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angelseraphines · 2 months ago

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ATTACK OF THE CLONES | CHAPTER SIX

“beneath the veil of midnight.”

the estate of the rharrellis family had always stood apart from the others, nestled not atop the soft golden hills of the lake country as the famed summer retreat of the house of naberrie was, but rather tucked into the crescent edge of the sapphire cliffs of southern naboo, where the ocean roared far below in solemn cadence and wild seabirds wheeled endlessly in the sky. here, veils of mist drifted in from the shore to weave around the white marble columns, catching in the flowering trellises that draped the terraces in riotous bursts of indigo and coral-pink. the scent of salt and rain hovered over the air like a forgotten dream, and the breeze carried the echo of sea-horns calling to ships too distant to see.

within the solarium, an airy, domed chamber of crystal glass and carved silversheen stone, the morning light glowed soft and gidled. its warmth lit the delicate filigree of the floor mosaics, depicting constellations revered by naboo’s earliest settlers, and caught against the flowing sleeves of sheer silks and the sparkle of finely set gemstones. pale curtains stirred at the open arches, and the scent of morning tea, honeyed root and rivermint, wafted up from a low round table placed between long couches of cloud-colored velvet.

vasharre rharrellis stood near one of the wide windows, her profile caught akin to the light of a splendid painting. eighteen years of age, though far too young for the ache that had been placed in her chest, she wore the look of a young woman not untouched by sorrow. her beauty had deepened, no longer merely striking, but magnetic in its celestial and dangerous confidence. her long midnight-dark hair had been brushed until it shimmered with violet undertones, half pulled back with a silver clasp shaped like a falling star, the rest falling in soft, enchanted waves to her lower back. her skin, pale as porcelain and as flawless, caught the light in a way that made her appear stunning beyond belief.

she was dressed in a rich mulberry gown, deep and wine-dark with a sheer top layer of gauze that fluttered with her every movement, hemmed in glass-threaded embroidery shaped like rising flame. the bodice curved along her figure, boned and wrapped in crisscrossed plum silks, with a neckline that plunged daringly, though not obscenely, into a heart-shaped dip, revealing the tender glow of her collarbones and the pale curve above her sternum. cinched at the waist with a silver belt patterned in constellations, the gown flared outward in fluid layers like ink spilled across parchment. around her neck, as always, rested the nova star pendant, her own, the original, its gem glinting with internal light as if stirred by some force no one could quite name.

her handmaiden, ebos, knelt beside a low table, preparing herbal tea in silence. she had grown into her beauty quietly, the coltish edges of her youth now softened into grace. her golden skin glowed beneath a pale blue wrap, her curls pinned back with white-gold combs, and her hands, nimble as ever, moved through the tea ceremony with practiced reverence. she glanced once toward vasharre, concern flashing across her face, but the handmaiden said nothing.

seated somewhat apart, upon a chaise upholstered in a fabric dyed with pressed sky-blossoms, sat senator padmé amidala. her posture was as composed as ever, her hands folded in her lap, though her expression bore the wear of recent weeks. she was dressed beautifully in formal senatorial attire, a robe of layered creams and golds, rich but not ostentatious, befitting both her former queenship and her current station. the edge of her mantle was embroidered with naboo script, listing the names of the provinces she had once ruled. though still radiant, she seemed drawn, shadows beneath her eyes betraying nights of poor sleep and endless debate. her mind was far from the loveliness of the morning, focused instead on the looming senate vote, on the ever-worsening tension with the separatists, and on the bitter knowledge that the republic she had served with all her youth now trembled like a weakened starship on the verge of collapse.

she glanced toward vasharre, then turned her gaze outward through the open archway. “they are calling for war, sharre,” she murmured. her voice was soft, nearly lost in the wind. “and i fear the galactic republic will answer.”

“they already have,” came vasharre’s swift reply. “they just haven’t said it aloud yet.”

on the far end of the solarium, lounging against a sculpted divan in a swath of sunlight, sat lady avella otrikus. at sixteen, she was as dazzling as any coronation jewel, her presence shimmering with youthful elegance and wry disdain. her curls, dark chestnut and thick, were loosely gathered at the nape of her neck and adorned with a strand of freshwater pearls. she wore a deep slate-gray fur draped over her slender shoulders, a gift from some northern emissary, paired with an embroidered lavender tunic. her indigo eyes, deep as dusk, scanned the open book of poetry in her lap with slow absorption.

“to speak of love in wartime,” she recited, without looking up, “is to speak of fruit ripening beneath the shadow of falling ash.” her voice was lyrical, lightly mocking. “how sentimental.”

vasharre did not smile. “and how accurate.”

avella turned a page with a flourish. “then perhaps we ought to all be fruit trees. doomed, but poetic.”

padmé inhaled softly through her nose, though whether it was amusement or unease, none could say.

“avella,” ebos said, with gentle reproach, “perhaps to do not be so grim so early.”

“grim?” avella blinked gently, her expression far too elegant to be called smug. “i merely read aloud. blame the poet.”

“we blame the galaxy,” vasharre murmured, eyes cast toward the tranquil ocean.

outside, the sound of a droid-drawn carriage passing by the outer courtyard floated up faintly through the breeze. the world beyond the estate moved on, elections continued, armies gathered, planets broke their alliances, and men whispered in dark chambers, but within these walls, the heirs of naboo’s past and the few defenders of its future sat beneath stained glass windows, wrapped in silk and old songs, knowing too well that none of their finery would protect them from what was coming.

in the distance, a thundercloud loomed on the edge of the sky, unseen but sensed.

within the inner solar of the rharrellis estate, the light had turned cooler as the morning aged, and the shadows that had once stretched long across the marble had grown compact and silent. the wind outside had soothed, and in its stead came stillness, dense, as if something were listening. the great chamber, once built for salons and music, had taken on the atmosphere of a war council cloaked in silk. every noble woman in the room was radiant in her own particular manner, but none were idle. the troubles of the republic’s unraveling, its wars, its whispers, its pending vote on the grand army, was stitched into every fold of every gown and woven into the air between words.

seated on a high-backed chair draped in silver-threaded velvet was lady hiarmen rharrellis, elder cousin to vasharre and widow of the late lord pavanak mindorón. hiarmen, always more enigmatic than maternal, bore the mourning veil not in fabric but in manner. she wore no black, only a steely gown cut clean across the collarbone, its shoulders capped in filigreed silver, the entire effect metallic and sharp, mirroring the cold silver pins twisted into her dark coiffure. at her side sat her four-year-old son, orren, the last heir of the mindorón bloodline. he had the fine golden hair of his late father, and eyes as pure a blue as lake virin’s shallows. the boy sat peacefully, curled like a painted cherub on a low cushion near his mother’s slippered feet, playing with a miniature starfighter carved from japor ivory. occasionally, he glanced up at the room’s adult conversations with a sharp, nearly preternatural awareness that belied his age, though it vanished whenever hiarmen’s hand swept absently across his curls in a gesture that was more habitual than affectionate.

hiarmen herself was as ever, austere, severe, and unreadable, her beauty no less captivating for its frost. “perhaps we ought to all take knights,” she remarked, eyes glinting as she addressed no one in particular. “for if the separatists are half as efficient as they claim, we’ll each need one at our shoulder, perhaps even in our beds.”

padmé gave a rare laugh, half exasperated and half sincere. “i can’t imagine the senate approving a budget for that.”

“perhaps not,” hiarmen returned smoothly. “but our fathers once appointed knights to ladies of state, not merely as guards but as champions. maybe it is time the practice was restored.”

