Masquerade
Posted on Thu Jan 29th, 2026 @ 6:49pm by Thane & Bomoor Thort & Amare
2,887 words; about a 14 minute read
Chapter:
Chapter VIII: Broken Chains
Location: Wyrd Estate, New Alderaan
Timeline: Day Seven, after "Wyrd Company"
OLD
"If my lord and honoured guests would follow me," she said smoothly, already turning toward the ascending walkway that led from the platform into the estate proper. "House Wyrd stands ready to receive you."
The honour guards pivoted in unison, ceremonial rifles angling just enough to signal movement rather than threat. The path ahead opened, framed by pale stone and the first hint of the gardens beyond.
Thane did not look back as he stepped forward.
The part was being played.
NEW
The trio were ushered through a sequence of high, arched corridors whose proportions felt civic rather than domestic, until the sound reached them first.
It was music, but not especially exuberant. Strings and breath, layered and precise, moving with the slow confidence of something written to endure repetition. It carried easily through the stone, the acoustics doing exactly what they had been designed to do centuries ago.
The doors to the reception hall parted without ceremony.
The ball had already begun.
House Wyrd had chosen masquerade.
Not in the theatrical sense favoured by the Core, nor the riot of colour and indulgence popular on Naboo, but something more curated and deliberate. Masks were common, but restrained: porcelain and pale alloys, leaf-worked filigree, half-visors shaped to echo Alderaanian civic motifs. Many were symbolic rather than concealing, their wearers’ identities still legible beneath the artifice. A declaration of participation rather than anonymity.
Even so, not everyone wore one.
The hall itself was vast and luminous, its ceiling a vaulted sweep of pale stone inlaid with slow-shifting light panels that mimicked a perpetual twilight. Balconies ringed the upper levels, allowing guests to observe as much as to be observed. The floor was polished to a near-mirror sheen, reflecting movement and colour in softened duplication. Everything here was preserved, perfected, and slightly too still.
The guests were exactly what one would expect from New Alderaan’s quieter aristocracy.
Minor nobles whose houses survived on careful alliances rather than ambition. Politicians without portfolios, envoys without official mandates, cultural attachés whose real value lay in who they spoke to when no one was listening. There were off-worlders, too: Coreward humans in borrowed restraint, Near-Humans in formal dress softened for Alderaanian sensibilities, a handful of non-Humans whose presence spoke of deliberate inclusion rather than comfort.
Masks turned as the trio entered, subtle as a tide shifting direction.
They were not the only unmasked guests, but their lack of preparation in that regard set them apart all the same. Titles explained the absence and courtesy excused it. Even so, the contrast lingered. Here, among faces half-hidden by ritualised anonymity, their expressions were naked.
That, Thane realised, was the point.
A steward announced them with measured clarity, voice carrying without amplification.
"Heritur Thane of Caanus. Bomoor Thort of Oetrago. Zaracoda Wolph, ward to the Heritur."
There was no flourish, nor applause - just the quiet recalibration of the room.
They felt it immediately. Conversations resumed, but their vectors shifted. A few masked figures angled themselves closer. Others withdrew just enough to observe from a distance.
The newcomers moved with composure,their own postures precise, expressions nearly unreadable. This was not a battlefield, but the instinct was the same - at least to Thane. Every step placed deliberately and every pause chosen. Thane answered greetings as they came, brief, courteous, and non-committal.
The questions began soon after, as he had feared.
A masked politician or some manner, with a voice trained to warmth, asked after Caanus’ recent economic adjustments, idly noting Senator Vuul’s continued interest in Outer Rim resource frameworks. A noblewoman whose sigil Thane half-recognised expressed polite concern for Archae Wulhart’s prolonged seclusion, remarking that such burdens were heavy for any father to bear alone. Another voice, further removed, spoke lightly of how turbulent the Outer Rim had been in recent decades, especially during Thane’s youth, as if the timing were merely coincidental.
Thane answered with restraint and with precision. With just enough openness to be heard, and just enough distance to deny intimacy. Each response felt less like speech and more like placement, a piece moved on a board already crowded with intent, and he did not seem convinced he was managing it.
Across the hall, Bomoor had also been intercepted.
It began with courtesy and curiosity, then slid - almost imperceptibly - into attention. A noblewoman of advancing years, her mask worked in pale silver leaves, spoke to him with genuine interest, remarking on Oetragan traditions and the rarity of Ithorian presence at such gatherings. Others joined, drawn by novelty or sincerity or both. The woman laughed softly at her own audacity as she spoke, placing a gloved hand briefly and quite deliberately upon his hump, as if daring the room to notice.
"I hope you will forgive the familiarity," she added lightly, eyes gleaming behind her mask. "One hears Ithorians value honesty. I find myself curious what else your people value so highly."
Bomoor emitted a faint grunt of surprise at the unprovoked contact, not audible to most but Thane could have sensed the immediate discomfort across the entire sector. The woman’s touch had been light, but it landed on him with the weight of something far more intrusive. He shifted; not sharply, but with the slow, deliberate adjustment of someone repositioning for comfort rather than recoil. Her hand slipped away without resistance, the gesture absorbed into the natural sway of his broad frame.
