Viziers and Visitors
Posted on Sun Feb 22nd, 2026 @ 5:44pm by Bomoor Thort & Melliah Glynt & Thane & Amare
4,047 words; about a 20 minute read
Chapter:
Chapter VIII: Broken Chains
Location: Wyrd Estate, New Alderaan
Timeline: After "What Endures"
OLD
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.
NEW
Thane did not withdraw abruptly. He allowed himself to be absorbed once more into the ballroom’s rhythm, drifting through conversation and courtesy until his absence would not be remarked upon. A comment here. A nod there. A final exchange with a minor dignitary whose name he did not retain. Then, gradually, he angled toward the outer colonnade where music dulled and foot traffic thinned.
A steward intercepted him first.
"My lord, the guest wing lies this way if you require rest."
"I do not," Thane replied gently, a small gesture of his hand to aid the influence. "Lord Wyrd requested I familiarise myself with the upper levels."
The steward hesitated. The idea took hold like an afterthought remembered too late.
"Of course. Forgive me."
Further along, two guards in ceremonial attire stepped subtly into his path.
"The upper floors are private," one said, not unkindly.
Thane regarded him calmly. Once again, he gestured, almost imperceptibly. "You have already confirmed my access."
The guard frowned, confusion knitting briefly at his brow. Then the resistance dissolved.
"Yes. That is correct."
Thane inclined his head and continued upward. The higher he climbed, the more the estate changed. Public symmetry gave way to narrower corridors and quieter stone. The lighting dimmed from celebratory warmth to deliberate restraint. Sound from the ballroom faded until only distant music lingered like memory.
And beneath it all, the Force pressed differently.
Not dark in the way of Korriban, nor fevered as the caves on Vaa. Not disciplined in the Sith manner, nor luminous like the old Jedi sanctums. This was something maintained, or perhaps compressed.
He extended his awareness carefully. It resisted him, but not as a trained adept would resist. It felt infrastructural, like something long agreed upon and never questioned, a part of the atmosphere and culture of the people residing here, not unlike entering the church of a foreign culture. He searched for familiar signatures and found none.
At best, it reminded him of the mad Whiphid on Tython, whose rituals had twisted perception without ever mastering it. That had been crude, unstable.
But, was not unstable. It was more settled, in a way.
He followed the currents as one might follow underground water through stone. They did not surge so much as hummed. Subtle deviations in pressure guided him past guest chambers and into increasingly restricted space.
A final guard stood before a broad corridor whose architecture shifted once more. The Alderaanian elegance thinned here, replaced by older geometry embedded beneath decorative overlays.
"You should not proceed," the guard said, with less grace than the predecessors Thane had encountered.
The would-be Sith held his gaze.
"I am expected."
The words settled more quickly than he expected, and the guard stepped aside.
As Thane moved forward, the hum intensified. What he sensed lay deeper within the lord’s wing. It was not flamboyant power, as they had encountered with some of the more mundane devotees of Axion, not even an overt malice. It settled poorly with Thane.
The Lord’s chambers lay ahead. Somewhere near them, woven into stone and silence alike, was the presence of this vizier Bomoor had told him off.
Mistress Glynt.
Thane allowed the faintest trace of gold to threaten his eyes before forcing it down once more as his focus shifted and he became more present in the Force with his true intent and power. Blue returned, controlled and composed, as he decided the facade was needed still.
He did not know whether he approached her domain or whether she had already guided him toward it, but he was certain of one thing - this house was not haunted.
It was administered... And he intended to meet its administrator.
The door sealed behind Amare with a soft, insulated click. For a moment, the corridor beyond seemed impossibly quiet. The wing she had entered with Caelen was warmer, curated for intimacy and lineage. But outside that chamber, the estate felt different. Thinner. As though the air itself were less ornamented here.
As she took a step forward, the pull came almost immediately. It was not like Korriban, where the dark side roared like a furnace, even generations after it was truly inhabited by Sith. Nor like Thane or the holocrons, where it could press into her thoughts with feral hunger. This was subtler, like a pressure beneath the ribs. There was a downward draw, as though gravity itself had shifted direction.
Down, towards the depths.
Her altered arm tingled faintly in response, azoth stirring in quiet recognition. The sensation was not entirely comfortable. It das a call and response already half-formed within her marrow, even as normality had largely restored to the limb.
Somewhere below the polished floors and curated relics, something endured.
The corridor forked ahead. One branch curved upward toward guest chambers, marked by discreet sigils of hospitality. The other angled toward a service descent: narrower steps, lighting recessed and functional rather than decorative, a scent of food also being carried somewhere nearby.
But, then, there were footsteps. Measured ones. Mechanical.
A figure stepped from a recessed alcove ahead, silver plating catching the dim light with cold precision.
ZT-series, a GalactaWerks design.