“speak for yourself, my lady,” came the voice of lady kilea marel, stepping into the conversation like the clash of a training blade. “i am my own knight in shining armor.” she stood vastly apart from the rest, at the periphery of the stained-glass alcove. her face, alabster and charming, was turned toward the window, though her tone was grounded, serious. she was every inch the daughter of lord namun marel, commander of the naboo army for over three decades before his death, and the last of the marel military line. though clad in a noblewoman’s attire of cream and bronze, her bearing was martial. her gown was somple in shape but accented with pauldrons sewn with hardened beadwork, and at her hip hung a sheathed weapon that no tailor could ever conceal.

with crafted ceremony, she unsheathed the bone blade of her father. it gleamed pale ivory with veins of darkened fossil, the hilt wrapped in a cord of braided copper. she held it not for threat, but reverence. the sight of it caused silence to fall over the chamber, even avella setting aside her book to gaze upon it. there was legend behind that weapon, a blade carved not of metal but of the preserved spine of a virinus beast, slain by the founder of house marel during the ancient unification wars. it had passed from hand to hand down the generations, from lord to lord, and now sat in the hand of a daughter.

“my father meant for me to wield this,” kilea said plainly, her voice hushed, as if speaking not just to the women gathered but to the memory of her father. “it should have been mine to carry as commander of the army. but the council has granted it to havric tyrn.”

padmé’s face darkened. “we opposed it. former senator rharrellis petitioned twice. unfortunately, it was outvoted.”

“because they do not want a woman in command,” kilea replied, finally turning from the window. “not even a marel.” she glanced to vasharre then, and something older than frustration burned behind her eyes, something like betrayal born from the failure of tradition. “they would rather see our armies led by a tyrn, a man who knows nothing of war beyond strategy holos.”

vasharre, to her credit, did not grimance. “he was appointed not because he is worthy,” she said, “but because he is loud. and in this era, the senate listens more closely to bellowing than to bloodlines.”

“or to reason,” added hedna kanve, her voice frigid and refined. she had spoken little until now, her presence like a pillar of pale stone among the gilded furnishings. her hair was that impossibly pale shade that whispered of near-albinism, swept into a tall, severe twist. her skin was immaculate and nearly translucent, like white marble left beneath moonlight, and her dress was high-necked and unembellished, save for a brooch of the kanve crest. there was little warmth to her bearing, but there was gravity. she had long served as one of naem’s most consistent allies, though rarely appearing in the public eye. “the tyrn boy has never bled in the field. his hands are polished, not calloused. he wins favor, not battles.”

hiarmen exhaled through her nose, brushing a speck of dust from her sleeve. “and yet we entrust our defense to him. all while the separatists mass more followers by the day.”

avella’s voice came again from her corner, subtle but clear. “and the fool shall be given the helm when the wise lose patience.” she drew in a breath, slowly. “but what if the wise lose their voice as well?”

no one answered her. even orren had stopped fiddling with his starfighter, his small hand now curled around one of his mother’s jeweled rings, eyes wide with the realization that the room had grown heavier.

vasharre looked across the chamber and caught padmé’s gaze. they did not speak aloud what they both knew, but the meaning passed between them nonetheless, if things continued as they were, the danger would not be contained to the halls of the senate. it would reach naboo again, as it had once before, this time not with droid armies, but with something colder, darker. and this time, there might be no jedi master at the gates.

the soft murmur of the solar’s conversation was broken not by a crash or a trumpet’s call, but by the sound of swift, echoing footsteps against the marble corridor just beyond the great doors, measured, but too hurried to be ceremonial. the women turned, instinctively lowering their voices as one, the tension rising not with fear but with instinctive alertness, honed over months of political unease and whispered threats.

the carved double doors parted with a slow sweep, pushed open not by servant or steward, but by the nobleman himself, lord rodmin dalar.

he was tall, broad-shouldered beneath a high-collared mantle of obsidian wool trimmed in bronze thread, the insignia of house dalar pressed into the brooch at his chest. the color of his skin, a gleaming bronze that caught the filtered light of the chamber like aged metal, made the stark contrast of his gray-iron eyes all the more arresting. they were sharp, clear, and clouded now with urgency. his dark brown hair was tousled, the sort of dishevelment that came not from disorder, but from haste. his gaze swept the chamber quickly, across padmé, over vasharre, but when it paused, it seemed to hold.

for a breath longer than it should have, it looked to all the room as though his eyes had locked upon lady vasharre rharrellis.

she felt the intensity of that stare, every woman in the room did. his posture became rigid. the set of his jaw clenched. kilea marel, halfway through resheathing the bone blade, faltered in her movement and cast him a glance half-stung, half-flustered. hedna raised an arched brow, though said nothing.

vasharre, poised and crystalline, understood in an instant that it was not she he was truly seeing. no. his gaze, sharpened though it was, had strayed by mere degrees, just enough to settle on the comely ebos onvene, who stood a pace behind her, tender and attentive. vasharre felt it then, the heat in that lack of speech. the look that seemed to plead for time, for safety, for something unspoken. it lasted a second more, then lord dalar stepped forward with the full force of his voice, breaking the illusion like a blade through glass.

“my ladies,” he said, his tone more grave than usual, hoarse with urgency. “forgive the intrusion… but we have received another message. it comes from serenno. directly from count dooku himself.”

all the elegance in the room evaporated in a breath.

padmé stood quickly, abandoning her cushion. “what?”

dalar inclined his head toward her, his brow taut. “i rode from the palace without escort. the message came encoded, he made no effort to conceal it. in fact, he meant for it to be seen.” he looked then to vasharre, not with the veiled longing he had shown ebos, but with the grim burden of duty. “it concerns you.”

vasharre did not move. “he’s sent messages before.”

“yes,” dalar said. “but none so direct. or so… pointed.”

his voice lowered then, and he retrieved a thin holodisc from within the folds of his coat. “he speaks of the lady by name. again. he refers to your lineage. he knows of naem’s poor health and of senator amidala’s incoming arrival to the senate. he says, and i quote, that the delay in granting him the hand of lady vasharre rharrellis will be seen as an act of… resistance.” he glanced down, then looked to padmé. “the count says such resistance will be met with the same consequence as treason.”

a chill shivered through the solar. even lady avella closed her book.

padmé’s hands clenched, her voice vexed and stricken with masked fury. “he dares… he dares threaten naboo again…”

“he does more than threaten,” hedna said coldly. “he declares intention.”

vasharre’s lips parted. “perhaps… perhaps we should give him what he wants.”

“vasharre…” padmé turned swiftly, horrified.

“listen,” vasharre said, rising to her full height, her voice potent. “what if this ends the danger? what if it protects naboo, protects you, padmé… spares my father from further coercion? perhaps if i am handed over… there will be peace for naboo. for a time.”

“no,” lord dalar said auickly. his voice struck the room like a snapped bowstring.

vasharre looked at him, startled by the sharpness of his tone. dalar stepped closer, shaking his head. “no. you don’t understand the nature of this man. he does not want a bride. he wants a symbol. a hostage. a veiled heiress to parade in front of systems too frightened to speak against him. he wants your ancient bloodline, your image, your name. and count dooku will break you to have it.”

