Wherever he goes, drama is sure to follow. War is no exception.
It's what he brings with him that is the problem, not the enemy he spends hours psyching himself up to confront. Because by the time he's following Darth Vindican out of the transport and lighting his sword, he has stoked his power too far. His control teeters on a knife edge before it ultimately tumbles over, taking him down with it into the abyss of self-destruction. The real foe, it seems, is himself.
This is what his Master has lectured him about time and again. He fails to learn the lesson and his Master pays with his life.
It is a hard thing to explain—this beast that lives deep within him. This is the demon that turned his eyes yellow far too young. It's what led his adoptive father to plead to the local authorities for Force sensitivity testing. Yes, his official birth certificate shows his midichlorians are negligible, but can they check again to be sure? Because Dad thinks there has to be a explanation for his son's out of character actions and inexplicable superhuman strength.
He's a good boy, he recalls hearing Dad saying over and over again in the next room. Gaius is responsible and hardworking. He does well in school. He's never done anything like this before.
The investigators say something he can't make out and Dad's voice, sounding stressed and loud, answers. He likes animals. He doesn't like to see someone abusing an animal. It upset him and he took things too far.
The police arrest him anyway and his Dad makes the same appeal to a magistrate days later at his arraignment. The magistrate listens and then calls a recess. When the proceeding resumes, the magistrate is accompanied by a far more senior judge. This judge is a Lord. He has the black cloak, the red face, and the lightsaber swinging at his waist. The Lord asks him a few questions, looks into his eyes, and nods to the magistrate, who orders him to be tested for midichlorians.
They test him again and again over the course of a week as he sits in a cell. Next, he is given a series of comprehensive academic assessments. Several more Lords interview him. Then, Dad arrives to inform him that the charges will be dropped if he agrees to attend the military academy on the Imperial capital world of Dromund Kaas.
They can help you. You're like them.
He doesn't understand. He's not a Sith Lord.
You're something called a random, Dad explains. Apparently sometimes—very rarely—people like us are born with the Force or even awakened to the Force at some point in their life.
I have the Force?
Yes. It's what made you do what you did.
Oh. He thinks a moment. Can I get rid of it?
No. At least, I don't think so. I'll ask.
Do I have to go to a new school?
Yes. This isn't an offer you can refuse. I'm sorry, but this is how it has to be. I will miss you, Son, but this is better than prison.
And that's how at age fourteen, like it or not, he leaves home forever to enter the strange, secretive, and insular world of the elite. It's a life you have to be born to and ordinarily cannot aspire to join. For the mysterious, intimidating Force is the inheritance of theirs alone. The rich really are different—they not only have all the social, economic, and political power, they also have the Force. Gaius is awkwardly shoehorned into their ranks because, as the Academy headmaster bluntly tells him, he is too powerful to be left untrained. It was either train you or kill you, he is informed. No one will take the risk of uncontrolled you walking the streets of the Empire creating mayhem.
It's his first introduction to the roots of the Sith cultural obsession with control and order. Because at their core, he learns, the Sith fear the sacred Darkness that lives within their ruling overlords. That magic power is both a strength and a weakness, and that makes it dangerous. Left unchecked, it could provoke conflict that might lead to chaos in the worst-case scenario. The risk of disorder is what the Dark Side fears most—far more than the Light Side and the Jedi. It's a peculiar thing—to fear your own self. Most of his fellow Academy students don't get the concept and never will—they simply don't have enough Force. But young Gaius Veradun who committed murder with his bare hands at age fourteen understands completely.
He intrinsically knows why reclusive Dark Lord Vitiate insists on rigid hierarchies and bright line rules applied indiscriminately. He appreciates the need for restrictive social norms and honor codes,
especially among the tribal, warrior-minded elite. He personally needs outlets for violence like saber tournaments and Force fights. He can even understand why Vitiate approves brutal military campaigns on colony worlds and every few decades publishes proscription lists to cull the herd of the Lords. It's because the Dark Lord who everyone reveres but no one sees knows what Gaius knows: that Darkness must be kept in check on all levels, personally and collectively, lest it erupt.
