Prince of Parrlay
The descent into Theed was as smooth and quiet as a royal funeral. The vessel touched down at the Senatorial Starport, that elegant little slab of marble and durasteel perched on the lake's edge. Normally, it was a place of celebration and pageantry, a golden runway for royal comings and goings. Today, it felt more like a morgue.
Inside, the delegation barely stirred. Their eyes sunken and clothes scorched, their bones hummed with aftershocks of smoke, violence, and betrayal. CorpSec had done their job, they'd salvaged what they could. But now they were home. And there were cameras waiting.
Aurelian sat slumped in the jumpseat, bandaged but still bleeding beneath the silk. His ribs ached, his hearing rang from the slug that had kissed past his ear. His coat was torn, his hair matted. And yet, when the ship's ramp hissed open and the warm Naboo air flooded in, he didn't flinch.
He sat up slowly, regally. And he smiled. "Showtime," his voice hoarse but smooth.
His personal guards moved first, stepping out into the flashes of light, the shouts of reporters, the thrum of droids hovering overhead with glowing lenses. A tight perimeter was already forming around the port: Royal Security, Republic attachés, and even some Assembly delegates had come to see what the hell had happened to their golden son.
Aurelian let one of his aides pull him to his feet. He barely breathed through the pain. Blood spotted his shirt, dirt clung to the hem of his overcoat. He looked like a man who had fought for his planet and lived. Let the people see it. He descended the ramp with that dangerous, lopsided smile. He moved with no limp, no cane, just pure defiance.
Reporters surged. "Senator Veruna, are the rumors true? Did the Bank of Nar Shaddaa attempt an assassination?"
"What happened to Senator Abrantes?"
"Is Naboo declaring war?"
He raised a single, bandaged hand. The crowd quieted. He didn't need a mic. His voice rang out clean, cutting through the air like crystal. "We went to Wielu to speak peace, but instead met crime lords, bounty hunters, and a Sith. I have never in my life met with such defiance, until today. Defiance for our Republic! Defiance for our way of life!"
A pause held the air. Eyes, recorders, and flashes were everywhere. "I bled for Naboo today. For the Republic. And I would do it again. Because we do not kneel to syndicates. We do not negotiate with war criminals. This had not been a negotiation. it was an invasion. It was their declaration!"
He stepped closer to the crowd. Every camera turned. His eyes, bloodshot and burning, never looked more regal.
"The Assembly will convene within the next few hours. And when they do, I will call for a State of Emergency. I will propose the formal recognition of Black Sun and the Sith Empire as an enemy of the Republic. I will propose war."
He let that hang in the air. War. Spoken like poetry. Then the smile again, bloody, tired, and defiant. "Long live Naboo. Long live the Republic."
He didn't wait for applause. He turned and walked into the building. The Assembly Halls of Naboo were as pristine as ever. The twin suns warmed the rotunda's marble with an almost smug kind of indifference, as if the galaxy hadn't just started hemorrhaging. Aurelian's office was a jewel box carved behind his designated pod, elegant and dark, decorated in stone and velvet, with a chaise longue beneath an arched stained-glass window. He collapsed onto it, breathing hard, one arm flung over his eyes.
A bottle of Corellian Reserve, a whisky older than he was, rested open on the nearby table. Half a glass already gone. He reached for the other half, downed it, and exhaled.
His aide, Tona, thin, sharp, and mercilessly efficient, stood beside the desk, datapad in hand, whispering with all the gentleness of an executioner.
"The State of Emergency bill is nearly finished, your grace. The clause for extrajudicial interdiction of Black Sun vessels will need to pass committee. I suggest inserting language around provisional mutual-defense articles under the Republic charter."
Aurelian waved a hand vaguely. "Make it sound legal."
The medics came in behind her, one scanned his vitals, another checking the wound along his ribs. He let them work. He was too tired to resist. But not too tired to think.
His body might have been shredded, but his mind raced forward, already planning the next move, the next image, the next speech, the next step. He had shown the public his blood. Now he would show the Assembly his spine.