“he’s right,” padmé said, her voice barely above a whisper. “it won’t end with you. you’ll be the first… there will be others. he’ll push for more control over naboo. over its council. its army. he wants you because you are revered. beloved. because if he controls you, he controls all that listens to you.”

hiarmen, who had not interjected until now, slowly rose from her chair. “and you would be his pristine offering,” she said, tone as flat as her steel-colored eyes. “sweetened wine to mask the poison in his goblet.”

kilea nodded once, her hands resting on the hilt of her father’s blade. “we do not negotiate with men who speak in threats.”

vasharre’s eyes darkened. “but what if resisting him puts more lives at risk?”

“then we resist harder,” padmé said. her voice trembled now, but not with fear, with conviction. “we’ve fought too long to hand you over. not to him. not to any unworthy man.”

hedna kanve turned her head then, her pale brows lift not with disdain but with the precise exactitude of logic. “forgive me,” she said, voice glacial but never cruel, “but how long do we continue this dance? count dooku sends proposals draped in menace, and still we posture like this is courtship. why not end it? choose a suitor. bind her name to a loyal house, someone within our own grasp, lord vantrel of the lake provinces, or prince kallin of cymaeria, or even the miralan ambassador’s son, that gracious one, what was his name? yes, sirris the younger. any of them would render the count’s offer null.”

vasharre did not speak in response.

it was padmé who answered, stepping forward with restrained fire. “because lord rharrellis has made it plain. he will not see his daughter handed to anyone who would make a show of her. he says a marriage, if it is to come, must be chosen. and to someone worthy of the house of rharrellis, not merely its name.”

hedna pursed her lips. “and none have been found?”

vasharre touched her pendant then, the nova star that hung against her collarbone, silver and dark-violet and eternal. her fingers, slow and careful, wisped over the star’s points. no one else noticed the way her gaze dipped down, shadowed. no one but perhaps padmé.

she had turned them all away. the miralan heir, with his jade smile and woven robes. lord vantrel, whose hands had smelled always of wine and bark. kallin of cymaeria, with his polished shoes and perfect titles. the polite naboo magistrate from the hills, who wrote sonnets and offered roses. even the half-charming sirris, whose proposal had come wrapped in poetry from the stars and a fleet of peacock-feathered gowns. one by one, she had rejected them with grace, but with finality. always finality.

not because she thought herself above them. not even because of duty. not because of her archaic rharrellis lineage.

but because none of them were him.

ten years had passed since she had seen obi-wan kenobi, since he had vanished from her life akin fo a breath into fog. she had grown in his absence, learned to braid her own hair, hold her own gaze in the mirror, speak in a voice that empowered rooms. yet, in the hushed hours when she was not vasharre of rharrellis, not daughter of naem, not noblewoman nor emissary, when she was simply herself, he wandered her mind. she remembered his voice before it had deepened, the shape of his hands as they held his burning saber, the way he had looked at her when she gave him the pendant all those years ago with apprehension, but how he had kept the nova star regardless.

she had no right to think of him. he belonged to the jedi order, to the galaxy, to a cause larger than her and older than unrequited love. regardless, none had matched him. none had his wisdom. none had his fire beneath discipline, his restraint beneath passion. none were him.

and so she had refused them all.

ebos, who had until now stood unmoving in the background, took a single, slow step forward and stood nearer to vasharre. her presence was gentle, but grounding, like a thread of breath in a room about to shatter.

rodmin dalar looked at the handmaiden again, just briefly. not long. not obvious. just enough.

vasharre exhaled, closing her eyes for a moment. when she opened them, they glittered with something resolute.

“then we do not yield,” she said. “we do not bow.”

“no,” said padmé. “never.”

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the soft droning of the diplomatic starcruiser echoed in the undercurrent of hyperspace, a low and steady rhythm pulsing through durasteel bulkheads and lacquered paneling like the heartbeat of a great, metallic beast in slumber. aboard the vessel, sleek, long-bodied, and armed discreetly beneath its polished silver hull, was a company far smaller than those typically sent to coruscant from naboo, but infinitely more valuable. the importance of kinship, of governance, of survival itself, had been distilled into this one craft, and every passenger aboard understood it.

senator padmé amidala sat noble in her seat, her posture regal even in weariness, the folds of her maroon traveling cloak pooling about her knees. though her bodyguard, captain gregar typho, had protested her traveling at all in the current climate, she had insisted, politely, firmly, and finally. the vote regarding the military creation act loomed like a shadow over the senate, and her voice, more than ever, was needed. yet she had conceded one precaution. she wore the garb of a handmaiden now, plain and dark and unadorned, while her trusted decoy, cordé, stood in her place, garbed in the pale ivory of a senator’s official dress, her features made near indistinguishable by artful paint and practiced elegance.

former senator naem rharrellis stood not far, leaning against one of the inner pillars of the main hold. his long white robes fell in measured folds, and though the lines of age tugged at the corners of his eyes and mouth, his presence remained statuesque, forged of old resolve and the intellect, cultivated rage of a father who knew the galaxy was coming for his daughter. he watched the stars pass in streaks beyond the viewport, but his mind was on other things, the senate floor, the proposals, and most of all, the men who had sent veiled threats in place of diplomacy.

vasharre sat beside him, sedate and luminous as moonstone, the nova star pendant glinting faintly in the half-light of the chamber. her hair was unbound for the journey, falling in long sable waves down her back, and though she wore a soft gown of blue-gray velvet, her bearing betrayed no softness. she had barely spoken since boarding, and not once since entering hyperspace. beside her, ebos rested with her hands neatly folded, eyes drifting between each passenger with quiet precision, never at ease, never entirely still. her gaze lingered once, only in a fleeting instant, on lord rodmin dalar, who sat across from her, half-shadowed and pensive. he did not look at ebos, not directly. but his fingers tapped once, twice, against the metal armrest of his seat.

hiarmen rharrellis, wrapped in a traveling cloak of slate blue and silver trim, stared impassively at the floor, her son left behind at the estate under guard, her expression carved of something colder than worry. her hair was coiled tightly into its usual crown, every pin perfectly in place despite the journey, and her hand rested against the curve of her hip, where a hidden blade lay nestled beneath the folds of her garments.

general typho entered the hold just as the ship dropped from hyperspace, a subtle jolt running through the vessel as it began its approach to coruscant. the stars resolved into the glittering orb of the republic capital, its atmospheric shell like a dome of polished chrome, reflecting the light of a nearby sun.

“we’re arriving,” typho said simply, nodding toward the front cabin. “prepare for descent. the escort is ready.”

the gleaming starcruiser descended through the coruscant skyline like a dagger slipping between silk. clouds tore aside, revealing the vast expanse of duracrete, durasteel, and light beneath them, the city-planet in all its overwhelming, vertical majesty. towers soared and flickered with traffic lanes, airspeeders wove between them like shoals of silver fish, and the senate building rose distant and stately in the horizon like a great marble crown.

the ship slowed as it neared the appointed landing platform. the site had been cleared and secured by the republic’s diplomatic flight division, and the platform, hovering against a sky of pale gold and shifting shadows, stood empty but for the escort ships and a few figures waiting in the distance.

cordé, dressed as the senator amidala, rose with slow grace, adjusting her robes with practiced precision. her facade of calm never broke. padmé, hidden beneath the guise of a handmaiden, stood nearby, her eyes darting once to typho, who gave a curt nod.

naem looked to his daughter, his voice lowered. “be vigilant.”

vasharre inclined her head. “of course.”

the landing gear touched down with a hiss of compressed air. the ramp extended.

they descended.

cordé moved first, the guards flanking her, her posture that of queen and senator and symbol. the others followed behind, padmé, disguised and watchful, naem and vasharre cloaked in nobility, ebos silent as a shadow, hiarmen with her eyes narrowed at the skyline, dalar rigid and tense. the air was dry and sharp. the wind smelled of oil and rain.