The Sith culture's longtime solution is to teach each generation to master their power and to harness it for societal good. That training can be harsh, but discipline is a necessary tool. Spare the rod and spoil the Sith is an adage the Dark Side takes to heart.
Years of Academy training later, the beast that lives deep within him is under control. He can check his impulses. He knows what it feels like when his Darkness is rising. He knows how to stoke it and when to vent it. He makes the Force his tool. And that works for the most part. But while the Force obeys your commands, it can also control your actions. And when that happens to a Force user of his caliber, the fallout can be spectacular.
It happens on Korriban when the battle is done. He has killed the near-human Jedi Master who wielded three—three!—blades against them. But before he dies, the Jedi Master slashes and then stabs Master Vindican cleanly through the gut. The Jedi Padawan woman escapes in a starship. The Navy will have to deal with her. She is lost to him. And unfortunately, that just leaves his own Master as the object for his Darkness.
Darth Vindican is hurt, perhaps mortally so. But he pulls himself to his knees facing the airlock so he can watch the bombardment by the Sith fleet. This is the battle he came for and Master Vindican will see it through until his last breath. The meager Republic defenses are being easily overwhelmed. Victory is near.
But all Gaius can see is failure. They came to kill two Jedi and they only killed one. With his heart a boiling cauldron of Darkness and a sword in his twitching grip, the impulse to kill again is too strong for him to resist. As his Master speaks of Korriban being just the beginning, he raises his sword and vents his frustration and disappointment. Darth Vindican, the patient, tolerant, supportive Master who still has much to teach him, dies instantly.
It's murder. Murder like the killing he did at age fourteen to the guy who he discovered kicking his dog. Gaius returned cruelty with cruelty back then. But today, his cruelty is both undeserved and unprovoked. He has no excuse. Only the shameful explanation that he lost control.
And that leads him to this moment. He's sweating in his armor sitting before a recording droid and a Naval major for a debriefing. The interview begins with a polite phrase he will hear a lot: "My condolences on the loss of your Master." Then, the major asks him what happened in the fight. He tells them that he let Vindican take the lead, as planned. His Master took that slash to the face before the Jedi Master got him in the midsection. He took up his Master's sword and engaged the Jedi on his own. He got the kill, but by then the cowardly Padawan had fled.
He describes the Jedi Master's fighting style as best as he can remember. The Jedi was very quick and agile. He easily wielded three blades. He also didn't hesitate to use Force pushes and to hurl objects with his power. If all the Jedi are as good as that guy, we will have our work cut out for us, Gaius tells his interviewer glumly.
No one asks any probing questions about how Darth Vindican died. The major assumes that the Jedi Master took his head, and Gaius doesn't volunteer otherwise. He very carefully avoids a direct lie.
They give him time to shower and to decompress in meditation. Then, he gets hauled in for his next round of debriefing. It's standard procedure to let the subject think a bit before a different interviewer tries to tease out more details. Gaius doesn't have much to add at the second session other than that the Padawan almost seemed the stronger of the Jedi pair. The Jedi Master kept them busy so she could escape. Whoever she is, she is very strong with the Force. Gaius recalls that she left on a civilian ship thanks to a Force-assisted leap and help from someone onboard the fleeing ship.
Will that be all? Are they satisfied with the information he has provided? He certainly hopes so.
The next day, while the big Naval rout at Tingal Arm is being mopped up, Darth Angral, his commanding officer, arrives to inspect the Sith occupation at Korriban. Angral asks to see him.
"My condolences on the loss of your Master," the understated, aristocratic Lord Angral begins, adding, "Darth Fetter sends his condolences as well," in a reference the ultimate head of Imperial Navy operations. It's an important name drop.
"Thank you," Gaius nods, feeling pleased to have merited such notice but terribly uncomfortable at the circumstances.
Angral congratulates him on his Jedi kill and tells him he can't wait to slay a Jedi himself. Then, his commanding officer asks casually if he has anything to add to the official report. He answers no. That's his story and he's sticking to it.
