Private Where Titles Are Set Aside

[Zesiro]

The private room felt like a sanctuary carved out of the noise of the bar—warm lantern-light drifting in soft amber pools across dark wooden walls and polished stone. A low-burning incense stick added a subtle note of spice to the air, curling faint ribbons of smoke toward the ceiling. It was the sort of space designed for quiet conversation, for deals forged away from prying eyes, and for truths too delicate to survive the chaos of the public floor outside. Zesiro had chosen it not for comfort, though it offered plenty, but for the rare luxury of discretion. Even as High Lady of Kesh, she knew well that titles did not shield someone bearing dangerous information. Only care did. Only caution.

She sat with her back against the wall, the vantage point granting her a full view of the door and anyone who might cross its threshold. Her posture was flawless, a blend of elegance and coiled readiness shaped by courts, crises, and the quiet, unseen dangers woven between them. A glass of deep ruby wine rested before her, its surface undisturbed, though she traced the rim with a slow, controlled movement of her fingertip. She had not taken a sip—not yet. Her blue eyes, cool and striking even in the soft lighting, remained fixed on the door with an intensity hidden behind her calm expression. Despite the serenity of the room, a faint thread of tension hummed beneath her composure. Approaching foreign governments was never simple. Approaching them alone was almost unthinkable.

She had learned long ago that regard for her title varied wildly from world to world, and even allies could become opportunists when given the right incentive. Zesiro had been manipulated before, dismissed before, even threatened outright in the past—none of which she intended to repeat tonight. That was why she had not sought an audience in an official hall or sent a formal request. She needed someone who could carry information without broadcasting her involvement, someone with enough independence to judge her words fairly. That was why she had reached out to Rath Nihro, hoping her name would be recognized, hoping he would see the gravity of her request rather than the risk.

A soft knock at the door disrupted her thoughts, firm enough to announce presence yet controlled enough to betray discipline. Her breath stilled for a heartbeat, and she straightened just slightly, every sense sharpening.

"Enter," she called, her voice smooth and steady, though a subtle undercurrent of anticipation threaded through it.

Rath Nihro stepped inside with the measured confidence she had expected—broad-shouldered, sure-footed, a man who carried authority without needing to brandish it. The ambient lantern light caught the sharp lines of his frame and the alertness in his eyes, revealing someone accustomed to navigating complicated terrain—political, military, or otherwise. He closed the door behind him with quiet precision, sealing away the muffled clatter of glasses and distant laughter outside. For the first time that evening, Zesiro allowed a small breath to escape her chest—controlled, discreet, but genuine.

She inclined her head in greeting, offering a gesture that straddled nobility and personal respect. "Rath Nihro," she said, her voice low but carrying easily in the intimate space. "You have my gratitude for agreeing to meet me like this. I wasn't certain the request would reach you at all… and even less certain it would be deemed worth your time." She let the words hang for a moment—not as a ploy, but as an acknowledgment of the vulnerability required to reach out at all.

Her hand hovered briefly above the wineglass, as if debating whether to take its comfort, but instead she allowed it to rest neatly on the table. With a graceful motion, she gestured to the seat opposite her. "Please—sit. I would rather we speak as equals, without the pretense that titles demand."

Her blue eyes followed him as he approached, not with distrust but with the careful assessment of a woman who had lived long enough to know that safety often came down to the subtleties of a first encounter. "What I bring to you tonight is information your government must have," she continued, tone level and deliberate. "But for reasons I will explain, I cannot step into one of your official chambers and present it myself. Doing so would place me at risk… and perhaps place you in a difficult position as well."

A brief pause stretched between them, quiet but heavy with intention.

"And so," she added softly, folding her hands neatly before her, "I thought it wiser to speak here—where the walls are thick, the lighting forgiving, and the audience nonexistent."

Her gaze held his, steady and unflinching.

"Shall we begin?"

Rath Nihro

 

[Rath Nihro]

W H I S P E R

Outfit
Tag: Zesiro

Under ordinary circumstances, just the sole act of contacting Rath directly was an effort, but it was more so because he was often busy or had to cut communication. The life of a mercenary felt distant as of late, and yet in the wake of the Galactic Alliance’s downfall and the rise of the Galactic Empire. Rath had only recently dusted off his former contacts in search of jobs, but also to rekindle his network of clients.

He was known to be ruthlessly efficient with the task at hand and straight to the point as well. Of course, back then, he was a soldier with no Empire to follow, and he admittedly was rather antisocial at best.

So imagine his surprise when he was hailed by someone whose name only surfaced once or twice before. Most people might have forgotten over the years, but the name struck a chord in his memory as the request was none other than the High Lady of Kesh herself. Initially, Rath was skeptical, given his past impression that she was maintaining a low profile after the Galactic Empire absorbed Commenor. To reach out on a galactic scale would mean to expose her to those who were actively hunting her down. A risk that she wouldn’t take, but that was also assuming it was the ordinary.

Logic aside, Rath had decided to follow up with the request for a meeting, and what discretion the cantina was. Duets of green that glimmered under the dim lighting, catching the flakes of gold as his keen sight swept the cantina in a casual glance. It was out of habit, in truth, but he noted the guards and the entrances in and out of the establishment. Not that he’d ever need it, but it was useful information to get a good grasp of the establishment’s layout in the event he needed to escape. Not everyone was keen to see a Jedi in their midst, albeit the term still felt foreign to the former mercenary.

