Right To Be Yourself
Back at her command post as the head of FG8, Svenja—ever dutiful, ever focused—would sometimes let her thoughts drift. Not often. Just sometimes. In the quiet margin between two meetings, in the few seconds before speaking, in the blink between the lines of a report, her mind wandered back.
The Ball, hung high in the skies of Coruscant. The grand vaulted hall of polished marble, radiant chandeliers reflecting off crystalline surfaces like stars dancing in the hush of a night sky. The subtle whispering of silks, the murmur of well-bred voices carried by the serenade of strings. She remembered how the reflections on the floor glimmered with every movement, like time was standing still just to marvel at the moment.
Outside, the vast gardens unfurled like a dream. The meadows, perfumed with blossoms. The soft crunch of gravel beneath satin heels. And there, above it all, the first stars twinkling through the deepening blue, a fleeting strip of orange-indigo melting into the galactic dusk. The air was crisp. Alive. A memory, not fleeting—but engraved.
"Svenja!"
She blinked. Denvier's voice—sharp but not unkind—brought her back.
They were deep into another day's worth of strategy sessions, this one focused on command architecture and model analysis across the FG8. One of a dozen tasks lined up like starships in a launch queue. Denvier had every reason to snap, but instead he smiled.
"Apologies," she said, smoothing her tone with a little self-conscious grace.
He leaned back, arms crossed, giving her a long, appraising look. In the unspoken fraternity of those who'd shared the fires of Karseldon, formality had its limits.
"You look... different," he said, half-smirking. "Well relaxed? I'm happy for you. Actually. With my wife, we kept wondering whether you ever had a life outside the navy. It felt... off. Watching you. Always in those quarters. Barely stepping outside, save for inspections."
She exhaled softly, caught between gratitude and mild embarrassment.
"She even suggested inviting you over. Just you, us, and the kids. Nothing formal. Just a meal and some noise."
"That would be marvelous," Svenja said. "I just—well, it's still wartime. I must find time first, and—"
"I know," Denvier interrupted gently. "That's why the invitation's open. No expiry. And," he added, with a quiet, brotherly firmness, "I reserve the right to stretch it again. Anytime I think you need it."
Svenja smiled then, that rare, quiet smile of hers. The one that belonged to no rank, no file, no title. Just to the woman who, for a moment, let herself remember she was human too.
---
After a day that stretched her stamina like a taut wire, Svenja finally left the last meeting behind. The final session, chaired by Admiral Dareth himself, had convened six Fleet-Group Commanders—including Svenja—to report on the readiness of their respective units, to coordinate defensive overlays across the sector, and to ensure intergroup fluidity in response to potential enemy incursions. The meeting had gone well—no missteps, no errors—but it demanded focus, diplomacy, and an iron grasp of logistics. By the end, she felt wrung out.
Still in uniform, she returned to her quarters and let herself breathe. A long, almost meditative shower rinsed away the weight of the day. Clad now in her soft floral pajamas—stitched, familiar, a silent artifact of home—she was just about to slip under her duvet when something stirred in her. A flicker. A gentle need.
She padded quietly across the room, curling her fingers around her command tablet. Leia.
Leia had always told her to call whenever she liked. But Svenja, ever the well-mannered girl her Granny raised, would never abuse such open-ended invitations. A glance at Leia's timezone: 1704 hours. Still decent.
She tapped the secure channel. A ring. Then another.
And there she was—Senator Leia Organa, in full regalia, a soft backdrop of her office behind her. Her face lit up.
"Svenja," she said, warmth blooming in a single word.
"I hope I'm not intruding."
"Never. I was just about to step out of this formalwear. You saved me."
Svenja chuckled softly, curling her legs up on the sofa.
"I just... I felt like talking. Not about reports. Not about defense grids or logistics matrices."
Leia smiled. "Then tell me what you do feel like talking about."
"The Sky Palace Ball."
Leia's smile widened. "Ah. That."
And so they talked. Not about policies or commands or ships. They spoke of the opulent arches in the vaulted ballroom, the scent of night-blooming jasmine woven through the terraces, the subtle sparkle of chandeliers reflecting off satin hems. Svenja recalled how the marble underfoot gave just enough echo to make every step feel like part of a gentle symphony.
Leia listened, almost silent, her eyes never leaving Svenja's. For in this young woman—so often cloaked in duty and calculation—she now saw a childlike joy flickering to life again. The restrained girl who had spent her youth in lectures and war rooms now spoke like someone who had once read about princesses in gardened pavilions and now, at last, had walked among them.