Protocol posture but with combat geometry.
Its head inclined slightly, optics narrowing as it registered her presence. Its frame was sleek and humanoid, armour plating polished but thick enough to suggest resistance far beyond decorative purpose. One arm shifted subtly, joints recalibrating.
"Restricted access," the droid stated in a voice too smooth to be entirely polite. "This level is not open to guests. Please return to the illuminated corridors."
Its stance adjusted half a degree, weight distributing for potential engagement. It was not bluffing.
The intruding Nautolan's visage immediately warped into an acute picture of anguish.
"Oh! Thank the stars!" she exclaimed with faux pain in her words and sprinkles of whimpers whilst gripping her still-recovering arm. "I need help. I'm hurt. Nngh! I stupidly touched something electrical in the refresher. Is there a sawbones here that can fix my hand?"
She held up her hand for the droid to see and she leveled her fingers pointing them in its direction. "Oh dear," she pouted, "I think I broke a nail too."
The ZT-series did not immediately advance.
Its optics brightened fractionally as its internal processors shifted from access denial to behavioural analysis. A thin beam of scanning light passed briefly over her raised arm, registering thermal irregularities, elevated heart rate, micro tremors, optic adjustments, pheromonal fluctuation common to Nautolan distress signals.
"Biometric variance detected," the droid replied. "Subject displays indicators consistent with pain response." A pause. Its own optics narrowed. "However, cultural deception patterns among Nautolan females include exaggerated limb presentation and vocal modulation to induce assistance response. Probability of fabricated distress: forty-three percent. Probability of unauthorised access attempt: sixty-two percent and rising." Its stance adjusted. The right forearm rotated subtly, armour plates parting just enough to expose an internal emitter. "Conclusion: incapacitation required to determine verity. Please remain still."
Fine lances of electrical persuasion ripped from Amare's fingertips and instantly lashed at the droid's cranial component. The streams of Force-catalyzed electrons did little more than stun and cause the droid to fidget and temporarily lose motor control, but it was enough of an effect for the Sith to disconnect the droid's head from its body with a swift single-stroke from her shoto. She twirled the diminutive weapon in her hand, its short green blade blazing, switched it off, and slipped it back under concealment as she moved past the collapsing automaton.
The descent continued.
The architecture grew more severe with each level. Decorative overlays vanished entirely, revealing load bearing stone etched with sigils too faint to be ornamental. The Force pressure intensified, no longer a hum but a slow, measured pulse that seemed to originate from deep below the foundations.
Ahead, the stairwell terminated at a reinforced security door set into darker stone.
No handle and visible lock - only a recessed interface panel embedded flush with the wall and a circular sigil carved above it, older than the estate’s surface architecture and faintly warm in her awareness.
The pull beneath her ribs tightened. Whatever lay below was close.
"Looks like..." Amare quietly muttered to herself, examining the custom securilock, "...Locris class-5 or 6 Syn-lock. Military grade, but not the cheap kind. Tamper-resistant wetter plate...great. Just great."
She shook her head in frustration turning away from the access panel and eyeing the door. She put her hands to her well-dressed hips and continued to feel the pull upon her, discomforting her ever so slightly, drawing her deep curiosity to unravel its source. This was the limit upon which Zaracoda Wolph would have had to turn around in defeat.
There was, however, yet another pull, stronger, infinite, and it belonged to Darth Amare...
She opened her left hand behind her, and the shoto slipped from its place of concealment in her dress and slapped onto her open palm. She examined the weapon, constructed by a Rift Jedi padawan, modified by the will of the ranking apprentice of the reigning Sith Lord.
"Equivus..." Amare muttered. "You continue to haunt me. Your crystal fights me again and again, and yet now, you feel eager to obey. Know this: I am in control."
She gripped the short single-hand length hilt tight enough to whiten her knuckles, then ignited the blade. She glanced at the securilock and thought about simply stabbing it, but if her guess of the lock's model was correct, it had redundancies that would trigger a silent alarm if the wetter plate or the wiring it was connected to was disrupted in any way. The lock, however, did allow for a manual override, but that required very specialized tools from an expert locksmith.
I broke a lock to get into the Red Raptor and opened the door to my rightful place and power. Now, I am Sith. I will break this chain.
She tweaked the power output dial with her thumb, the hum of the blade heightening to higher octave, then dared to gradually turn the lower secondary dial to activate the shoto's little secret she had been working on, something its former owner had intended to add, but never lived long enough to finish.
The dual-phase effect extended the energy blade, lengthening it to a standard lightsaber's reach. "Hah!" She attacked the door at its center line, up at an angle just above her head with a vicious thrust. Immediately, metal began relenting to pure unrelenting plasma. The smell of melting metal was profuse and violated her olfactory senses. She pressed furiously, then began to slowly bisect downward. The cutting reminded her of the way she killed her adopted brother Capo. The thought motivated her to keep going with a wry satisfied grin.
