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Chapter Text

Chapter 1: It's a trap

The bridge of the Death Star hung in perpetual twilight, its vast array of screens and terminals casting an eerie blue glow across the faces of the Imperial officers hunched over their stations. The ambient hum of the battle station's immense power core resonated through the durasteel floor, a constant reminder of the technological terror they commanded. In the hours following the destruction of Scarif, the crew worked with methodical precision, but the usual murmur of conversation was absent.

Well, it might also be her presence on the bridge that kept them silent.

Standing motionless at the forward viewport, a figure in black surveyed the stars. Darth Revaris—once Leia Skywalker—kept her gaze locked on the scarred world below. Scarif still smoldered, its surface marred by a vast, smoking crater where the Imperial facility had once stood. The single-reactor ignition test had erased the city-sized base in a flash of devastation, leaving behind only ruin and ash.

Her obsidian mask, sharp and angular, revealed the upper half of her face, golden eyes gleaming with cold calculation. The high collar of her tailored black tunic framed her features with austere precision, while her cape, lined in deep crimson silk, hung motionless despite the steady hum of artificial breeze from the ventilation system.

No one approached her. No one dared.

She had stood in that exact position for four hours and seventeen minutes, processing what she had witnessed. The Death Star's primary weapon had been tested before, but never in her presence, never on this scale. In the Force, she had felt it—thousands of lives extinguished in a heartbeat. Imperial troops, Rebel fighters, civilians caught in between. All gone when the base was obliterated. Not with individual screams but as one collective gasp that rippled through the Force like a shock wave.

It felt… intoxicating, the Dark Side filling her with unimaginable power. If this was what a few thousand deaths made her feel, she could only imagine how she would feel when Serrano would be destroyed. But she felt no joy from it, no pleasure from the thought of billions dying.

While her Master took pleasure in pain as a show of dominance, and Sidious reveled in suffering purely for its own sake, Leia did neither. She did not care for screaming, or fear, or the sound of bones breaking. Death, to her, was meaningless.

The Force did not end with death. It absorbed it. Transformed it. The Jedi had been right about that much: there is no death, there is the Force .

She simply took that belief to its logical conclusion.

When she kills, it is never personal. Never cruel. She doesn’t linger in the moment or savor the fear. Death was a tool, efficient, quiet when needed, spectacular when useful.

She considered herself a pacifist by Sith standards. She didn’t torture unless necessary. She didn’t gloat. She didn’t care.

People died. Plans moved forward. The Force remained.

Attachment, grief, mercy,  those were lies for people who still believed death mattered.

She didn’t.

Most of the galaxy believed her to be nothing more than a monster, a weapon of death and destruction, indulging in cruelty for its own sake. And for a time, they were right. For three years, she had become exactly that. That was the truth. The mask had come later. A layer of control over the chaos she had once fully embraced. A tool she wielded now with purpose, learned from Vader, but no longer for him.

The billions of deaths that will happen on Serenno have meaning.

For years, she had wondered how her older self had reached her, how such a vision had found her as a child, not just a simple Forcevision, but a message from herself across time and space. The sheer power required to send a message through time, even with the Dark Side, had seemed impossible.

Now, she understood. The deaths of billions,  their agony, their fear,  would echo through the Force just long enough to open the way. A single, precise moment of unimaginable power. Just enough to pierce the veil and ensure her younger self saw what needed to be seen.

Serenno was never just a target to spare Alderaan. It was calibration. A controlled detonation. A beacon to guide herself to this path.

It was necessary. A tool to be wielded. Nothing more.

This wasn’t about sentiment. Not about Alderaan. Not even about revenge. The path had to unfold exactly as it had. She had to make the same choices. Walk the same line.

Not to save one world, but to reshape all of them.

And what were the lives of a single planet compared to the fate of an entire galaxy?

What was her life, for that matter? Her soul? Her light?

If sacrifice was the cost of peace and order, then so be it. The Force did not mourn its instruments. It did not mourn her.

Neither would she.

At her wrist, a specialized datapad vibrated discreetly. Revaris angled her body slightly, shielding the device from view as she examined the incoming transmission. This was not Imperial communication, this was from her network. A web of informants, double agents, slicers, and mercenaries that she had meticulously assembled over the past year.

It had begun almost by accident. A year ago, she had spared the life of a cornered Bothan spy who, in gratitude, offered information rather than allegiance. She had kept his existence secret from Vader, using him not just as a source but as a test,  feeding him subtle orders, watching how they rippled through his network. When that experiment proved effective, she expanded. From that single thread, she wove a tapestry of informants and manipulated agents across the galaxy.

What began as an indulgence became strategy,  part of the war games she played on real worlds, steering crises from the shadows to test her theories on power, influence, and control.

She hadn’t built a network. She had scavenged one, broken fragments the Empire had abandoned over the years. Failed ISB projects. Decommissioned assets. Former slicers and pirates who'd once worked for Black Sun or Crimson Dawn. She didn’t need them to be loyal. She just needed them to be useful.

Many thought they were working for defecting admirals, ambitious Moffs, even Vader himself. In truth, they all answered to the same invisible hand,  hers.

With the Dark Side to sense fear and betrayal, with Imperial credentials to unlock buried channels, with Vader too distracted to watch the shadows, she didn’t need time. She only needed an opportunity.

And she had learned well. The Rebellion prized secrecy above all, compartmentalized cells, dead drops, false faces. She mirrored it. Perfected it. Turned their survival instinct into her weapon. No agent saw the whole thing. Few even knew what they were part of. A whisper here, a bribe there. A death threat in the right accent. She moved information like a predator stalks through fog, unseen, unchallenged, inevitable.

Now, her reach touched both Imperial and Rebel systems. Not loyalty. Not fear. Just influence,  the most dangerous kind.

The datapad displayed a terse update in encrypted Ubese:

"Hutt interference is escalating. Smuggling routes compromised. Local assets threatened. Bribes are no longer effective."

Revaris’s fingers tapped in silence. The Hutts had always been a nuisance, opportunistic parasites clinging to the edges of the galaxy’s wars. But now they were interfering with her operations, disrupting carefully placed informants and corrupting trade lanes she had manipulated into instability to further her goals.

Worse, they are distracting her now, when everything is on the line, she cannot afford any distractions.

She keyed in a response:

"Withdraw from the contested sector. Begin mapping syndicate leadership. Prioritize vulnerabilities. Prepare escalation options."

The Hutts thought they were untouchable.

When the time came, she would remind them that even slugs are nothing more than disgusting bugs.

Behind her, the turbolift doors slid open. Revaris did not turn, but she sensed the sharp, calculating presence before the clipped footsteps reached her ears. Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin, the Death Star's true commander, despite her Master rank. His Force signature was like a knife—precise, cold, utterly without compassion.

"Lady Revaris," he acknowledged with the barest inclination of his head. Standing beside her at the viewport, he clasped his hands behind his ramrod-straight back. "I trust you found our demonstration on Scarif... instructive."

She did not immediately respond. In her mind's eye, her vision unfolded, one she had seen repeatedly over the years. Tarkin, his sallow face twisted in rage as she countermanded his order to destroy Alderaan. His futile attempt to override her command. The momentary surprise in his eyes as her lightsaber ignited and cut his head off.

He's already dead, the Forcehas decided his fate.

"Grand Moff," she finally acknowledged, her vocoder transforming her naturally melodic voice into something mechanical and cold. "You must be proud. The weapon performed as specified. The Emperor will be pleased."

Tarkin's thin lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes. "Indeed. Director Krennic's incompetence has been addressed permanently, and the Rebellion has lost both the plans and their most effective strike team. I would call this a decisive victory."

Revaris turned her masked face toward him, a single raised eyebrow was all she allowed herself to show him her opinion. "Victory? Grand Moff. The true test awaits."

She had been tracking the events from the moment the rebel transmission began. She didn’t need to activate her informant network this time; the Empire’s communications were hers to command. Officers who served under her Master responded to her requests without hesitation, and her access to Imperial channels was unrestricted. Every report, every fragmented transmission, from Star Destroyer captains, ground commanders, and the shield gate station, flowed directly to her console.

The rebels had succeeded in their objective. Just before the Death Star’s superlaser turned Scarif’s data vault into a smoldering crater, a concentrated burst of technical readouts had been transmitted into orbit, caught by a fleeing Corellian corvette in the final moments before the tower fell.

She didn’t need confirmation from her own agents aboard the Devastator . She already knew her Master’s response. Vader had seized a shuttle and boarded the enemy ship personally, tearing through rebel defenders with such ferocity that even hardened stormtroopers spoke of it in hushed tones.

But not before one of the smaller vessels had slipped into hyperspace, the plans in hand, and her Master in pursuit. If her calculations were correct, they would be dropping out of hyperspace any minute now, and her master would seize the rebel ship carrying the stolen data.

"You sound like Lord Vader with his concerns," Tarkin said dismissively. "I assure you, with the Death Star operational, the Emperor need not worry about scattered resistance. Fear will keep the local systems in line."

Revaris returned her gaze to the stars. "Fear is a tool, not a solution."

"A philosophical difference we need not resolve today," Tarkin replied with thinly veiled impatience. "The Emperor has granted me full authority to deploy this station as needed to crush the Rebellion once and for all."

Her datapad vibrated again. A new message, this one forwarded from the Devastator 's onboard systems: "Diplomatic identification recovered during boarding. Name: Winter Retrac. Credentials: Princess of Alderaan."

So, her bait had been aboard after all. Hidden in plain sight under Alderaanian clearance, probably with the plans in hand. And now, if her master had done his part, she would soon have the girl exactly where she needed her.

This was the final confirmation she needed, the vision will happen soon, the last player from the bridge has arrived. Winter. The girl with snow-white hair and eidetic memory. The one who now held the title that should have been hers. When Vader had orchestrated a story that Rebel extremists had killed Leia Organa. The galaxy mourned the young princess, while Bail and Breha Organa, her adoptive parents, desperate to maintain Alderaan's political position and shield the Rebellion's secrets, had elevated Winter to the position of Princess of Alderaan.

For ten years, Winter had been Alderaan's princess, the only one the galaxy recognized. Leia Organa was believed long dead, while Winter had risen to become a diplomat, a senator's daughter, and a secret Rebel agent.

Yet Revaris felt no hatred toward Winter. Only a detached curiosity. In another life, they might still have been friends. Now, they were pieces on opposite sides of the board. And Winter had just moved directly into Revaris's trap.

Hatred was a waste of energy. She had burned through it long ago, used it up until there was nothing left but purpose. Only in rare, exceptional cases did anger stir in her now. The rest was cold discipline. She didn’t need to hate Winter. She didn’t need to hate anyone.

All that mattered was the plan.

And Winter was only one more step toward its completion.

She wondered if the Rebels truly understood just how many of their “secret” leaders the Empire had already identified. Bail and Breha Organa. Mon Mothma, now openly declared. General Dodonna. Draven. Even some of the senators were still pretending neutrality; their names were known, their movements tracked. The Rebellion wasn't hidden. It was tolerated, studied, and allowed to grow until it became large enough to crush in one decisive blow.

The emperor enjoyed that, letting hope grow, letting them think they are achieving something, just to crush it. He enjoyed savoring the desperation of someone who lost all hope.

But if her plan succeeded, it would be his undoing. The Rebellion was growing bolder, and if she could get the stolen plans into their hands, they might just destroy the Empire’s greatest weapon. That kind of blow wouldn’t just cost lives, it would shake the Emperor’s hold on the galaxy. Prove that his power could be challenged.

She hadn’t shared this part of her plan with her Master. He would have objected, of course. Vader despised the Rebellion almost as much as he despised the Emperor, and he couldn’t see the strategic value in using them as a blade against Sidious. He would have preferred to crush them outright, then turn his fury on the throne himself.

But she considered herself more practical than her Master, less theatrical. And she would use every weapon, every pawn, and every fragile alliance at her disposal to see her plan fulfilled.

A communications officer approached, his uniform immaculate but his forehead beaded with sweat. He stopped at a respectful distance, waiting to be acknowledged.

Revaris turned her head slightly. "Speak."

"My lady," the officer began, his voice admirably steady despite his obvious fear, "we've captured an Alderaanian diplomatic vessel in the Arkanis system. It fled the battle over Scarif. Lord Vader personally led the boarding party and apprehended one of the rebels onboard."

"The ship's mission?" she inquired, already knowing the answer.

"The vessel claimed to be on a diplomatic mission from Alderaan, but Lord Vader was convinced it received the transmitted plans from the rebels on the ground."

Tarkin interjected, "This may be the opportunity we need. An Alderaanian royal vessel caught in an act of espionage gives us leverage against Senator Organa and his sympathizers."

He glanced toward her, perhaps expecting amusement or approval, or some flicker of emotion.

Leia gave none.

She remained motionless, her expression unreadable. But inside, the name struck a familiar chord. Bail Organa. Her father. The man who used to tuck her in at night with old Alderaanian lullabies. Who once carried her asleep from the speeder to the palace. Who held her hand too tightly when he saw the monster beneath the surface, because she is sure of that now.

He knew what she was capable of becoming, and maybe, if she had remained there, he would have managed to stop it.

She remembered him clearly.

But whatever emotions the name once stirred were dulled now, distant echoes buried beneath years of darkness. It no longer mattered to her plans, in fact, sentiment might only obstruct them. It was better this way. Better that any lingering feelings for her adoptive parents had long since faded.

She let the silence stretch, offering Tarkin nothing. He could interpret it however he liked.

Finally, she asked, "The plans?"

"Not found aboard, my lady. Lord Vader believes they may have been hidden in an escape pod jettisoned to the planet below."

"Tatooine," she said flatly.

