Darth Azamin's villa is one of those sprawling, gated fortress designs that date from the early days of the Hidden Empire. It's on the Palatine Hill, naturally, next to Portia's family's compound. The secluded enclave is Dromund Kaas' most rarefied real estate that abuts the Palace complex. In his younger days, Darth Azamin must have walked to work, Gaius surmises.

It's late, but he is expected. His speeder is received by a liveried servant who looks as old as his five-hundred-year-old Master. The servant ushers Gaius into a quiet entrance hall. Not surprisingly, the villa's interior is spit and polish luxe. The decor is mostly wood paneling, reflecting the considerable age of the estate. More recently built homes like Vindican's tend to be decorated with inlaid stone, not this intricate native woodwork. Looking around, the overall impression is Old Money, and lots of it. Gaius tries not to feel intimidated.

"The Master is in his study," he is informed. "He will receive you there. Follow me, my Lord."

The short walk gives him a chance to peruse more of Darth Azamin's private abode. He passes a table full of family photos and a credenza displaying an old style vented crossguard saber. There are plaques and awards scattered here and there, mementos of an unnaturally long career lived at the pinnacle of the Empire. Seeing all the accolades is impressive. There's nothing left for Cornelius Caesar, Darth Azamin to achieve on behalf of the Empire.

Gaius follows the manservant into a cozy room where his host is seated. Azamin's Lord's cloak is off. He wears velvet robes of the old style that was popular in his youth. Seeing him unhooded, dressed as he is in this museum-like setting, Gaius is struck by how truly ancient the little man is. Azamin might have sat in this very spot dressed as he is now to receive a visitor hundreds of years ago. It says something about the mysterious Emperor Vitiate that his crony is this old fossil for whom nothing ever changes. This moment, more than anything, typifies what Gaius feels he is up against: the intractable, dug-in Sith Establishment for whom he is an unwelcome interloper.

"Ah, salve Dominus." Azamin greets him with formal courtesy that sets a tone for the interview. The little shrunken crone struggles to his feet with the help of his cane. He offers his hand. "Thank you for dropping by on this sad occasion."

Gaius nods. He's no fool. He knows a summons for a command performance when he hears one. But this is an opportunity as well. He needs to turn this conversation to his advantage. Darth Azamin could be a powerful ally.

"Take a seat." His host waves him into the chair placed opposite his. With an impish sheepishness, the elder statesman confesses, "I'm so short now that I will break my neck looking up at you."

Gaius complies a bit gingerly, hoping he doesn't embarrass himself by breaking the old antique. But thankfully, the chair accepts his bulk with nary a creak.

Still, his physicality garners a mention. "You're a big one. Big body, big Force."

"Yes, my Lord." He's used to pointed observations about his person. In the competitive social strata of the Sith elite, many conversations begin with a diss. Especially conversations he's involved in.

Azamin grunts and grins. "How you must have terrified that pair of Jedi on Korriban."

"I hope so."

"Allow me to again express my condolences on the loss of your Master. It must be a great blow to absorb."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Give it time. Meditation helps with grief, I have found. But nothing helps more than the passage of time."

"I will keep that in mind." Guilty Gaius fights the urge to squirm under Azamin's probing gaze. He mutters, "Pain is power," trying to claim a modicum of bravado from the situation. And did that sound defensive? He hopes not. He's trying his best to play it cool, but he's sweating under his cloak.

Azamin settles back into his chair. He invites, "Tell me about the duel. I understand you found the enemy to be formidable."

He nods and repeats almost verbatim what's in the official report. And that's a mistake. Because Darth Azamin seems to regard it as obfuscation.

"Now then," his host flashes a genial smile that never reaches his yellow eyes, "I have read the official report. You do not need to tell me what you have told others."

Gaius gulps. Then, he fishes. "Is there something in particular you wish to know?"

Azamin finally gets to the point. "When I spoke to Angral about the matter, he said he thought you were holding something back. That is why I have invited you here tonight. I wish to know what is not in the report."

Gaius meets his gaze and fairly growls, "I was debriefed three times. It's all in the report."

"Relax, my boy. Speak freely. This conversation is off the record. What you tell me will never find its way up the chain of command."

"You are the chain of command, are you not?" he counters. It's a pointed comment, maybe verging on disrespect. But everyone knows that Darth Azamin is the Emperor's longtime crony. His coyness about it grates. And Angral who apparently raised the issue to Azamin is his commanding officer. So, yes, the chain of command is most definitely involved.

