The Republic has fallen.
In the final days of the Clone Wars, Chancellor Palpatine died under mysterious circumstances. With the Senate struggling to retain a sense of unity, it was the perfect time for the Separatists to strike. And strike they did...
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Lux usually found his morning ritual of standing under the sanispray with the water as cold as it could go refreshing. With the grogginess-inducing humidity of Kyzeron and his essentially perpetual lack of sleep, it was the perfect thing to kick-start his brain before the two or three strong cups of caf that would carry him through the rest of the day.
Or rather, near perfect. The throbbing bruise at the back of his head was a very unpleasant correction on that point, sending snaps of pain into his still fairly tender nose. Two hours of sleep was apparently the limit before he started zoning out despite of the freezing spray and dangers of slipping on the water-slicked tile. The latter was exactly what he'd done today.
There were still shampoo suds in his hair when he shut off the water and heaved himself out of the wide stall with its iridescent panes of glass. Lux toweled himself off quickly, only slowing when he grazed the bruise and sent another burst of pain arcing through his skull.
His servants wouldn't be along with breakfast for another forty minutes, if the hour on his comm was right. On principle, unless the situation was urgent, Dakharen never came to go over the day's engagements with him before he'd eaten. Provided he hurried through getting ready later, that left ample time to crawl back to his couch for a desperately needed power nap.
He could probably afford to skip styling his hair and shaving the stubble on his jaw, too – he wasn't scheduled to see his father or any of his advisors today.
Lux's comm trilled from its place in the pocket of his discarded sleepwear, the sound half-muffled by the swaths of fabric but still strident enough to bring him a little closer to wakefulness. He dug it out and pressed his thumb to the reader to check the caller ID – and nearly dropped it in his haste to tie his towel around his waist and answer it. The soft blue holographic letters spelled out his father's name.
"Good morning, Father. I apologize for my state of undress," he said quickly, forgoing his usual bow for a solemn nod to hold onto some scrap of dignity.
"Never mind – I know you'll rectify it soon enough," Zakhan said, his tone distracted but not unkind. Lux felt the flaming redness in his cheeks abate a touch.
"Is something the matter?"
"No. In fact, an opportunity has arisen for you to begin benefiting from some of the privileges that come with being my Heir-Designate."
"Privileges," Lux echoed, keeping most of his wariness out of his voice.
"My aim is not to coddle you, for succeeding me as leader of our family will be no easy task. You must be fully aware of what will be expected of you. But thus far you have seen only the obligations that come with the position, which is hardly fair to one as diligent and loyal as you."
That drew a smile from Lux before he could stop it. When Zakhan answered with one of his own, as bright and proud as the looks he'd so often had for him before the outbreak of the Clone Wars, Lux had to avert his eyes. A pang of longing for the good times in his childhood and early teens dug sharply into his chest; the time he'd lived only for his mother's witty praise and his father's slow approving smiles. With how close to the anniversary it was, he wasn't strong to repel it.