The officer blinked in surprise. "Y-yes, my lady. How did you—"

"The Force reveals much," she cut him off, a convenient explanation that prevented further questions. Arkanis system, there were not many plants of important there. "Were there life forms aboard the pod?"

"No, my lady. Imperial forces have already been dispatched to locate it."

Revaris nodded once, dismissing him. The officer retreated, visibly relieved to escape her presence.

She would have preferred the plans to be captured with Winter. That would have simplified matters, made it far easier to ensure they reached the Rebellion. But she could work with this.

The silence that followed was taut with anticipation. Tarkin clasped his hands behind his back, his expression unreadable as he studied the tactical display. She remained motionless at his side, unreadable in turn. No one spoke. No one dared.

The minutes dragged on. On the holomap, star systems shifted slowly, tracking hyperspace jumps and rebel fleet dispersals. The tension clung to the air like ozone before a storm.

Eventually, Tarkin broke the silence with the edge of a smirk. “You seem particularly invested in this incident, my lady.”

"All pieces must be accounted for," she replied, voice flat, eyes still on the map. "Every one of them matters."

Tarkin's eyes narrowed at her choice of words, but he said nothing more.

Another officer approached, this one more hesitant than the last, sweat beading at his brow. “Lady Revaris, we’ve received preliminary confirmation from ground forces on Tatooine. They believe the escape pod carried two droids. They haven’t yet been found, but local patrols have begun search operations, following standard containment protocols.”

She didn’t blink.

Droids. Of course it would be droids.

"Override standard search protocols," she commanded. "Have agents monitor all major spaceports on Tatooine. Observe only. Do not intervene."

The officer hesitated. "But my lady, standard procedure dictates immediate seizure of—"

"You question my orders?"The lights on the bridge flickered violently as a sharp current of crackling electricity snapped across Leia’s fingertips. She did not choke people like her master; a simple flare of electricity made most people obey her.

"N-no, my lady! I'll relay your instructions immediately." He hurried away.

Tarkin raised an eyebrow. "A curious approach. May I ask why you prefer observation to direct action?"

Revaris turned to face him fully. "When hunting womp rats, Grand Moff, do you spring the trap at the first hole, or do you wait until they lead you to the nest?"

A thin smile crossed Tarkin's face. "I defer to your expertise in such matters, Lady Revaris."

Another message flashed on her datapad: "Vader en route to the Death Star, planning on questioning the prisoner himself."

So her master is going after her… adopted sister. The Force was drawing all the key players to the stage, and soon her vision would unfold. Curious that Tatooine was a part of this. Tatooine held significance in the force, some unexplained power that kept drawing everyone into its path. Her father's home world, and, if the last few minutes revealed the information she believed it did, was her greatest target hiding place.

Who else would the Princess of Alderaan entrust with something so vital? Who would the royal family place their faith in above all others? Kenobi. He was there, of that, she had no doubt.

If she had to guess, Winter’s original mission had been to retrieve him. With the Death Star now in play, the Rebellion would answer its power with its strongest piece. And who better than a Jedi? A legendary general of the Clone Wars?

The time for watching was nearly over.

"If there's nothing else, Grand Moff," she said, "I have matters to attend to."

“By all means,” Tarkin said, his voice smooth and precise, each syllable honed like the edge of a scalpel. “Though I thought it only proper to inform you, Lord Vader’s boarding party recovered a prisoner from the rebel vessel. An Alderaanian diplomat, carrying royal credentials. Princess Leia, was it? No… forgive me. That name must belong to someone else.”

He let the pause stretch, a deliberate cruelty in the stillness.

"Of course, the real Princess Organa perished years ago. This one… she’s the substitute, isn’t she? What was her name again? Winter. Loyal to her House. Raised in its image. Young, elegant, quite the improvement, I heard the last one was… difficult. Mouthy. With a tendency toward defiance."

He turned to face Revaris fully, hands folded behind his back. "I plan to question her personally later. Would you care to join me, my Lady? I imagine it will be… illuminating."

They both understood what he was saying, that he knew who she really was. That he had uncovered the secret Vader had tried so carefully to bury. But like so many others, he had fallen for the trap: the lie that twisted the truth of the Organas, using them as a mask to hide something far more dangerous.

That she was a Skywalker.

"I'm sure your interrogation techniques will be… enlightening," she said. The vocoder flattened the subtle venom beneath her words, but the meaning was there if he cared to hear it. "Regrettably, I have better things to do than watch you posture over a restrained teenager."

"We shall see," Tarkin replied confidently.

Yes, we shall, she thought as she strode from the bridge, her cape billowing behind her. Soon enough, Tarkin would learn the price of underestimating Darth Revaris.

The quarters that Darth Revaris was assigned aboard the Death Star were functional. No art adorned the walls. No comforts softened the hard lines of Imperial design. The space existed for purpose, not pleasure, a reflection of its occupant. The only feature that signified her status was the sole viewport in the wall, a rare commodity onboard the giant station.

Outside, the only view was of the blue-white light of hyperspace. She stood at the viewport, watching the streaking stars. Golden eyes, cold and calculating, reflected the distant pinpricks of light. She knew where they were heading: Alderaan. Tarkin's attempt at making Winter talk.

Curious whether her vision had spoken the truth about Dantooine, she had dispatched spies over the past year to investigate. Both she and Winter had named the planet during interrogation, details pulled from those haunting glimpses of possible futures. The findings were predictable. While Dantooine had once housed rebel outposts, they were long abandoned. A decoy. Likely a contingency the Rebellion had crafted in case of capture, a remote, plausible location the Empire would waste time verifying. Clever. By the time the deception unraveled, the prisoners would either be dead… or free.

Her comlink chimed. She didn't need to check the identifier to know who it was. This was a sound that was saved for her Master.

"Master," she acknowledged, her voice emotionless.

"Explain yourself, apprentice." Vader's mechanical baritone carried clear displeasure even through the comlink. "You countermanded my direct orders regarding the droids."

She didn't flinch. Ten years under Vader's tutelage had taught her that showing weakness only invited pain. "The search parameters were inefficient, Master. It will be a waste of manpower to comb Tatooine's endless deserts, with minimal chance of success."

She wondered if her master truly believed this method would work, or if he simply took some grim satisfaction in sending stormtroopers to suffer under Tatooine’s twin suns.

"That is not for you to decide," Vader's breathing punctuated his words with mechanical precision.

"Observation of the spaceports provides tactical advantages," she continued smoothly.
"There are limited ways off Tatooine. The droids and their companions must eventually attempt to secure transport. When they do, we will know not only their location but who they are."

A moment of silence stretched between them, filled only by the rhythmic sound of Vader's respirator.

"Your reasoning is... logical," he finally conceded, though his tone suggested he was not entirely appeased. "But do not forget your place, my apprentice. Next time, consult me before altering my commands."

How he enjoyed reminding her of her place, like a parent lecturing a rebellious child.

"Yes, Master."

The communication ended. Leia allowed herself a small smile beneath her mask. Small victories. Each one a step toward the future she had glimpsed.

Her Master's methods would have ensured the Rebels knew they were suspected,  that the Empire believed the plans had been smuggled out with the droids. But that was unnecessary. It was better to let them believe they had succeeded, to think they had fooled the Empire. She preferred to catch them unguarded, drunk on false victory.

Maybe she is a bit more like Sidious than she realized.

She almost wished she could be there herself, to make sure everything was going according to plan, and if she was right and Kenobi was there…

But she needn't worry, he would come right to her, she does not need to chase after him, just like she told her master.

And she had… prior engagements.

After that, she tried to keep her mind occupied, reading reports from both her network and standard Imperial intelligence. Every second brought her closer to the same vision.

The Dark Side offered no comfort, seeming content to watch her anxiety rise with each passing minute.

A day passed in silence before she moved again.

The turbolift hummed as it descended toward the detention level of the Death Star. Darth Revaris stood motionless inside, hands clasped behind her back, the hiss of the doors the only sound that greeted her arrival.

The facility was as cold and sterile as ever, a labyrinth of durasteel and reinforced cells, designed not just to contain, but to erode. Her boots struck the floor with unhurried precision as she passed through shadowed halls, stormtroopers snapping to attention at her presence.

Today, she will visit her sister.

Darth Revaris stepped out, her boots striking the durasteel floor with purpose. Stormtroopers lining the corridor snapped to attention as she passed, their rigid silence a testament to the fear her presence commanded.

"Cell block AA-23," she commanded the officer in charge, her vocoder giving the words a mechanical flatness that became her signature, much like her master.

"Yes, my lady," the detention officer responded, handing her a datapad. "The prisoner's file, as requested."

Leia took the datapad without acknowledgment and moved to a quiet alcove away from curious ears. The file was extensive, surveillance recordings, medical readings, interrogation transcripts. She scrolled through them methodically, her golden eyes narrowing in displeasure.

Both Vader and Tarkin had attempted to extract the location of the Rebel bases from Winter. Both had failed, though for very different reasons.

The footage from Vader's interrogation was particularly revealing. Her master had barely asked any substantive questions. Instead, he had circled Winter like a predator, probing at her mind with the Force, inflicting pain seemingly for its own sake. His rage was palpable even through the recording, a cold, focused hatred directed not at Winter herself, but at what she represented.

Revaris understood. To Vader, Winter was a symbol of the Organas, the family that had hidden her, that had tried to conceal his prize from him. Every time he looked at Winter, he saw Bail and Breha Organa's deception. His actions weren't interrogation; they were retribution.

Tarkin's approach had been more calculated, but no more effective. He had employed an IT-O interrogation droid, a floating black sphere bristling with implements designed to stimulate every pain receptor in the human body. Yet the recordings showed a curious restraint in the droid's programming. It administered just enough pain to make Winter scream, but never enough to break her.

Revaris's lips curled into a knowing smile beneath her mask. Of course. Tarkin wanted to fail. The Grand Moff was too intelligent to believe that pain alone would extract information from someone with Winter's training. His "failure" gave him the perfect excuse to escalate, to threaten Alderaan itself. The interrogation was theater, setting the stage for his true leverage.

Neither man had truly tried to break Winter. They each had their own agendas that superseded the actual mission of locating the Rebel base.

Leia reached the high-security cell where Winter was being held. She stood outside the door for a long moment, hand hovering over the control panel. Through the Force, she could sense the prisoner inside, exhausted, in pain, but her resolve unbroken. Winter's mind was a fortress, her famous eidetic memory now serving as both her greatest asset and her heaviest burden. She remembered every moment of pain with perfect clarity, yet remained steadfast.

It was like standing in a giant library, almost impossible to find the right book without help, an impressive barrier for a non-force-sensitive.

There was something admirable in that, Leia admitted to herself. In another life, they might have been allies, sisters, even, raised together in the palace on Alderaan.

She lowered her hand from the control panel. There was no point in going inside. Winter would reveal nothing to her that she hadn't already withheld from Vader and Tarkin. And Revaris had no desire to engage in the performative cruelty her master so enjoyed. Pain had its uses, but it was a crude instrument at best.

Instead, she turned to a nearby lieutenant.

"Have proper food and water sent to the prisoner," she ordered.

The lieutenant blinked in surprise. "My lady?"

"Not rations. Not prisoner fare. Actual food. Clean water. Sufficient quantities."

"But Grand Moff Tarkin specifically ordered—"

"Are you questioning my directive, Lieutenant?" Her voice stayed even, but irritation coiled beneath it. The lights in the cell block flickered; she was sure Winter could also feel it.

"N-no, my lady!" The man paled. "It will be done at once."

"See that it is." Revaris turned away, her cape billowing behind her as she strode back toward the turbolift.

It wasn’t compassion that drove her, or so she told herself. It was strategy. Winter needed to be strong, alert, and intact. Leia had orchestrated everything so that when the moment came, Winter would be the one to escape with the plans. That meant she had to endure. Not just survive, endure.

And if Kenobi was coming to rescue her precious bait, then Winter needed to be alive to be rescued.

Besides, Leia thought as the turbolift doors slid shut behind her, if Winter was playing the part of the Princess of Alderaan, she deserved to meet this moment with dignity. Even if she might not survive it. Leia had no plans to kill her, but her Master most certainly did.

A quiet mercy, offered from one royal daughter to another. One no one aboard this station would ever recognize.

Not even herself.

Hours later, as she returned to her chamber, her datapad chimed with an incoming transmission. Encrypted. Priority channel. Tatooine.

Her gloved fingers moved swiftly across the device, decoding the message. The report was concise but specific:

"Surveillance operation update: Target droids located in Mos Eisley. C-3PO protocol unit, gold plating, and R2-D2 astromech, blue and white. Accompanied by two humans. First subject: elderly male, approximately 70-75 standard years, wearing sand-colored robes. Second subject: young male, approximately 19-20 standard years, blond hair, wearing moisture farmer attire. Subjects are attempting to secure transport off-world. Request permission to apprehend."

The report included a grainy holographic image, captured from a surveillance droid at long range.

Something cold and sharp twisted inside her chest. Those droids. She recognizes them. They were her s.

For the first time in years, since the Dark Side had dulled her senses into something cold and distant, Darth Revaris felt something sharp and startling break through the haze. Not the ravenous fury she once wielded in battle, nor the hollow precision she’d since mastered, but something smaller. Stranger. A flicker of personal offense. Almost childish indignation, raw and unfiltered. It caught her off guard.

C-3PO and R2-D2. They had been hers . Gifts from her father—from Bail—on her third birthday. Before Vader. Before everything changed.

She can still remember their first meeting, R2 had shocked her.

It’s an older memory, a bit fuzzy, a tiny blur of navy silk at her own birthday celebration. She’d been trying to climb into the astromech’s dome, convinced he was a secret mechanical pony. R2 had zapped her playfully in protest, and she'd burst into delighted giggles. Bail had swooped her up in his arms, laughing with her as she declared, “He’s funny! He talks sparks!”