His host shrugs off the point. "There isn't anything I haven't seen or heard in four hundred years of service on the Dark Council."

"Are you asking me as a representative of the Council?"

"No. As I have told you, this conversation is off the record. I asked to meet with you merely as a friend and an admirer. You are the first Lord in a long time to confront a Jedi and live to tell of it. If you have information useful to the war effort, I wish to know."

Gaius' eyes narrow as he keeps his silence. He's not sure how to play this situation, but he's hurriedly thinking through his options.

Azamin waits patiently. The little old man appears a bit bemused. "You should know that I pride myself on being something of a straight shooter among our kind. My boy, this is not a trap. Stop looking so terrified."

Terrified? He looks terrified? Gaius bristles anew.

Azamin chuckles. "Now, you are making me very suspicious."

"I'm not sure what else there is to tell," Gaius equivocates, searching for a way out of the predicament.

In return, he receives a veiled threat. "Don't make me pluck it from your mind. Neither of us wants this to become an interrogation. Tell me," the old geezer prods, "did Vindican die protecting you? Is that how an Apprentice with three months' training slays the Jedi Master who stabbed the best swordsman in the Empire?"

Does Azamin think he falsely claims to be a Jedi killer? Gaius fumes with indignation.

"Well?"

"No. My Master engaged the Jedi, fought him, and failed."

"Failed?"

"Yes. Failed."

Something about the clipped way he states that outcome engages Azamin's skepticism further. The little man squints at him a moment, causing Gaius to belatedly sense that his eyes just became yellow. He blinks away the telltale sign of surging Darkness.

When his host next speaks, his words are quiet. And though they are ostensibly nonchalant, there is nothing casual about them. "How did Darth Vindican die?"

"He was slashed and stabbed by the Jedi. It's in the report."

Azamin nods slowly before he softly determines, "Angral was right. You are hiding something." With a steely yellow glare of his own, Darth Azamin now orders, "Tell me."

Frustrated with where the conversation is heading but seeing no easy way to avoid it, Gaius opts for the story Lady Vindican believes. "After my Master fell, I fought the Jedi and won. My Master was still alive but suffering." He adds, "Fading and in pain."

"Did you give him mercy?" From the tone in which his host asks the question, Gaius isn't certain how he's supposed to answer. He wants to answer yes, but it's a direct lie to a very important Lord whose trust and goodwill could advance him. Plus, a mercy killing isn't how a Sith Lord wants to die. Far better for Vindican to be slain by a Jedi than to be put out of his misery by a subordinate. Moreover, mercy isn't exactly an impulse he himself can be proud of. Mercy is for women and children. It is granted because it doesn't matter, chiefly because the recipients are of no strategic consequence.

Flustered, Gaius hesitates, remembering exactly how and why Darth Vindican lost his head.

Those thoughts betray him. "No. It wasn't mercy," old Azamin concludes preemptively. He exhales a long sigh and looks down at his robes a moment. "Say it out loud, Gaius Veradun. How did your Master die?"

Gaius sits there, tongue tied.

"Go on. Say it," Azamin prods with an exasperated wave of his spindly hand. "How did Darth Vindican die?"

"I killed him myself," Gaius confesses with maximum trepidation.

"And why did you do such a thing?"

Now's his chance to put his best argument forward. But instead, the justification comes out in terse, biting sentences that reveal just how guilty and defensive he is about the deed. "I was angry. The Padawan got away. Vindican was beaten. We failed in our mission. It was only half completed."

Azamin settles back in his chair and eyes him. Is he waiting for more explanation? Gaius has none. He clams up, his mouth settling into a firm line.

"How your bitterness reminds me of someone . . ." Azamin replies cryptically. Then, the old man croaks, "When Dark meets Light, all bets are off, Lord Malgus. Anything can happen. I warned you that this assignment was not for a barely trained Apprentice. It seems I was right."

"I did my part," Gaius counters.

Azamin shakes his head. "Frustration comes with war. Setbacks come with war. Not every battle will be an unqualified victory. You cannot behead every commanding officer you deem a failure."

"Yes, my Lord." Gaius now hangs his chin and admits the true contrition that he's certain is screaming out in the Force. He really screwed up on Korriban, but only himself, Portia, and now Lord Azamin know it. "I regret my actions."

"But in the moment, you couldn't stop yourself, could you? You didn't want to stop yourself," old Azamin accuses softly. "Darkness ran away with you."

