Alderaanian Curation

Posted on Tue Jan 13th, 2026 @ 11:09am by Thane & Bomoor Thort & Amare

2,912 words; about a 15 minute read

Chapter: Chapter VIII: Broken Chains
Location: Red Raptor, in orbit of New Alderaan
Timeline: Day Seven (Two months after Bespin)

OLD

Bomoor stepped back and sat down on one of the chairs, exhaling slowly. The room was now still, but the faint sound of the engines gave him the reassurance of life continuing around him. There was work ahead: dangerous, delicate work. Yet for the first time in a long while, he did not feel as though he was walking into it alone.

He reached for the console, preparing to inform Thane of their new lead.

House Wyrd awaited.

NEW

New Alderaan looked beautiful from a distance.

It was the kind of beauty designed to survive scrutiny: oceans laid out like polished glass beneath slow bands of white cloud; continents shaped with restraint; city-lights that did not sprawl so much as compose themselves, constellations along coasts and river lines, as if even habitation had been planned to flatter the eye. From orbit it did not read as a world that had grown from a scattered and diminished diaspora. It read as a world that had been curated.

The Red Raptor held at the edge of a civil traffic lane and allowed the planet to turn beneath it in silence. Thane watched the rotation with an attention that felt less like awe than appraisal. The cockpit screens painted his face in pale blues and greens, softening the exhaustion he refused to address.

New Alderaan was not 'Old' Alderaan, and yet it kept insisting that it was.

He remembered the first time he had seen archival images after leaving the Order but before Axion had begun to show himself in older ink during his research. The original Alderaan had been held up for centuries as a moral symbol as much as a world: art, diplomacy, clean governance, a civilisation that had convinced itself it was gentle. Then, the Old Empire had reduced it to incandescent particulate in a single, contemptuous act, and what followed had not been just grief, but the birth of a narrative.

A new homeworld had been necessary, of course. That much was obvious. But, to Thane's eyes, necessity had become theatre.

They had not built a synthesis out of ruin - something hardened by catastrophe, something willing to admit its own complicity, its own imperfections. They had rebuilt a memory with stone and policy. They had recreated the same soft architecture, the same polite symmetry, and draped it all in a sanctified identity: the people who had suffered beyond any others, and therefore could not be questioned.

And, it had worked.

For centuries, it had worked so well the Third Republic still moved in New Alderaan’s shadow; the great senatorial blocs, the revered committees, the public pieties - even Supreme Chancellors seemed to emerge from that world with frustrating regularity. Octavus Paralles sat in the highest office now - another New Alderaanian, like so many before him - wearing the planet’s cultivated tragedy as if it were a credential.

Thane’s mouth tightened at the thought. It was not anger, but disgust at the efficiency of it.

Behind him, Bomoor leaned over the auxiliary console, broad fingers moving with deliberate care as he brought up the ship’s transponder diagnostics. A soft sequence of chimes answered him, the Raptor’s systems adjusting to the new vector and the handshake request coming from the surface.

“It seems that we’re being passed through to the Landing Authority for House Wyrd's sector,” he reported, eyes narrowing slightly as he watched the authentication symbols scroll across the display, “Shouldn't be long now.”

Another confirmation pinged and the screen showed a clean, unbroken line of green checks indicating they were now being connected.

The Ithorian exhaled, some of the tension in his shoulders easing, “If my father was correct, the officers on duty will have been briefed ahead of our arrival. They should log our credentials exactly as agreed, without raising questions.”

He glanced toward Thane, the faintest note of reassurance in his tone, “I am sure these requests for discretion are not at all unusual to them.”

There was a thump from the direction of the corridor behind the cockpit where Amare's quarters was which was quickly followed up with some unintelligible grumblings.

The comms console chimed once and the channel opened without fanfare. No theatrical announcement; no welcoming chorus. Just a tone, and then a voice that sounded like white stone and careful schooling.

"Red Raptor, you are cleared to proceed on vector given. House Wyrd has acknowledged the diplomatic overture and extended private reception." A pause, precise enough to be intentional. "You will be received as Heritur Thane of Caanus, and as Bomoor Thort, under the auspices of humanitarian outreach and cultural courtesy."

The voice did not stumble over the titles. It had been practiced.

"Your ward," it continued, "will be logged as Zaracoda Wolph. Please confirm her status as ward is maintained for the duration of your stay."

Thane’s fingers rested on the side of the console, the metal cool beneath the skin of some fingers, whilst a small sound reverberated as his artificial digits made contact. He did not speak at once. He heard, in the absence between syllables, the deeper structure - the ledger being built before they arrived.

"Confirmed," he said finally, voice even.

Another pause.

"For your comfort," the voice added, and the phrase was offered in the same tone one might offer water, "no notification will be made to the Reborn Jedi Order. No inquiries will be forwarded to Jedi channels. We ask you extend the same courtesy. The word Jedi is not to be raised in our halls unless House Wyrd raises it first."

