Miss me yet?

Portia resumes the text chain the next morning after Gaius leaves. She waits impatiently for the hours between replies as her secret boyfriend travels back to the middle of the galaxy deep within the Republic Rim territory. He's on her mind. All day, she obsessively checks her comlink between classes at The Sacred Heart of Darkness School for Young Ladies, trying unsuccessfully to keep her mind on her studies.

Finally, she gets her reply: I'm crushing hard on you, babe.

That sets the tone as fun and flirty. Portia hurries to type back. Stop distracting me—I mean it! Memories of the garden are going to make me flunk this Kittat quiz.

I HATE SPRINKLERS, Gaius responds. It makes her giggle and earns her a reprimand from the teacher.

When it's safe to reply, Portia sends back I hate that you're lightyears away. I think I hate that more than I hate the Republic. Miss u, my Lord.

If the Sith lose the next big offensive, it will all be your fault. I can't stop thinking of you when I should be assessing bombing ordinance and fighter capabilities.

Yeah? Well, I blame you for keeping me awake last night.

I think of you every night. Just so you know . . .

Julia is standing by her locker when Portia receives this latest love note. Her best friend reads it over her shoulder and sighs aloud with girlish glee. Then, Julia snatches the comlink and types back Prove it before Portia can stop her.

"Julia!" she hisses, "he's going to misunderstand that message!"

"Oh, I think not," her bestie assures her archly.

"But it's one step from 'send nudes,'" Portia complains in a horrified whisper.

"Yep. Look, we gotta go. We'll be late for history class again."

Julia might be nonplussed about where the flirty text chat is heading, but Portia frets. And sure enough, Gaius' reply goes there: Are you asking for what I think you're asking for? Just to make things clear, he adds the eggplant emoticon with a question mark and the surprised smiley face with wide eyes.

Just reading that response makes Portia blush. She's not some colonial slut who plays digital tease for attention. Those are the antics of lower-class girls who are free to engage in premarital love affairs and other scandalous behavior. She's a Lady born and bred, firmly set upon her pedestal, and this conversation has veered way out of her comfort zone and far beyond prevailing norms. But it's a little exciting too, she has to admit . . .

It takes a full hour of deliberation after school and some determined encouragement from Julia before Portia is brave enough—or maybe it's foolhardy enough—to pursue the issue.

Yes. Prove it. Show me how much you miss me. I wanna see.

Adraas will justifiably murder me if I send you that kind of pic.

Feeling increasingly daring, Portia doubles down on the frisky request. Can you see my pouty face? Don't make me beg.

Here you go. You asked for it, Milady, Gaius types back. He attaches a bona fide dick pic. A very large, pink, erect dick pic. It is captioned Look what you do to me and it includes a hint. Your turn. Portia shouldn't be surprised when she receives the indiscrete snap, but she is. Shocked, she literally drops her comlink when she discovers it. But she quickly retrieves the device to stare and keep staring. Her first impression of male anatomy is that it is both ugly and intriguing.

"Did he send it? Did he send it?" Julia corners her at school the next morning.

"Yes!" Portia squeals. They jump and giggle so loudly in the hallway that they each earn a demerit for deportment unbecoming to a Lady. But it's totally worth it. And, incredibly ironic.

But now that the tables are turned on the sexy picture request, Portia gets second thoughts. She responds to the 'your turn' prod with Don't get cocky.

Worst pun ever, Gaius answers and she laughs out loud. This forbidden flirtation is the most fun ever, she decides. It's like the best inside joke combined with the juiciest secret. Senior year just got a whole lot more interesting.

Portia refuses to let pouty Julia peek at the dick pic. It's an intimate thing, she tells her friend with a degree of sexual sophistication she doesn't actually possess. But Portia makes her point: Gaius trusted me with this and I will keep that trust. Julia decides that allegiance is swoon worthy with romance and drops the complaints. "You're in love!" she accuses with a satisfied smile.

Portia herself is immediately obsessed with the picture. Truthfully, it's something of a revelation. Who knew the male member would look so imposing? How would that ever actually fit inside a woman? Giggling a little, Portia once again enlarges and zooms in for a better look. She's only seen drawings of male genitalia in her biology textbook, and they look nothing like this erect and imposing monstrosity. That part of Gaius matches the rest of his outsized build. Portia knows she should be disgusted and offended, but she's not. Instead, she's alarmed, titillated, and flustered as she keeps studying it. She should delete the picture immediately. But she doesn't. She doesn't stop looking either.

