What Endures
Posted on Fri Feb 13th, 2026 @ 10:52pm by Thane & Bomoor Thort & Amare
4,401 words; about a 22 minute read
Chapter:
Chapter VIII: Broken Chains
Location: Wyrd Estate, New Alderaan
Timeline: Day Seven, after "Party Animals"
OLD
"Lords and ladies," the herald announced, voice resonant and trained to carry without strain. "House Wyrd welcomes you. Pray attend."
From a side entrance framed by pale columns and heavy drapery, movement stirred.
"The Lord and Lady of House Wyrd."
He did not look away from the portrait as the words settled. Whatever walked out to greet them now, he knew one thing with certainty: this house believed itself eternal.
And eternity, Thane mused, having learned from both the Jedi and the Sith, always resented being challenged.
NEW
The music shifted.
Not in tempo, nor volume, but in intention. The slow, ceremonial phrasing gave way to a more formal progression, its cadence tightening as if the hall itself were drawing breath. Conversations softened and laughter thinned.
Thane knew he had to present himself to the couple, but was almost immediately intercepted. He then had to disengage from a mindless exchange with a minor envoy whose questions had circled endlessly around Caanan trade routes, courtesy of the mass shadow caused by the black hole that served in place of an actual star for the system, without ever touching substance - nor something Thane could even pretend to know a great deal about. The man seemed mildly insulted by Thane's excuses, but soon retreated into the anonymity of the crowd as the former Jedi stepped back toward the centre of the hall.
Bomoor stood a short distance away, his broad form unmistakable even amidst silk and stone. The Ithorian held himself with careful neutrality, a drink cradled in both hands. The attention around him had eased, but not vanished. Guest still seemed to linger, watching him from the sides of their eyes.
Thane closed the distance without hurry and for a moment, they stood side by side, unspoken alignment re-established. Allies again, rather than curiosities orbiting separate constellations.
Then, the crowd parted, and Lord Caelric Wyrd entered without flourish.
He was unmasked, as etiquette demanded, his presence marked not by grandeur but by certainty. His attire echoed Alderaanian tradition rather than noble excess: long lines of pale fabric edged with deep blue, sigils of office woven subtly into the seams rather than displayed. He moved with the confidence of someone accustomed to being obeyed without needing to ask.
At his side walked Lady Wyrd. She did not cling to him, nor defer. Her posture was composed, her expression carefully neutral, her presence complementary rather than subordinate. Where Caelric projected authority through restraint, she radiated observation. Together, they formed a single, deliberate advance.
The hall quieted as they approached. Caelric’s gaze found Thane almost immediately. Not with curiosity, but with appraisal. A man taking measure of another man who had chosen to step into his domain uninvited, yet impeccably introduced.
He inclined his head as he reached them. Not a bow. A recognition.
"Heritur Thane of Caanus," Caelric said, voice smooth, measured, carrying easily across the space between them without needing to be raised. "House Wyrd welcomes you to New Alderaan. Your arrival has… not gone unnoticed." His eyes flicked, briefly, to Bomoor. "And Bomoor Thort of Öetrago," he continued. "Your presence honours us. Ithorians are not frequent guests in these halls. We are pleased to host you."
There was no warmth in the words. It was politeness honed to a precise edge.
Thane returned the inclination, posture impeccable, expression carefully composed.
"My lord," he replied evenly. "Your hospitality is noted, and appreciated. New Alderaan is… exactly as it is spoken of."
A truth - and an omission.
Caelric’s mouth curved, just slightly. A smile that did not reach his eyes.
"I would expect nothing less," he said. "We take great care with what endures." He gestured subtly, indicating the hall around them, the gathered nobility, the living preservation of a world reborn in memory. "I trust your journey from Caanus was… uneventful?" he asked pointedly, tone casual, but eyes attentive. "We hear so little, these days, beyond what reaches the Senate - and even that is often filtered through intermediaries."
A probe, very thinly veiled.
Before Thane could answer, Bomoor intercepted, attempting to deflect the query.
"The Thaal system can certainly be a difficult one to navigate, with its gravitational quirks, but it is charming nonetheless." he said, his tone warm and apologetic in equal measure, “Though I fear we had a slightly longer journey from the other side of the Rim, on account of some of my own errands. I must therefore take some responsibility for keeping the Heritur away from home longer than intended."
He lifted his glass slightly, as though in sheepish confession.