then, the platform lit up.

a sound, so small at first it could have been machinery, split through the air.

then the fire came.

an explosion, shattering and sudden, tore through the edge of the landing platform where cordé walked. the blast hit like thunder made visible, an eruption of flame, smoke, and shrapnel, a surge of white-orange heat that swallowed the escort guard and threw bodies like broken dolls. the noise was deafening, the light blinding, the tremor so violent the rest staggered, some falling to the ground from the force of it.

vasharre screamed.

it was not a shrill sound, nor long, but stifled and full of breathless horror, her hand shooting out as if she could pull cordé back, though the other woman was already lost in the column of smoke that burst into the sky like a dying star. padmé, attired in her handmaiden’s guise, rushed forward, calling the decoy’s name as more guards surged from the ship, weapons drawn, scanning the skyline for snipers, for drones, for anything.

naem stood frozen. typho yelled orders. hiarmen drew her concealed blade without a word. dalar shielded ebos instinctively, pulling her behind him, while she resisted just as instinctively, trying to push forward toward the blast.

but through the smoke, cordé emerged.

burned, bloodied, barely able to stand. she stumbled into padmé’s arms, her voice a thread of air.

“my lady… i’m sorry… i failed you…”

and then, before anyone could stop it.

she collapsed.

the atmosphere was chaos.

the smell of smoke had become thick and acrid, mingling with the stench of melted durasteel and the copper tang of blood. guards shouted into commlinks, their voices overlapping with the siren-like wails of emergency responders that had already begun to circle the sky above the landing platform. flame retardants hissed out in white clouds, swallowing the scattered debris and bodies still strewn in the blast radius. padmé knelt over cordé’s still form, clutching the dying woman’s soot-streaked hand, her face hollowed and stricken. there were scorch marks on her sleeves, and shards of broken plating embedded in her gloves, but she barely felt them.

a blur.

from the curling smoke near the edge of the platform, a figure leapt forth, quick as a shadow set alight.

they were masked, formidable and lean, wrapped in a black flight suit reinforced with armor patches, a long vibroblade in one hand, and a concealed holdout blaster in the other. their face was hidden behind a smooth black mask, the kind worn by outer rim mercenaries, with no insignia, no mouthpiece, only a narrow red slit where eyes should be.

they didn’t go for padmé.

they went for vasharre.

she turned too late. the figure was already almost upon her, blade drawn, the weight of their body crashing forward in a motion meant not to injure, but to seize. to take. arms outstretched, weapon ready, not for a clean strike, but for a disabling one.

ebos shouted.

“my lady!”

lord rodmin dalar moved.

his body cut between them like a gate slammed shut, shoulder colliding with the attacker’s midsection, driving them back. his own blade was drawn now, a short saber-knife honed for defense, its metal gleaming, but the masked figure was trained, precise, relentless. they slashed low, then high, forcing dalar to step back, blocking one blow after the next, his stance brutal and effective but rushed. the figure feinted and cut again, a near-silent assassin moving with the cold discipline of a hired hand who had rehearsed this ambush a hundred times.

vasharre staggered backwards, winded, heart thundering.

the masked figure moved to break past dalar, but he matched them again, drove them back with a slash that caught the side of their mask, revealing for a split second a sliver of dusky skin, a hint of teeth, nothing more.

a howl of pain.

the figure’s blade came down fast, too fast. dalar blocked it, but the angle was wrong, the contact jagged. the vibroblade sliced through the side of his left hand, and blood sprayed as his fourth finger was severed clean from the knuckle.

he grunted in agony but didn’t fall.

the attacker twisted back, saw the guards converging, and without another word or strike, dropped a flash grenade to the ground. a hiss, a pulse of light.

and they were gone.

the platform flared with afterimages. the flash blinded the approaching guards for precious seconds. when vision returned, the smoke had devoured the attacker whole. no trace, no trail. just the hum of security droids racing overhead, too late.

ebos dropped to her knees beside lord dalar, grabbing his wounded hand with trembling fingers, voice breaking as she shouted for medical attention. “hold still… don’t… my lord… please…”

dalar, sallow with pain, said nothing, but he looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time, not as a handmaiden or a shadow trailing behind vasharre, but as if he’d known her far longer. there was something devastated in his eyes, not just from the pain, but from the failure, he had nearly lost her.

vasharre had already run. her feet carried her to padmé, where the senator was still kneeling over cordé’s body, unmoving.

“padmé,” vasharre said, her voice hoarse from smoke. “padmé… please. we have to go. we have to go.”

padmé didn’t look up.

“cordé…she saved me. she should not have had to die…” her voice cracked. she clutched the fabric of cordé’s cloak as if it would anchor her, but her fingers were shaking.

vasharre bent down, her voice hushed, stable despite the quivering in her limbs.

“she did save you. she chose to. and if you stay here now, if you let her death prevent you, then it was for nothing. padmé… you have to go to the senate. the vote… they need you. not just naboo. the whole galactic republic.”

padmé looked up at last.

her eyes were full of smoke and sorrow, but beneath it, a spark of determination.

she let go of cordé’s hand and slowly rose, turning to typho. “ready the transport. we go to the senate now.”

and the wind changed direction across the landing platform, searing and rising, as the flame of war threatened to engulf the galaxy whole.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the city outside the wide transparisteel windows of the chancellor’s high-rise office was sheathed in shadow and silver, the lights of coruscant glimmering below like a thousand murmuring circuits strung across the skin of the planet. in the distance, the senate spire rose like a lance against the clouds, illuminated from within by the flickering urgency of the moment. though the hour was late by standard reckoning, the republic did not sleep, not now, not when the threat of war trembled closer with each passing day.

within the expansive chamber, polished and pristine, the scent of incense and the crackle of static from diplomatic feeds hung in the aur. at the center of the room, standing near his great desk of galactic wood and brushed metal, supreme chancellor palpatine folded his hands before him, the lines on his face deepened with a gravity too precise to be theatrical. his voice, ever measured and suave, now bore the shade of mourning.

“there has been….” he began, with a pause that let the absence of words stretch long enough to draw every eye in the chamber, “…terrible news.”

gathered before him in a semi-circle stood the members of the jedi high council, masters of immense power and tempered wisdom, their robes catching the low light in varying tones of beige, brown, and slate. seated among them was master mace windu, his expression etched in stone, every movement of his body controlled and minimal. beside him, a pace behind and to the side, stood his nineteen-year-old padawan kraen rharrellis, towering, dark-haired, composed. kraen said nothing, his posture still as sculpture, his hands folded neatly before him.

palpatine continued, his gaze sweeping across the assembled masters.

“senator padmé amidala of naboo was attacked upon arrival in coruscant earlier this evening. her diplomatic vessel, an official cruiser carrying only essential personnel, was bombed as it landed at the appointed platform. the senator herself would have perished, had she not been employing a decoy.” his voice lowered, touched with solemnity. “cordé, the woman who stood in her place, was killed in the blast alongside other officers of the naboo guard.”

a murmur rose from several of the masters, though none interrupted.

