Wyrd Company

Posted on Thu Jan 22nd, 2026 @ 10:56pm by Thane & Bomoor Thort & Amare & Melliah Glynt

3,686 words; about a 18 minute read

Chapter: Chapter VIII: Broken Chains
Location: Wyrd Estate, New Alderaan
Timeline: Day Seven (After "Alderaanian Curation"; Two months after Bespin)

OLD

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.

NEW

Lord Caelric Wyrd stood alone in his solar when the summons was answered.

The room had been built to Alderaanian proportion with almost devotional accuracy: tall, slender arches that drew the eye upward without overwhelming it; pale stone polished until it caught the light rather than reflected it; open sightlines that made concealment feel unnecessary, even impolite. The acoustics were flawless, as in the whole estate. A whisper spoken at one end of the chamber would arrive at the other without distortion, as if the space itself insisted on clarity.

It had been designed that way deliberately.

Beyond the curved transparisteel windows, the Aurelian Shelf stretched away in layered terraces of green and white. The estate gardens clung to the land with studied confidence, their forms unmistakably Alderaanian: gentle spirals of water and stone, avenues of pale-leafed trees grown from preserved seedstock, flowering hedges shaped into patient, contemplative geometries. And beneath it all, far below the surface, the land still shifted. Not violently - not enough to threaten collapse, but just enough to remind those who knew to listen that the world here had never quite finished settling.

Lord Wyrd found the reminder oddly reassuring.

The arrival of the Red Raptor had been handled exactly as instructed. Titles were observed and channels kept clean. No Jedi notifications were filed, although this request had been less troubling for their House. Most natives understood, of course. New Alderaan had been built on the careful management of grief, after all.

He turned slightly as Mistress Glynt was shown in.

Lord Wyrd did not look at her immediately. Instead, he continued to study the estate grounds, watching the wind move through the upper gardens, the larger-than-natural foliage bending and rising again as if in silent agreement.

"A Caanan Heritur," he said at last, tone measured. He allowed a pause, trusting her to fill it with presence rather than words. "Thane of Caanus, in fact," he continued. "A reclaimed title. A ward declared publicly. A fellow former Reborn Knight of some diplomatic sway... and no Jedi involvement mandated." A faint narrowing of his eyes. "He knows exactly how this reads."

The thought did not trouble him as much as it perhaps should have. New Alderaan had hosted princes before. Heirs, claimants, reformers, martyrs. Titles came and went. Houses endured.

At last, he turned from the window.

"You assured us," he went on, carefully, "that visibility need not be dangerous. That there are forms of influence which thrive precisely because they are seen." A small, almost imperceptible inclination of his head. "We have trusted that judgement."

He studied her then, not for reassurance, but confirmation.

Melliah did not bow. She never did, in spite of the man's position. Instead, she inclined her head with the serene precision of someone who had already measured the room, the man, and the moment before crossing the threshold.

“My lord,” she said, her voice soft, but just loud enough that the chamber carried it for her, “Do not falter now; being visible does not mean you are vulnerable. We have cultivated a powerful image, which this young boy's titles pale against.”

She stepped forward, her silken red robe flowing slowly with her movements making her presence settle into the solar like a second gravity. Her sightless gaze drifted out toward the gardens, though she was not looking at them. She was listening to the tension in Wyrd’s breath, the flicker of unease beneath his composure.

“Thane of Caanus understands the weight of these titles,” she continued, “He wears them as armour, as a deflection. His arrival is not a challenge to House Wyrd, merely a declaration that he wishes to be met on equal terms.”

A faint smile touched her lips: not warm, but knowing.

“But he is merely a child, wearing masks and playing games he ought not to. He will soon learn he is no equal to this house and its history.”

She moved closer, stopping at a respectful distance, though her presence pressed gently against his thoughts as though she was peering inside his mind. A feeling that arose with disturbing regularity.

“You have acted exactly as advised, my lord: no gossip, but just the right amount of ceremony and attention,” her tone dipped, velvet over steel, “House Wyrd has maintained the discipline that has preserved it for generations.”

She paused as the meaning of her words sunk in.

“Now,” she said, brighter and more directed, “you must follow through with the confidence that earned Axion's favour.”

Her head tilted slightly, as though listening to something only she could hear.

“The Red Raptor crew will see what you choose to show them. Nothing more. Nothing less. And if their intentions stray beyond courtesy…” her voice softened to something almost tender, “I will ensure they do not wander far.”

Her words were a reassurance but always tinged with a reminder of his family's debt and a warning should his commitment waver.

