The ceiling, painted with golden trim, spoke of Wielu craftsmanship. Some artisan had poured their soul into the intricate patterns above, unaware that someday, an idiot prince would lie sprawled beneath it, wondering if this was his final view. Aurelian didn't blink. He couldn't. The light, sharp and warm, felt like a final glare.
His ears rang, not from the slap, but from the snap-hiss of that cursed saber. The pain hadn't arrived yet. It never did right away. First came the haze, that moment between the breath and the scream, where your mind tried to pretend it was still in control. In that haze, a strange sadness swept over him. It wasn't fear, which would have been too easy to manage. He'd trained against that, built walls against it. No, this was something else, something heavier and uselessly indulgent: grief.
Then came the pain. White-hot and terrifying. Aurelian gasped, crying out a rasping bark of agony. His lips pulled back from clenched teeth as he twisted, instinctively trying to curl away, to deny it. His hands fumbled at his abdomen, bracing for a hole, for blood, for his own intestines to slip through his fingers.
But instead, broken armor and burnt flesh. The lightsaber had found its way through the armor, searing his flesh and cracking his ribs, but he wasn't skewered. He let out a ragged breath, a broken laugh following. He patted the layers beneath his tunic like an idiot searching for a wallet. Silk? Weave? Some unknown material. Sibylla had insisted, even demanded, he wear it, even for a "peaceful negotiation." He'd told her she was paranoid. He'd called it dramatic. She was right. He wasn't dead. Yet.
He turned his head, bones grinding with the motion, just in time to see Sibylla step forward. Steel in her voice, command in her spine, fire in her eyes, that was Sibylla. The impossible woman who didn't believe in half-measures, who held the weight of the Republic on her shoulders. Aurelian tried to speak, to tell her to go, to hide, to run. But his ribs screamed when he moved. The words caught in his throat, burning like acid. All that came out was a hoarse whisper, drowned by the crack of a weapon.
He saw it before it happened: the gun, the hand, the angle. And then, loss. The kind that rips the soul out before the body has time to realize it's dying. He knew what that bullet would do to her, what it would take from him, and what it meant. His vision blurred. Time stretched and his agony grew.
But in that slow-motion horror, something else moved. A rugged man, sliding into frame like some Force-damned miracle with bad hair and worse fashion. He became a shield, a blurred wall of force and bravery. Aurelian couldn't breathe.
And still, it wasn't over. As Aurelian was being helped up by his guard, a warning chirped in the HUD of his helmet. Aurelian turned to see what the guard had identified. Too late. A shadow shifted. A woman's finger curled around a second trigger. The Bounty Hunter. The shot screamed past him, not into him, but so close it scorched the outer shell of his ear, singeing the cartilage. The smell of burnt hair filled his nose. The guard behind him dropped, instantly dead. Helmet cracked, head gone.
Aurelian fell to his knees. Not from the wound, or even the pain, but from everything. The betrayal, the horror, the sadness, the fury. It wasn't supposed to be like this. This wasn't politics, or even diplomacy. This was war.
Aurelian's trembling fingers found the slim vibro-dagger where it had clattered to the floor. Once a piece of the negotiation, it was now a weapon born of wrath. His gaze locked on Arris, or maybe Mauve. He didn't know which, and at this moment, it didn't matter. Someone had tried to kill them, and someone was going to pay. The dagger lifted in his hand. His muscles cried in protest as he crouched, ready to lunge, a final act of princely spite. His whole body tensed, shaking, desperate, ready to throw the blade with every ounce of fury left in his fractured ribs.
But the moment he moved, agony flared. His knees buckled, the blade slipped from his fingers, and Aurelian Veruna, heir to Naboo, collapsed again, graceless and gasping. His vision blurred, blood on his lips, his breath tasting like copper. He was ready, Shiraya help him, ready to let it end. To let the bounty hunter finish him. To let the smoke of Mauve's pheromones be the last thing he choked on, his legacy a smeared on a marble floor.
Then came thunder. A loud boom echoed as the ceiling above exploded inward. Light and smoke poured through the new opening, shouts rising in chorus as armor crashed against marble. Aurelian flinched, not from death, but salvation.
CorpSec. He had never been so grateful to see Denon's mercenary angels. They were ruthless, efficient, faceless saviors, moving like storm fronts. They swept through the halls with methodical precision. Smoke grenades bloomed like poisonous flowers as masked commandos surged through the building.
One strode to him, barking something. Another hoisted him under the arm. The pain roared again, but he didn't scream. He wouldn't. Not now. Not after all this. Not in front of them.
He was lifted, hauled like wounded treasure, through scorched halls and over marble now streaked with ash and blood. He saw Councilors being gathered. Republic dignitaries ducking their heads as CorpSec shoved everyone toward extraction.
No, he thought,
this isn't how it ends.
They dragged him out through a side exit and into the light. The sky above was scorched with the long trails of damaged craft. The Duchess, sat waiting, her engines groaning like a dying god, somehow still flying.
Councilors were being herded to safety. The Republic delegation being shoved into the ship. Dominique was already barking orders, speaking into command channels, demanding every feed, every body, every scrap of intel left behind be claimed for Denon's ledger. She didn't look at him, which was good. She had her job. He didn't care. Not anymore.
One of Aurelian's last remaining guards laid him down inside the Duchess, his head cradled against a jumpseat. A fresh medical pack lay open. Fingers moved to apply bacta, to inject something to dull the pain. Aurelian caught the syringe.
"No." His voice was hoarse, yet iron. The guard blinked, hesitating.
"No drugs. No bacta. I don't want to forget this pain. I need them to see it." He sat up, barely. Muscles spasmed, his vision swimming.
"Get me back to Theed. To the Assembly," he rasped, his chest heaving.
"Patch a message through the moment the comms come back online. Send it through the Naboo diplomatic channel, I don't care how. Wake the Chancellor if you must. I want a session convened. We declare war." His voice was cold steel now, hardened by fury, sharpened by betrayal.
"On the Black Sun. On the Sith. On the so-called Bank of Nar Shaddaa and anyone else who dares cloak themselves in commerce while assassinating Republic Senators. Spin it. Spin it all in our favor."
His eyes flashed as he turned toward Sibylla across the ship. She was safe. He needed to see that. He reached out, his hand catching her wrist, pulling her toward him.
"That wasn't the plan, you fool." His voice trembled from emotion coiled like a dagger at his throat. His gaze pierced her, with raw, cutting hurt.
"We didn't agree to that."
He let the silence hang like a blade. He wasn't talking about negotiations, or politics. He was talking about
their plan.
"You don't get to put yourself on the line." His grip was tight, his voice deadly soft.
"You're the future. You are the one who survives, Sibylla. You walk out of the smoke. You build Naboo from the ashes. You give speeches in marble halls while the rest of us bleed in the mud so your voice can rise." His chest shook.
"You do not put yourself between blaster bolts and me. Not ever."
His eyes burned with a grief he didn't want to name.
"I bleed. You rebuild."
He let her go, finally, slowly, his hand dropping back to his side.
"And those two?" His tone now venomous.
"Mauve. Quinn. I want them in solitary cells. Different sectors. Different planets. I don't care if they're Force-bonded lovers or psychotic co-workers, I want them forgotten. I want their names to vanish into silence, buried so deep in Republic space they'll forget what the stars look like."
His head fell back against the seat, teeth clenched against a fresh wave of pain.
"But not until I stand before the Assembly." He shut his eyes. Blood trickled from his side again.
"Let them see what was done."