“more troubling still,” palpatine said, “was the secondary attempt that followed. amidst the chaos, when flames were still rising and the guard disoriented, a disguised figure emerged from the smoke. they attempted to seize lady vasharre rharrellis, the daughter of former senator naem rharrellis, and herself a prominent figure of nobility and political interest on naboo.”

a breath passed in the chamber. master ki-adi-mundi’s brow furrowed. master plo koon leaned forward imperceptibly.

palpatine’s voice remained sorrowful. “this was no uncoordinated attack. it was executed with precision. the decoy was targeted first. and once she fell, the attempt to capture the lady was made. had it not been for lord dalar of naboo, who suffered serious injury in the attempt to repel the assailant, i fear we would be facing not only these unfortunate deaths, but an abduction.”

master yoda, seated near the right of the semicircle, opened his eyes wider, his ears wavering. but he, too, said nothing yet.

palpatine allowed the true significance of his words to sink in, then diverted the conversation carefully, with the skill of a man who had worn robes of politics for far longer than he had worn the mantle of leadership.

“and all this,” he said, “while the separatist movement continues to gain momentum. more systems declared their intent to secede just this week. their governors speak boldly of independence, of sovereignty, and of their so-called right to form a new galactic alignment. we are watching the slow unraveling of the republic before our very eyes.”

his tone had grown darker, though still placid.

“attacks such as this, so calculated, so cruel, are not isolated events. they are part of a pattern. an escalation. the same pattern we have seen in the outer rim, in trade disputes, in the sudden withdrawal of planetary delegates from senatorial duty. the republic is not only fracturing, it is being pulled apart, piece by piece.”

master windu’s eyes remained fixed on the chancellor. his tone, when he finally spoke, was careful.

“and the senate? will they act?”

palpatine nodded, slowly. “they must. i intend to place the matter before the full assembly within the day. senator amidala remains committed to presenting her position, despite the attempt on her life. she has insisted she will not be silenced.”

a surge of approval moved through the room, though none said it aloud.

palpatine turned toward the window, his hands clasped behind his back now, the city’s glow washing across the front of his robes.

“we must consider, masters, what this means not only for naboo, but for every system still loyal to the republic. if figures like senator amidala or lady vasharre are no longer safe, even on coruscant itself, then what message does that send to our people? to those caught between loyalty and departure?”

he let the silence endure again, perfectly timed, then turned back.

“i bring this to you not as an accusation, but as an appeal. the jedi have long served as guardians of peace. now, more than ever, we must show the galaxy that peace is not weakness. that those who would terrorize and divide us will not prevail.”

kraen did not move, though his shoulders had become tense. windu adjusted in position, placing a hand at his side, a subtle gesture of instruction, remain composed, remain still.

palpatine’s expression softened.

“i ask only for your continued vigilance. not only for senator amidala and lady rharrellis, but for every voice that dares to speak for unity while the stars grow dim.”

he inclined his head then, grave and slow, the picture of statesmanship cloaked in grief.

“thank you, masters. for your counsel. and for your strength.”

the absence of speech that followed was not futile.

it was heavy. waiting. watching. the storm, though distant, was gathering. and its shadow had now reached the heart of the republic.

the door hissed open.

from the smooth archway at the far end of the chancellor’s office, two figures entered, their silhouettes outlined by the soft internal glow of the lift behind them. the older of the two strode with that unmistakable gait, composed, measured, a rhythm born not of affectation but of discipline long practiced. clad in the traditional robes of a jedi master, obi-wan kenobi walked forward with the assurance of one who no longer needed to prove himself. it had been ten standard years since he had first knelt before the council as a jedi knight. ten years since his master’s death on naboo. ten years since the war drums had begun to sound across the edges of the galaxy.

beside him walked his padawan, anakin skywalker, now nineteen, grown tall and strong and possessed of a presence that turned heads without trying. his robes fit him less like those of a monk and more like those of a young warrior, and though he carried himself with the restraint of training, there was a fire in his steps that had not yet been tempered by time. his pale blue eyes, sharp and searching, darted briefly across the chamber as they approached the chancellor, and though his expression was composed, there was the agitation at his jaw, in the way his gloved fingers curled and uncurled at his sides.

palpatine turned from the window with practiced solemnity.

“master kenobi,” he said warmly, hands folded before him. “and padawan skywalker. your arrival is timely. i trust the matter on anison has been resolved?”

“the borders have been secured,” obi-wan said calmly, bowing his head. “the local disputes were contained before escalation. there will be no need for further intervention.”

“excellent,” palpatine said. “the senate will be relieved. but i’m afraid your return brings you to graver matters.”

obi-wan’s brows narrowed. “has there been another attack?”

palpatine nodded. “worse. senator amidala was targeted upon her arrival to coruscant. a bomb was planted on her vessel. she survived… only because her decoy, cordé, took her place. the young woman was killed in the blast.”

anakin’s face did not move. but something behind his eyes constricted like a snapped cord. he looked down sharply, as if in thought, then back up again, his expression flat, his mouth set. only obi-wan noticed the way his padawan’s shoulder shifted, the way his breath lightly changed, his composure becoming almost too crafted.

obi-wan turned to look at him directly, and though his own expression remained neutral, his gaze was edged with steel. it was not unkind. it was not a rebuke. but it was a warning, a wordless, unmistakable command, control yourself.

anakin met his eyes. held the stare.

and looked away.

palpatine’s voice did not falter. “there was more. amidst the explosion, a masked assailant emerged and attempted to abduct lady vasharre rharrellis. the royal heiress was saved… barely, by the intervention of a naboo noble, lord rodmin dalar, who was severely injured in the process.”

obi-wan’s breath caught in his throat, though none in the room could have perceived it. there was no visible shift in his posture, no clenching of his hands or intense intake of air. only something faint and inward, a buried current moving beneath the surface of long-cultivated calm.

vasharre rharrellis.

it had been ten years since he had seen her, since that last day on the steps of the theed palace when she had pressed the nova star into his palm with shaking fingers and made him vow never to forget naboo, or her. and he hadn’t. though he had never spoken of it, never acted upon it, never permitted himself the indulgence of returning to that sincere memory as anything more than sentiment, the truth had remained hidden and buried inside him, he had carried that nova star pendant through every battle, every negotiation, every cold night in the outer rim where peace seemed like myth. he had not worn it, not openly, not since becoming a jedi knight. but it remained condealed, deep beneath the inner folds of his cloak, warm against his chest akin to a secret unspoken by the code.

he did not speak. he only bowed his head.

she is safe, obi-wan told himself. you are relieved because she is safe. nothing more. this is the duty of a jedi.

palpatine looked at them both, his eyes slow and obscured.

“i have spoken with her father,” the chancellor said, his voice dropping a shade.

palpatine’s pause was deliberate, the space between his words filled with the sound of distant traffic and the low electric hum of the city that never slept. he stepped away from the transparisteel windows and moved back toward the desk at the room’s center, the folds of his crimson chancellor’s robes whispering faintly against the polished floor. his eyes, pale, glistening, always calculating, landed once more upon obi-wan kenobi and his padawan, and for the first time since they had entered the chamber, the chancellor’s voice took on something resembling gravity.

“i have spoken at length with former senator naem rharrellis,” he began, tone slow and heavy with significance. “he is, as you know, a man of considerable dignity, one of our oldest and most loyal voices in the republic, even now, in retirement. but he is also a father. and tonight, he nearly lost his only daughter and heiress to his royal lineage.”

obi-wan remained unmoving, but his expression had cooled into something unreadable.

“senator amidala and lord rharrellis are in agreement,” palpatine continued. “the situation is no longer one of general security, it is one of targeted threat. the attack was not indiscriminate. both senator amidala and lady vasharre were singled out.”

his eyes now turned fully to obi-wan, though he spoke to the room.