And for Leia – who'd come to like Svenja as if her own daughter – that was enough. That was everything.
As the warm thread of memory-laced conversation gently lulled the evening forward, Svenja tilted her head slightly, her voice softening even further.
"And... how is your grandson? Has he asked about me?"
Leia's expression lit with that particular kind of radiance reserved only for grandparents.
"Oh, constantly," she said, smiling. "He keeps asking when you'll visit again. He even called the garden bench under the jasmine 'Svenja's throne'—he refuses to let anyone else sit there."
Svenja laughed, not loudly, but with a kind of delighted surprise. Her hand covered her heart.
"I miss him," she said truthfully. "There's something about the way he hugged my calf and looked up at me. So trusting."
Leia nodded, her gaze tinged now with a quiet depth. "He's got an old soul. Like you. He sees things in people. His aunt Jaina is fiercely protective of him—she wanted to adopt him herself, but the timing's difficult. Her duties keep her in constant rotation, between the fleet and her Jedi training."
Svenja's face grew thoughtful. "That must be hard. For both of them."
"It is," Leia admitted. "But he's well-loved. And... he was calmer after your visit. More grounded. I think you reminded him of something. Something soft and certain."
There was a silence between them for a beat. Not an absence, but a fullness.
Svenja glanced toward her small bonsai near the corner of the room, its leaves dappled by the cabin light. "Perhaps I'll come again soon," she said. "Even if just for tea and that jasmine bench."
Leia smiled, and this time her voice was almost maternal. "You'll always have a seat there. And a little someone waiting with wide eyes and open arms."
Leia tilted her head slightly, narrowing her eyes with the seasoned precision of a woman who had seen far too many burnouts in uniforms just like Svenja's.
"You know," she said, swirling the last of her tea, "I've seen the fleet readiness logs for FG8. Impressive. And quite thorough. Including personnel benefits and health entitlements."
Svenja, in her neatly pressed pajamas, blinked once—too composed for guilt, but not quite fast enough to disguise the flush rising to her cheekbones.
Leia pressed on with a smile that was half maternal, half conspiratorial. "It says here that your officers—and that includes you—are entitled to use the civilian spa and massage facilities on Myrren Station and the orbital base around Kithira."
"I... haven't had the time," Svenja replied, adjusting her cuffs. "There is always something."
Leia raised an eyebrow. "Vice Admiral Kroenke. You do realize that when a Republic senator has to remind a fleet commander to take her wellness seriously, something is out of balance."
Svenja smirked faintly, that trademark blend of restraint and self-awareness. "Yes, Senator Organa."
Leia leaned in, her voice a stage whisper of mock threat. "If you don't book a full-body massage by week's end, I'll pull some strings and have your admiralty issue you an official health preservation order. You'll be marched into the spa under escort. Tarek will stand guard in the hallway with a datapad and a stopwatch."
Svenja chuckled—a real one, soft but honest. "I suppose I'm being outmaneuvered."
Leia grinned, triumphant. "About time someone did."
---
It was late afternoon by the time she arrived at the civilian spa facility orbiting Kithira — an elegant, mid-gravity dome built into the inner curvature of the station, its walls ringed with soft, bioluminescent flora and trickling water channels built for serenity. Svenja, still in her officer's uniform, paused before entering, feeling a twinge of unease. She wasn't nervous — not truly — but it had been years – perhaps with the exception of her stay with Leia on Ha'runa – since she had permitted herself this kind of pause.
Inside, she was welcomed with soft voices and respectful bows. The attendants, clearly briefed on the identity of their guest, showed no excessive deference — just the polite reserve reserved for someone both powerful and perhaps a little fragile beneath the surface.
In a private treatment room of warm stone and filtered golden light, Svenja changed into a modest wrap, folded her uniform with geometric precision, and lay on the massage table face-down, her red hair tucked into a soft band.
The atmosphere in the spa was nearly perfect — warm, fragrant with delicate blossoms and wood oils, filled with soft whispers and the gentle trickle of indoor fountains. It would have felt entirely like a civil retreat, removed from all ranks, starships, and the burdens of war — were it not for the unmistakable presence of Sergeant Varra Renai, seated quietly in the far corner, a linen wrap concealing her armored undersuit, her dark Mandalorian eyes calmly scanning every entrance and staff member.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
She said nothing, did nothing. Just watched.
Tarek, as always one step ahead, had arranged for the best: a decorated elite marine from his own handpicked cohort — a woman who had seen death up close and turned it away without flinching. There was no question of protocol here, only certainty. Should danger appear, Sergeant Renai would act faster than anyone — silently, efficiently.