Even Threepio had seemed scandalized. “Princess Leia, I must object—R2 is not a toy!”

Bail had patted R2’s dome fondly, then leaned in with mock sternness. “No more shocking the Princess. That’s an order.”

And R2, clever, sarcastic R2, had let out a mournful beep that sounded almost like a sigh.

She’d laughed again, louder this time, and hugged his metal chassis with all the strength her little arms could manage.

She’d loved them both so fiercely. More than most people. More than most things.

She had lost her name. Her parents. Her life. Her claim to Alderaan. And now Winter has taken the droids too? How much more are they going to take from her?

The datapad cracked in her grip, a spiderweb of fractures blossoming across its surface. Revaris inhaled slowly, forcing control back into her limbs. Emotional outbursts were beneath her, weakness unbecoming of a Sith. She was no tantrum-prone child.

If she wanted the droids, she would have them. There was no reason her Master would deny her, especially not now.

She studied the image again, focusing on the elderly man. Though the quality was poor, she recognized him instantly.

"Kenobi," she whispered.

Of course the stormtroopers wouldn’t recognize him. To them, he was a ghost, a legend from a bygone era. But she knew.

She knew the hooded figure from her worst memories: Reva chasing them across the galaxy, her own feet bloodied and burning from running too long, too fast. She remembered his voice, calm, gentle, false , feeding her sweet lies about her parents. As if he didn’t know who her father was.

As if he hadn’t served beside him.

As if he hadn’t been his master .

As if he wasn't the closest thing she’d ever had to a living relative from her father's side— and he left her. Abandoned her to Vader. To the chip. To the dark.

She still remembers thinking he would save her at the start, that he would never abandon her to the inquisitors, to Vader. How wrong she had been, how naive, how pathetic.

Leia didn’t carry a long list of names she’d sworn to kill. But Obi-Wan Kenobi was at the top.
Right next to her Master.

She had known he lived since her master had revealed it about a year ago... Vader's obsession with finding him had been too personal, too consuming to be merely about eliminating the last of the Jedi Order. She wondered why, what had happened between them? Was this another obsession he carried from hating her father, or was there something more personal there?

Her eyes drifted to the second figure in the image. The boy. Just a local, according to the report. Blond hair, simple clothes, unremarkable features. And yet...

Something stirred in the Force. Faint but insistent, like a thread pulling taut across vast distances. This boy mattered, somehow. The Force whispered it, though she couldn't understand why.

He was almost familiar. As if she were looking into a distorted mirror, seeing echoes of something that should be impossible. Something inside of her wanted to touch her own face, as if she were wearing the wrong ones. She pressed her fingers to her temple. Why did looking at him feel like remembering a dream she'd never had?

She studied his features more carefully. The shape of his eyes. The set of his jaw when he smiled. There was something in the way he held himself, confident despite his youth, stubborn in a way that seemed achingly familiar. Where had she seen that expression before? No, this was just some moisture farmer's son. The familiarity had to be a coincidence. The Force is playing tricks on a mind.

“So,” she whispered to herself, “the old man found himself a new padawan.”

That thought changed her rage into something sharper, more focused.
Of course, Kenobi would try to rebuild the Jedi. Of course, he would take on a new student.

While she had been abandoned to Vader's mercy. Left to the Sith.

But it was more than betrayal. It was mockery.

Kenobi had failed Anakin Skywalker ,  the Jedi’s chosen one, the one they whispered was destined for greatness. Anakin had died to Vader during the Jedi purge.
She knew her father trusted Kenobi. Fought beside him. Was raised by him.

And what had Kenobi done?

He left him to die .

Vanished into the sand and silence, not to fight, not to resist,  but to wait .

And now here he was again, dragging another boy into the light. A replacement.

A replacement for Anakin.

And from Tatooine, no less.

Leia felt something twist in her chest,  a sickening knot of fury and disbelief. Kenobi had hidden on Anakin's homeworld. Her father’s planet. Lurking in its shadows, watching the stars, waiting for a child he could mold. How dare he?

He hadn’t tried to avenge Anakin. Hadn’t even tried to remember him.

He’d just chosen another Tatooine-born boy and started again.

Her golden eyes narrowed as she committed the farm boy’s face to memory.

A child raised in the sand, dragged into the war like so many others. A nobody, being groomed to become a Jedi.

How poetic.
How infuriating.

She would kill him herself. Preferably in front of Kenobi, before she dealt with the old Jedi. Let him watch his new hope die. Let him see exactly what came from abandoning the Skywalkers.

She almost felt sorry for the boy, dragged into a war he had no part in. If Kenobi had shown any mercy, he would have left him on Tatooine, hidden, untouched by the Force. The Empire never reached that far. He could have lived an ordinary life, unnoticed, untouched by the Empire’s wrath.

“Your new apprentice will never become a Jedi,” she promised the image of Kenobi. “His training ends now.”

She composed a response on a second datapad:

"Continue surveillance only. Do not engage. Do not intervene. Report destination once secured. Put a tracking chip on the ship they are leaving with."

The squad would be confused by her restraint, but it didn't matter. Let them assume whatever they liked. There was only one place Kenobi would go with those droids, Alderaan. And the Death Star was already en route.

The stormtroopers stood no chance against a veteran of the Clone Wars. All they would accomplish was alerting Kenobi that the Empire was on his trail.

She moved to a small meditation chamber in the corner of the room. She knelt on the hard surface, seeking clarity in the Dark Side.

The Force stirred around her, heavy with portent. The boy's face appeared in her mind again. Who was he? Why did the Force connect him to her path? She filed the question away, unreadable even to herself.

All the pieces were moving into position, just as she had foreseen. Kenobi. The droids. Winter. Vader. Tarkin. The Death Star.

But she wasn’t finished. The trap was still incomplete.

Alderaan was the key.

Not as a destination, that part was too obvious. It was the illusion of Alderaan that mattered. The expected. The familiar. Where Kenobi would take the droids, with the boy, where the Rebellion would expect to receive the stolen plans. That path had to remain open long enough for them to commit to it.

And then it had to close.

She had begun preparations months ago, long before Scariff and Tarkin's plan for Aldaraan. Quietly. Carefully.

A series of anonymous reports passed through Imperial Security Bureau channels, fragmented intelligence from her own network, traced back to “loyal” informants in the Alderaanian diplomatic corps. Hints of Rebel sympathizers. Evidence of encrypted offworld transmissions. Routine smuggling logs distorted just enough to suggest collusion. Alone, they meant nothing. Together, they painted a picture of a world quietly aiding the Rebellion.

She never named Winter. Never mentioned the Royal family. That would raise questions. Instead, she focused the reports on the planet itself, on the senatorial staff, on traffic patterns, on missing manifests. Paper trails built from fabricated truths.

By the time Scarif fell, the ISB already had a file on Alderaan the size of a datapad. And all she had to do was nudge it upward.

She requested the Executor’s escort to Alderaan under the pretext of “preemptive containment.” Not aggression,  just oversight. She made it sound cautious, professional. Vader approved it with little more than a grunt. Tarkin didn’t even look up from his reports. They had bigger targets in mind.

Let them.

Two Star Destroyers and the Executor would arrive in orbit hours before they would. They will establish a perimeter, scan all traffic, and broadcast warnings to approaching vessels: Alderaan is under temporary investigation by Imperial authority. Planetary blockade in progress.

That will also ensure no messages will arrive from Aldaraan for Kenobi. She needs him panicking, she needs him feeling like Aldarran is exposed, as if the royal family is in danger.

And then she let one more piece slip. Just one.

Before they leave for Serrano, she will send a single. A falsified order, carefully crafted, allowed to “leak” across the wrong channels, an execution schedule for a captured Alderaanian agent, held aboard the Death Star, with Serenno listed as its location. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t supposed to be. It was bait.

She could already see how it would play out.

They would arrive. See the blockade. Hear the message. Kenobi would hesitate, then act. The boy would have to join him. They’d change course. Divert.

Kenobi was a Jedi, and there was one sure way to catch a Jedi. Compassion, duty.

He had already failed to protect one Alderaanian princess from Vader. Surely, he would not let the second slip away. Compassion was such a predictable weakness.

Straight into her trap.

It was almost poetic, recycling the same strategy Reva had once used to lure Kenobi out of hiding. Back then, Leia had been the bait, a frightened child in Imperial hands. Now the roles had reversed, and she was the one pulling the strings. A captured princess. A ticking clock. A carefully planted trail.

Of course, that wasn’t the trap’s main design. The true purpose had always been Winter: give her just enough of a chance to escape with the Death Star plans, to fall into the Rebellion’s waiting arms. But if the same trap happened to draw out Kenobi as well, if it presented Leia with the opportunity to finish what her master had never truly completed, then so much the better.

It was a fortunate complication. A welcome one.

She opened her eyes. The Dark Side swelled around her like a tide pulled by the gravity of inevitability.

They would never reach Alderaan.

They would come to Serenno.

They will come for Winter.

And she will kill them.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Villain

Leia felt the Death Star drop out of hyperspace as the station arrived at its destination. Through her small viewport, she could see Alderaan. Strange, she thought she was supposed to feel something. This was the first time she had seen home in ten years, but there was nothing. The Dark Side guided her now, and it cared not for sentiment or longing. She had become the same.

She took a deep breath. The time had come. For years, this moment had haunted her for all the wrong reasons, but now she would face it. Now she would ensure everything went according to plan.

Revaris rose with fluid grace, the black fabric of her robes settling around her like liquid shadow. The weight of her lightsaber hung at her hip, a reassuring presence, a reminder of what she had become to save the galaxy from itself. Today, she would take the first step toward that salvation.

She had seen this day twice before, first as a child in the forests of Takodana, then again as a teenager on Malachor. Each vision had revealed another layer of truth, another glimpse of the path she would walk. The destruction of Alderaan. The death of everything she had once held dear. Or embrace the dark side, and see Serenno burn instead.

Now she wasn't just witnessing it. She was living it.

"My lady," a voice called from beyond the door. "Grand Moff Tarkin and Lord Vader request your presence on the command deck."

Revaris allowed herself a thin smile. "Inform them I am on my way."

She took one last glance at her homeworld, letting herself sink into the Force for just a moment, feeling the billions of lives currently thriving there. She could sense them, little specks of light in the Force, all depending on her.

As she strode through the corridors, stormtroopers and officers alike stepped aside, their fear rippling through the Force like waves. None met her eyes directly. None dared. The apprentice of Darth Vader commanded respect through terror, a monster the Empire unleashed on its worst enemies.

When the turbolift doors opened onto the command deck, she found Tarkin exactly as expected, standing before the viewport, hands clasped behind his back, gazing at the green-blue jewel of Alderaan with clinical detachment. Beside him towered the black silhouette of Darth Vader, his mechanical breathing marking time like a metronome.

"Lady Revaris," Tarkin said without turning. "We've been waiting."

"Grand Moff." Her voice was calm, controlled, even through the mask that distorted it. She inclined her head slightly toward Vader. "Master."

"I understand we're preparing for a demonstration," she continued, feeling the weight of destiny pressing down upon her. Soon, every word will be one she heard in her visions. Every response was predetermined. The script was written; she merely had to play her part.

Vader remained silent, his respirator cutting through the charged atmosphere of the command deck with steady rhythm. His presence in the Force was a cold void, massive and unyielding, yet somehow comforting in its familiarity.

Tarkin's pride swelled through the Force, suffocating and blinding. "Indeed. The most significant demonstration of Imperial might in the galaxy's history."

She could feel her Master's displeasure. He loathed the Death Star, believing it to be an insult to the Force itself. She agreed, the station felt like an open wound in the Force, bleeding and festering. She hoped it would be gone soon. If the Rebellion wouldn't destroy it, then it would be her first act as Empress.

"And you've chosen Alderaan as the target." Not a question. A statement. She moved to stand beside Vader, her hands clasped behind her back in unconscious mimicry of her master.

Tarkin turned, one eyebrow arched. “Is that disapproval I hear? The Emperor himself sanctioned this operation.”

He knew exactly who she was, and he wanted to gloat. To remind her that he stood above her, that he held the power to destroy her homeworld with a single order.

It might have been more effective if she still cared about Alderaan. But by now, it was just a tool, nothing more.

“The Emperor sanctioned a demonstration. He did not specify the target.”

Was there any point in arguing? Hardly. And truth be told, she didn’t even believe Sidious had authorized the destruction of a Core World. This was Tarkin playing Emperor, overreaching, pretending he had the final word.

Maybe he believed it. Maybe he thought he mattered.

Let him. He’d be dead soon anyway.

Tarkin’s thin lips curved into a smile. “Alderaan has long harbored Rebel sympathies. Our intelligence—”

The intelligence she had fabricated to set her trap. She might have felt guilty, if she didn’t know that Tarkin would’ve targeted Alderaan regardless. It wasn’t like she had made the situation any worse.

“—indicates significant Rebel activity. The princess herself—”

"Is merely a pawn," she completed. "And is currently being brought to us."

As if summoned by her words, the door slid open. Winter was led in between two stormtroopers, wrists bound. Leia felt a flicker of something, not quite regret, not quite nostalgia, at the sight of her cousin in flowing white robes that, in another life, might have been hers.

The rational part of her noted that she ought to feel something. Anger at being replaced? Longing for a friend lost to time? Anticipation for the confrontation ahead?

Nothing.

Winter’s eyes widened at the sight of Revaris, just for a moment, before narrowing with grim recognition. Through the Force, Leia felt her cousin’s horror ripple outward, sharp and immediate, like ice driven into a vein. Not fear of death. Not even fear for herself.

Something deeper. Recognition. Disbelief.

"You..." Winter whispered, her voice hoarse from hours of torture and restraint. She straightened despite the pain, refusing to shrink back.