“the jedi council has provided protection before. during the blockade of naboo, jedi intervention was decisive. and both of these young women have known the order’s protection, indeed, your protection, master kenobi.”

a flash moved across anakin’s face, a small glance, unbidden, toward his master.a remembrance, unspoken.

palpatine folded his hands before him.

“thus, i believe it would be most sensible,” he said, “for jedi master obi-wan kenobi and his padawan learner anakin skywalker to be assigned to this task. not merely for their proven skill, but for their familiarity with the senator and the lady in question. you both know them. you’ve seen what danger can look like when it comes to their doorstep.”

obi-wan inclined his head respectfully. “we would be honored to serve.”

palpatine nodded approvingly.

“and,” he added, after the barest pause, “i believe it would be prudent for padawan kraen rharrellis to join the assignment as well.”

the effect of those words rippled through the room like the abrupt fluctuation of water before a storm.

kraen’s icy gaze lifted, sharply. for the first time since entering the chamber, his composure diminished, but only somewhat. a broadening of the eyes, quickly masked. he did not speak. he did not dare.

mace windu’s reaction, however, was far less mite.

the jedi master took a single step forward, his voice deep and controlled.

“no,” he said. “that will not happen.”

palpatine’s brow moved up in a polite facsimile of surprise. “master windu?”

“you suggest that my padawan,” windu said, voice like stone under pressure, “be sent on a mission to protect his sister. a high-profile, emotionally compromised mission. without me, his mentor.”

“with respect, jedi master,” palpatine said smoothly, “i do not intend for him to be assigned directly to her protection.”

“that does not change the risk,” windu replied. “attachments are forbidden for a reason.”

“and yet,” palpatine said, taking a measured step forward, “his familiarity with naboo’s court, with its customs, with its terrain, his own nobility, makes him uniquely suited to this task. i intend for padawan kraen to be stationed at the rharrellis estate. he will stay on naboo, to oversee the protection of the courtly entourage and aid in securing the estate grounds. senator amidala and lady vasharre will be remaining in coruscant until the senate vote. they will be under master kenobi’s protection. the padawan will not even be in the same system.”

“but he will be on naboo,” windu said sharply. “he will be within reach. within thought. within memory. you do not understand the depth of family bonds in our order because you have never lived under our code.”

palpatine’s voice grew cool. “i understand enough, master windu, to know that the boy is a jedi. and jedi are trained to resist such distractions. or do you doubt your own teaching?”

kraen remained utterly motionless, though he stood now as if bracing himself for a blow.

the tension in the room turned brittle.

“this is not about doubt,” windu said. “this is about wisdom. you do not test a dam by flooding it. you do not test a wound by tearing it open again.”

palpatine tilted his head, his tone now quiet, coaxing. “master windu, are you saying your padawan is incapable of detachment?”

nobody was so bold as to speak.

then, a slow voice. ancient. patient.

“trained him, you have,” came yoda’s voice at last, breaking the tension not with tranquility, but with finality. “trusted him, you must. greater test, this may be. but if strong he is, prove it he will.”

windu’s body became rigid. he turned his gaze toward kraen, who met his master’s eyes, not with desperation, but with cold clarity. he gave a forceful, respectful nod.

for a long while, the chamber was devoid of speech.

then windu stepped back, spine straight as a drawn blade, and folded his arms into his sleeves.

“as the council wills.”

palpatine gave the vaguest of smiles.

“then it is decided,” he said. “master kenobi. padawan skywalker. padawan rharrellis. may the force be with you.”

as they turned to leave, palpatine’s eyes were focused not on windu, not even on kraen, but on obi-wan kenobi.

and though the chancellor’s face betrayed nothing, inwardly, the pieces moved across the board. perfectly.

obi-wan bowed. so did anakin. kraen hesitated a second longer, then inclined his head with crisp formality, though his eyes remained on the floor just long enough to betray the trace of thoughts too complex to voice. the tension in his posture had eased, and though his breath remained measured, there was something beneath it now, a thread of anticipation, closely held but unmistakable to anyone watching.

before they could turn fully to go, master yoda, seated with legs folded and fingers steepled upon his cane, lifted his gaze.

“one more thing, there is,” he said, his voice as slow and deliberate as the air that had thickened in the chamber. “for this assignment, changed the structure will be.”

all three men turned back.

yoda’s ears dipped slightly, as they often did when he spoke not merely as teacher but as seer. “unusual, yes. but needed, it is. due to the mission’s complexity… and strain upon bonds already tested…”

his green eyes flicked between kraen and windu.

“…master kenobi, temporary master to padawan rharrellis, you shall be.”

kraen’s head jerked up, not sharply, but with sudden, unguarded shock. his brows rose a fraction, and for an instant his face, ever schooled in calm detachment, registered something more human, a glimmer of long-awaited, surprised satisfaction.

beside him, anakin turned subtly, catching the change in kraen’s bearing with an indistinguishable look.

mace windu stood motionless. his face, carved in firm neutrality, did not reveal whether he had anticipated yoda’s ruling or not. but something in his expression had hardened.

obi-wan stepped forward a fraction. his voice was calm as ever.

“i will assume responsibility for him,” he said simply, “for the duration of the assignment.”

his tone was neither resigned nor pleased. it was the tone of a man who understood duty, who understood the gravity of it, and would carry it with precision.

yoda gave the most benign of nods.

“trust in him, i do,” the ancient master said lightly. “and in you.”

with that, the matter was sealed.

palpatine, ever the careful observer, gave a slow, approving nod. “then we are aligned. may this assignment bring guardianship and peace.”

the formality returned. kenobi bowed once more, as did kraen, this time with something near to reverence, though measured as ever. anakin followed suit, though his eyes never quite left the edge of the chancellor’s robes as they swept aside.

the three of them, master, padawan, and now second padawan, turned and moved toward the exit.

the doors opened again with a soft mechanical hiss, and the lights of coruscant reached through the corridor beyond, casting long shadows along the floor of the chancellor’s chamber.

as obi-wan passed the threshold, his cloak swept behind him, his shoulders steady, mind already adjusting to the burden of leadership now doubled. kraen moved beside him in clean synchrony, his steps exact. behind them, anakin followed with a quiet urgency in his stride, though his gaze was turned inward now, toward the news of padmé, toward the mission, toward whatever visions had begun to cloud his focus.

and just as the doors began to close.

“kenobi.”

the voice was low, quiet, shaped by years of authority.

obi-wan paused, only half-turning.

mace windu stepped forward, eyes fixed on him.

as the doors sealed shut behind them, a momentary stillness fell, cocooned by the low hum of repulsorlift engines outside and the ever-present current of the force that stirred faintly between masters of its path. obi-wan turned fully now, standing in the long shaft of gold light cast from the high windows of the chancellor’s tower, his brow faintly furrowed, the expression on his face neutral but attentive. mace windu, statuesque in the shadows, had not moved his gaze from obi-wan since calling his name.

a subtle darkening of windu’s eyes, first to anakin, then to kraen, was all it took. both padawans understood the unspoken command. they exchanged glances, before stepping back and moving toward the far end of the corridor, their boots scraping against the polished floor.

once they were out of earshot, windu exhaled slowly, folding his arms within his sleeves. his voice, when it came, was low and firm, wrapped in a layer of caution that only those who had stood beside him in the trials of the order would recognize.

“you understand the gravity of what you’ve just taken on,” he said. “kraen is not a simple assignment, kenobi. he is not stable.”

obi-wan nodded once, controlled. “i know.”