But for now, she simply let Svenja be. A sentinel hidden among orchids and steam.
The therapist began — slow, firm pressure at her shoulders. It was only then that Svenja noticed how tense her body truly was. Every knot felt like a sentence she had written in the margins of her duty. Every tight muscle a meeting, a protocol, a missed sleep cycle.
"Too much?" the therapist asked softly.
"No," Svenja said, her voice already gentling. "It's... good."
Minutes passed, then more. She closed her eyes. The tension began to melt, first from her shoulders, then from her mind. Her thoughts drifted — to Ha'runa, to Kaelan's little hands on her calf, to the terrace of the Sky Palace, the swirl of her gown in moonlight. And beyond that, to a pine-scented hillside of her childhood, her Granny brushing crumbs from a tablecloth, smiling in the evening light.
She didn't fall asleep. She simply softened.
And for once, in a long, long time, Vice Admiral Svenja Kroenke allowed herself to exist outside the scaffolding of duty.
The spa's private tea lounge was a small, domed alcove tucked behind an orchid-draped archway, its floor tiled with mosaics of swirling constellations — star-maps of the Republic's oldest charts. Svenja stepped in barefoot, still wrapped in her modest linen robe, her hair towel-dried into a loose, almost playful fall across her shoulder.
A low table awaited her by the panoramic window, where the stars outside drifted like slow snowflakes. On it: a hand-written card.
Per Senator Organa's suggestion: the finest alpine blend from Ha'runa. With gratitude — your spa team.
Svenja smiled. It was the smallest smile, the kind only those who knew her well could read — but it was warm and full.
She poured the tea with steady hands, the steam carrying a faint scent of mountain flowers and snowmelt. A plate of delicate pastries sat untouched as she drew her knees up onto the cushioned bench and folded herself into quiet.
Out in the blackness, a blue star blinked into view — faint, far. She traced its arc absently, wondering if any world out there had the scent of warm stone after rain. Or the sound of children chasing chickens. Or the taste of freshwater bread.
The tea was strong, slightly bitter. She liked it that way.
She didn't speak. There was no one to speak to. But she breathed — fully, deeply — and felt the silence not as emptiness, but as something rare and earned.
For now, she was just a woman in soft light, sipping tea as the galaxy moved gently on.
---
Back aboard her flagship, Svenja stepped out of the shuttle and into the quiet corridor that led to her quarters. The light was low, the ship's systems in night-cycle, humming softly like a creature at rest. She walked slowly, her boots muted against the floor, her spa bag slung over one shoulder like an afterthought.
Inside her quarters, the lights rose gently to meet her presence. She placed the bag on the low bench, removed her uniform, and changed into her soft floral pajamas — the ones she'd once woken up in, on a world that wasn't Earth, in a time that wasn't hers. Clean, mended, faded in spirit but never in grace.
She poured herself a glass of water, added a single drop of lavender essence, and stood by the viewport. The stars, as always, greeted her like old companions — not known, but familiar.
Something was different now, though.
The warmth in her back still lingered from the deep-tissue massage. The oils had seeped into her muscles, but more than that — Leia's insistence, the quiet professionalism of the spa staff, the whispered music of the thermal pool — it had all seeped into her mind. Calmed it. Not dulled it. Cleared it.
She picked up her datapad from the shelf, opened the current working model of intra-fleet cohesion metrics... and then closed it again.
Not tonight.
Tonight, she crossed to her bed, pulled up the light blanket, and nestled into the corner like she had in her grandmother's farmhouse long ago — book unread on her lap, the scent of tea in the air, a memory of firm hands on her shoulders kneading away the weight of command.
She wasn't fixed.
But something had softened.
And sometimes, that was enough.
The next morning, just as the ship's artificial dawn began to warm the halls with a soft golden hue, Commander Tarek was already posted by the entrance of the briefing room. Punctual as ever. His posture straight, his gaze as unreadable as stone — but not unfeeling.
He noticed it the moment Vice Admiral Kroenke entered.
She moved the same, with the same straight spine, the same precision in her step. But there was something just... half a breath lighter. A new cadence to her presence, as though a layer of weight had been brushed off her shoulders.
Her complexion held a quiet glow, not of cosmetics or stylists, but of something earned — like mountain air or ocean spray. Her eyes didn't dart immediately to her datapad. Instead, they lingered on the viewport at the far end of the room, where distant stars still shimmered against the last of ship-night.
"Commander," she greeted him, voice steady, but somehow... softened.
