Gaius was the last Lord in line waiting to be invested, but he is the first Lord to exit the throne room. He starts walking and keeps walking. His footfalls repeat fast and heavy as he flees the scene of his humiliation.

This is a strategic retreat, if there ever was one. More than anything, Gaius wants to get away. Away from the disdain of his peers, away from the public shame of confessing the murder of Vindican, and away from the disappointing Emperor whose personal impression is as uninspiring as his ineffective war strategy. That throne scene was a fatal power bleed for certain. Gaius knows his career will never recover from it.

His pace speeds up now as he keeps walking, hoping he looks like he knows where he is going. No one disturbs him as he wanders the hallways of power because he's clearly a Lord. Plus, from the attaboy nods and smiles of many of the Palace guards, he is recognized by many. It's not lost on Gaius that he is something of a champion for the regular people. But that status is a deterrent for stopping to ask directions for how to get out of the giant Palace.

Gaius ends up ducking out of a doorway that he hopes is an exit. But instead of facing the exterior, he finds himself in an expansive courtyard greenspace. It's complete with mature trees, a gazebo, and flower-lined walkways. This placid spot isn't the escape he was hoping for. But it will do. It's empty save for a gardener with a wheelbarrow who pokes at a plant bed with a shovel. The young man looks up in surprise—and something that looks like momentary fear—as Gaius storms in. For even a laymen of the Force can sense the ripple of extreme negative energy he causes.

Actually, Gaius decides as he begins to pace back and forth, clenching and unclenching his fists, maybe this pretty scenery is just what he needs to ratchet down his burgeoning anger. He keeps gulping down air, breathing in the living Force that surrounds him in this tucked away garden. Ever since he stepped into the Palace, he has felt ill at ease. The Force around him is jumpy and erratic, like it's trying hard to get his attention. It tugs at his mind, nagging at his senses. Normally, that sort of mental dread signals danger. But as Gaius casts suspicious eyes around the premises, he only sees the toiling gardener who keeps glancing over at him warily.

As if feeling his eyes, the young man straightens, lifts his cap, and nods slightly, his eyes averted. "Milord."

Gaius nods absently in response as he keeps trying to calm himself down. He's furious—mostly with himself, but also with Vitiate—but he's not going to take it out on some hapless servant. For even in his worst moments when he has lost control of his raging, it was always on a somewhat deserving victim. Someone who wronged him, someone who failed him, someone who hurt him, and not some blameless bystander.

He gets in these moods sometimes when all feels futile. Suddenly, it's him against the universe and stubbornly he's determined to win or go down trying. That's when a deep resentment bubbles up and Gaius needs to lash out. It's when control is necessary lest his Darkness overwhelm him. And that's precisely what it threatens to do now. Gaius fights hard to master it.

The scene in the throne room has him triggered in a way he hasn't been since Korriban. Maybe it is his disappointment showing. He got himself all psyched up and then things went awry like with Master Vindican. It's happened a few times previously. Once at the Academy when he was ejected from a saber tournament on a questionable technicality called by the umpire. Another time when a few upperclassmen thought they could jump him in the library. Each time, it was a legitimate conflict—usually one he himself didn't start—but one he cannot ignore. And then, in the moment, Gaius responded with a disproportionate overkill response. It's the same flash of indignant white-hot rage that long ago prompted him to kill a man for kicking his dog. The flash of temper feels almost involuntary. Suddenly, it's like his Darkness is redlining. And it's so natural and effortless that it scares him.

Moments like this have him aggrieved, lusting for violence, and yearning to punish. It's a foolhardy, heady rush that too often has him acting before he can think through the consequences. Thank goodness he's sequestered here away from prying eyes where there's no one to witness his struggle for control but the landscaper who keeps his distance even as he peers at him curiously.

Gaius keeps pacing and panting, his hands twitching with the urge to shoot lightning. He lusts to lash out and to destroy something . . . anything . . . just to feel better. It's like he has fire in his veins that he needs to let out. He comes to a halt now, his face squinting as if in pain. And that's when he looks down and sees . . . a jackrabbit?

It's a mental non sequitur that is the distraction he needs.

Gaius peers down at the animal that has emerged from nearby bushes. It hops over closer, closer still, and then it hunkers down to squat next to his boot.

What the fuck?

The rabbit stares back at him with an unblinking eye and complete trust.

Disarmed and charmed, Gaius sinks to his knees.

The hare remains in place, so Gaius removes his glove and reaches out to let the creature smell him. When the animal remains docile, seemingly almost domesticated, Gaius begins to stroke it. It prompts a wave of calm to wash over him. Yes, this is definitely helping. He can feel his blood pressure lower and his adrenaline relent.