Rath recognized the blonde woman who appeared to be the picture of elegance with a touch of grace. In the past, he rarely, if ever, showed his face, only wearing his armor practically at all times when he was outside of his ship. A habit that was not unlike how a Mandalorian would be, but it was less for traditional reasons and more because Rath was always fighting. From one battlefield to the next, from one planet to another, and it didn’t matter whether the skirmish took place out in the open. Discretion was favorable, and the dark-haired man recognized that what was to be discussed wasn’t meant to be heard outside of the soundproof walls.

“Zesiro.” He mirrored both mannerisms and acknowledgment of her presence. His hand reached for the chair as his eyes briefly glanced off to the side. More of a confirmation that there was no one else, and he certainly didn’t sense any life aside from themselves. Of course, in his time with the Dark Side, he knew of quite a few who defied the laws of life and death.

”You had impeccable timing.” Rath added, and there was no deceit. Had she reached out earlier during his captivity, then it was likely her request would’ve gone unanswered. The dark-haired man proceeded to sit down on the chair opposite of Zesiro. His attention focused on Zesiro, and the information she spoke of might have been vital to the Rebellion. Even if it was information about the Empire’s movements, who was allied with them, or even a direction of someone who sat on an abundance of resources that the Rebellion could use.

Yet it wasn’t necessarily the information that drew Rath’s attention, but rather the vulnerability that Zesiro would later subtly express. Though he came unarmed, he was never truly weaponless. It wasn’t just the Force, but his intuition, as well as his resourcefulness, to use anything to his advantage. Even if it was taking a toothpick from an empty margarita glass to gouge a pesky hunter’s eye out. But that was one time, surely there wouldn’t be a need for that here, right?

”I understand. Official chambers are not usually my thing either.” His voice was laced with sarcasm as a subtle way to break the ice, so to speak, and to diffuse whatever tension that was between them. Rath would nod his head in agreement to her inquiry. Pleasantries were nice, but he could sense that there was more to it than Zesiro was letting on.

”As you’ve said, the information might prove desirable to my… government, but I imagine that you wish for something in return.” It was somewhat inaccurate to call the Wild Space Rebellion a government, but for the sake of it, Rath opted to leave it at that. The less knowledge about the Empire’s resistance to reaching it, the better. The ball was now in Zesiro’s court, and she held the cards in her favor.

 

[Zesiro]

Zesiro watched Rath settle into the chair opposite her, the lantern glow cutting gentle lines across his features and giving his presence a quiet gravity that suited the room. He was precisely the sort of man she needed for this—sharp-eyed, cautious without being paranoid, someone who had lived long enough on the knife-edge between governments and causes to know when silence was the safer choice. In another life, she might have been unsettled by being alone with such a man. Tonight, she was grateful for it. A reckless man would have been useless to me, she thought, noting the controlled way he scanned the room even after she had done so herself.

"Impeccable timing?" she echoed, the faintest thread of wry amusement warming her voice. "That is a rare compliment these days." Her fingers brushed the stem of her wineglass, swirling the ruby liquid without lifting it. "Still, I appreciate your honesty. And more importantly, that you came at all."

His quip about official chambers coaxed a subtle, genuine smile from her. It was small but unmistakably authentic, reaching the cool clarity of her blue eyes. "You underestimate how fortunate we both are in that regard," she replied. "I have endured enough grand halls and ornate protocols to last several lifetimes. And I suspect you have no love for them either."

The quiet of the private room folded around them—soft lighting, muted scent of spiced incense, thick soundproofed walls that made every word seem weightier. It allowed a tension to linger between them just long enough for her to measure him properly. Rath Nihro was not a man who came blindly. He radiated the confidence of someone who had fought enough battles to trust only in his own readiness. Good. She needed a man who understood danger instinctively.

When he suggested she wanted something in return, she let a slow breath slip from her lungs—controlled, steady.

"Of course I want something," she said, unflinching. "But not what you might assume."

Her hands folded lightly on the table, posture straightening as she allowed a fraction of her guarded truth to rise to the surface. It wasn't weakness. It was transparency—a far rarer currency in her world than credits or influence.

"I have information that could harm the Empire," she began, voice low but precise. "Information about their movements, their supply lines… and a name that should not be working with them." Her gaze held his without wavering, letting him feel the weight of what she implied without yet revealing its shape. "This cannot be delivered through official channels. If I walk into any government hall unaccompanied, I risk becoming a political inconvenience. Or an asset to be interrogated. Or a liability to be hidden."

Her throat tightened slightly—not in fear, but in memory of a lifetime of navigating the razor-thin space between usefulness and danger. "My history with Commenor's fall, the Empire's ascent… it complicates everything. I trust my own instincts, but I do not trust the intentions of those who would question my motives."

Her chin lifted, blue eyes clear and unwavering.

"So yes," she said quietly. "I want something from you, Rath Nihro. I want a courier. Someone who can take what I know to the hands capable of acting on it—without exposing me to scrutiny that would silence me before I finished speaking."

And then, after a heartbeat's pause—something softer, more vulnerable, but no less firm:

"And I want to know that what I give will not be buried. That it will matter. That I am not risking myself for nothing."

She felt a flicker of something old—courage, perhaps, the kind she'd once had in abundance before the galaxy had reshaped her. Not gone, only quieter. Waiting.

"If you can promise me that much," she said, voice steady, "I will tell you everything."

Rath Nihro

 

[Rath Nihro]

H O P E

Outfit
Tag: Zesiro

The gist of what Zesiro expressed as to what her information contained was nothing short of a gold mine for anyone who wants to strike back against the growing Empire. Part of Rath wondered how she came across such information, but he knew better than to pry. Not when the situation had proven to be delicate at best.