With Winter’s arrival, so too came another presence, smaller, fainter, but unmistakably familiar. A younger self, lingering at the edge of perception like a ghost pressed between time and memory. Light, afraid… watching.

For the child, this would be the first time witnessing this moment fully. The first time seeing what she would become.

And the moment that would send her down the path of Revaris.

"Governor Tarkin," Winter said, her voice steady despite the undercurrent of fear, "I should have expected to find you holding Vader’s leash. I recognized your foul stench when I was brought on board."

Revaris stood beside her Master, silent, letting the scene unfold. Letting Winter play the role of the brave rebel princess. For a heartbeat, she let herself remember her own confrontation, one that never happened in this timeline, not truly. Only in a vision. And now, that phantom memory layered itself over the present like a mirage. An unsettling double vision.

Tarkin stepped forward with a satisfied smile. “Charming to the last. You don’t know how hard I found it, signing the order to terminate your life.”

She watched, detached yet focused, feeling the subtle eddies in the Force as the tension mounted. Vader’s attention flickered toward her, probing, inquisitive. He sensed her anticipation, her intense focus on the moment. But not the reason. He did not feel the ghost of her younger self, still watching quietly at the edge of the scene.

Was the Force orchestrating this? she wondered. Was it mere coincidence that Winter spoke the same words she once had? That Tarkin responded with identical cruelty? That Winter wore the same white robes that once would have been hers?

The symmetry was too exact.

Was this the will of the Force? Or something deeper, destiny folding in on itself, repeating certain words, certain moments, certain choices, no matter how many timelines were carved apart?

The same lines. The same threats. The same futile hope that naming Dantooine would spare Alderaan. It played out like a scene from a holodrama she’d already seen, one where she knew the ending.

"There," Tarkin said with satisfaction. "You see, Lord Vader? She can be reasonable." He turned to the weapons officer. "Continue with the operation. You may fire when ready."

Her younger self needed to see this, not because this was the way to save Alderaan, but because this would ensure she would grow to become Revaris, to become the darkness that would finally bring peace to this galaxy through calculated ruthlessness, not sentiment.

The weight of this moment pressed against her chest. She could feel the path stretching before her, forking and branching. The visions had shown her fragments, but not the whole. She had to trust in her own judgment now. Trust that the darkness would lead to light. Trust that the price, Serenno, its people, her own humanity, was worth paying.

Trust in the Force.

"Belay that order," she commanded, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. She could feel her, the presence in the Force that had watched them from the start, now filled with grief and denial. Her younger self, witnessing the moment of choice.

All eyes turned to her. She could feel their surprise, their shock at her audacity. Tarkin's face flushed with anger. Vader's presence in the Force shifted slightly, curious, calculating, but not intervening.

The fear in the room tasted sweet against her senses. Years as Vader's apprentice had taught her to savor that particular flavor, the sharp, metallic edge of terror from beings who knew their lives could end at her whim. Power. Real power. Not the illusion of authority she would have had as a princess, but the true capacity to reshape reality according to her will.

"Grand Moff Tarkin," she continued, her voice cold and commanding, "you would be wise to reconsider your target."

Tarkin's outrage flared in the Force, a hot spike of indignation and wounded pride. "Lord Vader, control your apprentice. This demonstration was sanctioned by the Emperor himself."

Vader remained silent, his mechanical breathing unchanged, his attention fixed on Revaris. The weight of his scrutiny pressed against her mind, and she let him in, not all the way, but enough to see she had nothing to hide, at least not from him. Her loyalty to the dark side was absolute, her reasons for intervention purely strategic. Sentiment had no place in her calculations.

"The Emperor authorized a demonstration, not the destruction of Alderaan." She stared Tarkin down, unmoved by his fury. "Alderaan's resources are valuable to the Empire. It's destruction would be... wasteful."

“And on whose authority do you countermand my orders?” Tarkin snarled.

Revaris smiled beneath her mask, cold, predatory. They couldn't see it, but her eyes would be enough. Let them see her amusement at his presumption.

“On the authority of one who answers only to Lord Vader and the Emperor,” she said, voice like steel.

“I have a better target. Alderaan is loyal. It will be spared.”

She could feel her younger self's hope rising, the naive belief that this was an act of mercy, of love for their homeworld.

One small belief, that will lead to her falling.

It was almost amusing how easily her younger self was being manipulated, how she didn't know that to bring her to this moment from the future, billions would need to die, their deaths paving the path to this precise instant.

"Loyal?" Tarkin stepped forward. "Their princess was caught aiding the Rebellion! You forget your place, apprentice."

Revaris glanced at Winter, her replacement, her cousin, then back to Tarkin. She felt nothing. No connection. No sentiment. Winter was a tool, just as Alderaan was. Useful. Necessary. But ultimately expendable if  did not serve her purpose.

And Winter had served her purpose perfectly. She could feel the hurt of her younger self, remembering that this woman was her replacement.

She knew what must be done now.

Her lightsaber ignited with a crimson hiss. Three years of visions had led to this single moment, watching Tarkin's smug certainty, his casual dismissal of her authority, his assumption that she was merely Vader's leashed apprentice.

The blade swept through his neck in one perfect arc, ending years of anticipation in a heartbeat. His head separated from his shoulders with surgical precision, the shocked expression frozen on his face as his body crumpled.

Finally, the satisfaction was immediate and complete. No more condescending smiles. No more challenges to her authority. No more listening to this man who thought himself greater than the Force itself.

The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the dull thud of Tarkin's body hitting the deck. His head rolled to rest against a console base, eyes still wide with the surprise of his final moment.

"Alderaan is a peaceful planet," she said into the stunned quiet, her voice carrying no trace of the savage pleasure she felt. "A single misguided teenager does not speak for an entire world."

She turned toward Vader, whose silence now carried weight. The officers on the bridge stared, horrified, awaiting the Dark Lord's reaction. Would he strike her down for this insubordination? For killing an Imperial Grand Moff?

But Vader remained still. They both knew he could have stopped her with little effort, but he didn't. Why would he? Tarkin was a nuisance, and this way her Master could save face before the Emperor.

"In less than a month, we will mark the twentieth anniversary of the Clone Wars' end," she continued, her voice steady and calculating. "A perfect opportunity to remind the galaxy of the price of rebellion."

She addressed the officers, who stared at her with a mixture of fear and awe. "Set course for Serenno. Count Dooku's homeworld remains a symbol of Separatist ideology. Its destruction will serve as a much more effective reminder of Imperial power."

The officers exchanged uncertain glances. Serenno. The name carried weight, the homeworld of Count Dooku, the symbol of aristocratic betrayal.

No one moved. All eyes shifted to Vader, but just like in the vision, he remained silent.

After a moment's hesitation, one officer turned to his console. "Adjusting targeting coordinates. Preparing for hyperspace jump."

The presence of her younger self faded. She would return when they arrived at Serenno. She would witness the truth she needed to see: that only the dark side could save her planet, and she would fall. Just as Revaris had fallen. Just as she had been designed to fall.

A curious emptiness followed the girl's departure. For three years, Revaris had lived with the knowledge of this moment, with the certainty that her younger self would witness her choices. Now that part of the cycle was complete.

"Take her to detention," Revaris ordered, gesturing to Winter. "I will deal with her myself."

As the stormtroopers led Winter away, Revaris felt Vader's presence looming beside her.

"Follow me, Revaris," even with the vocoder draining his voice of emotion, she knew this tone, he was not upset at her, but… she should tread lightly.

Revaris nodded, following her master into the adjacent tactical room. As the door sealed behind them, cutting off the bustling activity of the bridge, she felt the weight of his focus upon her.

“The Emperor will not be pleased,” Vader began. “Tarkin was valuable to him.”

Revaris removed her lightsaber from her belt, turning it slowly in her hand with casual indifference. “Tarkin was a fool. His obsession with Alderaan would have cost us a valuable resource.”

She glanced up, meeting her Master’s masked gaze. “Besides, he was overstepping, defying the Emperor’s directive. The demonstration was authorized, yes. But the target was not. We can use that. The Emperor may not appreciate the loss, but he will appreciate the loyalty.”

“And Serenno is not a loss?” Vader countered.

“Serenno is symbolic,” she replied smoothly. “The homeworld of Count Dooku. The cradle of Separatism. Its destruction sends a clearer message than Alderaan ever could. It reminds the Outer Rim what defiance leads to.”

Vader said nothing. The hiss of his respirator filled the space between them. One breath. Two. Three.

"That is not why you intervened."

It wasn't a question. Revaris met the black lenses of his mask without flinching.

"No," she admitted. "It isn't."

"You saved your homeworld."

She nodded; there was no point in hiding her intentions.

"I saved a strategic asset. Nothing more."

And it was true, in its way. She felt no warmth for Alderaan now. The planet was merely a piece on the board, an important piece, yes, but one she would sacrifice without hesitation if necessary. What mattered was not the planet itself, but its place in her design.

Sometimes, in the darkest hours of meditation, a memory would surface: the scent of mountain flowers in the royal gardens, her mother's laugh echoing through marble halls, her father's steady hand on her shoulder. But these were weaknesses, remnants of a dead girl who got consumed by the Dark. And the Dark cared not for those attachments, cauterized them with the burning focus of ambition. If traces remained... well, she would burn them away too, eventually.

Vader circled her slowly, his cape brushing the polished floor. "The Emperor instructed that Tarkin was not to be harmed."

"Tarkin is already dead," Revaris countered, her voice flat. "What's done is done. The Emperor wanted a demonstration of the Death Star's power. He'll get one."

"With twice the casualties."

Revaris smiled thinly. "The dark side grows stronger with each death. Would you prefer I had chosen a less populated world?"

That gave him pause. She could sense his consideration through the Force, the acknowledgment of her calculation. Vader, of all people, understood the power of sacrifice, the strength that flowed from death. He had sacrificed everything he loved for power. She had merely chosen to sacrifice others instead.

"Alderaan holds significant political influence," he said finally. "Destroying it would have undermined the Emperor's position."

"Exactly," she replied. "That's why it's more valuable alive than dead. If I intend to take the Emperor's place, I'll need solid political backing. I am the Princess of Alderaan, having the planet behind me serves my future better than ruling over its ashes."

"I care nothing for Alderaan," she said, meeting Vader's masked gaze. "My loyalty is to our Empire. To the dark side." To my plan, she added silently. "Alderaan's survival serves our purposes. Its resources, its political influence, its position, all will be more valuable under our direct control than as space debris."

Vader studied her for a long moment. "And what of the princess? Your cousin?"

"She has her uses, Master," Revaris replied, her voice sliding into something almost like reverence. "You taught me how to catch pests, and setting bait was always the best method."

That caught Vader's attention. She could feel the sudden focus, the intensity of his interest cutting through the Force.

"Explain."

"I've arranged for information about an 'Alderaanian agent' to be leaked through the appropriate channels. Information suggesting this agent is to be executed at Serenno." Revaris's voice remained neutral, but inside, she felt a cold satisfaction at the elegant simplicity of her plan. "When the Rebellion learns of this, they will come. And who do you think will answer? Who would not let another Alderaanian princess be taken by the Empire?"

"Kenobi," Vader finished, the name carrying years of hatred and obsession. "He will come for the princess."

"Bringing the droids and plans directly to us," Revaris confirmed.

"The Emperor will still demand answers," Vader said finally.

"Then we will give them to him," Revaris replied. "After we've secured the plans, Kenobi, and demonstrated the empire might."

Vader turned away from her, gazing at the tactical display showing Serenno's orbital defenses. "See that you do."

The conversation was over. She had not been punished, not yet, at least. That would come later, after the Emperor learned of Tarkin's death. But by then, the benefits of her actions would outweigh the transgression.

And if not, pain was merely another tool of the dark side.

The Death Star emerged from hyperspace with a silent shudder, the stars streaking back into place around it. Through the viewport, Serenno hung suspended in the void, a verdant jewel nestled against the black velvet of space, its rings of satellites glittering like diamond dust in the light of its sun. Beautiful. Unsuspecting. Doomed.

Revaris stood motionless at the command center, her dark robes pooling around her feet. The soft hum of the battle station's systems provided a gentle counterpoint to her steadying breath. This was the moment her entire existence had converged upon, the fulfillment of her vision, the sacrifice that would cement her path.

She sensed Vader's presence before he appeared, the cold void of his existence in the Force announcing him like a herald.

"The weapon is charged," he said, the vocoder rendering his voice flat, emotionless. "Awaiting your command."

"Good." She stepped forward, closer to the viewport. Below, billions of lives continued, unaware that their final moments had arrived. She could feel them through the Force, distant pinpricks of light, each one a consciousness that would soon be extinguished. "Begin targeting sequence."

Officers moved with practiced efficiency, their fear of her still palpable in the recycled air. The targeting computer hummed to life, coordinates flowing across screens as the primary weapon aligned with Serenno's core.

And then, a ripple.

Revaris felt it first as a tremor in the Force, then as a presence unfolding beside her. Not physically present, not visible to anyone else, but unmistakable to her senses. Her younger self had returned to witness the culmination of this vision.

She kept her eyes forward, but her awareness expanded to encompass the phantom observer. The girl wasn't just watching now, she was here, existing in this moment across the boundaries of time. 

"Lady Revaris," the weapons officer called. "Target locked. Primary ignition sequence initiated."

"Proceed," she commanded, her voice carrying across the bridge.

Only then did she turn her head slightly, just enough to meet the eyes of her younger self. The girl stood frozen, a specter of innocence and horror, watching as her future unfolded before her. How young she had been, was it only four years? Closer to five now.

She knew what her younger self was seeing, was feeling. The connection between them was already hard to maintain, built on the power of billions of deaths just waiting to happen. The girl saw only what was necessary, only what was needed to ensure she would set upon the right course.

