Chapter Text
Silver hair shimmers under the ship’s lights as Elletheria paces the length of the longest corridor she could find on the Herald. Her hands move, outlining her points, as she speaks to the empty air. Her voice shifts, in tone and pitch, as though she’s in the middle of a heated negotiation.
“I understand your concerns, Senator, but surely you can see the benefit of a long-term alliance. Ah, kriff, no, that’s too blunt. I need to…okay, okay.”
She squares her shoulders, smoothing the dress over her hips—a gesture of habit more than necessity. Her silver jewelry clinks faintly as she spins on her heel, the soft chiming grounding her as she forces a smile back onto her face to restart.
“Of course, I understand your concerns, Senator, but there are many benefits to a long-term alliance. The Republic offers stability—”
“Talking to ghosts, are we?”
The teasing voice cuts through her focus like a vibroblade, and Elletheria startles, spinning on her heel. Silver hair spills over her shoulder as she turns, catching the light like starlight against the deep indigo of her dress. Sinker leans casually against the wall, his smirk as sharp as the shock of white hair falling into his face. It’s damp and messy, the troopers clearly having just left the training bay.
Behind him, Boost and Comet hover, their matching grins unmistakable. But it’s Wolffe’s presence that holds her attention. He stands a few paces back, arms crossed, mismatched eyes unreadable. Her heart stumbles in her chest. She can’t tell if he’s angry or irritated.
Probably both.
Elletheria straightens, smoothing the folds of her flowing dress—a rich indigo that contrasts beautifully with the silver jewelry she’d pulled out of the depths of her bag. The faint chiming of the pieces clinking together bring back both horrible and beautiful memories of her homeworld, before its destruction. Necklaces, bracelets, earrings—they catch the light with every movement with an almost ethereal glow.
Boost shakes his head. “How does she even move with all that on?”
Wolffe’s gaze drifts over her, lingering on the way the silver chains catch the light with each graceful movement. He clenches his jaw, willing himself to look away, but there’s something magnetic about her—something that makes his pulse quicken despite himself. It’s the way she moves, like she’s meant to command a room, the way the indigo fabric of her dress clings to her frame in a way that feels too intimate, too distracting. He grunts and turns sharply, hoping she doesn’t notice the heat crawling up his neck.
Sinker chuckles, clearly amused. He pushes off the wall, slinking over to her. “Practicing, are we, Lady Taelaeon?”
Elletheria squares her shoulders, but the faint quiver in her hands betrays her nervous energy. The teasing smirks of the Wolfpack flicker like shadows at the edge of her focus. It’s not their words that bother her—it’s the weight of Wolffe’s unreadable gaze, heavy as a storm cloud, that sets her nerves alight.
“It’s Elletheria,” she corrects gently, then sighs. “And yes, I was practicing. Diplomacy isn’t something you can just…wing. It requires preparation. And a lot of poise, in which I am severely lacking.”
As Elletheria straightens her dress—again—her fingers hover near her waist for a fleeting second before she forces them to her sides. The indigo fabric fits too snugly, clinging to curves she’s spent years trying to ignore. But the jewelry—the delicate silver chains and shimmering bracelets—grounds her. They’re more than adornments; they’re memories, whispers of a world she can never return to. She straightens, lifting her chin, determined not to let her doubts show.
“Talking to yourself is preparation?” Comet quips, cocking his head. “Didn’t realize Rodians were so scary.”
Elletheria glares at him, though the effect is less intimidating and more endearing. The Wolfpack smirks at each other, completely unruffled by her attempt to appear stern.
“It’s important to consider all possible objections and counterarguments. This isn’t just about words; it’s about understanding their perspective and anticipating their needs,” she insists.
Boost snickers. “Sounds like a lot of work just to convince someone not to shoot you.”
“Enough,” Wolffe growls, his sharp tone cutting through their banter. He steps forward, his gaze fixed on Elletheria. “You want to practice? Fine. Use them as your audience. Let’s see if you can handle more than an empty hallway.”
