"Dray" Therin
They called it a celebration of culture, but that was a flattering lie.
Dray Therin stood like a fracture in the picture-perfect world of Nabooian elegance—unmistakably polished, yet visibly out of sync with the pretenses of her surroundings. Her sharp, Pantoran features were set in a calm but calculating mask, and her short, deliberately unkempt hair—ink-dark and windswept—clashed with the precisely coiffed nobility brushing past her on the lantern-lit terrace.
Strings played. Champagne flowed. And just beyond the colonnades of the Theed Grand Opera, the stars stretched themselves out like a stage curtain over the night.
The ballet had been exquisite—of course it had. The revival of Aurelia Ascending hadn’t just drawn the cultural elite; it had lured out the cautious, the curious, and the cunning. All the better.
Dray wasn’t here to mourn lost art. She was here to watch who watched her. To measure smiles. To listen through the din of well-dressed conversation for names whispered with reverence—or fear.
And one name had already been echoing through the gardens, drawing attention like perfume: Sal-Soren.
Not Brandyn. Not Briana.
Blaire.
The dancer returned.
Dray’s eyes narrowed slightly as she caught the woman’s silhouette through the crowd. That gown, unmistakable. That posture. That history. One half of Naboo still adored her. The other half couldn’t forget her father’s sins.
Perfect.
She sipped her wine, the chill kissing her lips like a promise, and made her way toward the former prima ballerina—silent, steady, a specter cloaked in purpose. After all, to move forward with The Five Veils operation, one needed someone who knew how to navigate a stage. Especially one made of secrets.
And Blaire Sal-Soren? She had once danced on the edge of ruin and glory. Dray needed someone like that.