A man's voice comes from his left. "Never seen that before, Milord." It's the young gardener come to investigate. He speaks with the drawling, singsong accent of the colonial working class, not the crisply enunciated speech of the elites. It reminds Gaius of his childhood.

"The bunnies are used to people, so they rarely run away. But they don't normally approach. Never seen anyone pet one."

Gaius feels a great weight of tension dissipate with the small, inconsequential act of petting the little creature. He can feel his rage receding back to a more manageable equilibrium.

The gardener is pretty much gawking at him now.

Feeling the need to explain, Gaius comments gruffly, "Animals like me."

"I can see that."

Gaius rises and the movement scares the little fellow. The jackrabbit scampers back into the bushes. Gaius smiles wanly at the fleeting flash of fluffy white tail. Farewell, little bunny. Thank you.

"You here to see the Emperor, Milord?" the gardener asks.

"Already saw him. What is this place?" Gaius looks around, taking in the greenspace. He's standing in the very heart of the urbane Sith capital world at the Palace of all places, and yet there is a distinctly rural feel to his surroundings. This place is less a manicured formal garden and more of a pasture meadow, he's realizing.

"That's the Palace Temple." The gardener points towards an imposing edifice one hundred meters away.

"I mean the garden. Tell me about this garden." Gaius frowns as he looks around. For now again, the Force is screaming danger at him. Things look very innocuous, but your eyes can deceive you. Gaius stretches out his senses as he mutters, "The Force is strong with this place."

"Giving you the creeps, Milord?"

Yes, it is. It most definitely is. Gaius was too consumed with anger to notice when he arrived. But now, the melancholy mood of this spot besets him. It's impossible not to notice.

The gardener laughs and gives him a knowing look. "That's because it's not a garden. It's a graveyard. Old Vitiate buries his enemies here. Everyone who fails him or betrays him dies. Then, he burns their bodies and I sow the ash into the soil." The gardener shrugs. "Death feeds new life—"

"And creates the Force," Gaius completes the thought. He softly adds, "It creates power . . ." under his breath.

The servant's eyes narrow and shift away. "I wouldn't know, Milord. I'm just a gardener. But if you get the zap in the throne room or you're on the proscription list, your ashes end up in my wheelbarrow."

That sounds wrong. Puzzled Gaius objects. "But we Sith bury our dead."

"You don't get a tomb if you anger the Emperor," the gardener snorts. He leans in and lowers his voice as he confides with ghoulish glee. "Wanna know a secret? The Empress is over there." He points. "Her ashes feed that tree."

That's the first Gaius has ever heard of an Empress, but Vitiate is so reclusive that he could keep a harem and no one would know. But it stands to reason that in an over thousand-year reign there might be a wife or two.

The talkative gardener seems disappointed that he's not more impressed by that juicy reveal which may or may not be true. He insists on calling Gaius' attention to the spot. "It's that big one with the pink flowers. Over there."

Gaius doesn't bother to glance over. He's too preoccupied.

The servant is persistent. "How'd ya like that? She's here with the traitors and the failures and a few Jedi he killed along the way. That's because the Empress turned out to be an enemy too," the gardener asserts with lurid relish. "She's long gone but he hates her still. I've seen him curse at her out here. The old guy is still plenty pissed about all the trouble she caused him." With slow, deliberate words, the gardener assures him, "He hates anything that reminds him of her."

Gaius isn't listening to this Palace gossip. He's thinking. Feeling.

"I've seen him. Few see Vitiate, but I have," the talkative fellow boasts.

Gaius doesn't care. He's far more interested in this garden. This place assaults his senses. It's unsettling and vaguely threatening. And now, here comes that pervasive, nagging dread again. Gaius' eyes involuntarily find the gardener and linger questioningly.

"It feels haunted here, don't it?" the hovering servant goads, his voice a stage whisper. "He comes here to get his visions. You seeing something now, Milord? Is that what's got you spooked?"

He shakes his head no. "I feel like . . . like . . ."

"Yes?"

"Like I'm being watched."

"You are, Milord," the gardener nods emphatically. "We all are. He sees everything. He knows everything. He's the most powerful being ever to live."

"I'm sure he wants us to think that," Gaius drawls with maximum sarcasm.

"Careful—he might be listening!"

"That's fine." Frowning Gaius is back to pacing now, trying to make sense of the strange mental mood of this place.

And that's when the gardener observes, "You don't look like the others."

"Because I'm white, not red?"

"Wait—I know who you are!" The suddenly excited fellow reaches into his pocket to produce a comlink. He pokes at it and holds it up. "You're that guy! You're Darth Malgus!"