The younger Leia's presence wavered, surprise rippling through her at being acknowledged directly. Her lips parted, though no sound emerged.

Revaris turned back to the viewport. "On my order," she announced, her hand hovering over the firing control. The moment stretched, crystallizing around them like amber. "Fire."

Her hand descended.

The Death Star shuddered beneath them as raw energy surged through its systems. A brilliant green beam erupted from the battle station, lancing across space toward Serenno's surface. Time seemed to slow as the beam connected with the planet's atmosphere, punching through clouds and mountains and oceans to reach its molten core.

For one heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then Serenno cracked like an egg. The planet's surface split along fault lines, magma bursting through in fiery rivers of destruction. Cities vanished in milliseconds. Forests evaporated. Oceans boiled away into superheated steam. The death cries of billions reverberated through the Force, a chorus of terror and disbelief that made the bridge crew flinch without understanding why.

Revaris stood unmoved, absorbing the dark energy, channeling it into her connection with the dark side. Power flowed through her like molten metal, searing and transforming. She had known this would happen. She had seen it, felt it, prepared for it. But the reality exceeded even her visions.

Serenno didn't merely die, it ceased to exist.

The planet collapsed inward, its gravitational field imploding as its mass was converted to energy. A final flash of light, brighter than its sun, marked its passing. When the glare faded, nothing remained but an expanding field of debris and a wound in the Force where life had once thrived.

For a moment, she felt invincible. The dark side, already strong within her, surged with the power of a million suns, enough power to reach across time to Malachor, to Takodana, to make this connection happen even before the death of Serenno itself.

The dark side suppressed time and space itself, the death of so many at once sending echoes through the Force. There was no Force-sensitive in the entire galaxy who didn't feel what had just happened.

She turned fully toward her younger self now, no longer concerned with appearances. The officers on the bridge couldn't see what she saw, couldn't detect the temporal anomaly unfolding beside her. Only Vader might sense something amiss, but his attention was fixed on the destruction, feeding on it as she was.

"What path will you take, little princess?" she spoke directly to the girl's mind. "Can you save your home?"

The setting around them shifted, reality bleeding away like watercolors in rain. The command bridge dissolved, replaced by swirling mist that gradually coalesced into the lush forests of Takodana. The memory, their shared memory.

Revaris stood before her younger self, no longer separated by the boundaries of vision and reality. The girl trembled, her brown eyes wide with shock and revulsion.

"Do you see it?" She looked at her younger self, so scared, so afraid of the choice she now understood she had to make.

"There are so many paths," she continued, her voice gentler than it had been in years. Here, in this space between moments, she could afford a small measure of kindness to the girl she had once been. "So many futures. In most of them, our world burns."

"Can I stop it?" the girl whispered, though doubt flickered across her face.

Revaris shook her head. "Perhaps, but not from the light."

Was this a lie? She didn't think so. The Force was clear, in the light, Alderaan's fate was sealed. But now, almost four years later, she knew it wasn't necessarily a bad thing. She wasn't sure that for the light, the fall of the Chosen One's daughter was a good price to pay for Alderaan.

But it was what needed to happen. It was what the galaxy needed, a strong leader, a Leia who could bring peace. And that Leia, for this, needed to fall.

Her younger self looked sick, as if every breath was a struggle. She remembered feeling this way. She also knew what came next.

"I don't understand."

"You do." Because she did. She knew how this cycle ended. She was manipulating her younger self to fall, to face years of darkness, to lose her hand and any semblance of humanity. "I stood where you are now. I saw the same visions. I resisted the dark for years. Until I saw the truth, the same truth you see now."

She stared at her younger self, because even if this had already happened to her, even if she had already made this choice, the other Leia might not. She might choose a different path. There was always a choice.

But as she looked into those familiar eyes, she saw it, the same determination, the same resolve.

"Now you understand."

On the bridge of the Death Star, Darth Revaris opened her eyes. The viewport showed only the expanding debris field where Serenno had once been. The officers moved around her, cataloging the destruction, preparing reports for the Emperor.

Vader stood beside her, his masked face turned toward her. "You sensed something."

Not a question. An observation.

"The past," she replied simply. "And the future."

She turned away from the viewport, from the destruction she had wrought. The cycle was complete. Her younger self had seen what she needed to see, had heard what she needed to hear. The seeds had been planted.

In time, they would bear fruit. In time, the princess would fall, just as she had fallen. And the galaxy would tremble before them both.

The detention block hummed with the steady thrum of energy fields, broken only by the distant echo of stormtrooper boots. Revaris moved through the sterile corridors like a shadow given form, her black robes trailing behind her. The officers at the monitoring station snapped to attention as she approached.

"Leave us," she commanded without sparing them a glance. "All of you."

They evacuated with barely concealed relief. Only when their footsteps faded did Revaris approach the cell controls, centering herself in the Force. Fear and defiance radiated from the cell at the corridor's end, exactly what she expected.

Winter. Her replacement. Her sister.

Revaris allowed herself a moment of preparation. The performance had to be flawless. Winter needed to see a corrupted version of the princess she once knew, dangerous, unpredictable, yet with just enough twisted logic to suggest hope for redemption.

The cell door hissed open with a pneumatic sigh.

Winter raised her head from the metal bench, her expression shifting from resignation to shock. Despite her restraints, she straightened with unconscious royal bearing, shoulders square, chin lifted in the posture they'd both been taught since childhood.

"I wondered when you would come," Winter said, her voice steady despite the fear Revaris could taste in the Force.

Leia stepped into the cell, letting the door seal behind her. The space felt suffocatingly small with both of them inside. She reached up and removed her mask with deliberate slowness, revealing her face. She let Winter absorb her look for the first time, Harsh dark circles under her eyes, golden eyes where brown should have been. Skin pale from years aboard Imperial vessels rather than under Alderaan's sun, hair pulled tight in a simple bun instead of a complicated royal hairdo.

"Hello, Winter, I hope your accommodations were up to your standards," she said, her voice clear without the mask's interference. "Or should I say 'Your Highness'? They gave you my title, after all."

Winter flinched at the casual cruelty but recovered quickly, her fingers unconsciously tracing the simple silver band on her thumb, a nervous habit Leia remembered from childhood. "They never stopped looking for you, Leia. Your parents—"

"They are not my parents." She let some resentment color her tone. "Bail and Breha Organa adopted me for their own use and replaced me the moment they could."

Revaris began to circle the small cell, watching Winter's reaction carefully. Let her believe it was resentment. Let her think Leia felt betrayed, it would only strengthen Winter's resolve to "save" her later.

"That's not true," Winter insisted, leaning forward despite her restraints. "Bail still keeps your room exactly as you left it. Her Majesty pretends she doesn't, but I've seen her standing in the doorway on your birthday every year, just... staring at that stuffed bantha you used to carry everywhere."

Winter's voice grew stronger, more defiant. "And you know what? I hated it. Every year I had to watch them grieve for you while pretending to be grateful they chose me instead."

Leia paused in her circling. That was... unexpected honesty.

"Do you think replacing you felt good?" Winter continued, her gray eyes flashing with a fire Leia hadn't anticipated. "I was ten, Leia. Ten years old when they pulled me from some class and told me I was going to be the princess. Do you know what I thought? I thought it was wonderful. I thought I was the luckiest girl in the galaxy." Her voice cracked slightly. "I didn't understand that it meant you weren't coming back."

Winter straightened despite her bonds, and for a moment she looked every inch the royal she'd been trained to be. "But I learned to read between the diplomatic lines better than you ever did. I learned to smile while senators patronized me, to nod graciously when they called me 'the replacement princess' behind my back. You want to know what I became good at? Surviving in your shadow while watching your parents break a little more each year."

"How touching," Revaris said, though something in Winter's raw honesty made her recalibrate. This wasn't the naive princess she'd expected to manipulate.

“We know what they did to you, what he did to you. We know it was probably hell, and you did what you had to in order to survive… But Leia, how could you? You just destroyed an entire planet! Billions of people—"

"Died so that billions on Alderaan might live," Revaris finished coldly. "A simple calculation."

Now for the redemption hook, the thread Winter would inevitably cling to.

"This isn't you, Leia," Winter said softly, her voice steady but laced with quiet sorrow. "The girl I knew couldn’t tally lives like numbers in a ledger. She cried for three days when her nexu cub died." She held Leia’s gaze, eyes unwavering. "You don’t have to keep walking this path. It’s not too late. Come with me. Come home."

"I am home," Revaris said coolly. "The Empire is my home. The dark side, my only family." Her voice didn’t rise, didn’t waver, if anything, it softened with disdain. "I don’t need rescuing, Winter. I don’t need saving. Not like you… The brave little rebel princess, clinging to your cause. So loyal. So alone."

Winter tilted her head, studying Revaris with sudden, unnerving intensity. "You think I don't know what you're doing? I've spent my entire life learning to read people who lie for a living. I know when someone's trying to manipulate me, Leia. Even you."

She leaned back against the cell wall, and despite her restraints, managed to look almost relaxed. "You're not half as detached as you pretend to be. You spared Alderaan, yes, but not because it's a 'strategic asset.' You spared it because somewhere under all that darkness, the girl who used to sneak into the kitchens to steal sweet-cakes for both of us is still in there."

"The Leia you knew died a long time ago." Revaris pushed away from the wall she'd been leaning against, approaching with deliberate steps, but Winter's unexpected perceptiveness had thrown her off balance.

"Did she?" Winter challenged. "Then why are you here? Why not send some Imperial interrogator? Why remove your mask at all?"

Revaris felt a flicker of something, respect, perhaps. Or irritation at having her manipulation techniques recognized so easily.

"We're not here to discuss my choices," Revaris replied, falling back on her planned script. "We're here to discuss yours. Like sending the Death Star plans to Obi-Wan Kenobi."

Winter's surprise rippled through the Force, not at the accusation, but at Revaris's knowledge of it. She recovered faster than expected, though.

"You always were too clever for your own good," Winter said with a slight, rueful smile. "Remember when you figured out that Father was meeting with those Chandrilan senators in secret? You couldn't just let it go, you had to know everything."

"It wasn't difficult to deduce," Revaris said coolly. "You're predictable, Winter. Who else would Bail trust with such a mission?"

She reached out, cupping Winter's chin in a cruel parody of affection. "You think yourself so clever, playing the brave rebel princess. You have no idea how perfectly you've served my purposes."

Winter didn't jerk away. Instead, she held Revaris's gaze steadily. "Maybe. Or maybe you're not the only one who learned to plan several moves ahead." Her voice was calm, almost conversational. "The Empire knew what we were doing on Scarif. I knew I would be captured—the only thing that mattered was delivering the plans."

That gave Revaris pause.

Winter's smile was small but genuine. "I'm not the naive little girl you remember, Leia. I made sure those plans would reach their destination, whether I lived or died."

"And the plans will reach the Rebellion," Winter said simply. "When they do, this battle station will fall. Your master will be exposed as fallible, and the Emperor will lose the weapon he's been counting on to crush the Rebellion." She tilted her head, voice calm but edged with something sharper. "Unless... that's what you want to happen."

The casual ease with which she spoke, like she'd glimpsed the truth beneath the mask, sent a flicker of unease through Revaris.

"You are mistaken," she replied, keeping her voice cool. "The Death Star is the Empire's greatest weapon. With it, no rebellion will be safe."

But even as the words left her mouth, they rang hollow. A lie that didn't fool Winter.

"But it does not matter. While you did your job well and the plans indeed reached Kenobi, they will not reach the Rebellion," Revaris said, regaining her composure.

"And why is that?" Winter asked, her tone confident, wherever she thought Leia was lying or mistaken, she was sure that she was right.

"Because Kenobi is on his way here to rescue you," Revaris replied.

"He won't. He knows the plans are too important—I am expendable." Winter's voice carried conviction, but Revaris caught the flicker of uncertainty.

"He will. Don't you know anything about the Jedi? Their compassion, their sense of duty?" Revaris leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Kenobi will come for you, especially after he failed to come for me. And with that, the Empire will crush the last true Jedi."

She turned toward the door, then paused, glancing back over her shoulder. "I won't kill you, princess. As I said, you have your uses. For now."

The cell door slid open at her gesture. As she began to replace her mask, Winter's voice followed her, soft but carrying clearly: "Leia?"

Leia paused, her hands stilling on the mask.

"When this is over, when your plans have played out and the galaxy looks the way you think it should... what then? Who will you have left to save?"

She stepped through the doorway without looking back, the question following her like an uncomfortable echo as the door sealed shut behind her.

Outside the detention block, away from prying eyes, her posture subtly shifted. The menacing Sith apprentice vanished, replaced by a calculating strategist. Her plan was in motion: Winter would escape with the plans, believing herself clever enough to outwit the Empire. The Rebellion would target the Death Star's weakness, exactly as she intended.

Whether they succeeded or failed, she would benefit. If they destroyed the station, the Emperor's power would weaken, removing that abomination from the Force. If they failed, the Rebellion's location would be revealed, allowing for a swift end to the conflict.

Either way, she would be one step closer to her true goal: a galaxy with neither Jedi nor Sith, neither Rebellion nor Empire. Only order. Only peace.

She had considered other paths. More brutal, more direct. She had stood before the Death Star's targeting array and thought about Coruscant, about reducing the Emperor's entire power base to ash. One press of a button, and Sidious, the Senate, the entire corrupted core would be gone. The deaths would number in the trillions rather than billions.

The thought didn't disturb her, the dark side had burned away her capacity for squeamishness along with her capacity for mercy.