But he has nagging guilt that gnaws at his conscience. And so, in a fit of self-recrimination, he confesses in a text to Portia Metellus. It's reckless, but he has to tell someone, and she feels like a safe confidante. He has no real basis for that assessment, just a gut feeling. He really likes that girl.
After that, he is sent home to Dromund Kaas. He will accompany his Master's body home for burial.
The task unfolds with a degree of pomp that deepens his lie of omission and sharpens his guilt. The fallen Darth Vindican is publicly heralded as a martyr. He himself is portrayed as the young hero Apprentice who avenged his Master's death on the spot. The transport delivering them receives full military honors, with Darth Vindican's coffin draped in the banner of the Empire. There are plenty of press and Palace dignitaries on hand to document the solemn occasion as he greets his Master's grieving widow. Maybe he ought to feel triumphant in the moment, but in truth he feels defeated. He let himself and his Master down.
Worse still, he finds himself the unexpected beneficiary of Darth Vindican's estate. His Master never had a son, and therefore under the law Vindican's wealth and possessions transfer to his surviving Apprentices. Lord Vindican taught for many years at the Academy and therefore did not take on many individual pupils. His two former Apprentices, both established Lords of considerable wealth and status, opt to disclaim any benefit in favor of him. It's a magnanimous gesture made in light of his heroics at Korriban. And, he suspects, it is motivated in part by some degree of noblesse oblige pity for his status as a penniless random. And so, Gaius finds himself inheriting from the Master he killed. That includes everything from Vindican's bank accountants, to his family responsibilities, to his servants on the payroll. He's not exactly rich, but he's far from penniless.
When finally they are in private, weepy Lady Vindican asks him one question. "Did Horatio die badly?"
He hesitates. How does he answer that question?
"The men who came to inform me . . . they said that the Jedi slashed his eye and stabbed him clean through the stomach . . . and then . . . then . . ." Lady Vindican falters.
He nods sadly and looks away. "That's all true."
With trembling lips, she presses, "Did my husband suffer, Gaius? Was it h-horrible for him at the end?"
"No," he assures her, improvising, "It was quick."
"Tell me the truth," she persists, clearly unconvinced. Perhaps, she's sensing his evasion. "Gaius, I want to know."
He looks her in the eye and admits, "He didn't suffer . . . I didn't let him suffer. My Lady, I was the one to take his head. Not the Jedi."
There. He's said it.
Lady Vindican misunderstands. "Mercy," she whispers.
Not exactly. But he nods all the same and adopts her characterization. "Mercy," he confirms.
"Thank you, Gaius," she tells him gravely, looking enormously relieved. "That was very kind of you." She pats at his arm awkwardly as more tears begin to drip. "You were a good and faithful Apprentice. He would have been very proud to present you to the Emperor."
Not really. But she's so fragile and bereft that Gaius leaves it at that. It seems almost selfish to confess now and upset her further. But wanting to make amends, he promises, "I will always take care of you and Julia, my Lady. You can depend on me."
"I know. You're a good boy. Thank you for avenging my husband. You're a true Sith, Gaius."
The emotionally draining day continues as Darth Vindican is entombed with his forebears in a private ceremony. Then an open house is held at the Vindican home for mourners to pay their respects to the family. He stands in his Lord's cloak in the foyer of his dead Master's home flanked by Lady Vindican and Lady Julia. With his hood pulled low like he likes, he and the family receive a steady stream of visitors. With all the military Lords deployed, there are fewer mourners than usual, but it is still a large number. The point is clear: Darth Vindican was widely respected and admired.
And that brings home the magnitude of what he has done. He had a solid Master who could have been an advocate for him long term, but he threw that chance away in a moment of Dark rage. Outwardly, Gaius is subdued but inwardly he alternates between being furious with himself and feeling hopeless. Is he going to be one of those guys who gets in the way of his own success? Who will teach him now? Will any military Lord even take on an extra Apprentice now that the war has started? How could he have been so stupid? He worries he will end up some overpowered loser who never reaches his potential. Maybe the haters at the Academy are right and he will never achieve the success he craves to prove them wrong.
