The Duke left his study in silence.
The corridor outside was long and ribbed with high archways, its walls of black-veined stone veiled in shifting light. Gold-etched murals told the history of House Vorran — centuries of rulers, all carved in the same imperious profile. Farmers with plows stood beside admirals with sabers, priests beside merchants. The message was not subtle: every form of power belonged to the Vorrans.
Vougal walked alone, his footfalls muffled by the runner of crimson fabric beneath him. From the high balconies, he could see the lower levels of the Citadel — a vast structure that crowned the cliffs of the Verdant Plateau. Below, in the distance, the lights of Caellus City shimmered, a lattice of ordered brilliance built from the wealth of soil and industry.
Droids bowed as he passed. Servants stopped speaking. It was not fear that silenced them, but reverence wrapped in discipline. Vougal did not demand devotion through terror. He found obedience born of awe more efficient. Terror burns fast; awe endures.
He reached a tall window overlooking the southern fields. The view was an ocean of dark emerald, rippling under the winds. Far beyond, hundreds of transport ships rose like slow sparks into the night, their engines trailing blue arcs. Each one carried cargo worth more than the Republic's treasury could count — grain, feedstock, and life.
He paused there, watching, as if weighing the galaxy itself in the pattern of ships.
Behind him, the Captain of the Undying waited in silence, helm tucked under one arm.
"How many vessels did we dispatch today?" Vougal asked without turning.
"Seventy-three transports, your Grace. Fifty bound for the Core. Twenty-three for the Outer Rim contracts. The droid overseers report efficiency at ninety-eight point two percent."
"Too low."
"Your Grace, that is within—"
"I said too low, Captain," Vougal interrupted. "Perfection is not a number. It is a standard. If they must work until the next harvest without rest, then they shall."
The Captain inclined his head. "As you command."
Vougal continued walking. "The galaxy burns," he said almost to himself, "and we harvest. Tell me, Captain — what do you think of this war?"
The soldier hesitated. "I think war is inevitable, my lord. It comes for all empires sooner or later."
"Wise words. Yet inevitability is not the same as opportunity." Vougal looked at him then, eyes sharp and gold under the dim lights. "War is a crucible. It melts weakness and refines strength. I intend to ensure that when this crucible cools, House Vorran is the metal that remains."
They stopped before the great doors of the conference chamber. Two Undying stood guard — tall in their burnished armor, motionless as statues. Their visors reflected the Duke's image back at him, like twin mirrors of obsidian.
"Open it," Vougal ordered.
The great panels slid apart with a hiss.
The chamber beyond was circular, dominated by a long obsidian table that gleamed under the overhead holo-projectors. The air shimmered faintly with static as the holograms came to life one by one, blue silhouettes rising into place — ghostly figures that flickered with every transmission burst.
At the table's far end appeared the tall, angular form of Viceroy Nute Gunray, his Neimoidian features sharp with calculation. Beside him materialized Wat Tambor, the Techno Union's foreman, mechanical respirators ticking faintly as he adjusted his modulator. San Hill of the Banking Clan, long and skeletal, inclined his head with reptilian grace. The Twi'lek Passel Argente of the Corporate Alliance followed, his projection crisp and color-corrected — vanity even through war. Behind them, shadows of aides and droid attendants loomed, each a reflection of profit and paranoia.
Only Count Dooku's seat was empty, his holo-node dim and silent.
Typical, Vougal thought. The Count played at nobility, but he was a Jedi once. Their kind never truly leave their arrogance behind.
"Lord Vougal," rasped Gunray, his voice filtered through the signal distortion. "We are honored by your presence."
"Spare me the courtesies, Viceroy," Vougal replied, taking his seat. "Honor is the currency of politicians. I prefer tangible credits."
Gunray's eyes twitched, but he inclined his head. "As direct as ever, Duke Vorran. Then let us speak of tangible matters. The Confederacy wishes to ensure the continuation of trade between the Harvest Guild and our allied systems. The Outer Rim cannot wage war if its people starve."