In fact, she's sneaking another peek as she pulls the family speeder up in the circular drive of her home after school. She's too distracted to notice that someone is waiting for her. The familiar firm voice that calls her name surprises Portia. She jumps.

"Portia Metellus, what are you doing at the controls of that speeder?"

Portia looks up, frozen and caught with the incriminating comlink in her hand. Swallowing hard, she immediately stashes the device in her bookbag and hops out of the parked speeder.

Is she busted? Please, Force, let her not be busted.

"Uh hello, Mother." Lady Oderint is up and fully dressed. Was there a luncheon today? She's got her good jewelry on. Mother looks every inch the poised lady of the manor as she frowns disapproval at her youngest daughter.

"Are you trying to put the servants out of work? Or just wishing to present yourself as colonial trash?"

Apollonia has marched outside to join Mother on the steps of the breezeway. "She does this every day," Apollonia tattles. Her big sister loves to troll her.

"And no one thought to tell me?" Mother directs a pointed glare Apollonia's way. Then she turns to Portia for an explanation. "Why are you driving yourself home from school?"

Portia could faint from relief that speeder driving is the sole infraction she's being called out for. This could be so much worse, she thinks as she fingers the handle of her bookbag that contains the contraband comlink. Trying to mollify her mother's ruffled feathers, Portia uses the Kittat title her always formal parent prefers. "Mater, before he left, Cato asked me to keep up my flying skills. He requested that I fly myself to and from school."

"Whatever for? We have a chauffeur."

"In case . . . well, you know . . ."

"No, I do not know what necessitates this indignity for a young Lady." Lady Oderint crosses her arms and demands, "Please enlighten me."

"It's in case we are invaded," ever helpful Apollonia supplies the reasoning.

"Invaded?"

That's Portia's cue to affirm, "Cato wants us to be prepared in case we need to help save ourselves and there's no chauffeur around."

Mother, who lives in a bubble of domestic affairs that she mostly delegates or neglects, has little thought for the ongoing war. She, like Apollonia, is mostly consumed with her own cares and desires. As far as Portia can tell, that's mostly all-consuming grief interrupted by the occasional fashion trunk show and luncheon. There's a whole galaxy at war around her and her only son has deployed to fight it, but Lady Oderint hasn't been moved to disrupt her routine one bit. And so, she greets Portia's answer with some degree of fluster.

"Oh."

"She's also taking saber lessons," Apollonia viciously volunteers.

"Shut up, Appy!" Portia hisses.

Mother appears dismayed at the escalating series of improprieties that are happening right beneath her nose. "Saber lessons? Saber lessons!" she practically screeches.

Apollonia gleefully divulges the details. "With a real swordmaster. It's every day after school."

"It's twice a week for half an hour," Portia corrects her weakly.

"She wears pants for it, Mother. Pants!"

"Only sometimes."

Lady Oderint now fixes Portia with a searching look. "Is this Cato's doing as well?"

"Yes, Mater. He arranged for it before he deployed."

Eyebrows raised sky high, Mother turns to Apollonia with an expression that verges on horror. "And have you been doing this as well?"

"No, Mother. I wouldn't dream of it," Apollonia simpers as Portia fumes. Then Apollonia adds the irritatingly demure coda: "Traverse would never approve," as if her ability to think for herself disappeared the moment she put her engagement ring on.

Portia now seizes back control of the conversation. "It started back when Cato figured Appy would have Traverse and his clan to protect her . . . before the wedding was postponed. Otherwise, she'd be doing it too."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Apollonia sniffs. "I'm a Lady and I know my place." Turning now to Mother, her sister feigns concern. "If word gets out that Portia's a tomboy with a sword, it could hurt her prospects. People will whisper that she's the manly type who likes girls—"

"I am well aware," Mother shuts her down. "The less said about that topic, the better, please."