Gaius looks away. "That's true."

"Control. You must learn control."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Actions like this will not be understood by others. Few men in the Empire have your level of Force and therefore know what a burden it can be. They will never experience Darkness like you do. They will condemn your actions because they do not understand . . . they cannot understand what Darkness makes you capable of."

"But you understand . . . don't you?" Gaius ventures hopefully, thinking that this old geezer must have had considerable Force abilities at some point.

His host affirms, "I do. I remember what it is like to be young and to struggle with growing power. I recall how strong the impulses could be . . . how compelling those urges were. I understand but I do not condone. Is that a distinction you can understand?"

"Yes, my Lord."

Azamin studies him in silence long enough to make him feel really uncomfortable. When finally the ancient Lord speaks, Gaius discovers he is something of a secre,t arm's length benefactor.

"When I found you," Azamin purrs, "I saw what all Masters live to see. Raw, untamed power. I got you an Academy appointment when you were refused entry into the priesthood and relegated to a juvenile detention center and then a stint in adult prison. I figured that it was worth the risk to see how you would develop. But that makes me responsible for you. Were you to become a problem, I would need to solve the problem. Do not," old Azamin wags an ominous finger his way, "become a problem."

Gaius' eyes widen and he hastens to respond. "Yes, my Lord."

"All young bucks like to fight, but you take it to the next level. No one in recent memory has equaled your Academy record in academics or in disciplinary actions. And it's not the usual pranks and cheating. Every single one of your demerits was for violence. Because you lost your temper at a taunt or because you were goaded."

That's all true. During his teen years he was a testosterone fueled hothead who delighted in fighting everyone who tried to bully him. But the strategy backfired because rather than deterring his haters, it egged them on. Several of his peers were happy to get in trouble if meant getting him in trouble too.

The truth is that when he entered the Naval Academy he was a homesick outcast. He only slowly came around to the idea of being a Sith Lord. For the first few years, he had a horrible attitude. It was coupled with a surprising aptitude that he secretly delighted in. There was something gleefully contrarian about beating the posh sons of the uber competitive ruling class at their own game. Whether it was constructing algorithms in math class or mock duels in saber practice, he began to apply himself mostly because when he won it pissed everyone off. Achievement became a twisted form of stealth rebellion that helped him make peace with the hard right turn his life made when it was discovered he had the Force. By the time his Academy years were through, he was a star student.

And over time in the process of those awkward, hard teen years, his ambitions shifted. He became less motivated by embarrassing others than he was by pursuing his own excellence. If he's going to have to be a Sith Lord in the Imperial Navy, he's going to be the best one he can be. Because damn the haters, he's going to have it all. Great success, great wealth, great happiness, and legendary glory. Someday, all those who disdain him will be angling for his notice, for his influence, and for his counsel. He will get a coveted seat on the Dark Council and Emperor Vitiate himself will want his opinion.

Maybe he has become too obsessed with success. But it's the far preferable choice to failure. And if he can equal his potential, who knows? Perhaps he could become the next Darth Azamin.

That old fossil seems to be taking the news of Darth Vindican's murder in stride. Something about the way his host received his confession makes Gaius think Lord Azamin wasn't at all surprised by his actions. It's almost like he was expecting them. Hopefully, that means he gets a slap on the wrist for his crime.

"Who knows the truth about the death of Vindican other than you and I?"

"No one," Gaius reflexively lies.

The words have barely left his lips when he feels himself hit the floor with a wallop. He has keen reflexes, but they are no match for the bolt of Force lightning that he receives from Darth Azamin. The little man is quite the wizard. The blow takes his breath away. Pain screams from every cell in his body for the briefest instant before it passes.

Literally floored, Gaius lifts his cheek from Azamin's fine rug and gapes at the elder statesman. He's received his share of Force lightning but never that potent. Darth Azamin is not pulling his punches.

His incredulity prompts a sly chuckle. "Judge me by my size, do you? Or by my age? Foolish boy," Azamin smirks above him. "The Force is my ally. My power is not this shriveled body. It is Darkness itself."

Gaius nods and regards the anachronistic crone with new respect. Apparently feeble Azamin has true power to match his political stature. He's more than longevity and talk, it seems.

The little man perched on his chair eyes him coolly as Gaius retakes his own seat. "Do not dare lie to me again. Who knows about this incident other than you and I?"

"Portia Metellus."

It's not an answer Azamin is expecting. "Why her?"

"I had to tell someone."