The comment landed softly - and, to Thane, resounded in his mind as if a lock turning. Something cold and clarifying settle behind his ribs.

New Alderaan had learned the old lesson well: politeness was not gentleness. It was control made socially acceptable, perhaps. The Old Empire had murdered their world, and in response they had rebuilt their civilisation as a monument, and dared the galaxy to criticise the foundation.

House Wyrd’s invitation was not a kindness, Thane deduced. It was a framework, and not entirely unlike his understanding of his own world. Outside the viewport, their planet continued its slow, serene turn - blue and white and composed, beautiful enough to convince a stranger it had nothing to hide.

The channel remained open a moment longer, as if waiting for questions. Thane offered none, and the voice spoke one final line, almost an afterthought, and yet too carefully placed to be accidental.

"Welcome to New Alderaan," it said. "Please remember: discretion here is not secrecy. It is tradition." And the channel closed.

For a few seconds, only the steady register of the Raptor’s engines remained - constant, indifferent, honest. The ship held position while the navcomputer accepted the vector and began to plot the approach with G2's oversight.

As Thane watched New Alderaan, he did not feel dread. He felt the rare, clean edge of certainty returning, made sharper now by the confirmation that someone planetside already understood the rules of this game, even if he wondered at the perversions visited upon House Wyrd by Axion and his cohort.

“Well,” Bomoor murmured, easing back into his seat as the Raptor dipped toward the upper atmosphere, “It seems my father was true to his word.” His tone carried a quiet warmth, tinged with something more complicated. “Strange to be working with him suddenly after so many years apart. He’s little more than a stranger to me and yet I already feel as though I can trust him.”

He rubbed his chin, seemingly remembering something, before adding, “His support is valuable: it adds to our strength.”

The ship shuddered gently as they entered the first layers of cloud, New Alderaan’s blues and whites beginning to fill the viewport. Bomoor straightened, shifting his focus to the task ahead.

“Our audience with Lord Wyrd is scheduled for mid‑afternoon,” he said, adopting a more formal cadence, “He and his senior advisor will receive us privately once their current obligations conclude. Until then, we’ve been invited to tour the estate grounds.”

He retrieved his datapad from his belt and tapped through a few screens to recap the brief dossier Bruta Thort had provided.

“House Wyrd’s holdings are… unusual,” he continued, “Their ancestral estate sits on the edge of the Aurelian Shelf: a region where the original terraforming never fully settled. Perfectly safe, they insist, but the land still shifts in ways the rest of the planet does not. The gardens are said to be grown from preserved Alderaanian seedstock, but the soil beneath them is volcanic, making the plants grow much larger and more vibrant than they would have on the old homeworld. The manor itself…” He tilted his head, uncertain whether to be impressed or unsettled, “It was built to the exact proportions of an ancient Alderaanian senate annex. A replica. Down to the acoustics.”

He glanced toward Thane, offering a wry, weary head tilt.

“New Alderaan does love its memories.”

“Something we share in common,” Amare remarked as she strode into the cockpit clad in the attire Thane had prepared for her.

Her bodice was pearl-white silk, woven with faint silver filigree patterns. It was cut asymmetrically with a high, sculpted collar that framed her bare shoulders while leaving the neck and upper chest open. Delicate translucent panels, tinted the palest aqua, layered over the fabric.

The sleeves fell away from the shoulders in flowing drapes, attached by jeweled clasps shaped like Alderaanian leaf motifs.

From the waist, the skirt descended in long, elegant folds of deep sapphire and soft moonstone hues. The fabric was light and faintly iridescent. A narrow, embroidered sash at the waist—threaded with silver and hints of cerulean—added an extra hint of feminine nobility.

Her jewelry was minimal sporting slim silver armlets and a delicate circlet around her forehead resting just behind the lekku.

“I've never felt so overdressed in my life,” she added, a little embarrassed. She had worn flashy outfits and makeup before, but never at the level of high-class human society.

The pair turned to the Nautolan, looking very out of place dressed to the nines while surrounded by the muted brown-grey cockpit walls. In spite of the serious nature of their mission here, seeing the young woman of darkness now bright and pure like a new born snow-flower was a pleasant sight.

"Impressive. You look better in it than I would," Bomoor hummed, "And I don't think there is such a thing as being overdressed on New Alderaan so just relax."

Amare rolled her eyes beneath the concealment of her dark outer ocular membranes. She wanted to immaturely snap at him with a scathing remark for telling her to relax given the pressures she was feeling. Luckily, she knew enough about the stereotypes of high-society from her favorite childhood HoloNet shows that required one to be in a composed frame of mind. So she bit her lip and raised her chin, controlling her base instincts, saving her wrath for a more useful moment.

Thane regarded his apprentice carefully. The change registered before he chose to acknowledge it - the shift in colour and texture against the cockpit’s muted greys, the way the light caught on silver thread and pale skin that was no longer hidden behind leathers or shadow. It was not surprise that stayed him, but recognition, sharp and faintly unwelcome.