The comlink he's holding shows a holonet gif file of Gaius spraying Force lightning during a recent raid. Some trooper recorded it and posted it online. The file went viral and Portia eventually got it and sent it to him.

"That's you! It's got to be you! You're the hero of Korriban!"

Is he a hero? He keeps trying to be a hero. But no one notices when he does truly heroic deeds and yet everyone credits him with unwarranted bravery for Korriban. Well, maybe not any more . . . not after his confession in the throne room.

"You're the hero of Korriban!" the overly familiar, increasingly irritating gardener insists.

Gaius looks away, embarrassed. "I wasn't a hero at Korriban."

"Oh. But—"

"There were no heroes at Korriban."

"But the newsfeeds said—"

"That's fake news."

"Oh."

"Don't believe everything you hear."

The fanboy gardener thinks a moment before he declares, "I prefer a real villain to a false hero any day. You a villain, Lord Malgus?"

It sounds like a serious question. Gaius turns to peer at the strange guy. Just what is he implying?

The gardener is about his own age. He's tall and on the skinny side, with deeply tanned skin and longish hair sun-streaked from work outdoors. His eyes are deep set and his face looks earnest and open. If this servant has guile, Gaius doesn't sense it.

"Well?" the young man demands almost cheekily. "You a villain?"

Gaius grunts. "That depends on who's asking."

"What if the Dark Lord's askin'?"

Gaius declines to comment. "I've had enough of that guy for today."

"Milord! You can't say that! It's disrespect!"

Gaius just smirks.

The gardener's eyes widen. "You don't like him, do you? You can tell me, Milord."

"I don't like what he's doing in the Rim. If he keeps this up, he's going to lose the war and some Jedi Master is going to be sitting in his chair soon."

"Ooooh! Did the magic Force tell you that?"

"No, common sense did. You don't need the Force to see that what we're doing won't win. We're fighting the last war using tactics from the colonial conquests. That's all wrong to fight the Republic. It's the playbook for a different problem."

"Careful, Milord," the gardener cautions with a quick and furtive glance around them, "or you'll end up in this garden. Speaking out against Lord Vitiate's leadership is sedition."

Gaius shrugs. "It's treason then," he sneers. He starts to walk off.

"Milord! Milord!"

"What is it?" Gaius turns to complain.

"You shoot lightning?"

What kind of idiot question is that? "It's in that meme you just showed me," Gaius reminds him.

"Yeah . . . right. So just the blue kind? Not the red stuff?"

Growing impatient with the conversation, Gaius confirms, "Yes." He's never heard of red Force lightning.

The gardener, he notices, looks more relieved at his answer than disappointed.

Again, Gaius turns to leave.

"Hey—where you going, Milord?"

Gaius hears this as an existential question. He snarls bitter sarcasm at the gardener, "It looks like I'm going nowhere." And really, that's the problem.

"So I can't get a selfie?"

"No."

Gaius stalks off to leave. But even that has its delays. Eventually, he's stuck waiting at the Palace valet line for Vindican's speeder to be brought around, trying to ignore the whispers and looks. Desperate for something to occupy his attention to help him appear more aloof, Gaius reaches in his pocket for his comlink. The text chain with Portia shows the message she sent him early this morning but nothing since. It's hours later, but he responds back. I want to see you now. He needs some attention, some encouragement, and he doesn't want to have to face Lady Vindican to get it. He's just too guilty around her still.

His comlink lights up seconds later. I'm in math class.

When does school get out?

Four. Look, about that . . . I can't go home with Julia today. Mother told me this morning that she scheduled dress fittings for me for this afternoon.

How long does that take?

Forever. Mother is very particular about wardrobe.

Then I'm coming to see you. Meet me in your garden.

You can't come there.

Sure, I can.

You can't!

Why not?

Seriously, YOU CAN'T COME TO MY HOUSE.

I'm not going to knock on the door.

You're going to sneak into my garden?

I sneak into Republic worlds all the time.

It's too dangerous.

So is sneaking into Republic worlds.

When she doesn't respond, he types again. And so is waiting for me in my bedroom.

There is a long pause before she relents. Come after dinner when it's fully dark. I'll turn the security cameras off.

I'll text when I'm on my way.

How did it go at the Palace?

I fucked it up.

You didn't. Tell me you didn't.

I did. Epic fail.

Hours later, Gaius has eaten the cook's cake and enjoyed a celebratory dinner, putting on as happy a face as he can given the events of earlier. The small Vindican family staff all toast him with champagne back in the kitchen after they toast their dearly departed Master. It's clear that they are incredibly proud that one of their own has made it to full-fledged Lord status. Given that context, Gaius doesn't feel like he can let on in any way that things went so horribly. If the others judge him to be subdued about his investiture, he hopes they will assume it is due to the conspicuous absence of his late Master and the mourning mood of the household. But truthfully, all their sincere joy makes him feel like a fraud. And now yet again, Gaius is feeling desperate to escape, like he felt earlier at the Palace.