He didn’t interrupt her; instead, he chose silence and listened to her words. It wasn’t just words, but what lay underneath them. It was less about what she wanted and what she needed. A form of validation that all of her efforts weren’t for naught. Some might see it as an opportunity to manipulate her, or to save it for future negotiations, but Rath wasn’t that sort of person. He solemnly nodded his head, both of his hands folded on top of the other on the table. It wasn’t a gesture of comfort himself, but to appease the general warning, ‘always be wary of the hands’. So that the blonde woman before him wouldn’t feel like there was a morsel of a threat to her life.

”I’ve never leaked a word of my clients before, so your involvement won’t be leaked.” If there was one thing that Rath was exceptional at, it was secrets. For even now, he carried a secret that he used to be part of the Wardens of the Shroud, a secret sect of Force-Users who despised both Sith and Jedi alike. Or more accurately, they despised the Force as a whole, pinning the blame for the galaxy’s suffering onto the cosmic entity. His involvement with the Wardens never leaked past the Eternal Empire, and it was believed that the Wardens vanquished alongside the Empire.

However, he knew that the Wardens were still alive and well in the current timeline. Most of which had deigned to align themselves with the Sith, or the late Galactic Empire. None of which Rath had revealed their identity, nor was it relevant.

”Your purpose in this would be the spark of something new. Something that has been lost on some planets. Your efforts won’t be in vain.” If there was anything that Rath could afford to imply was that hope wasn’t entirely lost. The information Zesiro had in her arsenal could very well be the start of the Rebellion against the Galactic Empire. Stars knew that they would need all the allies and resources they could find. Of course, in war, nobody truly wins. Everyone loses in some way. Blood would always be spilled, no matter what others claim to be fighting for. However, to do nothing was the same thing as to hand the galaxy over to the Empire.

Rath was no stranger to war and was even intimately aware of the damage it would cause to the galaxy. It had bled more than enough of its fair share in recent years. The Force had been wounded, not for the last time, but it was a wound that needed to be treated. Not by the Light or the Dark, but by those who use the Force as a whole.

 

[Zesiro]

Zesiro listened to him without interruption, her expression steady, her posture immaculate, yet beneath the composure something in her eased—subtle, nearly imperceptible, but real. Trust was a currency she had learned to spend sparingly, especially since the fall of Commenor and the quiet, crushing expectation that she simply disappear for her own safety. And yet, here was a man who did not try to flatter her, did not try to manipulate her, did not try to bargain her information into something transactional. He answered her with something far rarer: respect.

His hands folded neatly before him—an intentional gesture, she knew. It was small, understated, but his awareness of what could be read as a threat or a challenge spoke volumes. It was a courtesy not all warriors extended. Not all Jedi, either. Zesiro took a slow breath, letting the faint spice of the room's incense settle around her like a familiar cloak.

"You keep secrets," she said quietly, not quite a question. "I suspected as much when I called for you… But hearing it confirmed matters more than I expected." Her blue eyes remained on his, not probing but searching for sincerity—and finding it. "The galaxy is built on the backs of people who speak too loudly and those who never speak at all. But you, Nihro… you speak only when it is necessary. That is a rare discipline."

Her fingers finally lifted her wineglass, the ruby liquid catching golden light as she brought it near—but she paused before drinking. A moment of thought, of hesitation, then she placed it softly back on the table, untouched. Her voice, when it came again, was softer, lacking the diplomatic armor she usually wore around unfamiliar allies.

"You are right about one thing," she said. "I need to know that what I risk here is not self-indulgent hope. The Empire thrives on despair—silence, compliance, exhaustion. They want people like me to fade into obscurity, and people like you to burn out before they can make a difference." She exhaled lightly, her gaze drifting for the first time away from him, toward the lantern that flickered against the far wall. "If what I give you can be the beginning of something new—something that reminds the galaxy it has not been conquered in spirit—then that is enough."

Her focus returned to him, sharper now, but steadied by a quiet resolve. "Someone else's ambition has carved every world I have ever served," she continued. "Kesh. Commenor. Even the systems I aided indirectly. Politics devours people like me—people who want to protect, not rule. And yet here I am again, offering the last thing I have left that might still matter."

Zesiro leaned in just slightly, her voice lowering, not for secrecy but for emphasis. "What I know concerns a shipment route—one the Empire believes hidden. It carries refined kyber, medical supplies, and… individuals. Not prisoners. Not soldiers. People are being moved off the grid deliberately and quietly. The route shifts every fourteen days. But for the moment—today—it runs through Wild Space, under the guise of humanitarian transfers."

Her lips pressed together in a thin, controlled line. The room's soft lighting made the tension at the corner of her eyes more visible.

"The name tied to it is someone the Empire would never flaunt publicly. Someone who should not, under any sane political calculus, be willingly assisting them. And yet… here we are."

She allowed her hands to relax, her palms resting lightly on the table's smooth surface. "If this information is delivered into the right hands, it will force the Empire to react. At the very least, it may save those people. At most…" She hesitated—just for a fraction of a breath. "At most, it could fracture their confidence."

Zesiro drew in a quiet breath, the scent of spice and warm lanternlight grounding her.

"You asked whether I wanted compensation. I do not," she said gently. "What I want is impact. And I believe you understand the weight of that better than most."

Her blue eyes softened—not weakly, but with a rare honesty. "Say you will take it. Say it will be used. And it is yours."

Rath Nihro

 

[Rath Nihro]

H O P E

Outfit
Tag: Zesiro

From the way Zesiro was speaking, and the way her gaze flickered for a moment. It sounded like whoever had sided with the Empire was either someone close to Zesiro, or perhaps had proven to be trustworthy in some regard. The other question that surfaced within his mind was, what would cause such an individual to side with the Empire? The logical conclusion that Rath had reached was that either the individual was coerced into it, or greed had struck once again. Whatever the possibility might have been, if Zesiro’s information was correct, then Rath would have to find a way to deal with them.