Vougal folded his hands. "You will be pleased to know that Volantis honors its contracts. My ships will continue to deliver provisions to your worlds — provided that payment is rendered promptly and the Republic does not interfere."
San Hill's voice slithered through the static. "Payment will not be an issue, my lord. The Banking Clan's coffers are… ample."
"I do not doubt it," Vougal said. "But understand this: war inflates every price. Production must be rerouted, convoys require escorts, and neutral systems exact transit tolls. My costs rise. So will yours."
Gunray's eyes narrowed. "How much of a rise?"
Vougal smiled faintly. "Within reason."
Wat Tambor's mechanical voice whirred. "Define reason."
"Ten percent increase per quarter. Twenty-five if Republic blockades expand into the Mid Rim."
A low murmur rippled through the holograms. Gunray hissed, "Exorbitant!"
"You misunderstand, Viceroy," Vougal said, his tone patient — almost gentle. "Exorbitant is what happens when you have no food at all. I am offering stability. You may call it expensive, but famine is costlier."
San Hill chuckled, a sound like dry leaves. "The Duke speaks as one who knows the value of leverage. Very well. The Banking Clan will adjust the flow of credits accordingly. We are, after all, reasonable people."
Vougal inclined his head slightly. "Then our understanding is mutual."
Wat Tambor leaned closer to his transmitter. "In exchange, the Techno Union is prepared to offer your world additional agricultural droids — upgraded models, optimized for planetary-scale yield. At a considerable discount."
Vougal's brow rose. "How considerate of you."
Tambor's servos whirred. "Consider it an investment in… continued partnership."
"A generous offer," Vougal said, his voice dry as sand. "Send the specifications to my procurement council. If your machines perform as promised, we shall acquire them."
Gunray's expression shifted, sensing the negotiation slipping from his grasp. "Then it is agreed? The Harvest Guild will continue supplying the Confederacy?"
"The Harvest Guild serves stability," Vougal said coolly. "If that means your war machine continues to grind, so be it. But understand, Viceroy — I am neutral in this conflict. The Harvest Guild does not pick sides. It profits from them."
That drew a strained silence. Even a hologram could convey disapproval. But Vougal met each spectral gaze in turn, and none dared challenge him openly. He was not a system governor to be bullied, nor a merchant prince to be bribed. He was a sovereign who fed worlds.
At last, Gunray nodded. "Then may your fields remain fertile, Duke Vorran. The Confederacy thanks you."
"May your droids thrive in This pointless War," Vougal returned with a faint smile. "Good day, gentlemen."
He tapped the console, and the holograms winked out, leaving the room dark and quiet once more.
---
For a long moment, Vougal stood alone at the obsidian table, his reflection staring back at him. The faint hum of deactivated projectors echoed like whispers of ghosts.
The war had barely begun, yet its shape was already visible — a chasm of profit and ruin. The Jedi would call it tragedy. He called it opportunity.
He turned to the Captain, who had waited silently by the door.
"Send word to the Guild overseers," Vougal said. "Begin negotiations with the Techno Union for those droid shipments. And increase convoy patrols along the Corellian route. I want no interference from Republic customs."
"As you command, my lord."
Vougal lingered, glancing toward the tall window at the far wall. The night was nearly gone, the horizon bruised with the first hints of dawn. The world above still glittered — endless fields, endless obedience.
He closed his eyes briefly. In the silence, he could almost hear the hum of a thousand harvesters, the pulse of the planet that bore his name and fortune. It was a steady rhythm — the heartbeat of dominion.
When he opened his eyes again, the dawnlight had caught the sigil carved above the chamber's doorway, casting it in molten gold.
Power, he thought, is not taken. It is cultivated.
He left the chamber, and the doors sealed behind him with a sigh like the breath of a sleeping beast.