For her part, Portia glares at her big sister for her treachery. This is all so typical. Apollonia loves to portray herself as the dutiful paragon daughter, eager to please and respectful of social rules. It's how she earns Mother's approval. Because the widowed Lady Oderint's grief only allows so much time for other things. That has meant for years that her children must compete for her attention. Apollonia's longtime strategy is to be an insufferable goody two shoes. But even so, she comes in a distant second to Cato, who earns first place simply by his birthright as son. Portia has long known that she's an afterthought, at best, where Mother is concerned.

Portia now tries to put the saber lesson issue in perspective. "I'm not stupid. No one knows I take saber lessons."

"Except Julia, you mean?" Apollonia jeers.

And Gaius and Lady Vindican too, but Portia keeps that information to herself. "Julia can keep a secret. And if anyone asks, it was at Cato's request. All I am doing is obeying the wishes of the head of the family. Who can fault me for that?"

Mother considers this argument but worries, "It troubles me that Cato did this behind my back."

"He didn't want to upset you," Portia murmurs.

"You mean he hid it because he knew I would disagree," Mother retorts. Lady Oderint might be mostly disinterested in life these past ten years, but she's still plenty sharp. She's none too pleased to have been deceived, too.

"You're looking at this all wrong," Portia tries again. "Cato did this for us. He wants to enable me to protect us both. In case he's not here to protect us."

"There are male servants."

"If the Jedi come, they'll come for us, not the servants," Portia contends. "And no matter how loyal our people are, they are laymen who are no match for the Jedi."

"So Cato expects you to duel a Jedi?"

"The goal is for me to be able to defend us sufficiently to get away. The point is to flee to safety. That's why I need my flying skills."

"I see," Mother says in a tone that indicates she does not at all see the wisdom of the plan.

"Times are changing. With the war on, life has different risks and new priorities now. We need to adapt," Portia presses.

"This has gone well beyond adapting, and you know it," Lady Oderint harrumphs. "But Cato is a full-grown Lord and he heads our house now. So, in deference to his wishes and our wartime circumstances, you may continue your . . . er . . . training. But keep it quiet. You are a beautiful girl from a preeminent family who is full of Force. Others might wish to spread gossip to hurt your marriage prospects in order to increase their own opportunities."

"Julia would never do that!"

"Agreed. But not all young Ladies will feel the same. I don't want some homely nobody stealing a brilliant match because of nasty rumors that you are quick with a blade. No Lord wants to worry that his betrothed is a better swordsman, pilot, or blaster shot than he is. Is that clear, Portia?"

"Yes, Mother." She hangs her head in an outward show of demure contrition.

"Now then, run upstairs and put on the new purple dress. It looks lovely against your skin."

"Are we expecting guests?"

"Yes. Lord Azamin's office contacted me this morning. He plans to stop by this afternoon for a chat on his way home from the Palace."

Portia frowns. She can't remember a time when Darth Azamin has arranged a formal meeting. They have always had an easy going, casual friendship and never stood on ceremony. "That's strange. I see him in the garden at least once a week. Why wouldn't he talk to me then?"

"This conversation will include me as well," Mother informs her.

"Is something wrong?"

Mother fixes her with a hard look. "You tell me, dear. Is something wrong?"

"No, Mother," she gulps.

"Good. Now, run along and change out of that school uniform. It's getting small and it's not the most flattering choice."

"Yes, Mother."

Twenty minutes later, Portia has hidden her comlink under her pillow. She is dressed in her new deep purple dress with a swipe of lip gloss on and freshly brushed hair. She hurries back downstairs to join Mother who waits for a servant to announce that Darth Azamin has arrived.

And, whoops, she's late. Their elderly esteemed neighbor is already seated and chatting with Mother in the drawing room when she walks in.

"Ah, here she is. Portia, come kneel to Darth Azamin."

Portia does her best to sink gracefully to one knee in imitation of her mother's grave elegance. "My Lord," she murmurs with eyes respectfully downcast, hoping she conveys dignity befitting the house of Metellus.

She peeps up and Darth Azamin covertly winks. The small gesture instantly puts Portia more at ease. Before she can think better of it, she pops up from her supplicant's pose and grins openly at the man she regards like a grandfather. "Hello, there," she grins.

Mother purses her lips tightly at this familiarity but Lord Azamin simply smiles back. "You grow prettier by the day. I'm sure the young Lords will all be noticing when they come home from war."

"We have high hopes for Portia," Mother says smoothly as she gestures for her to take a seat beside her on the settee.