"Vice Admiral," he returned. And for once, he permitted a small nod, not merely as protocol — but in recognition.
As she passed him, the scent of a floral oil lingered briefly in the air — faint, elusive, perhaps lavender or neroli. And for a moment, the hardened Mandalorian, trained to detect the faintest deviation from pattern, allowed himself the quiet, private confirmation:
She had taken care of herself.
And in that moment, he felt a reassurance that no scan, no patrol report, no security algorithm could offer.
The ship — and its commander — were whole.
---
Loud Hearts for a Silent Guardian
Svenja found an unspoken joy in watching something quietly bloom—not on a battlefield, not within a strategic simulation, but between two people who had earned their happiness. Tarek and Cyllene Darnis had begun to see each other, cautiously at first, like two dancers unsure of the rhythm. Tarek's sense of duty, however, stood in the way of any spontaneous romance. Even in his downtime, he refused to travel outside of immediate striking distance from Vice Admiral Kroenke, citing not only protocol but also a personal oath.
Svenja, recognizing both the beauty and burden of such loyalty, chose to act discreetly. She brought the matter up during a coordination session with Admiral Dareth and Leia Organa. The solution emerged organically: regular, rotating outings every two weeks across various secure sky-terrace venues—some on Myrren, others on Norvala or Kentrin's Crest—each vetted thoroughly by naval intelligence but open to a limited, randomly screened civilian clientele. The subtle bustle of unwitting guests added just enough cover to grant the illusion of ordinary romantic normalcy.
These dinners became small rituals. Svenja and Valemar would dine alongside Tarek and Cyllene, their conversation a delicate blend of policy, poetry, and playfulness. Occasionally, Leia joined, lending her elegance and emotional precision. On one such evening, Cassarion, Cyllene's brother, appeared unexpectedly, observing everything with the reserved curiosity of a man who knew how to guard both state secrets and familial sentiment.
For Tarek, the setting was ideal. No matter the venue, he positioned himself where he could spot all points of entry, always within eyeshot of Kroenke. She never asked it of him—but he always arranged it that way. And now, across the table, or seated in a curve of shadowed candlelight, was Cyllene Darnis—laughing sometimes, touching her glass softly, listening when he spoke.
And for Svenja, to see them like that—to see him smile, faintly but truly—was worth every quiet maneuver.
Svenja was not dating Lord Valemar Darnis—at least not in any formal sense that courtship implied. There was no flutter of expectation, no stolen glances aching with promise. But she was open—graciously, calmly open—to any sort of conversation with him. He was a man of hardened soul, tempered in duties and noble expectations, yet capable of a gentleness and eloquence that never struck her as forced. Still, he was no Gosh.
Michael Wyss—"Gosh," as she alone called him—remained etched across the innermost walls of her heart, across the dim halls of memory where home still echoed with raindrops and lake winds. Valemar didn't rival him. He didn't have to. That was never the purpose.
She enjoyed Valemar's company because it was steady, unintrusive, and never asked more of her than she could give. When he invited her to dine, she accepted, not out of romantic interest but because she didn't want to sit alone, and—more importantly—because these dinners enabled Tarek to spend time with Cyllene. For Svenja, that was the only motive she needed. Quiet love deserved its space, and Tarek would never have taken it unless she carved that space for him herself.
One evening, as they walked back to the shuttle bay under a sky freckled with high-altitude starlight, Valemar offered a gentle proposal: he would be honored to host a ball in her name, in the grand hall of his ancestral manor. He knew well—everyone close to her now did—how much Svenja loved to dance, to lose herself, if briefly, in the elegance of gliding motion and symphonic grace.
Svenja smiled with sincere delight, the idea clearly appealing to her sense of serene grandeur. "I'd be happy to come," she said, her voice like warm porcelain. "But such an event must first pass security evaluation. The Admiralty is cautious for good reasons."
Valemar inclined his head slightly, as if in courtly acceptance of a sovereign decree. "Of course," he said. "I would expect nothing less. But should the Admiralty agree—then you shall dance as you deserve. As the guest of honor."
And for a moment, under the quiet shimmer of orbital lights above, she imagined it—not as a promise, but as a possibility.
The air was cool and brisk atop the high-rise terrace in the city of Virellan, one of Myrren's oldest metropolitan centers, famed for its layered architecture and golden-glass skyline. Far below, terraces stretched in luminous tiers, cascading down toward the city's dense, glittering core, where pedestrian towers and shuttle lanes crisscrossed like veins of glowing light.