But mass slaughter without purpose was wasteful. Destroying Coruscant would leave the Empire in chaos, bureaucrats, governors, financiers, the entire infrastructure holding it all together, gone in an instant. And what would remain? A frightened, leaderless galaxy that would never follow her. They wouldn't see a liberator rising from the ashes. They would only see the mask. The monster who had murdered their capital.

No, true power required patience. Precision. She needed the galaxy to choose her rule when the time came, not simply submit to it out of terror. The Emperor had ruled through fear, and look how that had bred rebellion. She would rule through necessity, positioning herself as the only viable alternative when the existing order finally collapsed.

The death of entire star systems was acceptable if it served that goal. The corruption of her own soul was acceptable. Even the fall of the girl she had once been was acceptable, because that girl could never have made the choices required to save the galaxy from itself.

Sentiment was a luxury she had sacrificed long ago. What remained was pure calculation, cold purpose, and the unwavering certainty that peace was worth any price—even if she had to pay it in the blood of worlds.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Stop.


From a darkened control gallery high above the hangar, Leia stands motionless, her gaze fixed on the void beyond the transparisteel. Only hours ago, Serenno had burned. The smoldering memory of its destruction still lingered across the stars, a scorched wound carved by the Death Star under her command. Billions of lives extinguished in a heartbeat, their final agonies rippling through the Force like a shockwave that had reached across time itself, just as she had foreseen, just as she had planned.

And yet, here she was again, waiting.

The void beyond the viewport began to shimmer, and Revaris felt a familiar stirring in the Force. Space folded, twisted, and disgorged a single vessel from the brilliant tunnel of hyperspace. The ship was smaller than she had expected, a battered Corellian light freighter that looked like it had survived more disasters than any reasonable craft should endure. Its hull was pitted with carbon scoring, its sensor array held together with what appeared to be wishful thinking and duct tape, its sublight engines coughed irregular bursts of blue flame as it maneuvered toward the Death Star.

The Millennium Falcon .

She recognized the ship from Imperial databases, though its current configuration bore only a passing resemblance to the standard YT-1300 specifications. Modifications had been layered upon modifications over the years, creating something that was as much a mechanical improvisation as a functional spacecraft. It moved through space with the ungainly grace of a creature that had no right to fly, yet somehow, managed it anyway.

An odd choice for a rescue mission, but she supposed circumstances had limited their options. How the mighty had fallen. Obi-Wan Kenobi, once a highly regarded general of the Republic, is now reduced to hitching rides on smugglers' vessels to avoid Imperial detection. 

This is what the great Negotiator had been reduced to, skulking through space in a smuggler's rust bucket, dependent on the charity of criminals and the questionable engineering of whatever backwater mechanic was desperate enough to keep this flying scrap heap operational. How the mighty have fallen. 

The irony wasn't lost on her. Her Master commanded the most powerful vessel in the galaxy, while the Jedi made do with spare parts and prayers.

Such is the power of the Sith, and such is the weakness of the Jedi.

The Falcon glides toward the designated hangar, her hangar, unimpeded. No alarms pierce the silence. No resistance materializes from the shadows. She'd already cleared the airspace hours ago, her command codes overriding the automated defense grid with authority only second to her master. The perimeter sensors registered nothing more than routine maintenance traffic. The duty officers had been reassigned to other sections under fabricated pretexts. Even the cleaning droids had been rerouted.

Officially, this deck was undergoing routine systems calibration. In truth, it had been prepared as a trap.

They believed they were slipping past the Empire's defenses unnoticed, chasing hope in the shape of a captured Princess. How perfectly naive. How wonderfully predictable. They had no idea they were following breadcrumbs she had scattered across the galaxy.

She gave another look to the ship; she could hardly believe they’d risked her entire plan on that piece of junk. That thing , a battered Corellian freighter barely holding together, was supposed to carry Winter to the Rebellion? Absurd. Perhaps she should prepare an Imperial shuttle for them to “steal,” just in case the relic fell apart mid-flight.

Still, maybe the wreck had some value. Her Master had an odd fondness for old ships, collected them, even. While Revaris never shared the… enthusiasm, she vaguely recalled that this particular model was considered rare . Maybe she’d offer it to him. A trophy. A gift. A distraction.

Through the Force, she reaches out, carefully, delicately, touching the edges of their presence without fully extending herself. The technique required finesse; too aggressive a probe and Kenobi would sense her immediately, despite her concealment.

At first, she senses nothing. The old Jedi had become a master of concealment during his years in exile, his presence folded so completely inward that he might as well not exist in the Force at all. It was an impressive feat of self-discipline, she admitted grudgingly. To hide so thoroughly from Force-sensitive predators required not just skill, but the kind of absolute mental control that came from years of meditation and sacrifice.

But then she feels it, a blazing beacon that cuts through Kenobi's careful invisibility like a searchlight through fog.

The boy.

He burns in the Force like a young star, brilliant and uncontrolled. His presence flickers and wavers as he attempts to follow his master's lessons in concealment, but it's like trying to hide a bonfire behind a silk curtain. The light bleeds through regardless, raw and uncontrolled and impossibly bright.

And the sight of that radiance, that pure, naive luminosity, sends a spike of irritation through Revaris's carefully maintained composure. 

A farm boy. A nobody from the desert wastes of Tatooine, thrust into events far beyond his comprehension. This is what Kenobi had chosen as his padawan. This is who he had deemed worthy of training, while she, a Skywalker by blood, a princess by birth, had been abandoned to Vader's mercies.

The boy's signature pulsed again, and Revaris felt her jaw clench behind her mask. There was potential there, she had to admit. Raw, unfocused power that might rival her own. But potential meant nothing without training, without discipline, without the kind of strength forged under suffering.

This boy had lived a soft life, sheltered by his lowly status, ignorant of the galaxy's harsh realities. He had never felt the bite of a torture droid, never been forced to choose between compliance and agony, never learned that survival required sacrificing pieces of your soul one cut at a time.

The similarities between him and her father were grotesque. Both from Tatooine. Both strong in the Force. Both drawn into galactic conflict by circumstances beyond their control. Did Kenobi even realize what he was doing, or was this simply the pattern his life followed, find a Force-sensitive child, train them just long enough to matter, then watch them die to darkness while he ran away to start the cycle again?

This boy would die here. Today. She would make certain of it.

The third presence aboard the Falcon was chaotic and unremarkable, clearly the smuggler whose ship they'd hired. His Force signature was mundane, a swirl of competing anxieties focused on credits, survival, and whatever debts had driven him to accept this particular job. She could sense his skepticism about the mission, his instinctive distrust of anything involving the Empire. A practical man, then. Useful, but ultimately irrelevant.

And there, towering and steadfast, the distinctive life-force of a Wookiee. Chewbacca, if the intelligence reports were accurate. Old debts and older loyalties bound him to the smuggler, but she could sense something deeper there, a warrior's honor, a protectiveness that extended beyond mere friendship. The Wookiee would die for his companions without hesitation, which made him predictable. Another piece to be moved across her board.

But in the end, it didn't matter. They were all components in her design now, elements in an equation that would resolve exactly as she intended.

The Falcon settles into the hangar with a mechanical wheeze, its landing struts groaning under the ship's weight. Steam vents from multiple hull breaches, and she can hear the engines misfiring even through the hangar's atmospheric processors. The boarding ramp descends with a hydraulic squeal that echoes off the hangar walls, and for a moment, absolute silence reigns.

In that silence, Revaris allows herself a moment of satisfaction. Everything was proceeding exactly as she had foreseen. The trap was set, the players in position, and soon the final act would begin.

She activates her personal comm unit, the encrypted channel that connected her directly to the section commanders she had carefully positioned throughout this quadrant of the Death Star. Her voice, filtered through the vocoder, carries the mechanical authority that had become her signature.

"Report status."

"Level Seven security checkpoint, my lady. Patrol Alpha is conducting routine sweeps. No irregularities detected."

"Level Five maintenance corridor. Engineering teams have completed their assignments and withdrawn as ordered. Access routes remain clear."

"Detention block AA-23. Standard watch rotation in progress. All personnel accounted for."

Perfect. To any outside observer, it would appear to be nothing more than ordinary shift changes and routine maintenance. But she had positioned each patrol, each work crew, each security checkpoint with intent. The corridors leading away from this hangar to the detention block had been subtly cleared, creating natural pathways that would guide her unwitting guests exactly where she wanted them to go. Dead ends had been temporarily blocked by "maintenance equipment." Alternative routes had been rendered inaccessible by "system upgrades."

They would have the illusion of choice, the satisfaction of believing they were outsmarting Imperial security. In reality, they would be following a maze of her design, every turn predetermined, every option carefully curated.

"Maintain current positions," she commanded. "Monitor all communications traffic, but do not engage any unidentified personnel without direct authorization. Standard shift protocols remain in effect."

The acknowledgments came in crisp, professional tones. Her reputation ensured obedience without question. None of these officers would dare to deviate from her instructions, no matter how unusual they might seem.

But this is a general from the clone wars, the negotiator, she can't underestimate him. The time to alert her Master to him will be soon, but first, they have a princess to rescue.

Revaris folds her arms behind her back, her cape pooling around her boots. In the darkness of her concealment, she draws upon her Master's overwhelming presence, that crushing weight of power and malevolence that permeated every corridor of the Death Star like radiation from a dying star.

Her master's aura was so vast, so consuming, that it dwarfed every other Force signature within a thousand kilometers. It was a darkness so complete that it bent the very fabric of the Force around itself, creating distortions and eddies that could hide smaller presences entirely. She had learned to use that terrible radiance as camouflage, wrapping herself in her Master's shadow until she became just another facet of his overwhelming malevolence.

To any Force-sensitive below, she would be nothing more than an echo within Vader’s presence, indistinguishable from the oppressive shadow that always clung to him. And yet, for reasons she had never fully understood, his Force signature never rejected hers. It welcomed her. As if it were the most natural thing in the galaxy for her to slip into his darkness and vanish there.

Stranger still, it had always felt safe. His presence, for all its menace, never threatened her. If she had to put it into an image, it was like a full-grown loth-cat curling its body protectively around a smaller cub, fierce, watchful, and somehow… familiar.

The boarding ramp has fully extended now, and she can sense movement within the Falcon's cramped interior. They're preparing to disembark, no doubt running through whatever plan they've cobbled together during their desperate flight across the galaxy. She wonders what intelligence they think they possess, what weaknesses they believe they can exploit.

The boy's presence flares again in the Force, a spike of nervous energy that makes her teeth clench. His fear and excitement blend together in a nauseating cocktail of adolescent emotion, all of it radiating outward like a beacon for anyone sensitive enough to detect it. Kenobi should have left him behind, should have recognized the liability he represented. But the Jedi's sentimentality had always been their weakness.

In the hangar below, figures begin to emerge from the Falcon's battered hull, their shapes small and fragile against the Death Star's vast architecture.

Let them come, she thinks, her golden eyes reflecting the cold light of distant stars. Let them follow their precious droids through corridors that would seem oddly navigable, past security stations that would be mysteriously undermanned. Let them split their forces as desperation and hope demanded, the old Jedi to sabotage the defenses, the boy and his companions to play hero.

They were all dancing to her tune now.

And she intended to make it a performance worth remembering.

The security feeds cascade across the control center's displays in a symphony of blue light, each monitor showing a different angle of the Death Star's vast interior. Revaris stands motionless at the center of it all, her fingers dance across the control interface with practiced precision, tracking the infiltrators through deck after deck of Imperial steel.

Everything proceeds exactly as designed. The corridors they traverse are subtly cleared, maintenance crews mysteriously called away, patrol routes altered by routine orders that would raise no suspicions. Security checkpoints operate at minimum staffing, their duty rosters adjusted hours ago by her careful manipulations. The rebels move through her maze like water through carefully carved channels, believing themselves clever while following paths she had predetermined.

The boy's Force signature continues to blaze like an unshielded reactor, his emotions a riot of fear and excitement that any trained Force-user could detect from systems away. Amateur. The smuggler radiates practical anxiety, focused on credits and survival in equal measure. The Wookiee's presence burns with protective loyalty, predictable as gravity.

And then—

Revaris's golden eyes narrowed as she watched the security feed from Corridor 7-G. The group has stopped. They're separating.

No.

This wasn't part of the plan.

On the monitor, she sees Kenobi speaking urgently to the others, his weathered face grim with purpose. Even through the grainy feed, she can read his intentions. The old Jedi is no fool. He recognizes the tactical disadvantage of having his entire force committed to a single objective. He's splitting them, sending the boy and the others in one direction while he handles something else entirely.

She watched his path, curious about where he decided to go, and the path became clear quickly.

The shields. The tractor beam. Of course.

Revaris's hands pause over the control interface as she watches Kenobi disappear down a maintenance corridor that leads directly toward the Death Star's defense systems. Clever. Insufferably clever. If their rescue mission is discovered or fails, he wants to ensure they can still escape and perhaps inflict some damage in the process.

The irritation that flickers through her is sharp and immediate. Not because his move threatens to ruin her plan completely. The boy and his companions will still reach Winter, will still trigger the sequence of events she has set in motion. But Kenobi's deviation introduces an element of uncertainty she hadn't accounted for, threatens to give them an escape route she hadn't sanctioned.

She wants the rebels to leave, but only when she decides. Not when they do.

Her fingers move to a different control panel, activating the private channel between her and her master. The connection establishes itself with a soft chime, and suddenly the control center fills with the mechanical rhythm of Vader's breathing.

"Master," she says, her vocoder lending her voice the same cold authority that had become her signature. "The infiltrators have reached Detention Level AA-23. Three individuals plus the Wookiee, going after the Alderaanian princess."

The breathing stops for a moment, a pause that carries more menace than a hundred threats.

"You failed to alert me to their arrival," Vader's voice cuts through the comm like a vibroblade through flesh. "We could have ended this in the hangar. Why was I not informed the moment they docked?"