"But if there were any world that could give comfort to the homesick, this would be the one," Bomoor added, his tone warm but measured, "Such beautiful gardens; clearly someone here has a keen eye for landscaping and horticulture.”
He inclined his glass toward Lady Wyrd, the gesture respectful rather than presumptuous.
"Perhaps your doing, my Lady."
Lady Elyce Wyrd’s pale, chilly eyes shifted to Bomoor as he addressed her. For a heartbeat, something tightened at the corner of her mouth, as though she felt unsafe to open her lips, but then the mask of composure settled back into place.
"You are kind to notice," she nodded to him, her voice smooth but still carrying a faint tremor beneath the polish, the sort that could be mistaken for strained emotion or perhaps fatigue, "The gardens are my refuge. A house such as ours must cultivate beauty where it can and remember the old world."
Her fingers brushed the trim of her dress in a small, habitual gesture, almost protective.
"It is important," she continued, lifting her chin a fraction, "That New Alderaan presents itself as whole. As enduring. To endure is the very essence of our House."
Bomoor nodded slowly, allowing his eyes and essence to probe behind Elyce's practiced grace to a fragile core.
"Endurance is a great virtue," he agreed, a weight entering his voice now, "I believe we share a passion to see our worlds endure against adversity."
Thane drew breath to respond.
It was a controlled thing, measured and deliberate, the beginning of a reply shaped to acknowledge the probe without yielding ground. His posture remained relaxed, his expression composed, every instinct aligned toward maintaining parity.
Caelric did not allow it, cutting across the Caanan before the first syllable reached the second.
"Indeed," the Lord of House Wyrd said smoothly, the interruption timed with surgical precision. His gaze did not even flick toward Thane as he spoke, instead settling fully upon Bomoor, as though the Heritur had already served his purpose in the exchange and he was being actively ignored or side lined.
"Endurance," Caelric continued, voice warm with public gravity, "is so often tested first at the periphery of the Republic." A faint, sympathetic inclination of his head followed, the gesture rehearsed enough to pass for sincerity. "Oetrago, for example," he said gently. "A world caught between progress and agitation. Between development and unrest." His eyes rested on Bomoor now, assessing, almost indulgent. "Tragic business. I understand your mother was killed during the disturbances. A civil dispute, was it not. One in which she played a rather instrumental role."
The words were careful. Sanitised. Coalition-bloc phrasing, polished by repetition and confident that a native son led that faction in the highest office of their nation.
Around them, the hall did what it was trained to do. A few nearby conversations slowed. Ears tilted, curiosity sharpening beneath masks and polite disinterest.
Caelric clasped his hands loosely behind his back.
"It is always regrettable when local actors inflame tensions beyond their capacity to control them," he went on. "The Senate has spent no small amount of time debating responsibility. Some insist corporate interests overreached. Others argue agitators exploited opportunity. The truth, as ever, is inconvenient."
His mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile.
"Still, such events remind us why stability matters. Why restraint must be favoured over passion." His gaze flicked, briefly, back toward Thane at last, still dismissive rather than hostile. "Why old houses survive where movements do not yes?"
The implication landed with deliberate weight. Caelric then inclined his head once more toward Bomoor, the gesture framed as condolence rather than censure.
"You have my sympathies, Master Thort," he said. "Loss is the price of disorder. Alderaan learned that lesson dearly."
Only then did his attention return fully to Thane, as though remembering him anew.
"But please," Caelric added lightly, "whilst I would not wish our first exchange to dwell on grief, I must attend to all our guests. This evening is meant to celebrate continuity. The assurance that some things, at least, remain firmly in hand."
The music swelled again, subtle but insistent, and Thane took his place beside his friend. He held back from placing a reassuring hand on the Ithorian, but he did let his artificially-suppressed blue eyes focus upon him.
Caelric’s final platitude lingered in the air like a sour note. Lady Elyce offered a brittle, porcelain smile; the kind that cracked if held too long, before the pair inclined their heads in a gesture of polite dismissal. Then, with the same measured grace with which they had arrived, the Lord and Lady of House Wyrd drifted back into the current of the hall, swallowed by silk, masks, and murmured admiration.
Only when they were several paces away did Bomoor’s posture shift.
The muscles in his neck tightened and the drink in his hands trembled just enough for Thane to notice. The Ithorian’s eyes, usually soft and reflective, had darkened, the weight of memory and insult settling behind them.
"That," Bomoor said quietly, "Was no condolence."
He exhaled through both mouths, a slow, controlled release that did little to ease the tension in his shoulders.