He was attentive, but quiet when Zesiro started to disclose a shipment route that contained supplies that were valuable in the right hands. However, two things that Rath noted were strange happened to be kyber and individual transportation. For kyber, Rath could imagine that the Sith would be interested in such things, and perhaps scientists would want them for something… worse. The individuals, however, were a different story. Assuming they weren’t prisoners of conquest, then it was likely that certain individuals were using the shipment route to move around without drawing much attention to themselves. Someone like the person that Zesiro has hinted at, for example.

Politics was something that Rath understood little. He never personally cared for such things and instead was merely pointed at who to remove from the board and who to persuade. However, he did understand enough that politics was a different sort of battlefield that used clever wordplay, assets, and influence.

Rath breathed in the scent of spice that cloaked around them like a weightless blanket. The room was a pocket of quiet in contrast to the usual booming and laughter of the cantina. Yet the details were anything but serene. If anything, Rath hoped that he would leave some morsel of uplifting in spirit by the end of their conversation.

”Sounds like the window is pretty narrow. I’ll inform my associates, but until they are able, I’ll personally see to it.” In other words, even if the Wild Space Rebellion wasn’t swift enough to pull together an ambush on such short notice, Rath was willing to handle it himself. One way or another, her information won’t be misplaced, and it certainly won’t end up colder than the vastness of space.

”What we do has a far greater impact than our words can say. You’ll likely hear from me by the morrow.” An attack on an Imperial convoy would likely spark embers across the Wild Space, and perhaps if they were lucky, it would shower upon the other regions of space as well. It would undoubtably be a small victory, but a victory that would prove to the people that there were still others fighting against the encroaching tyranny.

 

[Zesiro]

Zesiro listened with the composed stillness of someone who had lived her entire life balancing on the edge between certainty and collapse. Rath's assessment—sharp, calm, and delivered without judgment—confirmed to her that he genuinely understood the stakes. She did not miss the way he tracked her earlier flicker of emotion, nor the unspoken question behind it. The name she had alluded to still sat heavy in her chest like a stone she had been carrying too long. Someone who should have stood with her, someone she had trusted with more than politics. She felt the old wound pulse, but kept her expression smooth and regal, as she had trained herself to do. "Yes," she whispered in her thoughts, though she didn't say it aloud, to someone close. Someone whose betrayal had carved deeper than mere diplomacy could reach.

Her blue eyes lowered when Rath considered the kyber and the individuals being transported. It was not lost on her how quickly he understood the implications. Kyber meant destruction. People meant hidden agendas, clandestine movements, or the preservation of assets the Empire dared not expose. Both possibilities chilled her blood. She had always feared that the Empire's cruelty would escalate—but to have confirmation placed in her hands had kept her awake night after night. And now, sharing it… felt like a small measure of relief she had not expected to feel.

"Politics," she said softly, lifting her gaze to him, "is a battlefield where no one admits the casualties." Her tone carried neither bitterness nor pride—just truth, worn smooth by experience. "On Kesh, on Commenor… I learned that influence cuts deeper than blades, and that betrayal from those you trust is the wound that never quite closes." Her voice gentled for a moment, the flicker of that earlier vulnerability returning before she reined it back in. "Whoever is aiding the Empire—whether willingly or through coercion—knows exactly what they are doing."

When Rath committed himself—personally—to acting on her intelligence, Zesiro's lashes lowered briefly as something shifted inside her chest. Trust, fragile and unfamiliar, brushed against her ribs like a cautious hand. She had expected skepticism, hesitation, maybe even a reminder that she was no longer politically significant. Instead, she received resolve. A promise without theatrics. A willingness to shoulder danger without asking for recompense.

She had not realized how much she needed that.

Her posture softened by a breath, the tension in her shoulders easing as though someone had finally lifted a weight she'd been holding for too long. "You would see to it yourself," she repeated quietly, studying him with a depth reserved only for those who had proven themselves. "Not because of allegiance, but because it must be done." A small smile touched her lips—not flirtatious, not political, but something more personal, almost grateful. "You remind me of the people I once trusted most."

The scent of spice and warm stone filled the small room, wrapping around them like a cocoon separate from the galaxy's harshness. His assurance that she would hear from him by morning steadied her in a way she did not expect. For so many years, the next day had become a thing she could not predict. Now, for the first time in a long time, tomorrow felt like something more than another march into uncertainty.

"If the convoy falls," she said, voice low and thoughtful, "it won't just be a victory. It will be a signal. A reminder to the galaxy that the Empire can bleed." Her fingers brushed her wineglass again, this time lifting it in a small, deliberate gesture. "And to the people it carries… perhaps it will mean survival."

She met his gaze once more, the High Lady's poise returning, but now softened by the trust he'd earned.

"Then we are agreed, Rath Nihro."
A quiet, solemn nod.
"Do what you must. I will be ready when the morrow comes."

Rath Nihro

 

[Rath Nihro]

H O P E

Outfit
Tag: Zesiro

Some would say that silence meant acceptance, or a lack of attention to the matter at hand. However, Rath had learned a long time ago that it was best to remain silent, to listen, because then his word would carry that much weight when he chose to break said silence. Motivation was good for bursts of inspiration, but when tempered with discipline, it could be that much greater.

From Rath's perspective, Zesiro's decision to indulge with the information, however sensitive it might weigh on her wounded heart, would serve as a spark. A drive to push people to action. Something like the Rebellion could achieve that wasn't held back by politics or fear of retaliation. However, the long term effect that Rath wished to reveal was that no matter how great and fearsome the Galactic Empire might appear. If anyone has the heart and the will of spirit to make a change. They'll likely make a stand starting in the very room that Rath and Zesiro share.