He's let his attention wander. Someone is speaking to him: "My condolences, Malgus. Go kill another Jedi for Vindican."
He gives the obligatory response, "Yes, my Lord."
Gaius hears a variation of that theme over and over again in the receiving line. He nods and answers, "Yes, my Lord," in his deepest, most authoritative voice. It earns him a nod of recognition and sometimes even an atta boy clap on the back from the older Lords. Then, the next group steps forward and Gaius finds himself greeting more unfamiliar faces.
Through it all, stone-faced Lady Vindican is admirably composed, though she has aged ten years since he and Lord Vindican left her a mere three weeks ago. Little Julia is a sniveling mess. She keeps reaching to furtively grip his hand for comfort between guests. She's doing her best.
This time, he hears, "Vindican didn't train you long, but he trained you well. You'll be a credit to him."
"Yes, my Lord. I hope so, my Lord."
Repeatedly, he is congratulated on his success at Korriban and consoled for the loss of his Master. Maybe it's the esprit de corps mood of the Empire right now, but he feels genuinely accepted by the peers he meets. It's their goodwill for Lord Vindican transferring over to him. Plus, the news reports have made him out to be a hero for killing the Jedi Master who killed his own Master. It's the public adulation he craves, and it's a splashy introduction that will get him noticed. But it feels hollow. An hour into this grieving ritual, all the approval is starting to grate. He's not used to being well received. And privately, he feels a fraud as guilt and remorse settle in deep.
The faces blur into one another as his mind wanders. Then, suddenly, he finds himself looking at familiar face. It's Lady Oderint, the widow of Darth Oderint, the youngest ever member of the Dark Council. She is Portia Metellus' mother and apparently the source of her daughter's aristocratic good looks. Handsome Lady Oderint receives Lady Vindican and Julia warmly with profuse expressions of sincere sympathy. But when she turns to him, her cool gaze settles for the mere briefest instant. "My condolences, my Lord," she tells him perfunctorily. It's not exactly rude. It's more akin to the crisp, dismissive tone the elite employ for their servants. The moment passes fast, but it conveys volumes. It's not hard to see from where Portia gets her frosty snobbery.
After Lady Oderint passes, a shorter, less vibrant version of Portia follows. This must be her older sister. The one who is marrying Traverse. But where is Portia? Gaius looks around to spy her at the entrance where she has been detained greeting another friend who waits further down the receiving line. Portia hurries over now and throws herself into Julia's arms. By the time the best friends part, Portia is ducking away beside Lady Oderint.
She successfully avoids greeting him, Gaius notes. He tries not to feel rejected.
The receiving line grinds on for another forty-five minutes. Then he accompanies Lady Vindican into the large reception room where people have gathered for refreshments. The Sith being the Sith, even a funeral is an occasion to see and be seen while angling for maximum effect. There is a lot of conspicuous wealth on display, he notes. These people have perfected the art of subtle shade and they have refined the concept of the humble brag to an artform. But he gamely suffers through it all. He tries to be present as the parade of unfamiliar guests spouting platitudes continues. He has to put on a good show standing by his dead Master's wife like a good Apprentice. But truthfully, his mental focus is on the far side of the room on Portia Metellus.
He can't stop staring.
She, in turn, ignores him. She won't even look at him.
Well, fine. Then, he'll stare all he likes. That's easy because Force, she's so beautiful. Look at her smiling and nodding with smooth poise. She radiates social polish as she stands at her mother's side in a dress that looks expensive. Clearly, Portia was born to this sort of thing for she seems effortlessly at ease. And why shouldn't she? She was raised among the upper echelon of the elite. In time, she will take her mother's role as grande dame with her own daughter standing by her side. That is how a caste system works. Generation after generation replicates itself, passing on their values and ideals, wealth, and connections. You can't become Lady Portia, you have to be born Lady Portia.