“Honesty is… certainly one of them,” he answered, his voice a warm, resonant undertone that carried no hint of rebuke, “Though I fear I am a poor representative of Oetrago these days. I have lived away from my homeworld since I was a young child but I do wish to reconnect with it again.”
The small cluster around him leaned in, attentive.
He continued, choosing his words with the same care he used organising the fragile components of his lightsaber into perfect balance:
“Öetrago is so much more than a second Ithor: its people have their own customs and have endured their own unique hardships. It has a meaning to me that I did not truly appreciate for many years. As I am sure the legacy of a great house carries great weight, so too do my family Herd and my culture shape who I am.”
The noblewoman’s eyes brightened behind her silver mask, her curiosity sharpening rather than softening.
“And what of you, Master Thort?" the edges of her mouth curved into pointed barbs, "What do you value most, if not the traditions of your birth?”
A question too deep. Too personal. Too close to the places he kept carefully sealed.
Bomoor’s large hands folded before him, a gesture of polite contemplation that also created a subtle barrier of space, like a Force bubble constructed of subtle social cues.
“I have found,” he said gently, “That values shift with one’s path. My former life taught me to cherish harmony. My travels taught me to always question your reality. And most recently…” His gaze drifted briefly across the hall, toward Thane and Zaracoda, before returning, “Times have taught me the importance of allowing others their own truths.”
It was an answer that revealed little and closed the door without appearing to.
The woman tilted her head, amused or intrigued: it was difficult to tell.
But she did not touch him again.
Thane noted the way a few masked heads inclined toward the exchange. How one figure, standing just beyond the main circle, observed Bomoor with something closer to calculation than amusement.
Amare, however, drew a different kind of attention.
Movement stilled where she passed. Conversations faltered, then resumed with altered cadence. Older nobles watched her openly, eyes weighing potential as well as beauty, measuring what might be shaped or claimed. A few spoke of futures as if she were already included in them. Others were less restrained, their appraisals cruder beneath the safety of masks and polite laughter.
It was Alric Wyrd who approached her, his confidence recovered just enough to be dangerous to himself. He offered a shallow bow, smile warm and earnest, clearly pleased to have found an opening.
"My lady," he said, tone pitched to charm. "I had hoped you might find the evening less overwhelming than it appears." His gaze flicked briefly toward the hall, then returned to her. "I imagine it must be... an adjustment, being ward to a Caanan prince. Especially one so austere."
He leaned in a fraction, voice lowering conspiratorially. "And," he added, with a playful glint, "formerly one of the Je-"
A sharp intake of breath followed, his smile freezing as a nearby courtier cleared her throat with pointed emphasis. Alric straightened at once, colour rising beneath his mask.
"I mean," he corrected quickly, waving the thought away as if it had never been spoken, "a man of such... uncommon background." He offered a sheepish grin, clearly thinking himself clever rather than indiscreet. "You must have stories."
"Stories, yes, your grace," Amare offered with a casual curtsey in open deference to the Wyrd heir, a motion she did not consciously plan to show or even know how to properly do. It felt strangely guided, as if the Force itself made her curtsey like a princess in a storybook she once read and secretly wanted to be. "Though none so beautiful as New Alderaan or your immaculate estate. I feel so much history here. It fascinates me."
She gave her full attention to Alric, her voice a soft feminine zephyrs that flowed an octave higher than her usual burdened tone; just a part of the mask she wore that was her entire outward appearance. As the kind and tender Zaracoda, she studied the contour of Alric's jawline, gauged his level of confidence in his posture, measured the pitch of his desire for female companionship through the way he spoke, and made it her intention to feed his ego to learn everything about House Wyrd that should could draw out of him. The less spoken about herself or Heritur Thane of Caanus, the better.
Alric recovered quickly, perhaps too quickly.
He laughed at his own stumble, the sound a shade louder than necessary, and straightened his posture as if reminded of himself by the room rather than by Amare’s presence. "Forgive me," he said, the smile returning with earnest speed. "I forget that some things spoken lightly elsewhere carry different weight here." He gestured vaguely, as if indicating the estate, the traditions, the invisible lines everyone pretended not to see. "House Wyrd prefers its histories... implied."
He seemed about to say more - a compliment, perhaps, or another question dressed as one - when the cadence of the space around them shifted. Footsteps approached with purpose.
The interruption did not announce itself loudly, but it carried authority all the same. Conversations nearby thinned, the way they did when someone important entered without asking permission.
The man who stepped between them wore no mask.
He was older than Alric by several years, tall and broad-shouldered, his bearing unmistakably martial even beneath the formality of his dress. The ceremonial uniform of Republic Judicial Forces was tailored to him with exacting care: deep blue and white, edged with golden piping, a short cloak draped from one shoulder and secured with the sigil of House Wyrd worked in polished metal. Rank bars caught the light at his collar. Everything about him spoke of confidence earned in public view.