”I'm afraid that couldn’t be further from the truth. It's simpler when you know the enemy is in front of you, but often the ones who inflict the most pain isn't the enemy.” Rath paused as his gaze shifted towards the table in front of them. A flicker of emotion that dashed across his features. One of pain and longing, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

”But perhaps there is some comfort. You still draw breath, and you still do what you've always done. The least i can do is to ensure that everything you've been through has some meaning behind it.” If there was one thing that Rath understood better than most was when someone felt lost. Not in a literal sense, but in a way they lose their purpose. Purpose gave people drive to push through great lengths to achieve their goals. Perhaps that was the allure of propaganda that the Empire or any doctrine can instill within their citizens. To give them purpose, and a meaning to continued serving them. To go against such a system was to break free from the fixed compass, and frankly Rath was still grasping his purpose. But one thing he understood clearly.

His second chance in life wasn't meant for him to continue to instill despair within the galaxy. Instead, he sought to inspire hope in those who thought to be abandoned and forgotten. Even if it meant he must keep the flame as low as smoldering embers from going out, Rath had hoped to expand those embers into a beacon.

”This person in said convoy. What are their names? And what would make them look appealing to certain parties of interest?” Rath returned his gaze to meet Zesiro's. His hands still clasped in front of him in plain view, unmoving for the remainder of the conversation. To some, it might appear to be a vulnerability, and to others it was a gesture that he wasn’t going to reach for any hidden weapons. By keeping his hands still, it would dismiss any notions that the Force was being used to alter the potential outcomes.

 

[Zesiro]

Zesiro let the quiet linger between them as Rath spoke, the weight of his words settling into the small private room like dust in a shaft of lantern light. There was something about his silence—his deliberate, measured way of speaking—that stirred an old familiarity in her. Men who acted before thinking had filled her past; men who believed before acting had shaped her future. Rath Nihro, she realized, belonged to neither category. He was something in between—a rare balance of purpose and restraint. The kind of man whose voice carried meaning precisely because he did not waste it.

His observation—that the actual pain so often came from those who were not the enemy—drew a subtle shift in her expression, barely perceptible yet impossible to hide. Her gaze drifted downward for a moment, fixed on her own hands resting neatly on the table, fingers interlaced with elegant stillness. "You are correct," she said quietly. "It is easy to fear uniforms. Harder to fear the people you once trusted most." She paused, drawing a slow breath that steadied the memories stirring at the edges of her composure. "And harder still to accept that their betrayal might not have been malicious… merely human."

When she lifted her blue eyes back to him, something softer lay beneath the surface—an old wound, long scabbed, but never fully healed. His brief flicker of pain had not gone unnoticed by her either. She recognized it too well. "We are shaped more by the people who fail us," she murmured, "than by the ones who stand against us."

Rath spoke of purpose then—of ensuring her struggles were not empty, of giving meaning to everything she had carried in silence. Zesiro felt a quiet shift inside her chest at that, unexpected and grounding. It had been years since anyone had spoken to her without an angle, an agenda, or a political calculus. His words were not meant to flatter. They were meant to acknowledge. And that, to her, mattered far more.

"You speak of meaning as though it is something earned," she replied softly, a faint, thoughtful curve touching her lips. "Most speak of it as something given." She tilted her head slightly, studying him the way one might examine a rare artifact—carefully, intently. "Perhaps that is why people follow you. Even when you do not ask them to."

But when he asked the question—the one anchored beneath her sorrow—Zesiro grew still again.

The name.

For a heartbeat, the silence was filled only by the whisper of incense curling in the air. Then she exhaled, a controlled breath, and faced him fully.

"The individual being transported is Valkus Ryn," she said, each word deliberately steady. "Former strategist under Commenor's Defense Council. A man with access, knowledge, and the trust of nearly every branch of the planetary government."

Her fingers tightened slightly against each other.

"He was instrumental during the fall of the Galactic Alliance. He saved lives. Entire families. He crafted escape routes when others fled." A brief pause. "He was… a friend. And more than a colleague."

Her eyes flickered—not away, but deeper—as though looking into something she had kept locked behind memory for too long.

"When Commenor fell to the Empire, he vanished. Most assumed he fled. I believed he did, too." Her voice lowered, quiet but heavy. "Until recently. Until I saw his authorization code attached to the convoy manifest. His signature. His hand."

The lantern light caught the faint tension in her jaw.

"This route—the kyber, the resources, the movement of unregistered individuals—none of it could exist without someone of his clearance facilitating it. Whether willingly or under duress… I cannot say." She hesitated, vulnerability threading her next words. "And that uncertainty is its own kind of cruelty."

She met Rath's gaze again, steady and honest.

"You asked what would make him appealing to certain parties. He knows how to hide people. How to disguise movement. How to build systems that escape notice. He could keep an entire resistance cell invisible… or help the Empire do the same."

Her voice grew quieter—no less steady, but heavier.

"I am giving you this name not to condemn him, Nihro. But because whatever he is now doing—whatever side he has chosen—his actions are shaping the fate of others."

She unfolded her hands slowly, resting her palms on the table, an unspoken offering of trust.

"Do what must be done," she said softly. "But if he can be saved—if there is even the faintest chance—"
Her breath caught, barely, before she finished.

"Try."

The plea was not dramatic. Not emotional. But it was real.

And in the soft lantern light, Zesiro did not hide it.