He keeps checking his comlink for the time. Nightfall can't come fast enough. Finally, he decides to head over to Portia's house early. Checking his comlink one last time, he finds she has sent him a message.

I turned the security system off. I'll meet you when dinner is over. Come in the garden gate to the street. Follow the path to the benches. It's two rights and then a left from our side of the property.

He types back. Got it. See you soon.

The sun is not yet down as he sneaks into the Metellus estate, slipping in the service entrance to the garden used for lawn equipment and the landscaping personnel. Then it's two rights and a left before he can sit and brood in private as he waits for his girl.

Except . . . she's coming. He can sense Portia approaching. Sure enough, seconds later he hears the crunch of gravel beneath oncoming shoes. And now, ducking around a bush, she arrives with a smile that lights up her face.

He leaps to his feet.

"You're early."

"You're early too." A whole half an hour early, just like he is.

"Dinner was short," she explains. "Our neighbor Lord Deface's youngest was at the Palace today too. Mother's friendly with Lady Deface, so she wanted to make an appearance at the party."

"She didn't make you go too?"

"Apollonia went. I said I had homework. The honoree is already betrothed, so Mother didn't press the issue."

Gaius volunteers, "I think I passed that party on the way here. I saw all the parked speeders."

"Probably. Deface is three doors down."

Portia looks him over critically now and sees what no one in his own household noticed. "You look awful. Well, tell me what happened."

Embarrassed, he looks away as he recounts, "They laughed at me and it pissed me off and then I opened my big mouth. It went downhill fast . . ." he moans, cringing at the recollection.

"Tell me. I want to know."

He shakes his head. "Don't make me give you all the details." He's humiliated enough. But no sooner does he say this, than he finds himself venting about what happened. He starts pacing now as he complains, "It was more of the same. It doesn't matter what I do. People see only see how different I am. Even the Emperor. I get tired of ridicule. It's like . . . like everyone is rooting for me to fail." It bothers him how much the audience of his would-be peers thoroughly enjoyed his comeuppance.

"I'm not rooting for you to fail," Portia informs him pertly. "But you are different, my Lord."

"Don't call me that!" he snaps. His words come out a little too vehement because, well, he's in a mood. Shooting Portia a look, he insists, "My name is Gaius. Call me Gaius."

"Gaius, then," she plays along. "You are very different . . . in a good way."

"Yeah? What changed your mind?" She belittled him herself not too long ago in this very garden.

"I've been thinking . . . if we win this war and the Sith rule the galaxy, there are going to be a lot more common people than there are Lords and Ladies. I mean, there already are, but the numbers are going to get a lot worse. Maybe the Empire needs someone like you—someone who has lived both as a Lord and a layman—to help rule."

That's the sentiment that earned him Vitiate's scorn. Gaius' eyes narrow as he stops pacing to peer at her. "What's got you thinking along these lines?" Has Adraas been talking to her about this? And has Angral been talking to Adraas?

Portia shrugs. "All I have is time to think. While the Lords go off to war, we Ladies sit home, wait to be invaded, and fret."

"You're worried about me . . ."

She nods and informs him, "Actually, I worry less about you getting killed by a Jedi than I do you getting in a real duel with Cato or one of the other Lords on the ship. Cato says you're something of a lightning rod," she phrases it diplomatically.

"That's right," he owns up to his role on the Interrogator. It does feel like his real enemies are on the Sith side, Gaius has to admit.

"Well, anyway, Lord Azamin once said there might be a lot of change coming with this war. Maybe you are part of that change," she speculates.

How he wishes that were true. Gaius shakes his head. "Not after today."

She walks closer and looks up at him with concern. "Was it really that bad?"

He is unequivocal and blunt. "Yes. I got yelled at by Vitiate himself."

"Oh dear." She makes a face and then offers up a lame attempt at consolation. "Sorry." Portia clearly sees how frustrated and disappointed he is even hours later.

He's been stewing on the throne room scene, reliving it obsessively ever since. And here's the thing—he doesn't really regret any of it. He regrets how it turned out. He wishes the Emperor had been more open minded. Even some small degree of public acceptance by Vitiate would have made things easier for him because others would follow his example. But alas, that's not what happened. And things are worse now for him as a result.