"Never settle for less than she merits," Lord Azamin counsels. Then, he looks to Mother and asks a question Portia knows he already knows the answer to. "Is there an informal understanding in existence perhaps? Any expressions of interest from emissaries?"

"Not yet. Adraas and I plan on getting Apollonia fully settled first. We've made that known quietly."

"Yes, of course. It is a wise plan not to rush into these things," Darth Azamin concurs. "But as a father of daughters, let me share that it is never too soon to begin thinking about the future."

Mother is all ears for his opinions. "Do you have a match to suggest?"

"Not currently. But one does hear things from time to time."

"We would be grateful for any advice or assistance you might provide," Mother eagerly replies. "Right, Portia?"

"Yes, my Lord," she replies on cue, wondering where this strange conversation is going. This all feels very orchestrated.

"I shall keep that in mind. You know I was a great admirer of Lord Oderint, and in his absence, I wish to help as I can. And Portia is like a granddaughter to me after all our years of garden chats. That's why I am here, Ladies. Because Portia has long put me in mind of one of my own daughters. My Livia too was full of beauty and full of Force. She was about Portia's age when she had something of an awakening. She became very involved at the Temple. She enjoyed it immensely."

"Both my girls are in our parish Temple Society. They do the monthly seances," Mother volunteers.

"Very good. But I have something different in mind for Portia, if she's interested," Lord Azamin begins. "With the war finally here, there is renewed interest in using the Force as a weapon. Not in the traditional sense as a warrior, but in the general sense of promoting Darkness and repelling the Light and in seeking guidance on future events. To that end, the priests have formed foresight circles at the main parish Temples. With many Lords away, most of the circle members are women. If Portia is interested, I would like her to join the effort."

This offer strikes Portia as bizarre. She's a poor choice for this sort of thing. "But I'm not a seer. I can't remember the last time I had a vision."

Darth Azamin is unconcerned. "The Force is like a muscle. You must use it to develop it. Once you start to apply yourself, you might be surprised how quickly your skill improves."

"She does have the highest M-count of our household," Mother reminds him.

"Yes, I recall." Darth Azamin bestows a gummy smile upon her. "There is much potential in you, Portia. I have often thought that Ladies are an untapped resource in our society. We don't do enough to encourage women to explore their abilities."

"She had nightmares the whole week before my husband died," Mother announces.

Portia reacts. "I did?"

"Yes, dear. You were very young at the time. But in some ways, you were more upset before the news than after."

"I was?"

"Yes. I always wondered about that. I thought perhaps you had foreseen what happened."

Portia doesn't remember any of that. But if this foresight circle means predicting more tragedies, she'll pass.

Their guest must sense her thoughts because Darth Azamin assures her, "The Force calls to all of us at different times and in different ways. Not all visions are bad omens."

Portia now gamely tries to summon some polite enthusiasm. Because a request from Lord Azamin is basically a command in disguise. Mother is not going to let her decline. "Yes, my Lord."

"There is more to the group than peeking behind the veil of the cosmic Force. Our priests have long convened to stymie the judgement of the enemy. When used correctly, the Dark Side can cloud everything. The new foresight circles have joined in that effort."

"How intriguing," Portia endeavors to seem interested.

"Lately, the priests have been experimenting with other long-distance skills like remote battle meditation. The Chief Priest judged it very successful for Tindal Arm. He is hopeful that it can assist in the next big conflict."

By that, Darth Azamin must mean the big battle Gaius is helping to plan, Portia surmises. And that puts a new gloss on the opportunity. She might tolerate some Temple time if it means helping Gaius.

"So, Portia would be helping directly in the war effort?" Mother asks.

"Yes. Our Ladies do not fight, of course, but they can contribute in this manner. And the Empire and the Emperor will be grateful for their efforts."

"Who are these other Ladies? Are they peers?" Mother asks, not bothering to hide her snobbishness.

"They are from all the best families," Darth Azamin quickly assures her. "And that will provide Portia the opportunity to make a good impression which might help later on when it's time for a betrothal."

"Hmmmm . . . yes," Mother nods along. "There are fewer parties and events these days to give her the usual exposure."

Portia is focused on other benefits. "This might help protect Cato . . ." And it might also help Gaius too. That clinches it. "I'll do it," Portia declares.