Rath Nihro

 

[Rath Nihro]

L I F E

Outfit
Tag: Zesiro

The name, Valkus Ryn, brought a wounded pulse of pain that resonated not through her expression, but through her emotions. It was like the equivalent of an irregular heartbeat that resonated an ache Rath was all too familiar with, but perhaps he shouldn’t bring up anything regarding his past. It wasn’t exactly a colourful one. Had Zesiro met him a few years ago, before the Eternal Empire’s fall, they would likely not be having this conversation at all.

His eyes slightly narrowed at the mention of who Valkus was and what the man did before the Alliance’s collapse. To find the man’s signature attached to the convoy of all places, it was practically one in a billion odds. It could be a coincidence, but Rath had a notion that something else was at play. On one hand, securing a former strategist would be a boon for the Wild Space Rebellion, and yet it could easily be a trap as well. It was not uncommon to create bogus manifests with valuable assets and goods to throw off anyone who might have been spying on them, and potentially root out who it might be, given the limited number of individuals who held the intelligence of its existence.

There was no way to verify if that was the case or not from their end, and as his vision drifted to the centre of the table. Rath was concerned whether it was the Empire’s tactic to scout out any potential resistance before sending out their primary fleet, given the Galactic Empire’s record. They wouldn’t hesitate to hammer down the Rebellion once it had been found. Yet Rath could feel the pull within the celestial current that was the Force. A pull that Rath had grown familiar with over the past year whenever the Force opted to call for his attention. It was best to trust in the Force, and in Zesiro simply.

There was a ghost of a smile that pressed on Rath’s lips as Zesiro gently and genuinely pleaded with him to save the strategist. It wasn’t necessarily her tone or demeanour that caused the reaction. But the mere word ‘Try’. His gaze met Zesiro’s as the dark-haired man leaned back into his chair.

”There is no try. Only by doing what you can and accepting what you cannot.” The last portion was much easier said than done. Many great men and women in the past had fallen victim because they couldn’t accept the gritty reality that they couldn’t do everything, save everyone, or forsake resistance in their path. Rath gently tapped an index finger on his knuckle as he debated whether he could or not. In truth, it was relatively simple to capture a ship with the right preparation and under the element of surprise.

”We’ll secure the convoy. If Varkus is on the ship, we’ll find him. I can’t speak for the interested party entirely, but I can ensure that he will see another sunrise.” Rath spoke calmly. It would be rather wasteful to eliminate a valuable asset, but that was only looking at it from an organization perspective. It was more of the prospect of life. A concept that the Galactic Empire tended to squander if said life didn’t fit into their doctrine, or prove to be useful in some way.

 

[Zesiro]

Zesiro felt the faint pulse of pain echo through her chest again as Rath spoke—quieter this time, dulled by the strange comfort of being understood rather than dismissed. She had not allowed herself to speak Valkus Ryn's name aloud in… years, perhaps. Time blurred when grief was kept behind glass. The moment she had said it, it had felt like cracking something open inside her that she had sealed tight out of necessity. But Rath's reaction—his seriousness, his careful consideration, his lack of judgment—anchored her more than she wanted to admit.

His narrowed eyes, the subtle shift in his posture, the way he analyzed the situation with both tactical precision and intuitive caution—all of it confirmed something she had hoped deep down: he had not treated her information as a sentimental errand. He treated it as real. Possible. Serious. Worth acting on.

She exhaled softly, almost imperceptibly, as he assessed the possibility of a trap. "The Empire is fond of misdirection," she murmured. "They scatter crumbs of truth among their lies so the honest choke on both." Her blue eyes lowered to the table as she added, "If this manifest is false, it means they intend to draw someone out." A small pause. "If it is real… it means they intend to hide someone who should not be hidden."

She looked up again, meeting his gaze with a steadiness honed by decades of quiet survival. "Either possibility demands intervention."

The flicker of a smile that crossed his face when she asked him to try to save Valkus if saving was possible—softened something inside her. Zesiro had long since forgotten what it felt like to ask for anything with hope instead of dread. Her political life had reduced such requests to currency, leverage, and bargaining. But Rath did not treat her words as a transaction. He treated them as a truth she was finally brave enough to speak.

His response—measured, philosophical, echoing a wisdom she had once heard from Jedi only in passing—settled over her with a strange blend of comfort and melancholy.

"There is no try," she repeated softly, almost to herself.
Her gaze drifted, thoughtful. "I used to believe that once. Before Commenor burned. Before the Alliance collapsed. Before I learned that even one's best efforts can be undone by another's fear." She paused, fingers brushing lightly against each other, expression composed but shadowed. "Still… you are right. We do what we can." Her eyes lifted again, steady and clear. "And we accept what we cannot."

His promise to secure the convoy—not a vague assurance, but a concrete commitment—pulled her attention fully back to him. "You would ensure he sees another sunrise," she echoed, the words slow, reverent, laced with a gratitude she did not wear openly but could not hide entirely. "More than I dared ask for."

Something eased in her shoulders, diminishing the brittle tension that had sat there since she first watched the convoy manifest appear on her encrypted datapad. Relief did not wash over her; she was far too disciplined for that. But it breathed through her, quiet and controlled, like a tide pulling gently back from the shore.

"You understand far more than you admit, Nihro," she said softly, leaning slightly forward. "You speak like a man who has seen too much and survived it anyway. And you choose to act—not out of vengeance, not out of politics, but because it is right." A faint, almost private smile tugged at her lips. "You remind me of why I served my worlds at all."

Then, after a heartbeat, her voice dipped, threaded with sincerity:

"Thank you."

Not spoken as a diplomat.
Not as a High Lady.
But as a woman who had carried guilt and grief alone for far too long, and finally felt the weight lessen.