“he is reckless,” windu continued, voice sharpening, “impulsive when pushed, emotional beneath the surface. he has grown… disciplined, yes. but the fury remains. he hides it well. too well. that makes it more dangerous.”

obi-wan listened without interruption, his face composed, though his mind was already turning inward, recalling fragments of kraen from years past: the gifted child, born of nobility, drawn to the force like a torch drawn to oil. the one whispered to be the forceborn before the council’s instruments revealed otherwise.

“i saw it again last month,” windu said. “on serreno, during the peace talks. he broke formation when he sensed a child in danger. disobeyed orders. succeeded in the rescue, yes, but compromised the mission’s structure. the rest of the strike team had to adapt. that cannot happen again. not with these circumstances.”

obi-wan’s eyes narrowed, but not in judgment. more in recognition. he spoke calmly.

“you believe it stems from what happened when he was a young boy.”

mace’s lack of immediate response confirmed it.

“the boy they called the forceborn,” windu said at last, voice strained with remnants of the past. “the child of the bloodline, the lineage, the stars. and then the tests came. and the truth with them. not him. never him.”

a pause.

“that kind of disillusionment, it scars a child. deeply. more than most will ever admit.”

obi-wan did not say anything for a beat. “he conceals it well.”

“yes,” windu said. “but we both know that can be worse.”

understanding passed between them, old, reflective, unsentimental. two men who had seen too many boys raised into soldiers, too many promises of destiny undone by truth.

“you will see it,” windu said. “on naboo. the facade will slip. whether because of the mission, or his sister, or something else. when it does, you must guide him back. keep him aligned. remind him of what we are.”

obi-wan’s voice was dismal. “i will.”

but windu wasn’t finished.

he stepped closer, his gaze harder now.

“and you, kenobi, and skywalker, you must both remember the jedi code as well.”

obi-wan’s features did not shift, but the message landed all the same.

“attachment is not a temptation for the weak alone,” windu said. “it comes for the strong too. those who believe themselves beyond it. above it.”

obi-wan’s contemplation this time was long and and orderly.

finally, he nodded.

windu studied him for one more breath. then he stepped back and turned.

his long cloak swirled slightly behind him as he crossed the corridor, approaching kraen, who stood with his arms folded neatly before him, his posture composed but visibly tense. his eyes flicked to anakin, who stood a pace away, arms crossed and expression unreadable.

“padawan,” windu said, voice cool and precise.

kraen straightened, spine taut. “yes, master.”

“walk with me.”

without question, kraen followed him, the two of them moving several paces away into the adjoining corridor, the sound of their footsteps muffled beneath the vaulted ceiling. the air there was colder, less welcoming, lit by the low amber glow of hanging sconces, meant more for decorum than illumination.

after a concise, intense but whispered conversation, kraen bowed sharply, then turned and began the walk back toward the others. windu stood behind, eyes narrowed, unmoving as the shadows curved around his shoulders like armor.

the boy was walking straight.

but windu had seen too many boys walk into the burning fire believing it was duty.

and too many masters mistake it for fate.

anakin returned from the far end of the corridor with measured steps, his cloak shifting around his frame in restless folds. though his face was mostly still, his stride carried the burden of emotion barely held in check, tension wound unyielding beneath his chest, coiled and waiting. the low light of the chancellor’s corridor lent a burnished hue to the metal walls, catching the angular lines of his face, the youthful sharpness hardening into something older.

obi-wan stood where he had been, arms folded across his chest, posture calm in its discipline. if he had noticed windu and kraen’s exchange beyond the corner, he gave no sign. his gaze turned as anakin approached, cool and even.

“we’ll depart by second hour,” obi-wan said plainly, tone clipped. “you’ll be expected to prepare the travel manifest and coordinate with coruscant security. the senator and the lady will be under our protection from the moment of embarkment. there is no room for error.”

anakin nodded, eyes slightly narrowed. “of course, master.”

a pause stretched.

then, unable to help himself, or perhaps no longer willing to pretend otherwise, anakin said, “i assume we’ll be seeing her. padmé.”

obi-wan’s expression did not shift, but something in his bearing grew stiff.

anakin went on, voice more sentimental now. “it’s been ten years since i’ve seen her. she’s not the young woman i knew. but still… i need to know she’s safe.”

“you’re not meant to need anything,” obi-wan lectured, his voice resonant but disconcerted. “we are not here for feelings, anakin. we are here to serve. nothing more.”

anakin’s jaw clenched. “i’m aware of the code.”

“then remember it.”

the words fell like a closing gate, final and hard. obi-wan’s gaze was now staunchly on him, clear, unwavering, and stern.

anakin exhaled slowly through his nose, his frustration pulling at the corners of his mouth. “and when you see lady vasharre rharrellis,” he said, voice mockingly polite, “will you act as though it is nothing? no surprise, no pleasure in seeing her again after ten years? as though she is no more than a former senator’s daughter in need of our escort?”

obi-wan did not so much as flinch.

his voice, when it came, was iron wrapped in silk.

“i do not know what you are insinuating,” he said. “my task is to protect her. nothing else. as jedi, we strive for discipline, for honor, for service. not for the indulgence of reunion.”

anakin looked at him for a long while, his eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable. the light caught the scar that now sat faintly above his brow, an admonition of battle, of time passed.

“of course, master,” he said softly, voice smooth but distant. “duty. as always.”

obi-wan nodded, satisfied, or pretending to be.

they began to walk side by side, the hem of their robes brushing in stride.

anakin said nothing else. but his compliance was not the compliance of obedience. it was the compliance of knowledge. of a thought not spoken, but not forgotten.

and as they disappeared into the corridor’s vanishing point, only the click of their boots marked the long shadow of what was returning. not just a mission. not just a memory.

but the ghosts of what they had tried, and failed, to leave behind.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the turbolift hummed as it rose, its durasteel walls glinting in the soft glow of the overhead panels. the ascent was smooth, too smooth, it left no room for distraction, no sound but the mechanical thrum and the controlled rhythm of breath. anakin stood stiff beside his master, arms crossed loosely over his chest, fingers tapping silently against the fabric of his tunic. the silence between them was not tense, not quite, but laced with something unspoken, as if the atmosphere carried old conversations neither wished to revive.

obi-wan stood composed, arms at his sides, his cloak drawn clean over his frame, expression as measured as ever. though the lines of age were just beginning to sharpen the angles of his face, there remained the unmistakable trace of restraint in his posture, the same poise that had defined him since his earliest days as a jedi knight. his eyes were set forward, but it was clear he was aware of his padawan’s fidgeting.

then, as if sensing the quietude had stretched too long, anakin finally broke it, his voice a whisper and uncertain.