“You have trusted my judgement thus far,” Melliah finished, her tone smooth as polished stone, “Continue to do so, and this visit will only strengthen House Wyrd’s standing and reaffirm the Master's choice.”

For a moment, Lord Wyrd seemed to forget the practiced stillness of his posture. His fingers tightened together behind his back, then slowly relaxed, as if he were consciously reclaiming control of himself. The air in the solar felt denser now, the certainty in her words settling over him like a weight he had not realised he was carrying.

"I do not falter," he said at last, though the protest came a fraction too quickly. He drew in a measured breath and steadied himself, lifting his chin slightly. "I merely… calculate." His gaze flicked toward the gardens again, then back to her, something like reluctant reverence creeping into his expression. "You are correct, of course," he continued, more carefully now. "Visibility has always been our strength. New Alderaan was built upon it. We were meant to be seen." A pause. "And guided."

The last word carried more weight than he intended.

At the mention of Axion, something had passed through him - fear, certainly, but also reassurance. A reminder that House Wyrd had not endured by accident.

"I have trusted your judgement and that of our Dark Master because it has preserved us," he said quietly. "Because it has given my house purpose when others have withered into irrelevance." His voice lowered. "I would not jeopardise that now, my lady."

He inclined his head, just slightly - not a bow, but no longer quite an equal gesture either.

"This Heritur will be received with courtesy," Lord Wyrd said. "With elegance. With restraint." A faint, brittle smile. "He will see what we wish him to see." He hesitated, then added, almost as if seeking reassurance himself: "And no more."

---

The Red Raptor descended through New Alderaan’s upper cloud layers without deviation.

Traffic lanes parted smoothly and landing authority responses were prompt, courteous, almost anticipatory. No inspections were requested and no delays imposed. The estate's transponder signature resolved itself on the nav display with quiet inevitability.

From the cockpit, the world unfolded in disciplined symmetry.

The architecture was unmistakable. Alderaanian in every line and proportion, copied with reverence rather than innovation. Slender towers rose from terraces of white stone and living green, their forms elegant without extravagance. Bridges arced between structures with measured grace, never interrupting sightlines, never obscuring the sky. Even from altitude, it was clear the city had been composed rather than grown.

Thane watched it without awe, and he noted the placement of the estate immediately: set apart, but not isolated. Elevated, but not ostentatious. The manor itself emerged from the greenery like a thought made solid, its proportions precisely aligned as Bomoor had previously explained. A replica, as promised. Even from the air, he could imagine the way sound would carry through its halls.

The landing platform extended from the estate’s upper tier like an offered hand.

The Raptor adjusted attitude and settled onto the pad with a muted thrum, repulsors easing the ship into place with practised care. The engines wound down, leaving only the quiet hum of systems at rest.

Looking out at the estate, at the gardens grown too lush for their borrowed soil, at the stone shaped to remember a world that had died screaming generations ago - Thane noted what he had expected; the whole display seemed perfectly choreographed and very 'other'.

He looked back to his companions.

"I have to wonder what they will make of our transport," he said, adjusting the collar of his minimalist black costume - chosen to appear refined and to be practical, should the need arise. He expected it would.

"I had not considered that," Bomoor's voice was slightly strained as he was hunched over in his seat attending to his footwear, which was a rare adornment for him but had seemed appropriate, even if unnecessary for his species, "We have gone to all this trouble on our image but neglected the ship."

He gave a satisfied exhale as he completed the final buckle before arising victorious, "But I suppose we won't be bringing the Raptor to dinner with us. It will, at most, be an amusing conversation piece."

As Bomoor straightened to his full height, the garments he wore settled into place with a soft, layered whisper: a deliberate blend of Öetragan ceremony and core‑world refinement, chosen at his father’s recommendation.

The outer cloak was unmistakably Ithorian: broad‑shouldered and flowing, its fabric dyed in deep, earthen greens that shifted subtly toward bronze when the light caught the weave. Embroidered along the hem were looping, organic patterns inspired by the great herding paths of Öetrago, each curve representing a journey taken and a lesson carried forward.

Beneath it, a more familiar plain cream under‑tunic provided clean contrast, its collar shaped to sit alongside the natural curve of his neck. A muted sash crossed his chest, woven with a metallic thread that suggested formality without ostentation. Even the soft, sandal-like footwear completed the look with a diplomatic polish that felt both foreign and familiar on him.

“Of course,” he mused, “Our attire and titles may open the door, but once we’re inside, our eyes should be very much outward. Axion’s touch will be subtle here. There will be no shortage of grandeur ahead, but we can’t let it draw us away from why we came.”