"To reduce it all to… ‘local agitation’," His fingers tightened around the glass, "Like it was all just to teach me some kind of a lesson."
The anger was there: not loud, not reckless, but deep and stirring, held together from years of Jedi practice and the necessity of the circumstance. But impossible to hide from Thane.
Bomoor turned slightly toward Thane, lowering his voice further.
"Must we linger here much longer?" he murmured, "I tire of the spotlight that is cast on us here. We need to start searching for what is not on display."
Thane had felt it too. The calculated interruption and the reduction of tragedy to rhetoric. The way Caelric had shifted the room as easily as a courtier rearranging seating at a banquet. He had endured it with composure, but endurance did not mean acceptance.
His gaze remained fixed on the crowd for a moment longer, watching silk and ceremony swallow the Lord and Lady whole.
"No," Thane said quietly at last. "It was not a condolence." His voice carried no heat, but there was iron beneath it. He turned fully toward Bomoor now. Whatever irritation the evening had stirred in him, whatever contempt he felt for the curated cruelty of New Alderaan, it receded in the face of something steadier.
"I am sorry," he said, plainly. "You should not have had to bear that alone." His jaw tightened briefly, not in anger, but in recognition. "I have hated every moment of this," he continued, lower still. "The posturing. The phrasing. The expectation that we perform civility while they trade in distortion." His eyes moved across the hall, noting who watched them and who pretended not to. "This is the life I was taken from, Bomoor - and perhaps you, too, in many ways. I did not miss it, all these years. I've no longing for it." A faint, humourless breath left him. "We are not courtiers - and we are not Jedi."
There was no regret in the statement. Only clarity.
"But, we will be something greater than either."
His gaze shifted again, measuring the room as it recalibrated around them. Conversations had resumed. Masks had tilted away. The spectacle had passed, for now.
"You are right," Thane said. "We must search for what is not displayed." He paused, studying Bomoor with deliberate intent. "You are also the greater lightning rod. They expect you to react, to bristle and to defend. Your presence unsettles them more than mine. You must remain visible and engaged. Let them think the wound is fresh. Let them circle it." His eyes hardened slightly, sympathy and will blended as one in the once-familiar blue. "Amare and I will move where the hall cannot see." He inclined his head, not as a prince, but as an equal. "Hold them here, please. Hold their attention. We will see what lies beneath their performance."
The music swelled again, bright and composed, as though nothing had shifted at all.
Bomoor nodded once, the gesture small but sincere.
"I hear you," he said quietly, "And thank you."
He looked toward the nobles swirling back into their patterns, resignation settling over him like a cloak.
"I’ll hold their attention," the Ithorian agreed, before adding with a tad more buoyancy, "Though I suspect they may test my patience before long. All these weeks of working with droids may have eroded my social skills, if they were ever there to begin with."
They were about to break apart, when Thane saw something flash in his friend's eyes and Bomoor drew him a tad closer.
"There is one more thing," he murmured, the levity fading, "There was a woman, the house vizier: Mistress Glynt. She approached me earlier to deliver a hushed warning you need to hear..."
Elsewhere, the eldest son of House Wyrd led with confidence born of familiarity rather than courtesy.
Caelen did not hurry. He moved through the estate as though it were an extension of himself, each corridor and archway another limb under his command. His hand gestured often, not to guide her so much as to frame what he wished her to see, and what he wished her to understand.
"The public halls are only one face of the estate," he said smugly as they passed beneath a vaulted arch whose stonework echoed Old Alderaanian civic design almost too perfectly. "Guests see symmetry and history. A sense of continuity. But, House Wyrd has always understood that endurance requires more than beauty."
They walked past a series of tall windows that overlooked the gardens below. From this angle, the preserved Alderaanian flora looked almost excessive, blossoms too large, colours too vivid, their growth encouraged by soil that did not quite belong to this world.
"New Alderaan learned quickly," Caelen continued. "We did not survive annihilation by clinging to sentiment alone. Others have rebuilt across the galaxy - but we curated." He smiled at her then, the expression polished, assured. "My own duties within the Third Republic Judicial Forces are a reflection of that philosophy. Law is not really enforcement at all, nor moral. It is influence. Knowing when to act and when to allow others to exhaust themselves." His tone carried pride, but also something more brittle. "That is House Wyrd. That is my father, and his father - and his father before. And, it's me."