"It feels like nothing ever changes in the Empire . . . like that's sort of the point," Gaius grouses as he resumes pacing. His complaints quickly become a rant. "We rule like we have always ruled, doing things the same way they have always been done. And it's not just failing to allow meaningful opportunities for colonials. It's how the Council's treating this war like we're conquering colonial worlds fifty years ago. That approach is never going to work and it will take forever. We should be invading the Republic's Core Sector, not fooling around with meaningless Rim systems."

Portia pushes back. "How can you say nothing ever changes? The war itself is big change. It's been a thousand years in the making."

"I guess . . ." he allows. "But is this really the best strategy we could come up with after a thousand years to think on it? Sometimes, I wonder if we're even trying to conquer the Republic. It feels like we don't really want to win. . . At this point, I'm not sure we deserve it."

Portia shoots him an 'oh, please' look. "You know that's wrong."

He refuses to take back that comment. He moves on to different complaints instead. "Well, you were right that I would get all the hard assignments. Your brother and the rest mostly sit around all day and drink all night. Angral's the only one who works and he works all the time."

"Does he like you? Angral, I mean."

"I don't know. Probably not. But he's fair. I think am earning his respect. But no one else's . . ." Definitely not Vitiate's. "No one wants to do the work I do, but they couldn't do it either. I think Angral sees that. He's not giving me missions to get me killed or to give me experience. It's more that he trusts that I can get hard things done for him. It's either do it himself or send me."

Portia's listening. She isn't necessarily inclined to agree with him, but she isn't dismissing his points either. She observes, "You have a drive the other Lords don't have. Cato cares about his career, but he never speaks like you do."

Gaius grunts. "That's because guys like your brother don't need ambition. They were born successful."

"Cato was born with a lot of advantages, that's true. But he was also born the son of Darth Oderint, and that is big boots to fill."

"Yeah? Well, he's not trying too hard," Gaius judges harshly. "Your brother doesn't earn those war prizes. He says he negotiates the surrender terms, but Angral heavily revises all of it. Angral even runs some of those transmissions by me first before he sends them."

"I see."

"Angral says it's a team effort and puts everyone's names on the submissions. But he and I do most of it together. Other than his old Apprentice Fidel, the rest do little to nothing."

"Does Angral include everyone's name because if he just put your name, it would be rejected?"

"Maybe. Probably." Gaius shrugs with an indifference he doesn't feel. "After today, certainly."

"So, is Angral training you?"

Gaius shakes his head no. "He's got an Apprentice."

"Yes, but it sounds like he's taken an interest in you."

"I suppose a little. But I'm not sure it matters. I'm pretty much fucked at this point. Er, sorry for the language, Milady."

Portia smirks back at him, her face an expression of knowing and tolerant womanhood. "Trust me, I've heard it before. And," she flashes a sassy smile at him, "I may have used that word myself a time or two."

She's flirting, but he can't reciprocate. He's just too glum. Gaius flops down heavily on a garden bench. He runs a hand down his face as he laments, "First Korriban and now this . . ." His career is basically over. He has no one but himself to blame.

Portia hovers over him and frowns. "I don't like to see you discouraged. This isn't you. You're the cocksure type who likes to boast."

"I've got nothing to brag about today," he snarls. He's pretty much wallowing in self-pity at this point.

Portia puts her hands on her hips. "Really? Because I came tonight expecting you to tell me that you'll be leading the raid on the Coruscant Jedi Temple." There she goes flirting again in a determined effort to cheer him up. But it won't work.

"I fucked it up big time! I was trying too hard, like usual." And that's the trait that seems to earn him the most disdain. Because while the Lords of the Sith are a uniformly competitive lot, it's déclassé to be caught openly striving as hard as he does.

Exhaling a long sigh, Gaius changes the topic. "Enough about me. What's going on here? How's your mother?"

Now, it's Portia's turn to look uncomfortable. She makes a face at the topic, but she answers. "Mother's as bad as I can remember. Without all the wedding planning to get her out of the house, she's back to staying in her bedroom. Seriously, Gaius, she's as reclusive as Dark Lord Vitiate."

"She's going out tonight."

"It's the first time she's left the house in over a month."

"How are Julia and Lady Vindican doing? They say all the right things but I'm skeptical." His own inherited family is still very much grieving, he knows.

Portia thinks a moment before she replies. "Lady V is very sad. But I think on the whole, she's okay. Julia's kind of pretending like it didn't happen. She's entirely too happy right now. It tells me how lost she feels." Portia looks very ill at ease as she confides, "I was much younger when my Dad died, but I sort of remember that phase. I think it was a way to avoid feeling so lost."