Amare - Zaracoda - had learned to wear roles as easily as her weapons. For a moment, something purely Human surfaced - the quiet, involuntary awareness of her presence as 'other' than it had been before. It was not temptation nor desire, but more simply the realisation that she was no longer abstract to the world they were entering, nor safely insulated from how it would read her.

He shut that thought down with practiced efficiency. This was not a social gathering. It was an arena.

“You’ll do,” he said at last, voice even, measured. Not dismissive, but controlled. His gaze did not linger, but it did not avoid her either. A pause, measured rather than awkward. “From the moment we set foot on New Alderaan, you are not travelling as a curiosity, nor as an attendant. You are my ward.” His eyes flicked briefly to the reflection of the planet in the viewport, then back to her. “A debutante, by these noble customs... But a statement by ours.”

He let that notion settle for a moment before he went on. “They will draw conclusions. Some will assume protection. Others will assume investment. A few will assume ambition.” A faint tightening at the corner of his mouth with that last comment. “Let them. Correct and incorrect assumptions can be equally useful.”

“I am Thane,” he said, not loudly, but with finality - though there was still the faint impression of impersonation, of theatre not yet worn smooth. “Son of Wulhart. Newly reclaimed Heritur of Caanus."

He turned his head then, looking between the Ithorian and the Nautolan alike.

Amare softly smiled at Thane, liking the sound of his royal declaration. It didn't come across as pretentious to her, but rather seasoned with bold sovereign ownership and grace. It sounded even more true than him calling himself a Dark Lord of the Sith. She thought of the Empty Throne that Valavai Tarses showed them. She closed her eyes and imagined Thane seated upon it, and, instead of feeling envious, she felt...pride. She loved the thought of it, and didn't quite understand why.

“They will make assumptions about me,” Thane added calmly. “About all of us. About what we intend, and why.” His gaze steadied, unblinking. “Word will travel. Into the Senate. Into the Republic. Into places we cannot see yet.” He briefly paused, mulling his own words. "Regardless of what we uncover here, we are sending a message now. One we will not be able to take back.”

"Hmmm," Bomoor nodded vigorously, nodding his broad head, "Well said; it is high time we take strength from our titles, whether they be by birth right or forged by our own actions."

He stepped towards the delicately-garbed Nautolan so he now stood between the pair, shifting his gaze between them like a proud parent. His eyes lingered on Thane’s reclaimed bearing, then on Amare’s poised transformation.

“Heritur of Caanus and his esteemed Ward... and,” Bomoor gave a faint, knowing tilt of his head “Lords of the Sith who have claimed the title, deciding what it means to them, rather than letting the galaxy decide it for you.”

There was no judgement in his tone. Only admiration.

“And me,” he continued with a wry huff, “Well, I'm not an heir to anything anymore, with my old Herd now fractured, but there is still a legacy I intend to honour, even if it doesn't come with a title."

"How does a ward address her prince?" Amare asked with an unexpected attempt at matching Thane's accent.

Thane’s attention returned to her at that, and this time the faint amusement was unmistakable. It did not soften him, but it did warm the air between words. The accent was well judged - closer than most would manage without study - and he recognised the effort for what it was.

"You have the sound of it," he said quietly. "Enough that no-one here will question you."

He shifted his stance slightly, squaring himself with both of them, the movement instinctive rather than theatrical. "But Caanus is not Alderaan, nor Hapes or Naboo. We never cared much for ceremony, from my understanding." A pause, almost reflective, scouring both his mind and thin memories of his homeworld. "Our nobility are closer to chieftains than courtiers, warlords and troubled scribes. Power is held grudgingly, not displayed - by most, anyway. Titles exist because someone has to answer when things go wrong."

Whilst his mind briefly hovered over the situation on Caanus and of his understanding of the various houses, his gaze flicked briefly toward the viewport, the curve of New Alderaan still serene and distant. "There are no flowery forms. No rehearsed reverence. Most would simply say 'sire' or 'my lord'. Some, if they are being precise, 'my liege'." He glanced back to her. "If they are loyal - and unpretentious. 'My heritur' is also acceptable," he added. "Used sparingly." The faintest edge of humour coloured his voice then, dry and understated. "Anything more elaborate would sound like mockery where I come from."

He let the moment settle, then continued, more firmly now. "Here, you are my ward. That is enough. It gives you standing without inviting scrutiny. It signals protection without implying too great a possession - and very Caanan." His eyes held hers, steady and deliberate. "If anyone presses you, you defer. If anyone flatters you, you acknowledge and move on. And if anyone overreaches..."

He did not finish the sentence. He did not need to.

Thane turned back toward the controls as the ship’s descent vector finalised, the hum of the engines shifting register. "Remember," he said evenly, "we are not here to impress them. We are here to be understood - and to win."

Outside, the planet rose to meet them - composed, immaculate, waiting, and they descended.

TBC

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