Revaris keeps her voice steady, professional. The lie comes as easily as breathing. "I believed it was advantageous to allow them to proceed, Master. Hope sharpens the blade of despair, as you once taught me. They believe themselves successful, believe they've outwitted our defenses. When they realize the truth, their despair will be... complete."

Silence stretches between them, filled only by the steady rhythm of Vader's respirator. She can feel his presence through the Force, that crushing weight of darkness probing at the edges of her mind, testing her words for deception. But Revaris has learned to lie even to herself when necessary, to believe her own fabrications so completely that they become truth in the moment of their telling.

"And Kenobi?" Vader asks finally.

"Kenobi has separated from the group. He's moving toward the reactor and shield systems, attempting to ensure their escape route remains viable. Shall I have the security teams engage?"

"No." The word carries the finality of a Death Star's superlaser. "I will go after him myself. It's time to end this chase. Today, Kenobi will die to my saber."

A flicker of disappointment crosses Revaris's expression. She had wanted to kill Kenobi herself, to watch the light fade from the eyes of the man who had abandoned her while training some farm boy in her place. But the plan is what matters most, and it's better to send her master after Kenobi, to distract them both, ensuring her design will continue as normal.

The comm channel closes with a soft click, leaving Revaris alone with the security feeds' ethereal glow. Through the Force, she can already sense Vader's massive presence beginning to move, his footsteps echoing through distant corridors as he stalks toward his prey. 

She turns her attention to a different set of displays, these showing the hangar where the Millennium Falcon sits in mechanical distress. Her fingers input a series of commands, and she watches with satisfaction as a nearly invisible device detaches itself from the hangar's ceiling and attaches to the freighter's hull. A tracker, one of her master's designs, small enough to avoid detection and powerful enough to function across half the galaxy.

She wondered if her own slave chip had carried a similar function while she still wore it. The thought brings a bitter smile to her lips. Control through fear had always been his preferred method, even with those closest to him.

The security feed from Detention Block AA-23 flickers as the rescue party finally reaches Winter's cell. Revaris leans forward slightly, watching as the cell door slides open to reveal her replacement standing in the shadows beyond.

She could not hear what they were saying; the security feed had no audio. Only flickering black-and-white visuals filled the screen, Winter, standing tall despite the binders at her wrists, speaking intently to the boy. Her lips moved with conviction, her body taut with urgency. Even in captivity, Winter couldn’t resist taking charge.

The boy responded with equal intensity, stepping forward, head tilted with an irritating mix of defiance and confidence. Revaris leaned in unconsciously, straining as if willing sound to reach her ears.

Then, something shifted. Winter's expression turned desperate, warning, and the boy only nodded in return. Calm. Composed. Smug.

Revaris’s golden eyes narrowed behind her mask.

But as she watches them begin their hasty retreat from the detention block, Winter in tow, something else catches her attention. The way Winter moves, the quick glances she gives to the security cameras, the subtle hand signals she makes when she thinks the others aren't looking. Professional awareness. Combat training.

Interesting.

Revaris had always known Winter was more than just a simple rebel agent, more than the frightened princess she pretended to be. But watching her now, seeing the calculated way she assesses their route and identifies potential ambush points, Revaris realizes she may have underestimated her capabilities. Winter isn't just playing along with the rescue; she's actively facilitating it, using combat skills and strategy to guide them through the Death Star's maze.

On the monitors, she watches the rescue party encounter their first patrol, a carefully positioned squad of stormtroopers who "discover" them through routine surveillance. The engagement is brief but intense, blaster fire lighting up the corridor in brilliant flashes of red and blue. The boy's lightsaber cuts through Imperial armor with familiar blue light, and for a moment, something cold and sharp twists in Leia's chest.

Her saber had been blue, before she fell. It had been her color, while not chosen by her, rather a “gift” from her master, she learned to think of it as something that connected her to her father. Blue for protection, for guardianship, for the naive idealism she had carried like armor against the galaxy's harsh realities. And as much as she felt foolish thinking this at this moment, watching the boy wield that azure blade felt like witnessing a theft, another thing he was taking, trying to fill the place that should have been hers.

The engagement ends with the stormtroopers retreating in apparent disorder, following the script Revaris had carefully written. The rebels would feel victorious, would believe their superior skills had won the day. They wouldn't realize that they were fighting low-level troopers, cannon fodder that could barely aim a blaster, just there to seem intimidating.

Her fingers move swiftly across the control interface, dispatching coded signals to security stations across the relevant sectors. This time, it isn't a subtle containment effort. She triggers real alerts, deliberate, unmistakable alarms that send more stormtroopers scrambling after them. Let them panic. Let them believe they've been exposed too soon. Fear would cloud their judgment, and chaos would drive them faster, right where she wanted them.

The next engagement is more chaotic, more desperate. She watches the boy struggle with the amount of blaster shots he has to deflect while protecting both himself and his friends. He was doing a good job, she admitted grudgingly. Apparently, Kenobi had managed to instill some lessons in him.

Through another feed, she catches a glimpse of Vader stalking through the Death Star's lower levels. The troopers he passes press themselves against the walls; she can feel their fear through the Force, that primal, animal recognition of a predator in their midst. Good. Let them remember why they serve the Empire. Let them understand the price of failure.

But there's something else in Vader's presence as he moves toward his confrontation with Kenobi. Anticipation, yes, but also something deeper. Something that feels almost like... longing? The thought disturbs her more than she cares to admit. Her master was not given to sentiment, had taught her that such weaknesses were the path to destruction. Yet she cannot shake the feeling that this hunt means more to him than a simple elimination of a Jedi master who evaded him all of those years.

She forces herself to focus on the tactical displays. The rescue party has cleared the detention block's outer perimeter and is making good time toward the main corridors. Their route is predictable; they're avoiding the most obvious paths while still heading generally toward the hangar bay. Winter's influence, perhaps. Her friend had always been good at reading people, at finding the path of least resistance.

She opens a new channel on her comm system, this one connecting her to the garrison commander overseeing the hangar bays. "Colonel Jendon," she says, her vocoder lending cold authority to her words.

"Yes, my lady?"

"Prepare a full squadron for deployment in Hangar Bay 94. I want them positioned but not visible, let our guests believe the area is clear until the last possible moment."

"Understood. Shall I coordinate with Lord Vader's—"

"No," Revaris interrupts. "This operation proceeds under my direct authority. You will follow my orders exclusively until further notice."

"Yes, my lady."

“In addition, I want Security Team Seven to converge on the hangar for a special assignment—target: Golden Protocol Droid. Do not engage until my signal—I want him intact and functional. Let the astromech unit proceed unimpeded." 

The channel closes, and Revaris allows herself a moment of satisfaction. While she can't capture R2, since he still has his uses, she can have C3PO back. 

Through the Force, she reaches out again, touching the edges of their presence. The smuggler's anxiety has spiked; he can sense that something is wrong, that their escape is proceeding too smoothly. The Wookiee remains steadfast, loyal unto death. Winter... Winter's presence is carefully controlled, giving away nothing of her true thoughts or capabilities.

And the boy burns ever brighter now, no longer bothering to dim his presence. With their cover blown, he stops trying to shield his light, letting it blaze unrestrained. It was almost blinding. Apart from herself and her Master, she had never sensed someone so saturated with the Force. He radiated with raw, untamed power, like a star too young to understand its own gravity.

She wondered, fleetingly, if this was what she had once felt like, before the fall. Before the shadows. That incandescent presence, so warm and searing, it felt as if the sun itself poured through him.

A memory stirred. Her first days on Nur. The Inquisitors had muttered and grumbled constantly about her, how bright she was, how loud. A beacon they couldn’t silence. The boy didn’t broadcast his thoughts like she did back then, but she could understand them now. His light wasn’t subtle; it pressed against the world with a desperate urgency, vivid and unrelenting. It almost hurt.

Her tracking display updates as she monitors their path through the Death Star's superstructure. Their trajectory is clear; they're heading back toward the hangar where the Millennium Falcon waits. Exactly where she wants them.

But as she watches their progress, something unexpected happens. Winter stumbles, catches herself against a wall, and for just a moment looks directly at one of the security cameras. Her expression is unreadable, but there's something in her eyes, a flash of knowledge, of understanding that chills Revaris to the bone.

She knows I’m watching.

Revaris turns away from the control center's displays, her cape swirling around her boots as she strides toward the exit.

The hunt was entering its final phase, and she intended to be there to witness the conclusion. Whatever Winter knew, whatever games she was playing, it was too late to change course now. The trap was closing, and Revaris would be waiting at its heart.

They were coming to her now, exactly where she wanted them.

The only question was whether they would leave as her unwitting pawns, or as corpses.

The hangar bay stretched before her like a cathedral of war, its vast ceiling disappearing into shadows punctuated by the cold gleam of overhead lighting. Revaris stood in perfect stillness at its center, a pillar of darkness against the sterile Imperial architecture. Her crimson lightsaber remained unignited at her belt, but its presence radiated menace like heat from a forge.

Across the hangar, the rescue party emerged from the corridor, exactly where she had guided them. The boy’s Force signature burned bright. Winter moved with calculated precision, every step measured. The smuggler, though, froze mid-stride, his anxiety flaring as the realization struck: they had walked straight into a trap.

But it was Winter's reaction that drew Revaris's attention. No shock, no disbelief, just a weary recognition that spoke of prior knowledge. Of course. Her friend had always been perceptive.

"Hello, Winter," Revaris said, her vocoder rendering the words with mechanical coldness. "I trust your accommodations were adequate?"

The stormtroopers materialized from concealment with professional precision, at least two dozen of them with weapons trained on the intruders. But Revaris's golden eyes remained fixed on the rescue party, cataloging their reactions, their positions, their potential.

Winter stepped forward instinctively, a hand out, not toward her weapon, but toward Revaris. “Leia… please. You don’t have to do this. I know you planned this, so come with us, we don’t need to fight.”

Leia’s head tilted slightly, golden eyes narrowing. “Come with you?” she echoed, voice flat. “Even now, you think I’m a prisoner here. That I need saving.”

The boy's hand moved instinctively toward his lightsaber, not out of bravado, but caution. He could feel it in the Force, the coiled darkness radiating from her meeting his light head-on. It was danger, cold and overwhelming, focused entirely on him. Revaris felt the shift in his stance, the flicker of fear behind his resolve, and smiled beneath her mask. Yes. Let him sense what true power was.

"This isn't you," Winter said quietly. Not a plea, just a statement. "Even behind that mask, I can see it. You're still trying to fix something. I just can’t tell if it’s the galaxy or yourself."

Revaris stilled. The only sign of reaction was the slight tilt of her head.

"You think I’m broken," she said at last, vocoder low and steady. "Brainwashed. That if you say the right thing, I’ll snap out of it."

"Not snap out of it," Winter replied evenly. "Come home."

"Home?" Revaris took a step forward, every movement calculated. "To the planet you nearly got destroyed? I spared Alderaan, Winter. I command fleets now. While you play dress-up in the role they never meant for you."

"You paid for that with your soul."

The words cut the air like a blade. Revaris laughed, short, sharp, bitter.

"My soul is long gone. That's what it took to save myself." She turned slightly, her gaze sweeping across the hangar with cold certainty. "I’m not Leia anymore. I’m Darth Revaris."

Winter didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

Revaris stepped closer. "You should fear me," she said, voice low, dangerous. "Not because I’m Sith—but because I’m right."

A beat of silence. Then the smuggler's voice cut through, half-disbelieving, half-scandalized:

 "That’s Revaris?! You know who that is, right? Mass murderer. Empire’s pet executioner. Tell me we’re not trying to talk sense into someone with her own war crimes folder."

Her attention shifted from Winter, the smuggler was not important, but the boy… She studied him with clinical interest. Through the Force, she probed at the edges of his presence—bright, powerful, burning with conviction. "Though I must admit, I hadn't expected Kenobi to bring such an... interesting companion."

She could feel his discomfort under her scrutiny, the way he fought the urge to step backward. Good. Fear was the beginning of wisdom.

"A low-life smuggler, and a farm boy from Tatooine," she continued, her vocoder lending her words an edge of amusement. "How perfectly mundane. Tell me, child, do you even comprehend what you've walked into?"

The boy straightened, squaring his shoulders with a flicker of youthful defiance. “I understand enough,” he shot back. “And I’m not a kid. Honestly, you don’t look any older than me, just meaner.”

“Well, at least you will die brave.” Revaris’s tone flickered, just slightly, with surprise, a short breath of amusement threading through the vocoder’s mechanical rasp. She hadn’t expected cheek. Not from him.

Then the moment passed, and her voice sharpened, layered with menace. “Then you understand that you’re all going to die here. That this entire rescue was nothing more than a performance, designed to expose your master, to disgrace Alderaan.”

Her gaze locked onto him, cold and unblinking. “I think I’ll start with you. When your screams tear through the Force, perhaps Kenobi will finally understand what true power feels like.”

Through the Force, she felt Winter's spike of protective fury, the smuggler's rising panic, the Wookiee's steadfast loyalty. But it was the boy's reaction that interested her most, not fear, but determination.

The blue lightsaber ignited in his hands with a sound like singing crystal, bathing the hangar in electric shadows. Revaris felt a moment of professional appreciation, his stance was adequate, his grip properly positioned. Kenobi had at least taught him the basics.

"How noble," she observed, beginning to circle him with predatory grace. "How perfectly Jedi. Yes, boy—let's see what that old hermit managed to teach you."

She struck without warning.

The clash of sabers rang out like a thunderclap, Revaris’s crimson blade hammering down with brutal precision. Each swing of hers came from above or the side, heavy, deliberate, meant to break defenses. Djem So was not elegant; it was relentless, designed to dominate. She drove forward like a force of nature, each strike an accusation, each parry a punishment.

