Tiber Saal
Character
"I just don't see how you can be so short-sighted," the older man said, his voice like sandpaper wrapped in velvet. His fingers, adorned with two signet rings, curled around a half-full glass of amber Corellian reserve. It caught the light from the ceiling in glinting flashes—expensive, aged, and utterly unnecessary.
Tiber stood across the room, back straight, arms folded behind him like he was already standing on a bridge deck. "I'm not being short-sighted, Father," he said evenly. "I believe there's more out there than credits and quarterly gains."
His father scoffed, loud and theatrical, as he paced to the massive transparisteel window that overlooked Bonadan's endless cityscape—tiered towers glowing in sterile gold and white, smog rising in the distance. The lights were beautiful if you didn't think too hard about who lived beneath them.
"You're signing your life away," Tiber Senior growled, jabbing the glass toward his son as if it were a weapon. "This so-called 'Empire' you've joined—this version—won't be any different than the ones that came before. A decade, maybe two, and it'll rot like the rest."
Tiber's jaw tightened. "The Empire is a light in the dark, Father. And it doesn't matter who's sitting on the throne. What matters is the structure, the discipline, the order."
His mother sat on the edge of a pristine white couch, silent as ever. She was dressed in a flowing gown far too elegant for a woman who had nothing left to say. Her eyes flicked toward Tiber, made contact for only a heartbeat, and dropped again. She had never intervened. Not when Tiber was younger. Not now.
His father turned, slowly, eyes narrowed to slits.
"I did not raise a zealot," he said, voice low and trembling with controlled fury. "You will stay here. You'll finish your education. You'll learn the Sector, work your way up in the firm. Just as I did. Just as your son will—if you don't get yourself killed trying to play admiral in some broken fleet."
The next word came before Tiber even realized it had formed on his tongue.
"No."
It was quiet. Firm. Absolute.
His father froze, expression unreadable. Then his head tilted ever so slightly, as if he hadn't heard correctly. He turned fully, the liquid in his glass sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
"What did you say to me?" he asked, voice deathly calm.
Tiber stepped forward. Not a tremble in his limbs. Not a single breath wasted.
"I said no. I've enlisted. The forms are filed. Background cleared. I leave within the week."
"You arrogant little—"
"I will rise through the ranks," Tiber continued, voice clipped, cold. "And I will bring control to the chaos that surrounds this galaxy. Because someone must. Someone capable."
"You think you're going to be a war hero, is that it?" his father barked, pacing toward him now. "You'll lead a fleet, march across the stars, reshape the galaxy? You're a boy, Tiber. A spoiled, stubborn boy with no idea what real power is."
"Perhaps," Tiber said softly, eyes locked to his father's. "But even that's better than spending my life buried in boardrooms, selling overpriced parts to dying colonies and calling it a legacy."
That did it.
The glass flew first, shattering against the wall beside him. Screaming followed, loud and raw—his father's fury unleashed in a torrent of curse-laden rants. His mother didn't move. Didn't flinch. She merely turned her head, as though the storm was routine.
Tiber jolted awake, breath caught in his chest.
The room was dark. Silent. The sterile glow of distant starlight filtered faintly through the viewport, casting long shadows across the steel walls of his quarters. Sweat beaded along his brow, cold and unwelcome.
Another nightmare.
He didn't need to reflect on its source. He already knew.
A sharp beep cut through the quiet—his personal com-link blinking with urgency. He reached for it without hesitation.
"Sir? Apologies for the hour, but… we need you on the bridge." The voice was young. Nervous. Carefully measured—like someone afraid the act of waking him might cost their commission.
Tiber's voice was even, unshaken. "Understood. I'm on my way."
He was dressed within seconds. Every movement was precise: uniform pressed, boots laced, belt aligned, rank plaque secured. He moved like a man assembling armor—ritualistic, automatic.
The corridors of the ISD Resolute were alive with low hums and red emergency lighting. Technicians and troopers froze at his approach, snapping to attention. Tiber returned their salutes with subtle nods, his long coat trailing behind him like a shadow. He didn't waste words. Time was not a luxury he afforded his crew—or himself.
The Resolute, a Donnager II-class Star Destroyer, was no palace of war. It lacked the imposing size of its ancient cousins, but made up for it with hardened shields, forward-facing firepower, and speed that put most cruisers to shame. Designed for escort duty and edge-of-space patrols, it was a scalpel in a fleet of hammers—and Tiber had wielded it well.
He had once served as a junior officer aboard this very ship. Now, it was his flagship. His command. His spearpoint.
For now.
The Imperial Sector Authority was still rebuilding from the ashes of failure, trying to unify shattered remnants under one banner. Tiber's fleet was modest—scarce resources, limited tonnage—but it was enough. Enough to enforce discipline. Enough to punish chaos.
As the blast doors parted with a hiss, he stepped onto the bridge.
The atmosphere shifted instantly. Officers straightened, chatter ceased. The junior officer who had dared wake him stood rigid at the helm, pale, eyes fixed on the floor. They'd likely drawn lots. Tiber didn't acknowledge the discomfort. Fear, properly applied, was a stabilizing force.
"Status report." His voice cut cleanly across the silence.
The junior officer stepped forward, fingers flying over the console as he brought up a holoprojection. "We received an emergency broadcast, sir. A trading vessel en route from Bonadan—under attack. Medical supplies on board. Manifest confirms humanitarian cargo."
A flickering holo of the distressed ship appeared between them. Audio distortion crackled from the transmission—frantic voices, bursts of static, overlapping systems damage reports.
Tiber's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Proximity?"
"Close, Admiral. Two jumps. Perhaps less."
He didn't respond right away.
Instead, he stepped forward to the viewport, folding his hands behind his back. The stars stared back at him—endless, silent, uncaring. This could easily be an ambush. Raiders hoping for bait. A rogue faction with delusions of grandeur. Or worse—someone probing his perimeter for weakness.
He had a small detachment of patrol craft with him. No cruisers. No backup. If this turned into a trap… the cost could be catastrophic. Not just in ships, but in perception. In control.
He began calculating probabilities in his head. Risk tolerance. Fleet vectors. Enemy loadouts. Engagement time. The numbers aligned slowly, like pieces of a puzzle he'd solved a thousand times.
Then he moved.
"Prep our squadrons. I want all pilots in launch tubes within five minutes. Full power to combat readiness. Redirect reactor flow to forward shielding. Wake engineering. Get me a full systems report."
Officers snapped into motion, the bridge becoming a hive of activity.
The same junior officer stepped closer, voice hesitant. "Sir… are we moving to assist?"
Tiber turned only slightly—just enough for the young officer to see the faintest ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.
"The Empire protects," he said.
Outside the viewport, the massive triangular form of the ISD Resolute began to turn—its sublight engines flaring with renewed power. The stars shimmered. Coordinates locked. Hyperdrive spooled.
And then, in a flash of light and thunder, the warship leapt into the void—toward the fire.
