ll ever know.”

She stepped forward—not tentative this time, but with the force of decision. One hand rose to cup his jaw, the other slid behind his neck, fingers threading through the dark strands of his hair. She rose to her toes—her lack of height to his suddenly, sharply apparent.

Then she kissed him—
not gently, not sweetly. Fierce and deliberate, the kind of kiss that carved itself into memory.
The kind that didn’t ask permission.
It promised consequences.

And the Force—oh, the Force—did not merely stir.
It swelled, vast and unstoppable, like breath drawn before a great storm.
What had been ripples turned to waves. What had been restrained now surged,
as if the galaxy itself had exhaled—and fate had been rewritten in that breath.

Stars shifted. Currents bent.
A line was crossed that could never be uncrossed.
The kiss was not just heat—it was a convergence, a collision of power, purpose, and prophecy.

From this point on, the world would not return to what it was.

It had already begun to change.

When she broke away, she rested her forehead against his chin, her breath uneven. The storm in her eyes hadn’t dimmed—it had only stilled, gathered into something focused. Fateful.

“We both know what this game demands,” she said, voice low, steady—like thunder waiting behind the hills. “And if we are to abide by your reality, then promise me—right here, right now—that you will become the most powerful, most unshakable senator this galaxy has ever seen.”

Her hand trailed down the front of his chest, brushing over the fine lines of his jacket, then paused—flat over his heart.

“Because I will not be your liability, Dominic. I will be your storm surge. The weapon you sheath in daylight and draw in the dark. The name they dare not speak aloud, because they all know it’s the reason you win.” Her thumb pressed into his breastbone, just over the beat that had betrayed him. “They’ll see us and call it spectacle. Elegance. Let them. You will be you, and I will be me. Let them believe we’re poised performance.”

She leaned in, eyes flashing.

“And beneath it, we will be fire and blood.”

Her eyes shone—not with tears, but with conviction.

“I pledge myself to you, Dominic. Not as a partner to be displayed. Not as a conquest to be claimed.
But as the only soul who sees you—all of you—and still dares to burn for it.”

She took his hand and lifted it between them, pressing it to her sternum, just above the gleam of the old scar.

“This heart is yours,” she said. “Even if the name it wears must belong to something else. Even if the galaxy never knows.”

A silence fell—deep, sacred. Not empty, but full of every truth that could never be spoken aloud. Every touch they would have to make look accidental. Every glance they’d have to layer with meaning only they understood.

Her breath brushed his cheek. Then:

“We were never meant for simplicity, Dominic.”

She leaned in once more, lips grazing the hollow beneath his ear—no plea, no question. Only fire, and finality.

“And if we must be a tragedy… then let it be the kind they write songs about.”

​

Dominic Praxon​

 

[Dominic Praxon]

He didn’t resist. How could he?

The moment her lips found his, the entire world narrowed to a singular, searing point of contact. All the reasons not to—his caution, his calculations, his perfectly staged future—dissolved into heat. Into motion. Into her.

Her kiss was fire. Not a question. A conquest.

His mind screamed protest, tried to anchor him in the reality they’d both just acknowledged. Tried to remind him that she was nineteen, maybe—barely old enough to have learned the fine art of devastation she’d just employed so effortlessly. That he was a man expected to lead. That desire, in his hands, must always be weighed against reputation. Optics. Consequence.

But his body betrayed him.

His hand rose—drawn to her waist, her spine, the certainty in her. He kissed her back. Fully. Desperately. Like someone who had just remembered how badly he wanted to feel something ungoverned.

And yet—even in the fervor, some part of him—buried deeper—was recoiling.

Not from her. From the velocity. How had they reached this so quickly? How had she drawn him from courtly banter to storm-borne devotion in a single night?

When she broke away, he staggered half a step, stunned. His breath trembled, but not from effort. From confusion. From awe. And then she spoke.

Line after line. Pledge after pledge. Declarations that rang like thunder in the hollowed cathedral of his chest. He should’ve been overwhelmed by it—inspired. But what he felt... was cornered. Pinned beneath the weight of her certainty.

“I will be your storm surge.”
“This heart is yours.”
“Even if the name it wears must belong to something else.”

It was too much. Too fast. Too true.

And then—A cough. A giggle. Somewhere behind the hedgerow, a cluster of young nobles, parasols tilted and champagne bubbling in hand, passed along the edge of the reflecting pool.