He blurts out, "I feel lost without Vindican." He misses the influence of his steady, patient Master more than he ever expected. Moreover, he suspects today would never have gone so badly if his Master were present. Darth Vindican was well liked and his fighting prowess unequaled. Gaius highly doubts that the Emperor would have disrespected him by publicly dissing his Apprentice. "I miss him."

Portia's reply is brutal. "Yeah, well, it's your fault he's dead."

"I know. That makes it worse. I'm responsible for their unhappiness and my own." And whoops, there he goes again talking about himself. Gaius now tries to steer the conversation away from how pathetic and self-destructive he is. "What about you? How are you?"

"I'm fine."

The Force tells him that's a convenient lie. So do all the silly risk-taking antics Portia's been indulging in for months. He'd have to be blind not to see that behavior for what it is—a cry for attention and an exercise in escapism. His girl, he's learning, chafes at the constraints of her life not unlike how he does. Gaius calls her on it. "No, you're not fine."

Portia shrugs and readily admits, "Alright, I'm bored. Senior year isn't as much fun as I thought it would be. I don't know . . . maybe I'm just ready to move on with life and be done with school. I want to do new things and meet new people, but it's all the same and it's boring. And when I get bored, I get restless, and then I get down." Portia looks truly upset now as she half-whispers, "That worries me. I don't want to end up like Mother . . ."

"Is that why you're texting me? Do I amuse you?" It's a serious question—is she toying with him? Is this flirtation just a pleasant distraction? Is he being used?

He gets an honest answer. "I don't know what I think about you."

"But you think about me," he presses. "I know you do."

"Yes, I do." Portia turns away and starts to finger a bloom on a nearby bush. She glances back over her shoulder coyly as she tells him, "Cato would kill me if he knew. And then, he would kill you."

"He can't kill me." Of this, Gaius has no doubt. Darth Adraas is decent with a sword and adequate with the Force, but that's all. It's not for lack of ability, however. It's for sheer laziness. Cato Metellus, Gaius has observed, is far more interested in using politics to get ahead, rather than merit. "Your brother probably couldn't even hurt me."

Portia whirls to fume, "That's not the point! I don't want either of you hurt!"

"Yeah, well, I guess there's no risk of that now. I suppose you and I are over," Gaius concedes with reluctance. "I had planned to get you to agree to wait for me. But now, I'm not sure that would be fair. Not after what happened today at the Palace . . ."

Portia raises an eyebrow. "So, you're giving up? Is that it?"

Her response isn't a reaction he understands. Is Portia annoyed that he's discouraged or irked that he's not fighting harder to pursue her? Gaius isn't sure.

He explains what they both know: "It was always going to take me a long time to impress your family. But I thought that maybe in a few years, if I were successful enough, they might see past my randomness."

She shoots him down. "That's never going to happen. Even if Cato were to accept you, Mother won't."

"And what about you? Could you see yourself going against your family for me?" he asks.

"Of course, not!" she scoffs.

"Then, how do you see us?"

"There is no us!"

"Then why were you waiting for me yesterday? Why are you here now?"

Those are fair questions, but she doesn't have any answers. Biting her lip Portia begins, "I don't know . . . I guess I was hoping that randomness—or maybe just you—might become more acceptable in time. I don't know . . . Do you that if the war changes things that maybe in a few years a girl from an old family and a war hero random could make a match? You'd have to be a big hero. Like a huge deal. Someone who everyone Lord secretly wants to be—"

"I'm trying."

"—because that's the only way this would ever work. Cato would have to want to make an alliance. He'd need to be proud of it. It will never work if he has to be talked into it."

Portia's answer tells him plainly that she's not toying with him. She's genuinely interested. He's somehow made enormous progress over the summer. Because she's come around to believing in—and even wanting—the future he proposed before he left for war. And now, like him, she's nervous that it won't work out.

She frets and warns, "I can't wait forever."

"I won't ask you to."

"I mean it! I'll marry someone else! Someone safe and acceptable and—"

"You don't want that. You don't want what your sister has with Traverse."

"No," she chokes out. That comment hit a nerve, he sees. "I want what my parents had . . . what Mother can't bring herself to let go of . . ."

"Love. You want love."

"Yes! And not the love you have to talk yourself into. Not the conventional love the grows over time. Not duty and respect and M counts and marriage contracts and the boring, dull safe thing. I want . . . I want . . ."

Her voice trails off, but Gaius gets it. She wants stolen kisses in his bedroom and secrets texts on a comlink and the notoriety of being the Sith princess who makes the shocking and unexpectedly glamorous match with the preeminent up-and-coming young Lord who also happens to be a random. Because as hamstrung as this girl is by convention, she wants to flout it, too.