Thane watched Bomoor for a moment longer, the Ithorian’s silhouette now fully composed against the muted interior of the cockpit. There was something faintly incongruous about seeing him dressed for diplomacy rather than survival, but no less effective for it.

"The ship will speak for itself," Thane said, pushing himself upright as the final landing indicators faded from the forward display. "Anyone worth impressing will understand restraint. Anyone else is not the audience."

He did not look toward the viewport at once. The ship's repulsors were now cold, the hull gently ticking as it adjusted to atmosphere. The faint vibration beneath their feet was no longer motion, but waiting.

Behind him, there was the quiet whisper of movement as Amare shifted her weight. Fabric settled and metal chimed once, softly, then stilled. He did not turn, but he registered the change all the same - the way she had aligned herself with the role she was about to play. It was a talent that far outstripped his own - something many of their Sith forebears would be proud of. Inwardly, he doubted his own ability on this front.

"Our attire and titles will open the door," Thane then said evenly. "What matters is what we notice once we’re through it."

His gaze lifted now, finally, to the forward viewport, doing his utmost to suppress the identity concerns tugging at his mind.

House Wyrd lay spread before them in deliberate symmetry. Pale stone shaped into Alderaanian proportion, copied with reverence rather than imagination. Slender spires rose from the central manor like a civic statement rather than a fortress, arched walkways bridging wings with measured elegance. Below, the gardens pressed too vividly against the land, their colours richer, their growth more assertive than the planet’s latitude should have allowed, as they had noticed before.

Very, very curated, he mused silently.

"The subtlety should concern us," Thane said quietly. "Axion does not favour spectacle unless it serves a purpose, as far as I can tell - whatever mad self-worship sustains him in his own halls aside. Whatever has taken root here will be wrapped in tradition and courtesy, not excess."

The boarding ramp indicator pulsed once and Thane stepped toward it, his reclaimed bearing settling fully into place, not performed so much as assumed.

"Remember," he said, more reminder than instruction - even to himself, "we are guests here. Observed guests."

The boarding ramp met the landing pad with a muted clang, stone answering metal.

Warm air rose to meet them, carrying the faint scent of flowering terraces and mineral-rich soil. The platform itself was carved from pale Alderaanian stone rather than durasteel, its surface etched with shallow geometric inlays that caught the light without demanding attention. Nothing here was improvised. Everything had been meant to last.

Two honour guards stood at the foot of the ramp, perfectly still. Their armour was unmistakably Alderaanian in lineage rather than function: heavy ceremonial plate worked in pale alloys and polished white metal, chased with gold filigree and civic motifs rather than martial sigils. Their helmets were open-faced, crested rather than enclosed, allowing their expressions to remain visible and deliberately neutral. Each carried a long-barrelled ceremonial rifle, antique in silhouette but unmistakably lethal, held upright with ritual precision.

Between them stood a steward of the household, a female Human, middle-aged, dressed in layered robes of soft blue and white that echoed the manor’s stonework. She held a slender datapad close to her chest like a liturgical text, posture deferential without being servile.

Just behind her, half a step back and a fraction to the side, stood a younger man.

The resemblance to the images of Lord Wyrd was unmistakable, though softened by youth. He wore the same pale palette, the same house sigil worked subtly into his sash, but without the weight of ceremony that clung to his father. His posture was attentive, perhaps overly so, and his eyes moved quickly - first to Thane, then to Bomoor, and then, with far less discipline, to Amare.

The Nautolan "ward" gently bowed her head to young nobleman, her eyes half-lidded, lips a tender subtle smile, her hands timidly clasped together at waist level, and her posture hunched ever so slightly forward to show the impression of a life given to many noble courtesies. Her approach was to appear as harmless and submissive as possible in spite of the improvements to her physique over the last year.

Upon seeing she had but for a fleeting moment captured the man's interest, she savored it, and she put herself at ease telling herself to embrace the Zaracoda mask once again. It was time to be soft and kind again; the most devious of her natural talents: hiding in plain sight.

The son of Wyrd's attention lingered upon Amare for a heartbeat too long before he caught himself and straightened, colour rising faintly to his cheeks. Whatever confidence he had practiced had clearly not accounted for this.

The steward inclined her head as the trio stepped onto the platform.

"Heritur Thane of Caanus, and Bomoor Thort of Öetrago" she said, voice clear and formally modulated. "House Wyrd welcomes you and your ward to New Alderaan. You arrive under private invitation, with all courtesies extended as agreed."