Her mother beams approval.

Lord Azamin looks pleased as well. "There is a significant time commitment. The circles meet three afternoons a week. Will that disrupt your existing plans?"

"Not at all," Mother answers for her. "Portia spends too much time over at Lord Vindican's household as it is."

"That's Lord Malgus' household now, is it not?" Azamin inquires.

"Why, yes. I suppose it is. That's the random. The big one with the shaved head," Mother sniffs.

"Darth Malgus was the hero of Korriban," Portia speaks up loyally.

"Hero or not, he's not a connection to pursue," Mother quells her praise. "Keep your distance from that one. He is beneath you."

"He's gone at war. I don't see him, I see Julia. She's been my best friend for years," Portia grumbles.

Mother now laments on her friend's recent change in circumstance. "That random heads their household now . . . how humiliating for poor Lady Vindican after she's already suffered so much . . ."

"What's humiliating about having a war hero head your household? He's on the same ship as Cato is, you know," Portia speaks up tartly.

It prompts Darth Azamin to observe softly, "You seem to know an awful lot about the fellow."

And now, Mother and Darth Azamin are both looking at her questioningly.

"Do I?" Flustered Portia quickly looks down and away. She blanks her mind lest her thoughts betray her. "I guess Cato has said a few things."

"Does your brother like this Malgus?" Mother wants to know.

"Er . . . not as much as others," Portia is diplomatic.

"That's a no."

"Men are so competitive, Mother. You know that."

"But you like this Darth Malgus, I gather," Mother judges.

And how does she answer that? "He's been very kind to Lady Vindican and Julia. And Cato said he once saved his life in battle. That's a reason to like him . . ."

"Indeed. Well, that certainly speaks well of the young man," old Azamin smiles genially.

"I suppose." Mother's voice is unconvinced. She turns to Portia and dismisses her. "Thank you, dear. Now run along and do your homework."

"Yes, Mater." Portia bobs a respectful curtsey to Darth Azamin, like she knows Mother will expect. She murmurs, "My Lord Azamin," before she flees the uncomfortable scene.

The more she thinks about that interview later in the privacy of her room, the more suspicious Portia becomes. It's just too closely timed after she last saw Gaius to have Darth Azamin sitting in the parlor talking about her betrothal prospects with Mother. For the second time today, Portia fears that she has been discovered. And so, an hour later, she is waiting at the garden benches when Darth Azamin plods up as usual. "What was all that about earlier?" she demands as he shuffles over to take the seat beside her.

Her words are hot and accusatory but his answer is mild. "I didn't want to involve you in the foresight circle without your mother's permission."

"She was pleased, like you knew she would be."

"Good. I'm glad."

"Is that all it was about?" Portia presses, sensing an evasion.

"What else could it be about?" Darth Azamin asks innocently.

Portia doesn't answer that question. She looks away from the old man's rheumy yellow eyes that seem to see right through her. As if they know what she and Gaius had been up to the last time she was in this garden. When they parted reluctantly after hot kisses and reckless promises.

"I think you'll like it," Darth Azamin muses, still pretending this conversation is about the Temple circle. "Portia, I have no ulterior motive other than your happiness. I hope you believe that."

"I do." She's also increasingly certain that the unspoken subtext of the Temple circle opportunity is all about Gaius. But Darth Azamin being the tolerant, mild-mannered sort of Lord, he's not looking to press the issue. Portia thinks now of all the times she has sat dramatically angry or extravagantly weepy on these benches as her fatherly neighbor patiently talked her though the problem and led her to the right solution. The man has a light touch, preferring to persuade rather than to dominate. For being such a preeminent Lord of the Sith, Darth Azamin is remarkably conflict averse with her.

In fact, he now changes the topic entirely. "Your mother is looking well these days. I'm happy to see that."

"She got dressed for you."

"That's why I had my office call ahead. I did not want to surprise her and embarrass her. But I'm afraid it gave the whole conversation a degree of formality that I did not intend. And now, it's got you suspicious and cross with me."

"That's Mother," Portia sighs. "She's very formal." Sheepishly, she looks to Lord Azamin. "I'm sorry if I was rude or ungrateful."