Again, Azamin disapproves. "Leave women out of matters like this. When a woman knows your secret, you only endanger yourself and her."

Whatever. Gaius has never taken criticism well. Today is no exception. He needs to change the topic, if only to take the focus off how inept he is. But having little guile, no filter, and very little patience, he blurts out, "I want a new Master."

Azamin shakes his head. "No more training do you require."

Bullshit. "I need training. It might help."

"You already know that which you need."

Whaaat? Gaius immediately starts arguing. "No, I don't-Korriban proves it! I want a new Master." And wait, that came out kind of petulant.

Azamin isn't going for it. "I was the one who got you Vindican for a Master. Horatio was a solid choice among those available. He taught saber at the Academy for years, so he was an experienced teacher. He was used to dealing with young men. He had the perfect temperament for an immature, overpowered boy with a big mouth and a thin skin. But you killed him." Azamin shoots him a harsh look of reproach. "I will not give you another Master to murder. That will be your punishment."

"But—"

"Consider yourself lucky that this matter will go no further. If this were to be known by the Council, they might order you put down like some rabid dog, deeming you unfit for service and untrainable as is. They would kill you and consider the matter resolved. And they would feel completely justified since you were a random given a chance you did not deserve and you squandered it."

"But—"

"My boy, actions like what you did to Vindican are bad for morale and they upset the chain of command. An uncontrollable random will not be tolerated. Especially in time of war. Be grateful that the rest of the Empire heralds you as hero, not as villain."

"I see." Seething Gaius backs down as he processes what he has heard.

Azamin assures him, "You will be fine on your own."

The Hell he will! And damn, does that suggestion rankle. It is a deft act of erasure to be told how to understand a predicament by someone who will never be in the situation. Gaius feels his career slipping away fast. With no Master to teach and guide him, his days as a hero will be fleeting. He'll be potential that never pans out, a promising prospect who fizzles immediately.

But he's stubbornly invested in success. He wants so much to show up the haters. To prove he is worthy of the Force he has been given. To rise to the occasion of his unusual gift. To be the unlikely hero who no one wants but everyone needs nevertheless. Why? Because he wants to make sense of his circumstances and to reclaim his narrative. He's neither a victim nor a mistake nor a freak. He's something altogether different and, he fervently hopes, important for reasons other than his origin story. So, he tries a different tactic. He ventures, "Will you be my Master?"

Azamin raises an eyebrow. "You aim high."

"Please. Will you?" He's not too proud to beg.

The elder statesman waves him off. "I was excused from mentoring an Apprentice long before you were born."

"Make an exception," he presses boldly.

"I cannot do that. The Emperor himself pronounced me retired."

"Would he reconsider?"

Azamin shakes his head. "Lord Malgus, our Dark Lord would never permit a man like me to train one such as you."

His eyes fall to the ground as he realizes aloud, "Because I'm a random . . ."

"No. Because I have too much power and prominence and you, my boy, have too much potential."

He doesn't understand. Isn't potential good?

Azamin sees his confusion. "Some might construe us to be a dangerous combination."

He's still not getting it. "Why?"

Azamin's response is stern. "Be happy that you are a random misidentified at birth as having no Force. Were you born a son of a proper family, we would not be having this conversation. You would not have lived a week. Ordinarily, Lord Vitiate does not allow boy children born with exceptional Force to live."

"He kills babies?" Could that longstanding rumor be true?

His host nods. "Babies strong with the Force grow up to be men strong with the Force who might harbor ambitions . . ."

"So Vitiate really does fear rivals . . ." Gaius breathes out. He's heard whispers but never actually believed them.

"Think back to your earliest teaching: all who gain power fear to lose it. Even Emperor Vitiate."

Azamin is looking at him strangely. Gaius takes that as his cue to immediately disavow treason. This whole discussion strikes him as bizarrely unnecessary. "But I'm no threat to the Emperor." He's an untrained random with no great wealth, no real accomplishments, and no connections. At this rate, he will languish in obscurity, just a footnote in the history books when the Battle of Korriban is recounted.

Azamin fixes him with a warning look. "Keep it that way."

"And I can never be a threat," Gaius laments, his discouragement showing, "because now I will not receive proper training . . ."

"That could be for the best," Azamin answers.

Gaius swallows his rejection and realizes that it's yet another way that he is fortune's fool. Not only is he a random born with a power he should not possess, but his ability to use that power will be limited. He's been thrust into a world where he does not belong and is being told to be satisfied with what he has now. And that's not enough. He wants more. A lot more. In fact, he's feeling increasingly indignant about being denied his chance.

