In the Eyes of Power
The Grand Hall of the Varrow Estate pulsed with life. Crystal chandeliers fractured crimson and gold into shifting shards across polished obsidian. The vast floor, wide enough for a hundred couples, churned with nobles and Sith alike, each movement a calculation, every word a blade. Above, tiered galleries teemed with watchers, and at the far end, Lord Varrow himself observed from his dais, the banners of his house glowing faintly in the gloom.
At the hall’s edges, heavy curtains concealed alcoves, quiet, velvet-draped retreats where whispers turned into weapons. It was in one of these shadows that Atonur found himself intercepted.
An older Sith blocking his path stood half in darkness, half in the amber light from a nearby sconce. His robes hung in austere folds, and his eyes, pale and sharp, fixed upon Atonur like a dissecting knife. Servants passing by faltered but did not stop.
“You walk swiftly for one so unproven,” the elder murmured. The words came slow, deliberate. “Do you imagine yourself already among the strong?”
Atonur straightened, the measured training of years pressing against his fear. “I walk with purpose,” he answered evenly. “Purpose needs no proof, only victory.”
The Sith tilted his head, for a moment, the hall’s distant music seemed to fade. His gaze pressed into Atonur’s mind, cold and unrelenting, testing his resolve as if probing for cracks in stone. The young apprentice met it head-on, muscles locked, eyes steady. But the longer the silence stretched, the heavier it became each second, as if it were a hand pressing down on his chest.
Atonur did not look away, but the weight of the elder’s stare hollowed the air between them.
Then the curtain beside them shifted and light spilled in from the Grand Hall, and the elder Sith stepped back, dismissing Atonur with a faint, knowing smirk before melting into the crowd.
Whispers followed. Guests had seen enough to taste the outcome. As Atonur stepped from the alcove, the hum of laughter spread like a contagion. A small group of Sith lounged nearby, smirking behind their glasses. One spoke loudly enough for all nearby to hear as watched Atonur walk by.
“Among such power.” the voice drawled, “there are always those who mistake proximity for worth.”
Atonur stopped, the music played on, but those closest felt the air shift. Slowly, he turned toward the speaker. His yellow eyes burned, but his gaze was cold, unwavering. The laughter died as quickly as it had begun. One Sith looked away, another pretended sudden fascination with his drink. The group stiffened under that silent glare, unease cutting through their earlier bravado as if the very air between them thickened, pressing the unease into their chests. In that silent moment, his stare said what no words could, that he remembered every face, every voice, and he would not forget.
Atonur’s voice never rose, in fact he said nothing, he didn’t need to, he simply turned away, leaving the group in stunned silence.
He approached a nearby bar and as he ordered himself a drink at a bar, an overeager noble, his face flushed from too much Kaasi Red, lifted a glass in a clumsy toast. “To the Empire!” he shouted, voice slurring with enthusiasm. The goblet tipped, wine arcing downward in a scarlet wave.
Atonur moved without thought. A single, fluid step aside, The wine splashed harmlessly to the floor, a crimson fan spreading across the black stone. His motion was so smooth, so perfectly timed, that it seemed he had foreseen the blunder entirely.
Gasps rippled through the onlookers. For a heartbeat, it looked less like coincidence and more like power. The noble stammered, his face draining of color. The surrounding laughter quieted into uncertain murmurs.
Atonur did not acknowledge the spill. He merely downed his drink, adjusted his cufflinks, eyes forward, and started walking as if nothing had occurred. Those nearest to him in the crowd seemed to part for him now, not in reverence, but in wary respect.
He had endured mockery, whispering, and humiliation. And though the crowd’s perception had shifted a dozen times in as many minutes, he knew one truth remained constant, he had not broken.
Behind him, servants rushed to clean the spill, the wine gleamed like freshly spilled blood. Those who had laughed now watched in silence, each quietly recalculating. Whatever else they might say of him later, they would remember this, how he had walked away untouched, how he had carried his earlier failure as though it were armour.