And that's one reason among many why she's perfect for him. A girl like her will give him the entrée he needs into the closed ranks of the most exclusive families. He instinctively knows he can't win that welcome with his sword or even with great wealth. He has to be invited in by one of their own who will vouch for him. And that means he needs to become a great Lord's Apprentice or a great family's son-in-law, preferably both. That's why Portia Metellus, he has decided, will do nicely for a wife.
Does she feel his eyes on her? He suspects she does. Lady Portia is full of Force. Like him, she's probably hyperaware. Yes . . . she knows he's watching. She glances over and their eyes lock. She quickly looks away. But she saw him. He's certain of it. And just look at that small half-smile she's suppressing.
He watches as Portia excuses herself from the group and slips away. On impulse, he turns to excuse himself to Lady Vindican so he can follow. In the hallway, he ducks past a servant carrying a tray of empty glasses. Where is she? Where did she go? Portia has the run of the Vindican household. She practically lives here. He decides to head for Julia's bedroom. That seems like a likely refuge. But when he bursts in, it's empty.
There are fast footsteps in the hallway. It's the quick click of a Lady's heeled shoes. Yes . . . it's her. He senses her approach. He has memorized her Force imprint.
Gaius whirls just as Portia enters.
"You . . ." she breathes out, looking equal parts horrified and annoyed.
He stands there a moment transfixed. Because when she walks in, the air seems to go out of the room. She's all he sees. All he feels in the Force. As a female, she has only the most rudimentary training. She is a mere vessel for the midichlorians she will one day pass on to her Lord's offspring. The rigid gender roles of Sith society preclude her doing much more than Temple seances and spells. But still . . . her latent power catches his notice. It beckons to him every bit as much as her beauty.
Who talks first? Does he talk first? "You're avoiding me," he blurts. It comes out sounding like the accusation it is.
Portia snaps back, "I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to see you." She screws up her lovely face before ordering, "Get out!"
He crosses his arms and stands his ground on the fluffy pink rug that decorates Julia's personal space. "This is my house now."
"Fine!" She turns on heel to flounce out the door.
"Wait—stay!" he yelps, immediately recanting his tough guy posturing. She can't leave. "Stay—"
"Or what—you'll kill me too?"
"No! Let me explain." This conversation is going from bad to worse. And look at her fuming at him. When he first met Portia, he decided she was just another rich bitch. But she's not. She's high strung and temperamental, like himself. Really, she's perfect for him.
She looks away now to mutter, "I wish I didn't know . . . I wish you had never told me . . ."
"I didn't mean to do it," he replies softly. And even to his own ears, the words sound feeble and whiney.
She explodes. "He lost his head! That's what Julia overheard them tell her mother. How do you not mean a decapitation?"
"I . . . I . . . " He stammers, feeling foolish. He ought to have an answer for her, but he does not. The truth is that he meant what he did when he did it. The act was committed with cool deliberateness. It was only in the aftermath when his rage ebbed that he realized the horror of his actions. Was it premeditated? No. But it was absolutely intentional.
"He was a good man and a good father—and you took that away!" Portia's anger is exposed as a veneer as her sudden, intense sadness buffets his mind through the Force. "I was seven years old when my father died. He and his Apprentice and everyone on that ship were atomized when it disintegrated during a jump to lightspeed. Daddy w-went away," she chokes out, "and he never c-came home."
Gaius stares, arrested by the sudden flash of yellow in her eyes . . . It reveals the potent Darkness that is pricked by the raw memories she divulges.
Portia seems oblivious. She sadly recounts, "For years later, I h-hoped he would just walk through the door like usual and it would be like nothing ever happened. And then M-Mother would be happy again and Cato wouldn't be s-so overwhelmed with the pressure of acting like a grown man when he was still a kid."
She's looking at him like he should say something—anything—but he is too transfixed by her impressive yellow eyes. Never has he seen such a thing in a woman. It is very revealing about the extent of her power and her pain. He had no idea . . .