Still looking to salvage what he can, Gaius demands, "I want that investiture you promised." With Vindican gone and no replacement Master, he will have to be his own career advocate.

Azamin blinks at him. "You wish to be publicly promoted after your actions? Are you sure about that?"

"Yes. I wish to be in the throne room before my Emperor." Before the reclusive, immortal Emperor who is apparently less secure in his position than Gaius had assumed. But he's the guy who matters most in this authoritarian regime, so a chance to get before him is an important opportunity Gaius refuses to pass up.

Decrepit old Azamin leans forward in his chair to warn, "Be careful what you wish for. The throne room is a risky place to stand. Some Lords never make it out alive."

"I will."

"And when he asks where your absent Master is for the ceremony, what will you tell him?"

"The truth, I guess."

"Take care that you always tell your Emperor the full and complete truth," his host harrumphs. "He can smell a lie a lightyear away and he will not hesitate to punish." Again, Azamin shoots him a strange look. "The Emperor does not require a reason to kill you. Remember that. The potential of your existence will be temptation enough."

Gaius gulps but persists. "Understood."

And now, Azamin starts plotting aloud. He muses, "Telling the truth of Vindican's death to Vitiate will blunt its sting. Secrets give others power over you. It is good strategy to avoid secrets or to find a way to expose them." Azamin slants him some side eye. "You really want this formal investiture?"

"Yes, my Lord." He digs in.

"I strongly advise against it."

"I want my investiture."

"Very well," Azamin reluctantly honors his earlier commitment. "Since you are the hero of Korriban, I will get you into the throne room to kneel before our Dark Lord. The rest is up to you."

"Thank you, my Lord."

Old Azamin grunts. "You might not thank me afterwards." He eyes him thoughtfully before he repeats the words he told him in the garden before Korriban. "The Force is with you, Lord Malgus." From his enigmatic expression and tone, Gaius can't tell if Azamin is impressed by that insight or not. But either way, the old man presses, "Tell me, do you see the future often?" He asks this in a casual offhand way, but Gaius can tell he is very curious about the answer.

He shrugs. "Everyone gets visions now and then."

"Don't be modest. When was your last vision?"

"On Korriban."

"When?"

"After I killed Vindican."

"Were you drunk on Force still?"

"Maybe."

"What did you see?"

"War. The future is war."

"And what was your role in the war?"

"I didn't see myself. I just saw foreign worlds burning. Republic worlds."

"A good omen."

"Assuredly. We will win this war, my Lord."

"Then why do you look troubled?"

Gaius thinks back to the fleeting vision. He's never placed much faith in visions. They are incomplete. Usually a rush of disjointed images and feelings without a coherent narrative. But to answer Azamin, he replies, "We won but it didn't feel like victory. There was no . . .

no . . ."

"No what?"

"No joy in it. No glory."

His host purses his lips and comments, "Very interesting. You must tell Darth Angral if you foresee anything definitive about the war in your meditation. Lord Malgus, the Empire would very much like to know what the Force in its wisdom reveals to you."

Gaius brightens at the implicit respect behind that request. "Yes, my Lord."

"See to it that you keep away from Portia Metellus. She is a dear girl and I will not see her distressed or embarrassed. It is not appropriate for her to be your confidante."

Azamin looks at him expectantly, so yet again he dutifully pipes up, "Yes, my Lord."

"Now then, I do not wish us to meet like this again. Your future is up to you and to the Force, Lord Malgus. I will not—I cannot—interfere on your behalf."

Something about the way Azamin says this, pricks his suspicions. Gaius peers at the old man, complaining, "What aren't you telling me?" There is some subtext to this conversation that he's not privy to.

But Darth Azamin denies it. "It's like I told you earlier. Some might construe us to be a dangerous combination."

Gaius feels a little proud about that assessment, actually. Because in the aggressive world of the Sith, being considered a threat is a sign of respect. And, well, after this mostly discouraging conversation, he's left grasping at straws for things to feel good about. The interview is over now. A servant escorts him to the breezeway where his speeder sits idling. Gaius leaves feeling restless and downcast.

It's a quiet night and the treelined streets of the Palatine Hill are deserted. The sprawling fortress-like estates of the oldest elite families located here are set far back from the street behind thick landscaping that shields them from easy view. But he knows who lives next door to Darth Azamin.