"Brother," he said pleasantly, without looking at Alric at first. There was no warmth in it, only familiarity sharpened by hierarchy. His gaze remained on Amare, appraising and direct. "You are monopolising our guest."
Alric flushed, colour rising again beneath his mask. "I was only offering guidance," he replied, a fraction defensive now. "As instructed."
"And you have done so admirably," the elder Wyrd son replied, finally turning his head. A smile followed, thin and practiced. "I will take it from here."
It was not phrased as a suggestion.
Alric hesitated, caught between pride and obedience, then inclined his head. "Of course," he said, stepping back. He glanced once more at Amare, something apologetic flickering there, before withdrawing into the surrounding crowd.
The elder son turned fully to her then.
"I am Caelen Wyrd," he said, offering a crisp, formal bow that carried none of his brother’s uncertainty. "Firstborn of this house. I hope my brother has not overwhelmed you with his enthusiasm."
His eyes were steady, openly assessing. Not unkind, but unmistakably proprietary in the way of someone long accustomed to command.
"Being a ward to the Heritur of Caanus," he continued smoothly, "places you in an... interesting position. Visibility without obligation. Influence without accountability." A faint smile touched his mouth. "New Alderaan appreciates such nuances."
He gestured subtly toward the hall around them - the masks, the watchers, the carefully curated splendour. "If you find yourself in need of clearer company as the evening progresses, I would be happy to ensure it. Our guests can be... inquisitive."
There was bravado there, yes - but also calculation. Unlike his brother, Caelen did not flirt blindly - he carefully and boldly positioned himself.
It was clear to Amare that Caelen was establishing his hierarchal dominance in the Wyrd sibling pecking order, but it completely failed to impress her. Her mind briefly imagined poking a hole in Caelen's throat and bisecting his skull just like she did with her own brother on Quesh. Had she been armed, the feral temptation to make it so would have been considerable.
"You honour me, my lord," she spoke in gentle acceptance as she held forth her hand to him, palm down, seeking his offer of escort. She could feel the eyes of the guests, and briefly something else...a strange perverted ebb and flow of the Force that felt odd along the length of her spine, reminding her of Bespin, but different in its own way.
A part of her didn't like seeing poor Alric's dismissal as she had enjoyed watching him find his inner confidence to regale her in courtly conversation. She enjoyed watching the underdog rise to the occasion and prove himself worthy. Yet, the Sith way was to exploit what is most useful, and discard the rest. For the moment, Caelen was clearly the more prestigious choice to be with.
Thane let the noise of the hall recede.
Not physically, yet. He remained where he was expected to remain, posture composed, expression set to something politely unreadable. He nodded when addressed. He replied when required. He allowed the surface of the evening to continue uninterrupted.
But inwardly, he opened himself without restraint and the Force answered immediately.
It rushed to meet him like cold water drawn suddenly from depth, awareness expanding outward in layered currents that washed through the hall, the balconies, the corridors beyond. He did not soften the touch, did not blur its edges. He let his discomfort sharpen it. His disdain for the curated cruelty of the room, his revulsion at the calculated civility, his hatred for the Cult and everything it hollowed out - all of it fed the expansion, fuel rather than distraction.
Eddies formed where power lingered. They were not bright flare and not the reckless signatures of untrained adepts. These were subtler distortions, areas where the Force felt bent rather than ignited, as if something heavy had been resting there for a very long time. Channels worn smooth by repetition. Flows that did not belong to living beings alone.
Markers. In a way, it reminded him of the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, or even some of the quieter recesses they examined on Korriban.
He felt them beneath the music, beneath the laughter, beneath the ritualised anonymity of masks and titles. They clustered deeper within the estate, below the polished stone and preserved gardens, where Alderaanian proportion gave way to older geometry, to places where life was not celebrated - only maintained.
His eyes burned as the awareness deepened. Gold threatened to bleed through the blue, and he drew in a slow breath, jaw tightening as he forced the visible change back down. The blaze dimmed, compressed, the molten certainty of his gaze banked behind a familiar, Human facade. Blue returned where gold wanted to dominate.
No one in the room seemed to notice; they were too busy watching him for weakness rather than power, or carefully picking apart his allies.
He let the currents map themselves. He noted resistance where wards or rituals dampened flow, quite unlike anything the Jedi truly dabbled with, but was already known to them as cult preference. He tasted the stale residue of repeated invocation - not prayer, not devotion, but transaction. The Force here was not revered like on Coruscant (or even Korriban), but exploited, disciplined into infrastructure.
Thane allowed the awareness to recede just enough to keep himself anchored, but not so far as to lose the thread. He remained present, attentive, composed. The prince. The guest. The political actor.
His eyes examined the room. He knew his reaching out into the Force would not go unnoticed by any true cultists hidden within the stonework of this twisted palace.
They needed to go deeper, past the facade. Locating her with his settled, blue gaze, he made his way towards Amare.
TBC
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