Rath Nihro

 

[Rath Nihro]

H O P E

Outfit
Tag: Zesiro

Pain was something that the galaxy at large was in no short supply of. One could toss a rock within arm's reach, and there will likely be some measure of pain and grief that had beheld there once. By Rath's hand, he had murdered and killed many sons and daughters, fathers and mothers, all in the name of another that no longer existed. His blades were the very instrument of pain and death. But power wasn't something that Rath had come into for the sake of power itself.

No, instead he threw himself into learning the ways of the Sith, of the Warden of the Shroud, so that he could protect the men and women he failed in the past. Back when he had been so powerless, despite his gifts in telekinesis, Rath could still summon forth memories of that hellish nightmare. How the Rakghoul swarmed over the planet, and while his team was evacuating the planet. It had gone terribly wrong, and it forced Rath to shoot his own men who had been infected by the Rakghoul to spare them of a terrible fate. In the end, out of dozens of people they originally found during their last run, only Rath and two other civilians made it out.

Rath was notably quiet as his mind still replayed the clicks and snarls that Rakghouls made when communicating with each other. It had been many years since that tragedy, but it was no fresher in his mind as if it had happened the day before. Rath swore to himself afterwards that he would pursue power so that his people won't suffer another tragedy like that again. If only he had known that he would have spread equivalent tragedies onto others. If only he hadn't forgotten his purpose along the way, and to be reminded why he was fighting all of this time.

”It is the least that I can do.” Rath responded with a gentle affirmation. It wasn’t necessarily because the Jedi had released him in hopes that he would bring hope to the galaxy, but because deep down Rath hoped that it would be a start to balance the tragedies he once committed. Zesiro mirrored his words as if committing them to memory, or at least that’s what it had felt like to him. As if she was documenting every word they exchanged.

”Let’s just say that we all have to survive in our own way through the chaos that settles upon our galaxy. Some live more colorful lives, while others… well, you have no doubt seen them yourself.” Rath was of course referring to politicians, leaders, the Empire, the Sith, slavers, pirates, and the list went on of how many stories weren't for the weak mind or stomach to bare witness. His thumb mindlessly rubbed along the knuckle of his index finger as the warmth pooled from his folded hands onto the once cooled table.

”Everything has their time to shine, and likewise there's also a time where it must fall to remind the galaxy of what they had. So that others can rebuild and grow. We might not always be able to change the outcome, but the one thing we can control is how we react to the things that the Force shows us.” Control was an illusion that many considered to be a factor. Whether it was through their daily lives, through others, or even orchestrating grand schemes in hopes to rule the galaxy one day. In truth however, that illusion doesn't get to dictate how their story progressed.

Rath softly inhaled the scents of spice as his eyes shifted off to the side for a moment. It was subtle, but he felt the presence of another that was walking down the hallway just outside of their booth. Even within their confined space, Rath could feel each presence within the establishment as if they were crawling on his skin, but he had outgrown such sensations as he tracked their movements through his mind's eye.

”You can thank me once the job is done.” His tone was light-hearted this time as he winked at her. Not in a flirtatious way, but as a silent message that celebrating too early can often spell an ill fate awaited them. While Rath remained hopeful, he was equally cautious as well.

The dark-haired man rose to his feet as he reached out to Zesiro with one hand. A gesture of affirmation in the form of shaking hands, a deal was done, and a gesture that cemented that his words weren't meant to be just that.

”With that, I must leave. We wouldn't want to miss our flight.”

 

[Zesiro]

Zesiro listened to Rath's words and, more importantly, to the quiet that wove between them. The silence spoke louder than anything he admitted aloud, carrying ghosts and memories and the unmistakable gravity of a man who had not merely survived tragedy, but carried it. She recognized it instantly—not the details, not the Rakghouls or the screams or the impossible decisions—but the shape of it. The shape of a trauma that had peeled away the illusions of youth and left behind a man forged from grief rather than ambition.

She did not interrupt. She did not attempt to soothe. Some wounds should never be trivialized by pity, and Rath Nihro bore the look of someone who had spent years building walls sturdy enough to hold a galaxy's worth of regret. But she did listen. Closely. Respectfully. And when she finally spoke, her voice was softer than at any point in their meeting—low, warm, steady.

"Pain," she said quietly, "is the oldest language in the galaxy. It binds more people than treaties, breaks more hearts than war, and lingers far longer than victory." Her eyes, vibrant even in the lanternlight's dim glow, held his with the sincerity of someone who had lived too long to mistake stoicism for weakness. "And yet you chose to learn from it. Not hide from it. That alone places you among a rare few."

She could see it in him. That old, jagged wound. A wound he still used as a compass, however unconscious it might be. His recounting—brief though it was—made something deep inside her tighten. She had never fought Rakghouls, but she had been forced to make similar decisions once upon a time. To seal rooms where people begged for help. To agree to evacuations she knew would never come in time. To watch worlds burn because politics had demanded they burn.

"Grief changes us," she murmured, blue eyes softening even as her posture remained precise. "It narrows our world until all we can see is what we failed to save. But then—after years have passed—it reminds us of why we must begin again." Her voice deepened, carrying a hint of emotion she rarely allowed others to hear. "You found your purpose again. Even if you do not yet realize it."

His comment about surviving in their own way brought the faintest curl to her lips—the closest she had come to a genuine smile tonight outside vulnerability. "Oh, I have seen them," she said, her tone turning wry. "The ones who cling to power. The ones who cling to doctrine. The ones who cling to fear." She shook her head slightly. "And then there are the ones like you. The ones who cling to hope even when they do not call it such."