"Look, you need to get to work. I mean it! You can't give up now," she half wails. "It's too soon and you're too good. And we . . . we could be good together and set this whole Empire on fire with . . . with who we become when the war is over . . . when the Sith rule the galaxy and the old rules start to change . . . "

Her hopefulness ought to be the encouragement he needs, but it's not. Gaius cringes and laments, "I failed myself today . . . and now I see I have failed you too . . ." In fact, her enthusiasm compounds his disappointment. He's squandered not just his future, but their future together.

"I'm sorry . . ." he sighs, hanging his head down.

Portia slumps down beside him on the bench. "Are you sure it is as bad as you think?"

He sighs. "I'm sure."

"So there's no salvaging it?"

"I don't think so."

His words—or maybe the Force—must convey how rueful he is. Because Portia reaches a comforting hand to lay upon his back. He immediately turns his head, surprised by the gesture.

She now looks to him questioningly, as if perhaps she has transgressed. But she doesn't remove her hand. Because, like him, she's less the 'ask permission' type and more the 'beg forgiveness' sort. And that's the attitude that might have made her the perfect Lady Malgus. She's bold and confident.

She's seated so close beside him, their knees almost, but not quite, touching. This is perhaps the closest he's ever been to Portia physically. It's definitely the closest she's ever felt to him emotionally as they both mull over the situation. "I'm sorry," she says softly. The Force tells him that she means it. She feels keen disappointment on his behalf, he senses, and for herself.

This moment is the understanding he needs. Gaius leans in.

She doesn't pull back.

But he just hovers there, with their faces inches apart. "The worst part of today," he whispers, "is that it means I'll never win you."

"It's hopeless?" she breathes.

"Hopeless," he confirms.

Portia blinks at him silently. Looking almost solemn. "I see."

His eyes now involuntarily wander to her lips. He thinks to himself What the Hell? as he commits to the latest in a string of bad decisions. Because here he goes risking another kiss.

This is not the soft, chaste salute from yesterday. This kiss is hungry, maybe a little desperate, as he claims her mouth and won't stop. Because this girl feels like the one ally he has left. She's fast becoming something of an emotional anchor for him even if it's mostly on the other end of a comlink. He knows he shouldn't be doing this, but he does it anyway.

He doesn't know what he's doing. He's as inexperienced as she is. They're both fumbling with lips and tongues. But together, their spark instantly combusts.

Portia's already got a hand on his back and she's half turned into him, so it's an easy move to pull her into a full embrace. She's practically in his lap. And now, her arms encircle his neck, and they are sitting less side by side than they are entwined. Force, this feels amazing. It's the one good thing that's happened all day, and Gaius never wants it to end. He's craving this blissful escapism.

Portia is not some passive recipient of his ardor. True to her personality, she's all in for this forbidden passion. And, oh, it feels so good to be wanted after a day replete with rejection. He needs this, he truly needs this, lest he fall headlong into self-destruction out of lonely desperation.

Portia is a long-shot prize, more so now than ever. But he's suddenly discovering that he's nothing if not determined to win her. Well, maybe the better word is stubborn. But either way, Gaius is not yet ready to give up on the dream of making Portia his Lady Malgus. And then, he can take her home and kiss her and more in private.

"Wait for me . . ." he tells her between open mouthed kisses. "Wait for me . . . be my Lady . . ."

Portia doesn't respond with words, like he wants. She just pulls him down for another never ending kiss, snuggling her body closer to his.

"Wait for me." It's half command, half plea. "I want to know that you'll be here for me."

Does Portia know how important that hope is to him? Perhaps. She pulls back, looking troubled. "But it's hopeless."

"Right."

"So that talk is madness and you know it."

"You're right," he agrees, ever the realist when it comes to analyzing a situation, "but so be it. Madness it is." Hopeless, be damned. He'll find a way to succeed. He has to.

Gaius feels his eyes flash yellow as he declares, "I'll kill any man who tries to have you." He means it. "So don't go entering into any betrothal agreements—"

"I'm a long way from any betrothal," she assures him. "With the war on, the issue won't be ripe for years."

"So you're telling me there's time—"

"Yes—yes!" she leaps at his implicit optimism. "Gaius, be patient. For your career, for me, for everything. Stop getting ahead of yourself. And don't give up yet! It's too soon."

"I'm not patient."

"I know. Neither am I. But I won't marry against the wishes of my family."

His eyes narrow. "You're telling me Adraas is who I really need to convince?"

"Yes."

"He owes me his life already."

"That won't do it."

"I know," he sighs. If anything, saving her brother has made Darth Adraas hate him more than ever.