They passed a pair of guards standing at silent attention beside an alcove filled with statuary, as the man continued boldly talking about himself with great pride and self-interest. The figures depicted were Alderaanian figures of an earlier era, carved in pale stone or shaped from smooth metals, their expressions solemn and resolute. Between them hung a framed textile bearing sigils that had not been in use for centuries.
Caelen glanced toward it briefly.
"Some houses trade loudly on alliances," he said, unconcerned if his guest held any true interest. "Caanus, for example. Old. Storied, even. Noble in its way." He did not speak for a moment, smirking slightly and stopping short of an actual snort. It was still all carefully measured. "But, also isolated. No true friends - only ancient obligations, probably long forgotten. Survival through austerity rather than connection."
He looked back to Amare, watching for reaction.
"House Wyrd chose a different path," he declared, more pride dripping from his words as he gave Amare no space to respond. "We invested in relationships that endure. We do not rely on sentiment, nor on the goodwill of a fickle Senate. We have patrons and partners. Understandings that extend beyond the visible."
His words were smooth, but the implication beneath them carried weight. He probably thought he was being clever with his wordplay and half-truths.
They turned then into a long gallery whose lighting dimmed subtly as they entered. This space felt less like a corridor and more like a curated exhibit. Along the walls were relics recovered from Old Alderaan or crafted in its memory. Armour mounted in glass cases. Ceremonial weapons. Fragments of stone inscribed with names that had once carried galactic significance.
"This wing is dedicated to remembrance," Caelen said, voice lowering almost unconsciously. "Not mourning, like many of the so-called greater houses. Remembrance. We do not weep for what was lost. We celebrate what endures."
As they passed one particular display, Amare felt it.
A low resonance, subtle but insistent, brushing along her awareness like a whisper too quiet to be sound. The armour within the case was ancient, its lines elegant rather than brutal, its surface darkened with age rather than corruption. Yet something clung to it. It was not the raw hunger of Korriban, nor the disciplined malice of Sith craft her master had exposed her to. This was quieter, more misaligned. A promise made and kept, again and again, distorting with time, like a poorly-recalled memory.
It almost called to her, inviting her.
Caelen did not seem to notice her pause, probably not interested. He just continued, voice steady.
"Power need not announce itself to be absolute," he said, in a tone he believed sage. "Those who endure longest are those who understand how to bind obligation, loyalty, and belief into something self-sustaining!" He turned toward her again, expression confident, almost indulgent. "You will find," he added, "that House Wyrd rewards those who recognise where true permanence lies."
The gallery extended ahead, its shadows deepening, its relics watching in silence.
There was something about the armour that refused to let go of Amare's attention, a tender vice stitching itself around her subconscious. Her thoughts wandered in a distorted neural cascade, stirring heedlessly as the almost imperceptible swirls in her alien eyes.
For the briefest moment, her thoughts were firmly back in that dark cave on Irrikut, seeing the other version of herself, but the vision had changed. As Coda nearly a year ago, she was visited by an Amare wearing a red cape with a deep dark brown outfit and a crimson red obi, but now her mind revealed a change, an elegant form-fitting armor of dark metal and electrum, the cape now onyx on the outside lined with gold, and red on the inside, and her head was adorned with a royal circlet also gleaming in electrum. She saw a different lightsaber in this new Amare's hand, a curved hilt...half metal and half...wood? There was a blaster in her other hand...she recognized it...
...the same sidearm carried by Valavai Tarses.
Her deep vain reverie was so profound that she hadn't realized just how faint she was until she was caught in the arms of her host.
Caelen reacted without thinking, and his hands came up instinctively, catching her before she could fall, the sudden weight forcing him to brace himself and stagger half a step back. For a heartbeat, surprise broke through his practiced composure. This was not part of the performance. This was not something he had anticipated.
"Lady Zaracoda," he said quickly, voice pitched low and urgent now, bravado cracking just enough to sound genuine. "Careful."
He steadied her, one arm firm at her back, the other closing around her forearm to keep her upright. She must have felt lighter than he expected. Fragile, almost. The realisation seemed to unsettle him.
"You have gone pale," he continued, searching her face for explanation, his tone softening despite himself. "These galleries can be… overwhelming to those unaccustomed to them." A pause, then a faint, self conscious smile. "I should have thought of that."
He guided her a half step closer to the display case, positioning himself between her and the armour as though it were merely courtesy. His grip lingered a fraction longer than strictly necessary before he seemed to remember himself and eased back, though not entirely.