He pats her knee and tells her not to worry. That he understands what it means to be a seventeen-year-old girl. That she can tell him anything and he will keep her secrets.

Silence falls between them now as she digs absently at the garden gravel with the toe of her slipper. Already, the path is littered with wilted and dried leaves and fallen blossoms past their prime. The days are getting shorter. Late summer is over and the garden is withering in preparation for the cool, rainy winter to come. It prompts Portia to share, "I love fall in the garden. It's not as pretty as spring or summer, but it has its own appeal."

"Uhmm . . . yes," her companion agrees. "The turn of a season always has the promise of change to come."

His choice of words resonates with Portia. She nods along. "That's how life feels right now. Like there is much change to come, what with the war and all . . . "

"I fear that you are right. However this clash of civilizations ends, one thing is certain—both the Empire and the Republic will be forever changed for it."

"Does that scare you?" she asks in a small voice.

"A little. Why do you ask?"

"Because I know it scares Cato. He worries that families like ours could be on the losing end of the change. Look around, my Lord," she gestures expansively with one arm, "see all we have to lose. When the Jedi come, people like us will be prime targets."

Darth Azamin doesn't argue with her, and that speaks volumes about how right Cato is about the concern. Instead, the elder statesman of the Empire poses a question. "What do you suppose the solution is?"

She answers like a dutiful Darksider. "To trust in the Force."

"Yes. Always. And?"

"And maybe to try to change with the change . . . to position yourself with those who will shape the future." People like Gaius, she hopes.

"Yes. But be careful about being the one to lead the change," Azamin counsels. "That's harder than it looks, especially in an unforgiving society like ours. Being the outlier is hard. Especially for a woman."

Something about the way he says this sounds very ominous. Again, Portia is suspicious.

"I'm an old, old man and I have lived through much change. But if I know one thing about the Empire it's this: the more things change, the more they remain the same. Our Dark Lord likes it that way. But even he might not be able to control the forces this war has unleashed. I fear there is no escape from modernity. When the war is over and we win, the Empire might end up looking more like the Republic than any of us ever thought possible."

"You mean they might be the real winner?" she groans.

"Only the Force knows. But cultural nihilism could be a consequence of our invasion." Old Darth Azamin frowns and confides, "That's why Vitiate was in no hurry to go to war. For generations, the hotheads urged him to attack. But he resisted. Behind closed doors, he would privately refer to the revenge of the Sith as Dark Side suicide. I'm telling you this so you will understand the context of our current predicament. For over a thousand years, the Sith have adhered to a rigorous, disciplined set of values. They aren't always fair and they are rigid, but they have served their purpose to create a secure, successful society. Harshness is Vitiate's accepted tradeoff for order. And so," Azamin sighs, slanting watchful eyes her way, "when our Emperor sees radical individualism, egalitarianism, and glory seeking self-fulfillment appear in the flesh in his throne room speaking as a Lord of the Sith, his immediate reaction is negative. Those are Republic ideals that threaten the Empire he has built . . . and they potentially threaten him personally."

Are they still talking about the Republic? Because this increasingly abstract conversation sounds more like Darth Azamin obliquely referring to Gaius. "What are you telling me?" Portia asks under her breath.

Old eyes meet young eyes. "Be careful of the company you keep."

That warning has her unnerved. And that makes Portia a little reckless. She's heard enough. She abruptly stands to her feet. "It's almost nightfall. I should go in. Stay out here too long, my Lord, and the sprinklers might randomly come on. And not in the usual zone pattern, but all around the garden all at once."

"Do they do that?"

"Yes." Her eyes meet Azamin's eyes once again and she blurts out, "Don't pretend you don't know. Goodnight, my Lord."

She's almost around the corner headed back to the house when Darth Azamin drops his dissembling. He calls after her, "Young Malgus is not the one for you."

Portia pauses but doesn't turn around. "I'll pretend you didn't say that." If Azamin can be coy, she can too.

"Don't pretend. Turn around, look at me, and listen."

Portia whirls and starts to argue, "You're not my father or my brother-"

He overrides her. "We are practically family and you know it. I wouldn't concern myself with this matter if you weren't important to me."

"So you sign me up for Temple work to keep me busy? So I can meet a bunch of old biddies who will consider me as a bride for their grandsons? All to keep me away from Gaius' family and his household?"

