Prince of Parrlay
Prologue: The Scent of Treason
The scent of pressed silk and war hung heavy in the parlor of House Veruna.
The shutters of the high windows were drawn against the midmorning sun, casting Remus Veruna's office in a perpetual half-gloom that smelled of old wine and veiled threats. Aurelian stood just inside the arched threshold, half lit like a character in an unfinished painting, hands behind his back, posture textbook-perfect.
Across from him, in a high-backed chair carved from wood and upholstered in hide, Remus Veruna sat with the ease of someone who thought the galaxy owed him interest. And beside him, in shadow, still and silent, was the Noghri. It didn't breathe. Or maybe it did, but too quietly to register. Its claws tapped faintly against the polished stone floor, a metronome counting down the minutes of someone else's life.
"You summoned me," Aurelian said dryly, breaking the stillness. "I assumed it wasn't to discuss the grape yields."
Remus didn't look up. He was reading from a datapad, or pretending to. "You waste my time, boy. Do you think your little parlor tricks in the Assembly make you useful to me?"
Aurelian gave a small, theatrical bow. "I've been known to dazzle. It's a curse."
Remus finally looked up. "You're a moron in a soldier's boots. You play diplomat because you lack the spine to be a king."
The words landed with the quiet sting Aurelian had grown used to. They didn't hurt anymore. Not really. Like needle pricks from a physician who never healed anything.
"Ah," Aurelian said, strolling closer, "and this is your prescription, then?" He nodded toward the Noghri, who still hadn't blinked. "What is this, diplomatic outreach? Or is the plan to improve Naboo's standing in the High Republic by murdering your political competition in their sleep?"
"She's not competition," Remus growled. "She's an Abrantes."
"That wasn't always disqualifying."
"It is now." Remus rose, fingers clenched around the datapad. "She's young, idealistic, soft. The High Republic will devour her and sh*t out her bones. And I will not have that weakness representing us."
"You'd rather send your pet blade-beast after her than beat her in the Assembly?" Aurelian scoffed. "How traditional. Remind me, do we poison the wine at her coronation feast too, or has that gone out of fashion?"
"You think this is a game?" Remus slammed the datapad on the desk. "You think you're safe because you charm the peasants and preen before senators. You are a disappointment carved in velvet. If I'd known how you'd turn out, I would've invested in a son with less eyeliner and more ambition."
Aurelian blinked, slow and unbothered. "If you wanted a blunt instrument, Father, you should've forged one. You don't ask a scalpel to bludgeon."
The Noghri shifted, just barely, and both men paused.
It was a reminder. A punctuation.
"I won't be party to this," Aurelian said at last, quietly. "Assassination is the last refuge of men who cannot win the room. Sibylla Abrantes might be young, but she isn't blind. She's made moves. Smart ones. She has a coalition, she has presence, and Shiraya help me, I think she might actually care."
"You admire her," Remus sneered.
"I think she's playing the same game we are," Aurelian replied. "And unlike you, she doesn't seem to need a monster in the shadows to win."
The air between them stilled again. Remus said nothing. The Noghri tilted its head, slow and strange, and Aurelian wondered, not for the first time, what scent it was following. Bloodline, perhaps. The rot in his own.
"You will do as you're told," Remus said at last. "Or you will be discarded like all the other relics in this house."
Aurelian looked at the Noghri, then at his father.
And smiled.
Then turned and walked away, leaving the predator and the patriarch alone in their darkness.
If Sibylla Ynez Abrantes was going to die, it would not be by his hand.
Not yet.
---
Act I - The Smell of Lightning and Filth
The prison beneath Parrlay was not designed for the delicate sensibilities of nobility. Which, naturally, is why Aurelian enjoyed visiting.
It reeked of ozone, recycled air, and desperation, the kind that clung to the walls like old paint. The durasteel corridors buzzed with flickering lightpanels, and every footstep echoed like a challenge. It was the kind of place where ambition got shanked for looking someone in the eye. And yet, here he was, in tailored black, coat swishing behind him like some melodramatic specter of privilege.
His boots clicked slowly down the corridor. Guards watched from their posts, very politely pretending not to be uncomfortable. They always did when a Veruna descended the stairs. Legacy had a certain gravity to it. Especially when it wore perfume.
Aurelian stopped. Turned. Surveyed the cellblock like a connoisseur at an art gallery of wasted potential.
"No," he said to himself, pausing in front of one cage that held a bruised Weequay. "Too punchy. Definitely smells like he eats raw meat."
Another cell. "Nope. Eyes too twitchy. Don't need a sabacc cheat who can't bluff."
He stopped again.
And there, leaning against the far wall of his cell like the whole world bored him senseless, was a Kiffar.
Aurelian crouched, elbows on knees, head cocked like a hawk sizing up its next regret.
"Afternoon," he said, voice smooth as varnished vice. "I don't suppose you're the murdering, smuggling, no-regrets type with just enough self-control not to stab the guy paying you?"
Aurelian smiled, the one people usually compared to vibroblades or loaded dice.
"Would you like to earn your freedom?" he asked, casually. "And a sum of credits substantial enough to put a permanent dent in your list of poor life choices?"
He leaned in closer, fingers steepled, tone dropping to something conspiratorial.
"All I require is that you be dangerous, discreet, and slightly less stupid than you look. Can you manage that?"
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