One of them whispered—too loud to be polite. “Is that Sal-Soren girl still chasing Trozky?”

Laughter followed. Harmless. Cutting. The spell shattered.

Dominic blinked—eyes narrowing ever so slightly. The hand that had been at her waist fell away. He straightened. Smoothed his coat. A muscle in his jaw ticked, subtle but real. And when he looked back at Bastila, the heat had not vanished—but it had been bridled. Reined in. Redressed.

He did not speak. Not right away. Not to meet her words with equal weight. Because he couldn’t. Not yet. Not with the world already peering through the lattice. Not with her standing there like prophecy wrapped in rebellion. Not when he was still trying to catch his breath and decide whether what had just happened was a beginning... or the first crack in a carefully constructed future.

So instead, he offered the faintest nod.

Polite. Poised.

Terrified.

And said only, “We should return.”

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

He said nothing.

Not truly. Just a nod. A gentleman’s evasion—polite as it was cruel—as if she hadn’t just placed her heart in his hands and dared him to hold it.

Bastila didn’t move. For a breathless beat, she simply stood there—caught between the memory of his kiss and the echoing void that followed it. Her hand, still half-lifted from pressing against his chest, fell slowly to her side. Fingers curled once. Then stilled.

He kissed you back, something inside her murmured. That was real.

Yes. But so was the silence after.

And then she heard them.

The others.

A ripple of laughter—delicate, affected, vicious in the way only the well-bred could manage. The rustle of fabric. The click of heels. Shadows drifting just beyond the hedge like specters of a life she was born into, but never truly belonged to.

“Is that Sal-Soren girl still chasing Trozky?”

The name hung in the air like perfume—sweet, cloying, and utterly weaponised.

Her blood cooled instantly. Not from shame, but from understanding.

That was the game. That had always been the game. And Dominic—Dominic, with all his brilliance and beauty and boundaries—was still playing it. She had stormed the board with fire and prophecy, and he had answered with a nod, a coat smoothing, a step away.

Not because he didn’t feel it.
But because he had something to lose.

And she... didn’t.

Not like him.

Her entire life—this life—had been handed to her on the backs of others’ labor. It wasn’t the part she’d fought for. Not the part that had ever felt truly hers.

The realization didn’t shatter her. It anchored her.

This wasn’t rejection. It was recognition. Of timing. Of roles. Of the rules she’d broken.

She had moved too quickly. Too honestly. For a man still standing in the spotlight.

So she swallowed the sting. Pressed it down beneath layers of training, of pride, of steel-spined composure that had been drilled into her long before she ever knew what it meant to love something she couldn’t have.

Her spine straightened. Her breath evened. Her gaze slid, unhurried, toward the garden path where murmurs already spread like ivy.

She turned to him—not cold, not wounded, but changed. Shifted. Like a storm cloud learning how to pass over without breaking.

“You’re right,” she said, voice low but clear, with not a trace of the ache that still pulsed beneath her ribs. “We should return.”

A beat. A ghost of something like humor. Then she stepped forward, matching his posture, his poise. Her hand brushed the sleeve of his coat—accidentally, of course—and she gave him a look so composed, so perfectly polished, it might have passed for indifference.

She gave a sudden, very out of place giggle, “Your opinion on the matter is always... fascinating, Master Trozky.” she offered, her arm presented for him to lead, like would be expected.

She didn’t wait for him to catch up. She turned and began a slow, unhurried stroll back toward the path. When he fell in step beside her, she tilted her head slightly, as if commenting on the weather.

“Tell me,” she said smoothly, “ While you escort me back, what’s your read on the Five Veils Trade Route situation? I’ve heard whispers of an emergency assembly last week. The Outer delegates are angling for leverage, from what I was told—but if the new envoy from Rendili gets his seat, they’re saying the entire bloc may have to be revised.”

Not a flicker of heat remained in her tone. No trace of the vow she had offered just moments ago.

Just Bastila—cool, clear-eyed, and utterly composed.

​

Dominic Praxon​

 

[Dominic Praxon]

Dominic had composed himself. At least outwardly.

The garden, so recently alight with force and confession, had returned to civility. A path stretched ahead—lit by lanterns, paved in symmetry—and beside him walked a woman who had, not moments ago, declared herself a storm willing to burn for him.

And now she was speaking of trade routes.