"Do you understand what you have done?" she rages. "Death changes things! It leaves a hole in a family that never fills! It makes a wound that never fully heals! Julia won't have a father to give her away at her wedding now. There will be no Grandpa to hand down his saber to her son when he retires. Oh, why am I telling you this? You don't care about people," she hisses. "That's so clear in the way you treat everyone!"
"This isn't about you," he tells her, trying to depersonalize the situation.
Portia is having none of it. "She's my best friend! Lady Vindican is like a second mother to me! This is absolutely about me! I was here long before you ever showed up! You—the Apprentice no one wanted!"
Exasperated, Portia looks away before she makes an ugly insinuation. "Was this to steal his estate? So you could realize your grand ambitions—"
"No!" Absolutely not!
"Then why?"
Now, it's his turn for raw, uncomfortable emotions. He is willing to bet that his eyes are as yellow as hers now as he struggles to explain. "I couldn't stop myself. I lost control."
"Lost control . . ." she echoes with a true Sith's fear of chaos showing in her voice.
"We were fighting Jedi. We had to get stoked up. We did a lot of meditation as preparation. But I took it too far. After I killed the Jedi, I killed my wounded Master. I would have kept killing had there been anyone else present . . ."
"Oh Force," she exhales as she takes a step back. She regards him now like he's a ticking thermal detonator. "How dangerous are you?"
Sith Lords are notoriously proud of their power. But he has a love-hate relationship with the Force. It gave him everything he has, or it cost him everything, depending on how you look at it. "I have . . . I have a lot of Force . . . maybe too much Force . . . Every now and then, it gets away from me . . ."
Does she understand? She does. Horrified Portia recites an old maxim of the Sith. "If you don't control the Darkness—"
"—it controls you. That's true." He searches her pretty red face that looks Old Sith in the best ways, hoping for a little hint of forgiveness. "They tell me that I will grow into my power in time . . . that control will become easier . . . that I need not fear tapping into all of my potential."
She nods along. "Every Lord wants more power."
"Not me. Or, not Force power," he amends. "It's other types of power that I want." Force power alone isn't enough to succeed as a Lord. He needs the soft skills he so glaringly lacks. He needs the network of connections and influence that others are born to but he was not. And he needs that special intangible charisma which all natural leaders have. It makes people like and admire them.
Gaius knows that he is mostly resented. He has none of the qualities needed for true success and one day perhaps a seat on the Dark Council. All he has is a shit ton of midichlorians that twice now have turned him into a cold-blooded killer. But he swallows those doubts as he focuses on Portia. "I am sorry about your father."
She rebuffs his sympathy. "It was a long time ago."
"I know. But I can see how much it still hurts."
"And you just did that here!" she accuses shrilly.
He meets her gaze and accepts responsibility. "I know. Maybe my Master would have died anyway . . . I'm not sure . . . not all stabs to the torso are fatal . . . but it doesn't matter. I did it and I can't change it now. But I wish I could change all of it. Even your father."
She wipes at her eyes again. "I shouldn't have said anything—"
"I'm glad you did. I want to know you better." He has wondered what this pampered girl has to be unhappy about. Now, he knows. "I told Lady Vindican that I made the killing blow. She thinks I gave her dying husband mercy."
"So, I'm the only one who knows the truth?"
He nods. "The Navy thinks the Jedi killed him."
Portia cringes. "I wish I didn't know . . . I wish you had never told me . . ."
"Keep my secret," he begs, reaching for her hands. "This could be the first of many," he breathes out as he gets lost in her eyes. They're normal again, and that's a good sign.
Still, she threatens, "I'm destroying that comlink!"
"No, don't! Use it. Tell me more about your father. Tell me more about how you feel. I want to know what's important to you." He squeezes her hands for emphasis.
"Why?" she asks, sounding genuinely bewildered.
"Because we could be good together." Because I'm going to marry you one day, he thinks to himself.
She pulls back. "That's impossible and you know it."
He counters solemnly, "Nothing is impossible if the Force is with us."
That line makes some headway. Portia looks up at him curiously and squints. Then, her face crumples and fresh tears flow. "Daddy used to say that . . ." she chokes out. Then, she succumbs to shuddering sobs.