So engrossed in her task to split the door, that she failed to realize the tremendous instability within the shoto's hilt. A short, hair-thin cleft formed upon the lightsaber crystal, then another, and the power cell was on the verge of extreme overheating...
Melliah sat patiently in her drawing room, nursing a small glass of liquor she had poured from her own small reserve. The Vizier of House Wyrd was allotted their own small wing on the first floor, suitably separated from the main family, but closer than the guest quarters and with far more amenities. The drawing room she now sat in had a communal seating area for meeting guests as well as the study area where she currently sat behind a modest bureau. Behind her led into her chambers and adjacent bathing room and, across the other side was a small dining room, which attached into the servants’ passages, although Melliah often preferred to fetch her own food most days.
She set the glass down with a soft click and raised her head slightly, her sightless gaze tuning in to the presence she felt approaching along the corridors with a bold purpose. She smiled with satisfaction that he had picked up her trail as intended. People were so predictable; perhaps even more so when they leaned on the Force for their decision making. Melliah was not just sensitive to the Force, she saw it in full depth and clarity, making the average Force-user look like an infant trying to walk on sponge cake.
Of course, this Human man was no fool: he and his associates had made themselves enemies of the cult for good reason but they made themselves vulnerable operating openly like this. The Ithorian had been genuinely surprised by her presence and that Nautolan seemed to be casting a wide net for male attention. They were blind and she saw everything.
Thane's aura grew stronger: he moved with purpose, but not stealth; he was not skulking, merely following the path she had made available to him.
Good, she thought He is curious and curiosity is yet another thread I can weave into whatever pattern the Master wishes.
She rose from her seat with unhurried grace, smoothing down her gown as she crossed to the centre of the room. The sconces cast warm light across her features, softening her form further and hiding the faint outline of a saber hilt under the fabric, cool against her hip.
The footsteps slowed outside her door.
There was a pause and a faint breath. Perhaps a man deciding whether to knock.
She smiled.
"Heritur," she called, her voice carrying just enough to reach him through the wood, "You may come in. It is quite safe, I promise."
The door opened, and Thane stepped inside. Melliah greeted him with a gentle nod: polite, but edged with amusement.
"Wandering the halls unescorted is terribly improper," she chided lightly, "Though I understand you are not known for your conformity.”
She let her sightless gaze linger on him: assessing and appreciating his aura, still maintaining calm, but there was something else swirling amidst the stillness, threatening to bubble to the surface. She wanted to see what lay beneath that calm: to watch it rise.
“I wonder,” she brushed her fingers briefly across her chin, "Did the charming Bomoor pass on my message? I thought I had counselled restraint in this house and yet here you are."
Her tone shifted, softening but sharpening all at once.
“So tell me, Thane of Caanus: what is it you hope to accomplish by defying such sound advice?”
Thane regarded her without haste.
"You did not counsel restraint," he said calmly. "You calibrated a room."
His gaze moved once around the drawing room, feeling the density of the Force here. It was not wild or feral. It was structured - so different from the likes they encountered on Bespin. Here, it was like grooves worn into stone by centuries of water.
"You approached Bomoor because he is sincere, I think," he continued. "You warned him because you wished to measure whether we would act predictably. You speak of harmony as though it were virtue," he went on. "But harmony imposed is merely compliance. Stability purchased through hidden obligation is not endurance. It is dependency."
He stepped closer, not threatening, but certainly no longer a guest. Gold began to bleed back into his eyes as the facade fell. He had no desire to match her civil tone - no desire to play a game.
"I have seen worlds ruled by fear," he said quietly. "And worlds ruled by doctrine. And worlds that convinced themselves their compromises were necessary evils." His jaw tightened briefly. "You are not priests here. You are engineers." He regarded her disdainfully, as if even conversing with her disgusted him. A rage bubbled beneath the surface, barely tempering a desire to kill her now. "So, slave of Axion, let us dispense with courtesy - leave that for the civilised beings. House Wyrd made a bargain for preservation." He tilted his head. "What were the original terms?"
Melliah stood firm, in spite of the danger he now presented, she was pleased that the Caanan now allowed the truth bellow to swell up. While she could not see the swirl of gold in his eyes, the shimmering intensity in his aura was now unmistakable and she felt a surge of her own adrenaline as she sensed it.
"The Starwyrd Bargain?" she turned slightly and paced towards the small fireplace lit in the little lounge area, ignoring the direct mention of her master's name, "You would risk so much over a children's nursery tale?"
As she approached the heat of the fire, she felt another surge of emotion in the levels below her: the now-familiar aura of Caelen was fading while another was growing stronger.
The Nautolan, she thought, disapprovingly, That didn't take long. A pity she lacks so much control.