The Wolfpack exchanges quick, uncertain glances, laughter subsiding, before falling into loose formations like soldiers answering a drill. Comet adjusts his stance, rolling his shoulders, while Boost rubs his hands together. Sinker straightens, the teasing smirk replaced with a faint curiosity.
“Alright, let’s see what you’ve got,” he mutters.
Elletheria blinks, surprised, but nods. “All right,” she says, squaring her shoulders. “But you’ll have to take it seriously.”
Sinker smirks. “We can be professional when we need to be.”
Elletheria gives him a doubtful look, humming something under her breath that sounds like a suspicious sure but presses on. She takes a deep breath, clasping her hands in front of her as she adopts a poised stance. Her silver eyes lock on Sinker first. The trooper at once stands at attention, trying to appear as professional as possible.
“Senator,” she begins, her tone warm but firm, “I understand that your people feel caught between two opposing forces. But aligning with the Republic doesn’t mean sacrificing your autonomy. It means safeguarding your future.”
“Kriff.” Sinker scratches the back of his neck, clearly caught off guard. “Uh...I mean—ahem—and what about the Separatists? They’ve already offered us supplies.”
“And what happens when those supplies run out?” Elletheria counters smoothly, her voice taking on a sharper edge. “The Separatists don’t invest in alliances. They exploit resources. The Republic, however, builds partnerships that last.”
Boost raises a hand, grinning. “What if we don’t trust the Republic? Politics are messy, and trust is earned, not given.”
Elletheria’s gaze shifts to him, her expression softening as she nods empathetically. “You’re absolutely right. Trust must be earned. And that’s exactly why I’m here—to show you, through action, that the Republic values more than just military strength. We value people, culture, and the prosperity of our allies.”
Comet whistles low. “She’s good.”
“She’s convincing,” Wolffe corrects. His golden eyes are unreadable as they linger on Elletheria, but she can feel the weight of his scrutiny. “But convincing words mean nothing without action to back them up.”
Elletheria meets his gaze head-on, her silver eyes unwavering. “Which is why I intend to ensure my words aren’t empty, Commander. Rodia doesn’t need promises—it needs solutions. And I will do everything in my power to provide them.”
For a moment, the corridor is silent, save for the distant hum of the ship’s engines. Then Sinker lets out a low whistle, glancing at Boost and Comet. “I think she just won that round.”
Comet grins. “Definitely wouldn’t want to be a Separatist trying to argue with her.”
Elletheria allows herself a small smile, the tension easing from her shoulders. “Thank you. It’s good to know my efforts aren’t entirely wasted.”
Wolffe doesn’t join in their banter. Instead, he studies her for a long moment, his gaze flickering briefly to the glittering silver jewelry glinting with every movement she makes.
Elletheria holds his gaze, but her stomach twists. His mismatched eyes—one white, one brown—feel like twin suns, searing through every layer of composure she’s carefully constructed. She forces her hands to stay at her sides, resisting the urge to tug at the hem of her dress. She won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her falter.
“You’re determined,” he says finally, his voice low and gruff. “I’ll give you that.”
Elletheria tilts her head, her smile growing softer. “Thank you, Commander. I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Wolffe grunts, turning on his heel. “Get back to work,” he orders, his tone clipped. “And lose some of that jewelry before the mission. It’s not practical.”
The words land heavier than they should, cutting through her resolve like a blade. Her hand drifts to the delicate chains at her neck, her fingers brushing over the cool metal. They were never meant to be practical—they were meant to remind her of who she is, of where she came from. But Wolffe wouldn’t understand that.
His words linger. Practicality. Always practicality. For someone who had spent her life trying to justify her existence, being ‘practical’ felt like erasing herself piece by piece. Elletheria’s laughter is soft, almost wistful, as she watches Wolffe disappear down the corridor. Her hand brushes the slender bracelet around her wrist, their weight as grounding as it is bittersweet.
“One day, Commander,” she murmurs, tilting her head toward the ceiling. “One day, I’ll win you over—and you won’t even see it coming.”