Her gaze shifted briefly, respectfully, acknowledging Bomoor and then Amare in turn, before returning to Thane.

"My lord regrets that pressing obligations prevent him from receiving you personally upon arrival, but he looks forward to welcoming you within the manor at the appointed hour."

The younger man took that as his cue. He stepped forward, offering a shallow bow that was more enthusiastic than polished, his eyes flicking again toward Amare despite himself.

"I am Alric Wyrd," he said, a touch too quickly. "Second son of House Wyrd." A pause, then, with a hint of rehearsed charm, "I have been tasked with ensuring your arrival is comfortable." His gaze returned to Amare, lingering just enough to be noticed, his tone warming.

His attention was rewarded with a shy blush of deepened blue on Amare's cheeks, and an alluring fluttering of her eyes and slight tilt of her head indicating her curiosity in him. Yet, beneath the veneer of warm alien beauty, she had marked Alric in her thoughts, and, if the opportunity was there, had every intention of finding a way to exploit him as a potential vulnerability of his House.

Love is the way of youth; love is blind, was a quote from one of her favorite holonovels.

"The estate grounds are extensive," Alric continued. "They can be disorienting to newcomers. If you should wish for guidance, or anything at all, I would be happy to assist."

He then hesitated, then turned toward Bomoor directly, the confidence faltering just slightly.

"And... my lord," Alric added, awkwardly earnest, "I wished to pass on my condolences regarding your mother. Mumin. What happened on Öetrago." He inclined his head, a fraction too late. "My father spoke of it as a great tragedy."

Amare lowered her head out of respect and her delicate smile melted. Though she had no love for her true mother, the tragic loss of her adoptive mother, Callotrebla Wolph, at the hands of space pirates still weighed on her several years to the present day. Her empathy for Bomoor's loss, though not deep, was there, especially when the memories of Callo's final screams could still be heard clearly and painfully in Amare's mind. The memory was just as powerful as the smell of Mumin's incinerated remains.

Bomoor's eyes met the young man as he fully dismounted the ramp and stood upon the elegant stone surface, lungs expanding as he took in the planet's rich, fragrant air before answering. The comment held a note of bitterness, however, knowing that Lord Wyrd's awareness of the events on Öetrago may have been passed on via the very organisation that honed his mother's killer. However, there was no reason to believe the young Human was aware of this.

"That is most kind, Master Wyrd, and kind, too, of your father to acknowledge events on my home world. There is far too much tragedy in today's galaxy but we must all strive to make it a little better each day."

He gestured a hand in the air, spreading his fingers to gesture about as though he was spreading confetti, "And what a glorious day you have here today. A good omen."

Bomoor’s final words carried a little further than he had perhaps intended.

A good omen.

There was a fractional shift among the welcoming party. One of the honour guards, the younger of the two, glanced sideways toward Bomoor before catching himself and returning his gaze forward, jaw tightening beneath the open crest of his helm. The other did not move at all, though the fingers on his ceremonial rifle adjusted minutely on the grip.

Alric noticed. He would not obviously have said why, only that the word seemed to settle oddly in the air. It was prohbakg the sort of thing his tutors had taught him to listen for, without ever quite explaining what to do when he heard it, given the background and mystery around their house. His smile faltered for a heartbeat, then returned, thinner now and more rehearsed.

Thane had watched the exchange in silence, expression largely unreadable, or verging on dismissive. The longer the interaction continued, the more that silence seemed to weigh against his patience. Courtesy, condolences, flirtation, superstition - all of it circling the point rather than approaching it. It clearly annoyed him more than he had intended.

He stepped forward, boots meeting stone with deliberate finality.

"I am certain there will be ample time for admiration," Thane said evenly, cutting across the moment without raising his voice, "and for condolences, and for whatever other rituals House Wyrd prefers to observe." His gaze moved briefly from Alric to the guards, then back again. "During the main event."

The phrase was precise and intentional.

"For now," he continued, tone cool but controlled, "we have travelled far and arrived exactly as invited. I would not wish to insult your household by lingering on the landing pad."

There was no offence in the words alone. Thane had hoped there was also no room to argue with them.

Alric hesitated, clearly uncertain how to respond. His eyes flicked instinctively toward Amare, then away again, as though seeking some silent cue that was no longer forthcoming. Whatever confidence he had gathered from his earlier charm abandoned him entirely.

"Of course," he said at last, a little too quickly. "Yes. Naturally."

The steward inclined her head at once, seizing upon the opening with professional relief.

"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.

TBC

 

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