“i have heard… padmé has changed a lot.”

obi-wan glanced at him, one brow raising. “you remember her well, after all these years?”

anakin shrugged. “not really.” he paused. “just little things.”

obi-wan looked forward again, voice even. “then you’ll still treat her as the senator she is. we’re here to protect her, not to relive old friendships.”

anakin’s said nothing.

the turbolift slowed to a halt with a soft hiss. the doors parted, revealing the hallway of the senator’s high-rise apartment, sleek, clean, lined in warm ochre and brushed bronze, with long beams of coruscanti sunlight pouring in from the far windowpanes. two naboo guards stood stationed along the corridor, their gold-trimmed burgundy uniforms unmistakable.

the guards gave them a nod. obi-wan returned it politely, without breaking stride. anakin followed close behind, his steps only a fraction more eager, though he tried to contain it.

as they approached the entrance, the door slid open with the graceful hush of repulsorlift hydraulics. inside, the space was familiar in its structure but formal in tone, no sign of homeliness, only the dignity expected of a senatorial dwelling. rich fabrics, muted tones, quiet light. the scent of nerf-leather and fresh pressed silk lingered in the air, caught on the quiet breeze of the climate control system.

padmé stood near the center of the room.

she was dressed in formal attire, regal, elegant, but practical, a dark wine-colored gown that fell simply over her shoulders with no ornament except a small brooch of the naboo seal at her collar. her hair was pulled into a modest twist, framing her face in smooth, golden-brown waves. she looked older than she had on naboo, no longer the teenage queen masked in paint and duty, but the senator she had become, poised with confidence, shaped by war and rhetoric and consequence. but her bronze eyes were the same, dark, perceptive, always ahead of what was occurring.

she turned as they entered, and for a second, only one, she seemed to hesitate. then she stepped forward.

“master kenobi,” she said warmly, her voice gentle and courteous. “it’s been far too long.”

obi-wan bowed politely. “senator amidala. it’s an honor.”

anakin stepped forward, slower, less sure of himself. for a heartbeat he simply stared, eyes wide, shoulders stiff.

she turned her gaze to him, something soft flickering behind her expression.

“ani?” she said.

he smiled faintly, nervous. “it’s a pleasure to see you again, my lady.”

obi-wan shot him a glance from the side, astute but unmistakable.

padmé smiled politely. “you’ve grown.”

“so have you,” anakin said, and quickly added, “grown more beautiful, i mean. for a senator, i mean.”

she laughed, a short, surprised sound, charming in its honesty.

obi-wan cleared his throat.

“we’re here to assess the situation,” he said. “the chancellor has requested that we remain near until the vote concludes.”

padmé nodded, her tone sobering. “i’m grateful. after the explosion, i admit… i haven’t had a night of relaxed slumber since.”

obi-wan stepped further into the room, composed and focused. “do you have any reason to suspect another attempt?”

“no,” she said, then looked down. “but that doesn’t mean one won’t come.”

anakin’s piercing eyes never left her, but he said nothing more.

none of them spoke of what had passed in the ten years since, of the girl who had once worn a gilded crown and carried a blaster into battle, or the boy who had gazed up at her in awe as a child, or the jedi knights who had stood between them and fire. those remembrances sat beneath the surface, unspoken, waiting.

obi-wan folded his arms gently into his sleeves. “then we’ll stay as long as necessary.”

padmé met his gaze, then nodded.

“thank you,” she said. “both of you.”

and beyond the chamber walls, in the deeper rooms of the suite, others waited, unseen, for now.

but the past had entered the room, and none of them had left it unchanged.

the chamber beyond padmé’s receiving room was awash in a veiled light, softened by gossamer curtains drawn slightly over the arched windowpanes that overlooked the coruscant skyline. the city beyond glimmered in hues of gold and silver, its towers catching the dying light of the sun as it dipped beneath the curve of the upper atmosphere. sound here seemed muted, as though the room itself had been carefully set apart from the rush and chaos of the galactic capital. there was something sacred in the stillness. like a held breath.

obi-wan kenobi stepped through the threshold with the effortless grace of a man shaped by a lifetime of discipline and mastery. his boots made no sound across the inlaid flooring. his eyes, ever alert, swept once across the room and caught at once the figure that stood by the far window.

a young woman.

she was poised, her back turned toward him, head slightly tilted, as though studying something far beyond the horizon, something only she could see. her silhouette was outlined in silver, her form framed perfectly by the dying light of the world outside. at first, she was unfamiliar to him. only a figure, woman’s form clothed in elegance, framed in beauty.

but then, she turned.

and he felt something change deep within him, something ancient and forthcoming.

those eyes, those impossibly dark, abysmal, alluring eyes, met his, and all the intervening years ebbedaway in an instant.

they were eyes like the void between stars, endless and luminous in their darkness. and in that intimacy of enduring eye contact, recognition struck him not as a thought, but as a physical sensation, like the pulse of the force at the verge of battle. a name surfaced from deep within his memory, no longer attached to the child he had once known, but to the young woman who now stood before him.

vasharre.

the royal lady rharrellis.

she had changed, and yet she had not. she stood with the same poise she had even as a girl, but it had deepened, refined by time and ceremony into something celebrated. her hair, once curling down her back in restless spirals, was now a sea of midnight black, falling in lovely waves, the strands gleaming like obsidian under the amber light. her skin was pale as ivory, untouched by sun, shining akin to porcelain, and her mouth, once round with youth, was now finely shaped, stained tenderly rose, composed into a perfect serenity that held beneath it the suggestion of secrets.

she was dressed in a gown of midnight blue satin that shimmered like water beneath a full moon. the sleeves were sheer and draped from the shoulder to the elbow before falling away in long, translucent trails embroidered with glinting silver filaments. but it was the bodice that held his breath hostage, cut in a proud, square neckline, it bared the upper halves of her shoulders and collarbone and the delicate skin of her chest, revealing skin that shined like the inside of a seashell. it was daring, not indecent, but regal, the kind of reveal born of rank and confidence, not vanity. across that expanse of luminous skin hung her nova star pendant, resting perfectly against her collar, its glowing core catching the light as she moved.

she stood perfectly still.

and so did he.

his mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came at first. he simply looked at her, the lines of his face composed as ever, but in his eyes, something oscillated. something restrained. something like astonishingly.

she was no longer the girl who had given him a pendant beneath a war-torn sky.

she was a woman now. a heavenly vision dressed in stars and secrets.

and yet, she bowed her head gently, formally. “master kenobi.”

her voice was unchanged. elegant, polished velvet, soft but refined. naboo and noble.

obi-wan stepped forward and offered a low bow of his own, every gesture unhurried, precise, respectful. “royal lady rharrellis. it is… an honor to see you again.”

she smiled, and it was not coy, nor false. it was the smile of someone who remembered everything and chose, for now, to speak of none of it.

“it has been ten years,” vasharre said, clasping her hands before her. her rings caught the light, white fingers decorated in pearl and silver. “i was a young child then. i imagine i was hardly memorable.”

he permitted himself the lightest curve of a smile. “i remember you well, my lady. and you were far from forgettable.”

her otherworldly eyes held his a split second longer, studying him. then she said, with the slightest rising of her head, “you look the same. a touch more stern, perhaps, jedi master.”

he exhaled a gentle breath of amusement. “the years have had their toil.”

her gaze wandered downward. “and yet you continue to bear it.”

obi-wan kenobi followed her eyes, gradually, and knew at once what she meant.

beneath the folds of his cloak, beneath tunic and linen, pressed close to his heart, was the twin of the pendant that rested against her bare skin. the nova star. hers shone openly, a symbol, a relic, a bond unspoken. his remained buried. secret.

“i do,” he said softly. “some things are not so easily lost.”

she looked at him then, deeply, intently, but without challenge. only a kind of tender recognition.

then, proper once more, she stepped back. “you have my eternal appreciation for coming. the security measures are appreciated.”

he straightened, his voice once again that of the jedi of the order. “we serve where needed. protecting you and the senator is our duty.”

only duty, he told himself.

vasharre nodded her head once again. “then i trust we shall not prove too troublesome to safeguard.”

obi-wan kenobi allowed another whisper of a smile.

and though nothing more was said, the force between them darkened, not with danger, not with fear, but with fate, with the unsaid.

with the understanding that two paths had interwoven once again.

and nothing would be quite the same.

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