Turning back towards Thane, she said, "I am, of course, well aware of the tale in its various forms: of course, none of them are true, but that doesn't make the truth any less interesting. But it is not my truth to tell: it was a sacred pact, forged in blood between two great men, binding their houses together. Perhaps Lord Wyrd will tell you himself, perhaps you will see it with your eyes, but it shall not come from my lips."
She gestured to the wall behind her, where a series of portraits of dark, stony figures were displayed, some in robes, some in ceremonial attire, but all with a fierceness in their eyes. She continued:
"You see, I am not the first guardian of this household; there have been many before me, each one ensuring that the pact remains steadfast. I am the reminder of the bargain and the consequences of breaking it. But would you come here seeking to break this bond or perhaps, share in its power? Once you come to understand the great works at play, perhaps you will see that not everything exists to be torn down: some legacies are worth maintaining."
Thane did not answer at first, but turned his head slightly, studying the portraits in silence. Guardian after guardian. Different faces,but the same severity. The same stillness in their painted eyes.
His hand twitched once at his side.
It would be simple.
A single motion. A single decision and the room would burn and the lineage would end in smoke.
The urge passed, suppressed even.
He exhaled slowly. What she had said lingered longer than he wished. Not everything exists to be torn down.
His voice, when it came, was quieter than before.
"Legacy," he repeated, almost to himself. He looked back to her. "What legacy do you believe you are building?" There was no contempt in the question now - only scrutiny. "For him," he continued, the word precise, unsoftened. "Or for yourself? You are powerful. You see more than most who kneel at his feet. Why bind yourself to his madness? Why defend a structure that feeds him when you could rise beyond it? What future do you imagine this bargain serves?"
Meliah's voice dropped, finding the man's attempt to pull at the threads of her worldview and identity irksome, "You should not presume to speak on the subject of madness. You wear this mask of your Caanan heritage, yet I know you have yet to return to your ancestral home. You were a knighted Jedi, a position even rarer in this galaxy than nobility, yet you cast that aside as well."
She spread her hands, gesturing to the surroundings, "All you see here was built on legacy, on bargains, on sacred trust. You and your companions posture as liberators, but you behave as rebels. You tear down what offends you. You resist what confines you. You reject what you do not yet understand."
Her head tilted slightly, sightless eyes fixed on him with unnerving precision.
"But rebellion does not suit you, Thane of Caanus," her voice softened, almost pitying, "It is a phase. One day, you will tire of tearing things down. One day, you will realise that your chaos is not sustainable. And when that day comes, you will crave what you now scorn: order, continuity, the right to shape the world rather than merely react to it."
She turned from the fire, pacing away from him with a dismissive grace.
"Or perhaps you will never have a chance to learn that lesson," she spoke plainly, "Perhaps you will die here, a stubborn rebel, more sightless than I."
She paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to sting.
"But I suppose," she added lightly, almost amused, "That is up to you, my pet."
The word hung in the air.
Pet.
Thane did not react in that moment. The rage did not flare outward. It condensed and clarified. Clearly, this cultist would not be persuaded. She would not defect, and she was not truly a negotiator, nor even a mere priestess clinging to borrowed power. She was the axis in this estate, at least in the absence of Axion. His mind moved through it quickly. If she died now, the house could fracture.
He did not answer her. Instead, his hand moved. The compact hilt of his lightsaber slid from concealment with practised efficiency, metal whispering against fabric as it settled into his palm. His thumb hovered over the electrum activator, the gold of his eyes fully enveloping his eyes once more. He pressed the switch - and, for half a heartbeat... nothing happened.
Then, the crystal responded, but with resistance rather than obedience.
A violent pulse surged back up through the hilt into his hand, sharp and discordant. The Hurrikaine crystal shuddered within its housing, as though rejecting the command. The ignition stuttered, flared weakly, then collapsed back into silence. The delay was no more than a fraction of a second, but it was enough.
The Miralukan felt the motion. His intention had been well masked, even to her, but she had known it was coming. She whipped around and summoned a pulse of furious energy, wrenching the coals and embers from the fireplace. They intensified under her will, sweeping out across the room in a sudden wall of flame between the Caanan and herself.
Wordlessly, knowing the time for talk was done, she sprung towards the doorway to the dining area. As she flung the door open, she heard the crackling snap of the Human's lightsaber igniting. Even in the heat of the moment, she sensed the blade's resistance and filed the thought away for later use. She didn't need to see to know that he would be upon her soon. She had mere moments to duck into the servants' tunnels; bolting across the table, she slid into the faux panelling that concealed the entrance, closing it behind her with controlled haste.
With that, she was away, secure in the labyrinth of tunnels that he would be foolish to pursue her through. He had shown his intent and she was glad: next time they met, there would be no need for words. She would end him.
TBC
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