Is Portia still awake? Holding that girl in his arms was a bright spot on an otherwise dispiriting day. She was angry with him and tearful, but still . . . he'll take what he can get. Growing up the adopted son of a single dad, he can count on one hand the number of times he has been that physically close to a woman. And so, on a whim, Gaius pauses his speeder outside the entrance gate of the Metellus compound. No one is around to see him, so he allows himself a moment to long.

Portia Metellus seems more out of reach than ever tonight. And yes, wooing the beautiful, admired, impeccably lineaged Portia is part of his personal plot for advancement. But she's more than a strategic choice. He genuinely likes her as a person. He suspects he would never get bored with Portia at his side as Lady Malgus. She's delightfully forthright with a quick wit and a bold smile. Maybe another man might want a docile, demure wife at home, but not him. Any Lady who will stand by his side is going to need a strong personality and a thick skin.

Has he lingered too long? Gaius heads home to his Master's—no, his—far more modest address. And that's when he notices that the message light on his comlink is blinking. Is it more updates from the battlefront? No. It's a note from Portia Metellus from ten minutes ago.

Was that you leaving Azamin's just now?

Azamin warned him not to pursue this girl. But he hurries to type back anyway. After all, he's not toying with Portia. This is not some predatory seduction of an underaged girl. His intentions are completely honorable. And besides, he's in the mood for company.

Did you sense me? Is she still up?

She is. The reply comes fast. I saw the speeder lights. Julia said he asked you to drop by. How did it go?

Not well.

Does he know?

Yes. I will not be getting another Master. I'm on my own now.

How will you learn?

On the job, I guess. He'll have to teach himself and watch others closely.

Is this punishment?

Yes.

You deserve it.

Fairness is irrelevant. People don't get what they deserve. They get what they have the power to make happen. The rest is up to the Force.

You still deserve it.

I deserve it. But even if I didn't deserve it, nothing would change. I don't have the power to make them give me another Master. He has no highly placed relatives to whisper in the right ears and convince someone powerful to intercede on his behalf. He only has himself to rely on now.

Mother hasn't stopped crying over Father since she came home. She's locked in her room. I guess today brought it all back and made it fresh again. My sister says she might be in there a week or more this time.

Does that sort of thing happen a lot?

Yes. She's never gotten over his loss. Some days I can't wait to get married and leave home just so I can get away from her sadness.

I'm sorry.

And now because of you, Lady V and Julia are sad too. Now, there's nowhere I can go to escape grief.

I'm sorry.

Portia doesn't respond. Is she still there? He risks a compliment in an attempt to keep the text chain going. You looked very pretty today.

Yes, she's still there. She types back. Apollonia is the pretty one.

I saw her. You're the pretty one.

Portia doesn't respond in words. She sends him a smiley face emoji.

I leave to rejoin the fleet tomorrow morning. You won't see me again for a while.

What ship?

The Interrogator.

Cato's on that ship.

Is he? It's Angral's ship. Since Darth Angral is the bright young star of the Imperial Navy, a man of impeccable credentials and considerable Force, it would ordinarily be a plum appointment. Except, Gaius suspects he's mostly there so Angral can keep an eye on him. Angral was, after all, the one who reported him to Azamin as having omitted information from his report on Korriban.

I will say a prayer to Darkness for the Interrogator and its crew. Force willing, you will all come home safely.

That's a nice sentiment but him being him, he presses for more. Will you say a prayer for me specifically? He adds the heart eyes emoji. Because he always takes things a little too far.

Her response is tart. Shall I pray that you get what you deserve?

Sure. Whatever gets her thinking of him will work. He might never be a great Lord's Apprentice now, but he still might be the son-in-law to a great family if he can convince Portia Metellus to have him.

She ends the exchange. GTG-my sister's coming.

He smiles now for perhaps the first time all day. Portia likes him. She really likes him, even if she doesn't like what he did. It's a little like how Darth Azamin likes him. That old geezer had poked him with lightning and turned down his request for a Master but still . . . Gaius can't shake the feeling that Azamin had genuinely liked him . . . maybe even wanted to help him despite what happened with Vindican. Moreover, Azamin's warnings were sincere. Sure, he was probably concerned that he not be dragged into the messy career of a failing Apprentice. But there was a true note of concern to his admonitions, as if the man were genuinely worried for me. He could do a lot worse than meriting the attention of a Metellus and Azamin, Gaius decides. Today was a mixed bag, but he'll count it in the win column.