He hates to see her cry. This proud girl strikes him as fierce. She throws him into rosebushes and kills bugs with Force lightning. But first the war and now the loss of Darth Vindican have thrown her perfect life into upheaval. Well, maybe it's not a perfect life. Portia Metellus has her own problems, he's learning. Look at her crying. He needs to do something. So, awkwardly he approaches to fold her into his arms for a hug. Is she going to shrug him off? Maybe choke him with the Force for being overly familiar? No, she doesn't. In fact, she clings to him like her life depends on it. It makes him melt inside. This girl's not as hostile as she pretends. It's clear that she buries her sadness in anger, like he has buried his guilt in lies. But it's all they each have, so they go with it.
He's been falling asleep to fantasies of Portia and waking up hard with her name on his lips. But when he has imagined having her in his arms it was never like this. This is so wholesome, so chaste, so . . . nice. He dares to lift a hand to stroke her hair mostly because he wants to know how it feels. She smells like spicy perfume and her body is soft against his. She's close enough that he can feel her breasts pressed against his chest. It feels amazing.
The door opens and Julia now abruptly barges into her bedroom, head down to hide her own tears. It's been a grueling day and emotions are running high for everyone, it seems. Julia sees their shocking embrace, looks up to meet his eyes over Portia's head, and doesn't react. Julia has none of her best friend's chilly formality and haughty poise. She's a sweet, affectionate, utterly spoiled daughter who is at once painfully young and yet disarmingly wise. Julia sees their hug for what it is—a moment of mutual comfort, not some illicit lust she needs to interrupt.
Julia doesn't condemn their lack of propriety. Instead, she approaches with open arms to join them. And now, he's got a crying girl nestled under each arm. Maybe it should feel awkward, but it doesn't. He cares for both of these young ladies. Little Julia is the closest he will have to a sister. And Portia—well, he thinks of Portia very differently.
Next into the room comes Lady Vindican. "Oh, there you are." She sees their huddled trio and her face softens. Like her daughter, Lady Vindican is the understanding type. Her face takes on a wistful look as she observes, "Look at you, looking after my girls . . . but I guess you're the Lord of the house now."
"My Lady," he nods respectfully as he quickly disentangles himself.
"A guest is asking for you. An important guest. Gaius, it's Darth Azamin."
Azamin! That's a summons he needs to heed. He nods immediately. "I should go."
The stoic mistress of the house beckons her grieving daughter back out to their guests. "You too, Julia. There will be time for our sorrows when everyone is gone."
Gaius now heads in search of Darth Azamin. The famed statesman is, of course, surrounded by other Lords. Azamin might appear to be a complete blank in the Force, but his influence shows in the flock of wannabes who angle for his notice. Into that mix, Gaius strides, doing his best to project cool
swagger.
"Ah, Malgus," Azamin croaks. "Let me shake the hand of the first Lord in a long time to slay a Jedi Master."
Gaius has to bend low to accept the grip of the stooped old fossil. At this point in his unnaturally long life, shrunken Darth Azamin is the height of a small woman.
As plenty of Lords look on, Azamin expresses his sympathy for his loss. "Your Master was a good man. May the Force be with Darth Vindican."
He growls back a boast, "I will avenge him on more Jedi," for the benefit of his audience.
Azamin smirks, knowing full well what he's doing. "Save some for the rest of us. There will be Jedi enough to go around."
"Do I have to?"
Azamin smirks harder now. "I like that attitude, my Lord. When things are done here, drop by my villa tonight. Let's you and I have a talk."
Gaius can feel his cheeks burn with pleasure to be singled out for this distinction before so many Lords as witnesses. In the competitive world of the Sith, access to power and influence matters. And now, yet again, his Master's loss would appear to be his gain. It's an uncomfortable thought, but could Korriban be his breakout moment that will change the narrative for how his peers regard him? Darth Azamin's unexpected invitation is the ego boost he needs on this dispiriting day. Perhaps he will manage to snatch victory from the jaws of personal defeat after all, Gaius hopes.