His words about rise and fall, light and shadow, cycles and inevitability—these touched a philosophical part of her she rarely shared anymore. "Time humbles us all," she agreed softly. "It strips us of illusions and leaves us only with truth. And the only thing we can control… is how we stand when the world calls upon us."

When his senses flicked outward toward the presence in the hallway, Zesiro noticed. Not by the turn of his head, but by the subtle shift in his breathing, the way his shoulders edged ever so slightly into readiness. She admired the instinct. And she respected it. In another life, she might have envied it.

His wink—light-hearted, almost teasing—drew a real, warm breath from her. A soft acknowledgment of his implied warning, and perhaps of the improbable trust they had built in this dimly lit room.

"You are right," she murmured. "Gratitude is premature. But…" Her gaze gentled. "I meant it."

When he rose, she straightened with him, not abruptly, but with the elegant ease of someone who had once walked through endless halls filled with diplomats, nobles, and generals. His offered hand did not surprise her—not now. What surprised her was how naturally her own hand rose to meet it.

Her fingers slipped into his with quiet confidence, not the frailty of a woman seeking help, but the strength of a woman acknowledging an equal.

"This is not merely a transaction," she said softly. "It is the beginning of something larger—for the galaxy, and… perhaps for both of us."

She held his hand a moment longer than necessary—not to cling, but to honor the weight of what they had agreed upon.

Then she released him.

"May the Force guide your path," she added in a low voice, not as a platitude, but as a blessing from one survivor to another. "And may it return you safely."

As he moved toward the exit, Zesiro watched him in silence—shoulders steady, purpose renewed, a man stepping back into the shadowed work of hope.

Only when he reached the doorway did she allow herself to whisper, barely audible:

"Bring him home, Rath."

And the lanternlight flickered across her features, revealing—for the first time in years—not just sorrow…

…but faith.

Rath Nihro

 

[Rath Nihro]

H O P E

Outfit
Tag: Zesiro | Jonyna Si

Unfortunately, her words couldn’t have been further from the truth regarding pain. There was no such thing as a shortage when it came to that wound. It was through that pain that Rath came to where they sat currently. Pain was equally a teacher as it was a destroyer of many lives. Fairly few, much to what Zesiro had revealed, would rise above the grief to do what they could. Whereas for someone like Rath, who carried his grief, remembering those he had lost, yet unlike many, he opted not to despair. Instead, it became a catalyst to evolve past the shadow he once cast.

Even if it was a small step, Rath hoped to build the beginning foundation of something sustainable, something that inspired hope even within the frontier planets that tended to be victims of warlords and pirates. One that might bring closure to Zesiro, and perhaps potentially inspire them to action.

The dark-haired man made his return to his ship after doing an external investigation regarding suspicious shipments from the Galactic Empire, but much to everyone’s surprise. No one had heard of such things within the region. Still, the crumbs were scattered, and whispers began to spread. Seeds of greed began to sow within the minds of many, and a curl of a smile formed on Rath’s lips. It’d prompt the greedy scoundrels and pirates to begin targeting Imperial shipments if it were believed to carry highly valued goods. But that was soon to be the Imperials’ problem, not Rath’s.

The Reformed Jedi reclaimed the pilot’s seat within his freighter as he began to tune himself into an encrypted line of communication. It wasn’t anything extravagant, such as holographic calls or audio. Instead, the message was transmitted into code that was commonly referred to as Morse Code. To those fluent in such codes, it’d be simple to follow, yet time-consuming, but to the droids. It’d translate faster without spilling the secrets to those unintentional parties that might be eavesdropping. It was due to Rath’s paranoia of being tapped by the Imperials or hirelings, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

| In Morse Code |​

---

’One Flock leaves its Nest to the Wild storms, Five Sparrows flee the winter winds, One Sparrow brings a Keepsake of their home, within the stormy Mountains isolates the Flock. Four leaves the Sparrow to brave the storm, and is welcomed by another.’​

Or in translation,

’An Imperial shipment is en route to the Wild Space. Five ships, One ship carries valuable goods and assets. Their route cuts through an asteroid belt in Sector 15134. Capture the valuable ship, but the others must at least be incapacitated. I will be there to assist or lead the ambush.’​

Now with the message sent to Jonyna Si, he hoped that she’d be able to rally the Rebellion on such short notice, but that was also assuming that she’d trust him as well. Regardless, Rath sent out the coordinates and the target of where the ambush was to transpire. He took a steady breath of the filtered air, and his hand reached up to comb through the hair once as the Jedi leaned back into his chair. Rath already knew that it was going to be a hassle, but time was of the essence.

Rath double checked that the freighter was refueled, restocked with consumables, and the usual checks to ensure that his ship wasn’t tampered with beyond what he paid the dock hands to do. Once that was done, Rath returned to the cockpit, fired up the engines, and proceeded to lightspeed his way towards the ambush site.

 

[Jonyna Si]

TAGS: Rath Nihro Zesiro​

Wild Space nowadays had become a sort of lawless space in regards to shipping lanes. Jonyna didn't much care to correct that, not just yet.

Instead, she used it. Abused it.

Imperial shipments were tough, and the Wild Space Rebellion knew it. They couldn't know if the escort was going to be a few frigates, or a set of Star Destroyers. But the Rebellion had a few tricks. The Dawn of Hope couldn't be everywhere at once, and Jonyna knew that.

They needed to be smart.

A Raven hears the call. She flies north to see the Four.

Translation:

Reaper Copies. Interception team is on the way.

While the Dawn of Hope couldn't be there, Jonyna had prepped the WSR for this. The first test of the Rebellion III would be there, ambushing the imperial convoy.