Flawlessly.

As though the world had never tilted.

He answered her questions—measured, informed, with the elegant cadence expected of a man being watched. He discussed the Rendili envoy’s potential influence with a steady voice, nodded as she offered her own assessment, even laughed, softly, when her phrasing turned just sharp enough to remind him of what still shimmered beneath her composure.

But inwardly, his thoughts were less ordered.

He remembered the feel of her kiss. The certainty of it. The unflinching will with which she’d stepped toward him. Not naive—never naive—but young. Younger than him in years, yes, but older in grief, in scars, in the fire she had shown him and asked him, without shame, to carry.

He’d known many beautiful women. He’d danced with charm, and wit, and grace. But never—never—had someone looked at him the way Bastila had. Like he was not a goal, or a prize, or a stepping stone. But a man. Fractured and whole. Worthy because of his flaws.

And still—He said nothing. Because saying something would mean saying everything. And he could not afford everything. Not yet.

As they neared the turn where the garden met the upper promenade—where the courtiers and dignitaries clustered once more beneath the awnings of ceremony—he slowed.

The mask returned, so easily it pained him. He turned toward her, offered his arm in the full Nabooian tradition, as if they were no more than acquaintances sharing a moment’s polite diversion.

“I believe we’ve given them enough to talk about,” he murmured, with a faint smile that almost—but not quite—reached his eyes.

He walked her to the threshold. Where the real world began again. Where titles whispered louder than truth, and appearances sealed futures. There, he paused.

“Lady Bastila,” he said softly, just as she stepped away, “you remain… endlessly surprising.”

No vow. No echo of her pledge. Just that. It was all he could give.

He waited. Just a moment. Just long enough.

Then he turned to go. But—

—he looked back. Once. Over his shoulder.

And in that final glance, in the soft curve of his brow and the stillness in his eyes, lived a truth he had not spoken: That he was already mourning the version of his life that had included her.

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

Music for the Hearted​

She let him walk her to the threshold.

Gracefully. Wordlessly. Her steps matched his in poise, but not in ease. One hand rested lightly against her side—an unconscious gesture, as if still holding herself together where something inside had tried to tear free. The place where his presence still echoed. Where his silence had landed.

A warm breeze moved through the garden, stirring the hem of hertunic and lifting strands of her dark hair across her cheek. She did not brush them away. The lanterns swayed above them, casting flickers of gold and shadow across their path, as though the night itself could not decide what version of them to believe in.

The air between them had changed. Grown still, tight with what was not being said.

She accepted his arm in perfect form—elbow to elbow, a practiced gesture of Nabooian courtesy. But his hand barely grazed hers. No pressure. No claim. The warmth of it was distant now, like heat remembered from a fire long extinguished.

She didn’t press. Didn’t falter.

But beneath the calm veneer, she burned.

Her pulse still thundered from the kiss—Force, from him, from the look in his eyes when she’d laid herself bare. Not desperate. Not uncertain. Certain. She had shown him her fury, her will, her truth. Not wrapped in pleasantries or performance, but raw and real.

And now—now he wore the mask again. So seamless, it almost might have fooled her.

But not quite.

They neared the line where garden gave way to grandeur—the arch of carved stone and velvet awnings, beyond which courtiers gathered like glittering insects around the light of politics and power. The music had returned. So had the eyes.

He slowed.

She turned with him, chin lifting, shoulders squared. The posture of a lady, a warrior, and something in between.

And then—he gave his pleasantries and she felt the farewell laced into his tone.

Her lips curved before he could speak. Not sweetly. Not cruelly. But with a spark. The quiet, knowing mischief of someone who had already won something deeper than words could name.

“Dominic.” she said in response.

Just that.

Polite. Perfect. But with the edge of playfulness that curled like a ribbon through the air between them. Her smile held him there—just long enough to wrangle him back from the precipice of whatever mask he thought he had slipped on.

Then she stepped back, eyes steady, letting him go.

And when he turned to leave—when he looked back, just once, as though the weight of her might still anchor him—she caught his eye.

Met it.

Held it.

And then she turned.

No farewell.
No title.
No bow.

Her stride was sure, unhurried. The leather of her riding boots whispered with each step, her silhouette carving a path back into the night, toward the garden's deeper shadows—toward the woman she had become when no one else was looking.

And she did not look back.

Because she did not need to.

​

Dominic Praxon​