"Perhaps we should sit," Caelen suggested. "Or return to the lighted halls. There is no need to impress me by standing when you are unwell." There was a flicker of something else in his eyes now. Concern, yes. But also satisfaction. The subtle thrill of being needed. "You are safe," he added, quieter. "House Wyrd takes care of its guests."
"Mmnngh, ohh..." Amare whimpered as she shook her head gently with a hand to her forehead to clear the foggy vestiges of her moment of swooning. She looked up at Caelen with dazed, tender eyes with swirls that turned longingly for her masculine host. "Y-you...you saved me! I could have fallen and broken a bone, or worse!"
She surprised him by reaching her left hand up to his right cheek, and she affectionately kissed the other. "Oh, how indecent of me. I'm so sorry, it's just...it's just that..." She began to feign a hint of nervous inexperienced innocence, but also tried to convey her willingness to entrust herself to him. "...it is customary for the women of Caanus to 'reward' their saviors. I...I want to show my gratitude to you, but...not in an open space. Somewhere away from prying eyes. I...I feel like I can trust you. It's the least I can do for my hero. Please, my lord?"
Caelen did not hesitate. The kiss startled him for only a heartbeat before pride smoothed the reaction into something warm and assured. "You owe me nothing," he said softly, though his hand settled at her waist to steady her, lingering just long enough to betray the satisfaction beneath his concern. "It would hardly do for New Alderaan to injure a guest of Caanus. You are safe here."
He glanced toward the brighter gallery, then back to her, lowering his voice. "There are quieter rooms below. Private spaces meant for remembrance. We will not be disturbed." Offering his arm once more with renewed confidence, he guided her toward a dimmer corridor beyond the exhibits, the music of the ballroom fading behind them as he led her away.
Several minutes later, Amare was in pain, shock, and barely able to hold her panic in check all while struggling to keep from feeling overwhelmed with quenched ecstasy. She was kneeling on a bed with her host splayed before her unmoving with his tunic partially opened and his trousers still on. She was panting, sweat forming on her brow, and was gripping her left wrist as small dark red bolts of electric power was surging along her forearm and hand glowing in dull crimson bioluminescence. Her left hand was partially transformed, mutated in such a way that her digits were thicker than normal and resembled claws at their tips. She could see the bones beneath the skin of her altered hand, and tiny flashes of red-orange light where pops of electrically charged Force energy were bursting.
Amare was partially disrobed and was in the midst of undressing Caelen when she had made her move while they were in the throes of hastened kisses and intimate touching, but her plan to incapacitate him with her power of Force Drain backfired severely. She thought she knew how to control the consumption of life essence and stop it at any point she wished, but she was sorely mistaken. The hunger was maddeningly aggressive beyond her own expectations, and she hadn't fed in quite some time.
"Caelen, wake up!" she said in raised whisper and she shoved him for the third time with her normal right hand. The eldest of the House of Wyrd did not budge, nor did he breathe. "No, no, no! This can't be happening...mnngh!"
She winced gripping at her left arm, but then felt a building moistness form along its length. She froze and felt it rushing from within her chest cavity to her arm, the familiar feeling of Darth Archonus' azoth moving independently of her will.
"Oh no..." she gasped. "This isn't the time for a chrysalis. I need this dress and I have to get out of here."
A chrysalis did indeed form before she could quietly protest further, but only around her left arm and hand. The pain had almost immediately subsided and was replaced with a cool and gentle tingling as the azoth formed a semi-solid cast around her arm.
"What are you doing to me this time?" she wondered, then looked up at Caelen again, certain he was dead. "Thane is going to kill me for sure if we get out of this, but I'd rather take my chances with him than face the vengeance of the Wyrds. Ah! Ohhh...!"
Amare whimpered as a zap of pain pulled her worried gaze upon her arm again, and the chrysalis melted into liquid and seeped sharply back under her skin and flowed back to reside within the marrows of her bones again. It was a deeply discombobulating feeling that, while she had felt it before, was no less jarring or gut wrenching this time around. She saw the arm had a partially burned looking coloration to it, but the mutated atavistic nature of her fingers had returned mostly to their normal lithe feminine shape, but it wasn't fully healed and was still aching, though to a tolerable level. She forced herself off the bed and fixed her dress in front of a mirror, then gave Caelen one last glance.
"Poor chauvinist fool," she muttered softly to herself with a stone-faced visage. "Of all the women he could have had, and he chose the one female Sith in all the galaxy. If luck is real, then his was the worst." She shook her head with wry grin, took a deep breath, and left the room, now free to "explore" the estate as she pleased.
TBC
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