Leia and Svenja leaned against the ornate railing—Leia in her off-work formal wrap, a subtle blend of stateswoman and matriarch, Svenja beside her in the quiet austerity of her off-duty Vice-Admiral uniform, simple but unmistakable. Around them, a trickle of passers-by moved with urban indifference, too caught in their own errands to notice the high-ranking pair.
They watched in silence for a moment, the kind of silence that needed no filling. Then, Leia spoke. "So. Valemar's invitation."
Svenja didn't answer immediately. Her eyes lingered on a flickering transit dock three terraces down, where lights glowed through passing fog. "I want to accept," she said at last, her voice quiet, reflective. "But the proximity to the conference is both convenient and... complicated."
Leia turned to her slightly. "You mentioned Admiral Dareth."
"Yes. He's heading the delegation," Svenja replied. "There'll be a doctrine review panel—the admiralty wants me to present the fleet-group architecture model. It's one of the rotating sites, you know how it goes. This one's only a day's travel from Valemar's estate."
Leia smiled. "Then we'll make it work. I'll speak to Syvareen—and Dareth, if needed. It would be a missed opportunity to let logistics ruin something that could nourish your soul."
Svenja gave her a grateful glance. "Thank you, Leia. I didn't want to ask too bluntly."
"You don't have to," Leia said. "I know how to read you by now." She paused, letting the night breeze lift her hair ever so slightly. "And before I forget—Kaelan's been asking about you. Quite insistently."
Svenja's lips curved into a genuine smile. "He still remembers?"
"He never forgot. The next-next weekend, if your schedule allows—come to Ha'runa. He'll be thrilled. We all will."
Svenja nodded, quietly moved. "I'll make it work."
Below them, the city shimmered on—an endless sea of lights and motion. But up here, just for a moment, the night belonged to two women, standing above it all.
Back aboard her flagship, Svenja sat in the command conference room alongside her second-in-command, First Rear Admiral Telvon Reiss, a man whose quiet precision matched her own sense of structure. Together with key staffers—operations officers, logistics analysts, and intel aides—they were deep in their routine operational briefing. The holotable glowed with layered schematics of FG8's sectors, each lit with tiny notations and markers.
It was not a dramatic meeting. No alarms, no intercepted transmissions from vanished fleets—just the grind of command: routing adjustments, crew rotations, repair schedules, and unit-level training refinement. Svenja, leaning slightly forward, her fingers steepled in thought, approved most decisions with short nods, but occasionally paused to rephrase a guideline, suggest a slight sequencing shift, or clarify the logic behind a fleet repositioning.
There was comfort in this rhythm. The war, with all its vast stakes, was fought not only in grand maneuvers, but in the everyday architecture of readiness. And Svenja Kroenke, with her paradoxical mix of methodical diligence and quiet imagination, built that architecture like a cathedral of discipline.
First Rear Admiral Telvon Reiss had seen his share of brilliant young officers crash under the weight of their own egos. A veteran of twenty years, with scars visible and otherwise, he came aboard FG8's flagship with measured skepticism. He had read the reports—of N'Dorae's Hollow, of Karseldon, of Kroenke's predictive architecture—but to him, it smelled like another headline miracle, a prodigy perhaps bright, but surely erratic. He expected tactful insubordination, condescension, or brittle overconfidence.
But instead, he found her seated across from him, dressed in an unadorned duty uniform, tablet in hand, eyes focused, manner crisp. There was no flourish. Just the clarity of someone who had internalized the burden of command.
What surprised him most wasn't her competence—it was the absence of any trace of superiority. Svenja addressed him as sir more than once in the early days, her upbringing plain in the way she deferred to his age and experience, even as she outranked him. It was awkward—he could sense it in her—but it was never weak. Whenever she disagreed, she didn't press. She laid out her analytics, calmly, methodically, with models and patterns as if placing the truth between them, neutral and unoffended.
More surprising still, she insisted on his contributions to her doctrine—not as a token gesture but as a matter of strategic philosophy. "A doctrine must adapt," she once told him, "or it'll become a shrine. And I'm not founding a religion." Reiss, seasoned and slow to trust, came to see that she wasn't just teaching her approach—she was letting it grow through the people who adopted it.
That was her trick. Not force of personality. Not even sheer brilliance. It was the seamless way she wove authority with invitation, clarity with collaboration. And in time, as Reiss sat beside her in planning rooms and walked with her through hangar decks filled with crew who adored her quietly, he realized something rare: people didn't just obey her. They trusted her. And they liked her.
And—he found, to his own quiet surprise—so did he.