"Yes," Lord Azamin comes clean.

Portia explodes. "Why is everyone so afraid of Gaius? What's so threatening about his success? Why is he so unacceptable?"

"It's not so much his success that's the problem, it's who he is."

"You mean a random?" she sneers.

"His background is part of the difficulty, yes. It's also his ideas and what he represents. That boy probably doesn't see his personal grievances as cultural flashpoints in the making, but they are. If he has his way, he'll be a harbinger of change like the Empire hasn't seen since the days of Marka Ragnos and that won't sit well with our Dark Lord. Portia, trust me, you want nothing to do with that boy. Tragedy is going to follow in his footsteps, I fear. I don't want that for you."

She puts a hand on one hip and lifts her chin. "If you're going to tell me that he killed Vindican, I already know." And wait, that came out like she was bragging. But the point is that she knows the worst of Gaius and it hasn't scared her off. She's choosing to see the best of him instead.

Darth Azamin exhales a long, heavy sigh that sounds exceedingly world-weary even for a man who's five hundred years old. "I worry that crime is just the beginning of what he will do. He's a prodigy with perilous control. If he keeps killing for the Empire, the Emperor may let him live. Then again, the stronger he becomes, the more precarious his position becomes."

"I don't understand. Why is his success a problem?"

"His future is clouded by the threat he presents. His abilities could be his undoing."

"I don't understand. He fights for the Empire like he's supposed to. Isn't that what the Emperor wants?"

"Not if it makes him a rival."

"A rival . . ." Portia sucks in a breath. Her eyes widen. "So, he really is that good . . ." It's not all bravado and boasts. Not judging by the ultra-serious look on Azamin's face. And that ironically makes Gaius more attractive, not less, in her eyes. Because the random—her random—is the real deal fairytale hero in the making. He's the mysterious, overpowered nobody sent by the Force to champion the Dark Side. Yes, she sees from Azamin's expression, Gaius hasn't over promised with his laughably bold ambitions. So who knows where the war will take him? Could he be the Sith'ari long foretold come to save them all? Will he be the Lord to usher in the next golden age of Darkness? Might he be the heir apparent to ancient Lord Vitiate? Suddenly, those preposterous possibilities seem almost reasonable.

Thoroughly upset at being manipulated by Azamin whom she trusts and loves but also made uncomfortable by the utter sincerity of his concern, Portia mutters in confusion, "I knew that foresight circle was some kind of diversion . . ."

"It is a real offer. Portia, you have considerable Force. Use it to help the Empire."

"And forget Gaius? Isn't that what you really mean?" she goads.

"Yes." Lord Azamin struggles to his feet and hobbles closer. His words are disconcertingly quiet as he warns, "Gaius Veradun is the most unpredictable, most dangerous man in the Empire. Even if his intentions are honorable, you two will never be allowed to marry. Portia, you know this. Your family will oppose this, as will I. So don't be a fool and pursue a path that could lead to disappointment or worse. End whatever flirtation you have going on."

Portia knows that Darth Azamin is not the paternalistic type who is controlling. Nor is he habitually fear mongering. She's known him for years and she can see how important this matter is to him. The problem is that Gaius is important to her too. She has half convinced herself of their wildly romantic, utterly improbable future together, and she doesn't want to give that daydream up. She's surrendered to the powerful impulse to believe what she hopes to be the case, even if it's neither rational nor wise. Being young, she's stubborn about it, too.

"You're right . . . I know you're right . . . " She can feel how right Darth Azamin is in the Force. But still . . . she doesn't care. She refuses to be persuaded.

"I don't want to see you get hurt. Reflect on it some and I know you will make the right choice."

"Or what? You'll tell on me? Is that the threat?" Portia snaps back shrilly. Her response is reflexive, defensive defiance. Maybe a bit of petulance as well.

Old Darth Azamin gives her a look that is downright hurt that she could ever think such a thing of him. "There is no need for threats," he tells her gravely, "when the clear consequences of your actions are already so dire. A smart girl like you will think it over and make the right choice for how to move forward." Looking her over with a mix of compassion and sternness, the man who is one-part grandfather and one-part substitute father to her announces, "I know you will not disappoint me."

"Goodnight, my Lord," Portia tosses off snippily before she stomps away in a huff.