But Portia's looking at him like this match might possibly be doable. And really, there is no basis for that conclusion. But he has to know her feelings. Grasping for her hands with his, he sputters, "If there were no impediments—if I were from a good family, with a good fortune—if I weren't a random out of favor with the Emperor—would you marry me? Would you argue to your brother and your mother to choose me?"

Portia smiles and her dark eyes dance at him. "Of course! We might have to get married," she tells him archly, "after all our kisses. Whatever would Mother think?" she giggles.

He asks again, this time eschewing the hypothetical and sticking to the future conditional tense. "And if I can win over your brother and your mother, if I can earn enough war prizes to support you—will you marry me?"

"Yes."

"So, you'll wait for me?"

"Yes."

It's a moment that calls for yet another kiss. Portia might not be free to plight her troth to him, but in the alternative universe where he's eligible, she'd be his Lady Malgus without hesitation. Gaius cups her cheeks and pulls her face to his—

And that's the unfortunate instant when the automated garden sprinklers suddenly turn on. Suddenly, they are being showered with water.

"OH!" Portia leaps away to her feet, laughing.

He too gets up from the bench fast. His Lord's cloak is quickly getting soggy.

They're getting sprayed from all sides. So, giggling Portia grabs his hand and tugs him away from the benches. "Come with me."

It's quite dark now even with the moonlight and the garden lamps. Thankfully, Portia knows this meandering garden like the back of her hand. But as she leads them away, it becomes apparent that all of the sprinklers have turned on simultaneously. No matter where they turn, there is spraying water to drench them.

Gaius tucks her under his arm beneath his cloak to shield her as best he can from the deluge. Portia can't stop laughing and now neither can he. And truthfully, it's been many long months since he can remember laughing. It feels good. Like she feels good nestled next to him, her tall legs matching his strides as few Ladies could.

The sprinklers ruined a special moment, but they might have provoked something even better. Because this silly but very effective interruption is unexpectedly fun. And there's not enough fun in his life.

Portia guides them back to the exit to the street. They both know it's dangerous to linger and besides they're both wet. But still . . . Gaius is reluctant to let this magical interlude end. Tomorrow, it's back to war. Back to the haters on the Interrogator. Back to duels with Jedi. Plus, he will need to deal with the fallout from today's investiture.

He stops short just inside the gate. They're out of view of the streetlight and shielded from the worst of the sprinklers. It's time to say goodbye properly. She's still under his cape, so it's a natural, simple thing to stand face to face.

"Portia—"

She shushes him by raising fingers to his lips. Then, she takes the lead again and starts telling him what to expect. "I will text you every day without fail. I want you to text me back."

"I will," he instantly promises.

"Don't just text me cute stuff. I want to know what really going on with you and with the war. Don't hold back."

"Okay."

"I mean it. Don't put on an act. You can pretend with the others, but not with me."

Gaius nods. He will commit to anything for Portia. Right now, he feels bewitched by this girl.

"Good," she approves, sounding very much the in-charge aristocrat. "Now, kiss me hard before you go. I'll walk back through the garden. You leave from here for your speeder."

"Yes, my Lady," he answers straightaway. Then he pulls her close and lets his hands roam her body as his lips plunder her mouth. They're in the moonlight sharing one last illicit kiss before she sends him off to war.

It's impossible to know how things will turn out. He could die at the battlefront. He could fail to win over her family. She could ultimately be forced into a peer marriage. The Republic could even show up tomorrow to invade Dromund Kaas and she could be executed. But even without those worst-case scenarios, the chances of them getting a fairytale happy ending seem remote. But still, Gaius has rekindled hope, and that's everything.

He thinks that with Portia by his side, he could do anything. Because maybe what she offers is more precious than her wealth and connections. She could give him all the love and support and, yes, the bit of pushback and perspective he needs. This girl knows her mind, and that's key. Because if she can't withstand the social hit for marrying him, no Lady can. She's not cowed by risk and she has plenty of cool patrician aplomb. She can handle the haters, he's sure of it.

They finally part and she creeps away. Then, Gaius checks first with the Force as well as his vision—your eyes can deceive you— before he too sneaks out of the garden. He quickly divests his wet Lord's cloak, tosses it into the passenger seat, and slips into his parked speeder.

Too late, he realizes that he's not the only occupant. Because glancing in the rearview mirror, he sees a cloaked and hooded interloper waiting in the backseat.

What the fuck?

Gaius reflexively reaches for his sword while the Force registers the threat as well. Just like earlier today in the throne room, his power is summoned involuntarily. Suddenly, he's ready for combat.

"Put away your weapon," a familiar voice he cannot immediately place croaks out. Then, as Gaius watches in the rear-view mirror, the stowaway reaches up and tosses back his hood to reveal his identity.

It's Darth Azamin.