Luke faltered but held his ground. His movements were lighter, quicker, an instinctual blend of Soresu’s tight parries and Ataru’s evasive flourishes. He wasn’t polished, not yet, but he was slippery. Where she pushed forward like a storm, he flowed like a current, pivoting away from her brute strength, deflecting rather than contesting it.

But Revaris was faster, stronger, and far more experienced. This wasn’t a sparring match. This was a war. A Sith did not fight to win. A Sith fought to break.

Behind them, blaster fire erupted as the stormtroopers engaged the rest of his team, the Wookie and the smuggler exchanging blaster bolts with them, trying to clear a way to the ship with Winter. But the sounds seemed distant, unimportant. Her focus narrowed to the deadly dance of the sabers, to the growing desperation in her opponent's movements as her relentless assault pushed him toward the hangar's center.

"You're weak," she observed during a brief exchange where their sabers locked. "Is this what passes for Jedi training now? Unable to hold on more than a few minutes?"

She shattered the blade lock with a brutal, Force-enhanced shove that sent the boy skidding backward, his boots scraping against the durasteel floor. Before he could fully recover, her saber hissed through the air, missing his head by centimeters. The heat kissed his cheek, singeing strands of hair, a warning she hadn't intended to be merciful.

The boy caught his balance, eyes narrowing, breathing steadying. His movements were no longer just reactive; he was starting to read her patterns. Each pass, each exchange, taught him something. He didn’t meet her strength with strength. He shifted, redirected, ducked just enough to stay alive. It wasn’t skill, it was instinct, and it was growing sharper with every heartbeat.

But she was still the storm. Still stronger. Still faster. And more importantly, she wanted this. While he clearly was conflicted to some degree.

He asked the question during a momentary break, circling with his blade angled low, not retreating but reassessing. “What happened to you? What did the Empire do to make you like this?”

He asked as if she had been broken into this shape. As if she hadn’t chosen it.

“The Empire?” Her voice was flat behind the vocoder. “No. The Empire did nothing but reveal the truth. I made myself like this. I choose the Dark. Her saber lifted again, slowly, deliberately. “This isn’t cruelty. It’s clarity.”

She struck. He met it, barely. His parry was instinctual, but timed well. Their blades screeched against one another, locked in a surge of opposing will. Red and blue bled into white at the point of impact, sparks hissing to the floor.

Through the Force, she felt it again, that stubborn, radiating light in him. Like a sun that refused to set. It didn’t matter how badly he was outmatched. He wouldn't stop.

But neither would she.

"You chose wrong," he said firmly. "Hope and light—that's what makes us strong, not wherever this is."

The conviction in his voice sent an unexpected chill through her. The same naive faith she'd once carried before reality had beaten it out of her.

Her stance wavered, just slightly, but enough. The boy saw it. He surged forward with a flurry of swift, tight strikes, not powerful as hers but relentless, and for the first time, Revaris gave ground.

The audacity of it—this desert rat, half-trained, breathing hard and still daring —forced her onto the defensive. It sent a sharp jolt of emotion through her chest. Not fear. Not even pain. Just… fury. Raw and instinctive.

She snarled, and with a burst of focused power, unleashed a concussive wave of the Force that hurled him like a ragdoll across the hangar. His body slammed into the deck with a dull metallic thud, his saber tumbling and sparking out of reach.

“Wrong,” she spat, her boots echoing against the durasteel as she advanced. “Your Jedi Order is dead. The Republic is ash. And hope?” Her saber hummed as it rose. “Hope is a lie I buried long ago.”

But he wasn’t done. He rolled aside as her saber carved into the floor where his torso had been. With a pull of the Force, his weapon snapped back into his hand, and he met her next blow with unexpected strength. 

But as they fought, something began to distract her. In the heat of combat, with their weapons locked together repeatedly, she found herself studying his lightsaber with growing fascination. The elegant curve of the emitter shroud, the distinctive ridged grip, the way the activation stud was positioned...

It looked impossibly familiar.

During their next blade lock, with blue and red light mingling between them, she got her first clear look at the weapon's construction. Recognition slammed into her.

She knew this lightsaber.

Not just its type, but this specific weapon. She had seen it in holorecords of the Clone Wars, had studied footage of its wielder cutting through battle droids and dueling Separatist leaders. She had memorized every detail from Imperial archives.

Anakin Skywalker's lightsaber.

Her father's weapon.

And just like that, the cold control she had so carefully cultivated cracked.

"That weapon," she hissed, voice tight and low, vibrating with fury barely held in check. "Do you even know what you're holding?"

The boy hesitated, thrown off by the sudden shift. "It's a lightsaber. It belonged to—"

"To Anakin Skywalker . My father."

The words hung there for a heartbeat, then confusion crept across his face. His grip loosened on the hilt as he stared at her. "Your... what?"

He tried to step back, disengage with her, trying to stop the fight, but she advanced. Each word was a blow.

"You. Some nobody from the desert. You dare to wield it?! That saber is mine!"

His expression wavered, uncertainty, a flicker of comprehension. “Wait… but Winter said, you are Organa.”

Her voice rose, not just volume, but presence, a Force-wrought proclamation that cracked across the hangar like a lightning strike.

“I am Darth Revaris, Lady of the Sith! daughter of Anakin Skywalker!”

The sheer weight of her fury shattered the observation windows. Lights overhead burst in a chain reaction, casting the hangar into fractured shadows lit only by saberlight and the glow of the Falcon’s ramp. Troopers stumbled. Winter dropped to one knee, gasping under the weight of her presence.

The boy braced himself, but she could feel it, he was losing his calm.

"No. You've got this wrong—" he began, voice tight, but she was already moving.

“You dare?! ”

Every blow now was personal. His defenses crumpled beneath her rage, each strike forged from years of abandonment, from the memories of waiting to be rescued, waiting to be saved while her life had been twisted into a weapon. He was a thief. A usurper. A boy who shouldn’t matter but somehow got everything she ever wanted.

And worst of all… he pitied her. She could feel it through the force, pity.

That was the final insult.

With a roar, she broke through his guard and slammed him to the deck, her saber crashing down just shy of his throat.

"That lightsaber belongs to me ," she said, her breath low and lethal. “And I will take it from your charred corpse.”

The dark side surged, unfurling through her limbs like wildfire. Lightning coiled around her hand, crackling with barely contained control. She raised her arm and let it loose.

The lightning struck him full-force, tearing through flesh and nerve. He screamed, the sound raw and real and right . His saber flew from limp fingers, clattering across the floor. His presence burned in the Force, pain overriding everything else.

Yes. This was what they all deserved. Why save the galaxy? Why bring order? She can just do this instead, destroy everything with the Dark Side. When everything is dead, there will be silence.

"LEIA, STOP!"

The hangar's blast doors ground open with a thunderous roar. Through the gap, she caught a glimpse of two figures locked in mortal combat, one in flowing robes, the other encased in black armor that reflected the crimson glow of clashing lightsabers.

Her Master. And Kenobi.

"LEIA!"

The name echoed across the hangar like thunder, raw with anguish and desperation. Not the controlled tones of a Jedi Master, but the broken cry of a man confronting the magnitude of his failure.

He had failed her just like everyone else. And now he's watching the consequences.

Good, let him see his dear apprentice die in agony, maybe then she can finally let go of her hatred.

But in that moment of distraction, while she forgot everything around her but the boy and Kenobi, a single blaster bolt, fired from the Falcon’s open ramp, struck her square in the back

The impact sent her sprawling, armor plates cracked and smoking. Pain blazed through her spine, white-hot and immediate. Her lightning disappeared, and she was thrown away from the boy by the sheer force of the shot.

She felt consciousness slipping away, but rage kept her awake. She saw Winter running, then dragging the boy toward their ship, the smuggler laying down covering fire, all of them convinced they'd won.

They were wrong.

Leia pushed herself to her knees, one hand pressed against the floor, keeping her up, the other extending toward the fleeing rebels. Dark side energy coursed through her like fire, and she reached out with crushing intent. The Falcon's boarding ramp, halfway retracted, groaned and buckled under invisible pressure.

"You will not escape," she hissed through gritted teeth.

The ship lurched as her power took hold, repulsors straining against her Force grip. She could hear the engines cycling up, feel the pilot's desperation through the Force. Just a little more pressure, and she could crack the hull like an egg.

But the wound was deeper than she'd realized. Blood loss made her vision swim, and her concentration wavered. The Falcon broke free of her grasp with a metallic shriek, ascending toward the hangar's atmospheric barrier.

Leia tried to stand, tried to pursue, but her legs betrayed her. She collapsed back to the deck, watching helplessly as the freighter cleared the Death Star's superstructure and banked toward open space. Through the Force, she felt the boy's presence one final time, that blazing beacon of untrained power, before the ship made its jump to hyperspace and vanished.

Gone. All of them, gone.

Her father's lightsaber, gone with them.

The hangar fell silent except for the settling groans of damaged machinery and the distant hiss of atmospheric processors. Leia lay there in the wreckage of her perfect plan, staring at the empty void where her prey had escaped.

Then she heard them, slow, deliberate footsteps echoing across the durasteel deck. The mechanical rhythm of a respirator that had haunted her dreams and shaped her nightmares. Her Master's presence pressed against her consciousness, heavy with disappointment and barely contained wrath.

Or was that worry?

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Replacement.


Consciousness returned slowly, disorienting, edged with the bitter aftertaste of medical sedatives.

Leia's first coherent thought was confusion. Where was she? The last clear memory felt distant, fragmented, red and blue lightsabers clashing in a hangar bay, the acrid smell of ozone and blaster fire, rage burning through her veins like molten metal. Everything after that was a haze of pain and darkness.

She tried to move and immediately wished she hadn't. Her body felt wrong, disconnected, as if it belonged to someone else. The dull ache where blaster fire had torn through armor and flesh pulsed with each heartbeat, a reminder of failure that cut deeper than any physical wound. But it was manageable now, the screaming agony that had consumed her consciousness aboard the Death Star had been reduced to something she could think around rather than through.

Bacta. She could taste it on her tongue; if she had to guess, she had been submerged in a tank until not long ago. How long had she been unconscious?

Where was she? Was she still on the Death Star, or one of her Master ships?

The sound revealed her location, filtering through her disorientation.

Even through the fortress's reinforced walls, Mustafar's volcanic heartbeat was unmistakable. The distant rumble of lava flows carving new channels through obsidian rock. The hiss of superheated gases venting into the sulfurous atmosphere. The occasional crack of stone splitting under thermal stress. It was a symphony of destruction and creation locked in eternal balance, fitting, she supposed, for a world that served as her Master's home.

Leia opened her eyes to familiar darkness. The medical bay's overhead lighting had been dimmed to accommodate her recovery, casting long shadows across walls of polished black stone. Through the narrow viewport, she could see the orange glow of distant lava falls painting the perpetual twilight in shades of amber and crimson. Beautiful, in its way. Mustafar had always possessed a stark, terrible beauty that spoke to something deep in her Sith-trained soul.

She tried to sit up and immediately regretted the decision. Her back erupted in fresh waves of pain, the blaster wound reminding her that bacta could only accelerate healing, not eliminate consequences. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself upright anyway, refusing to show weakness even to an empty room.

The damage assessment was grimmer than she'd hoped. Her left shoulder was encased in a bacta-infused medical brace, the joint still too damaged for full mobility. Diagnostic readouts on the nearby medical console showed internal injuries that would take time to fully heal. But she was alive, which was more than she'd expected after that smuggler's parting shot had sent her sprawling across the Death Star's hangar deck.

If there still was a Death Star.

The thought struck her like ice water. Had her plan worked? Or was it another in a growing list of failures?

Her movements were clumsy, uncoordinated, her usual predatory grace replaced by slow movements. The bacta treatment had kept her alive, but it would be days, perhaps weeks, before she was fully functional again.

The humiliation of it burned worse than her injuries. Shot in the back by some lowlife while she was distracted, while her control had shattered like glass under the weight of her own fury. She had been winning, dominating the boy, killing him in the most painful way she could muster, claiming what was rightfully hers. And then that nobody with a blaster had brought her down like she was some common trooper.

The boy, however...

She closed her eyes and reached out through the Force, letting her consciousness expand beyond the confines of the medical bay. The technique required delicate control, too aggressive a probe, and she'd attract unwanted attention from her Master, wherever he was in the fortress's labyrinthine depths. But she needed to know. Needed to understand what had happened during those final moments aboard the Death Star.

The memories came flooding back with painful clarity. The lightsaber in the boy's hands, her father's lightsaber, blazing with familiar blue fire. The way he'd moved, untrained but instinctive, flowing between defensive forms like water finding its path through stone. And his presence in the Force... that brilliant, untamed radiance that had made her chest tighten with something between rage and envy.

Some nobody from Tatooine. A desert rat that Kenobi had plucked from obscurity and deemed worthy of training, while she’d been abandoned to the Sith. The injustice of it still burned. This boy had been raised with love, with family, with the gentle guidance of a Jedi Master who cared for his welfare. He'd been given everything she'd been denied, handed the life that should have been hers.

And now he wielded her father's weapon as if he had any right to it.

But did it matter anymore? The question struck her with unexpected force, cutting through the haze of sedatives and bacta. Had her carefully orchestrated plan succeeded, or had she failed in every conceivable way? The rebels had escaped, that much she remembered with painful clarity. But escape was always part of the design. The real question was whether they had led the Empire to the rebel base as intended.

Had the Death Star tracked the Falcon to the rebel base? Had her Master fired the superlaser, reducing another world to cosmic dust? Or had the rebels succeeded in their endeavor to destroy the giant weapon? Or was it neither? Some variable she hadn't accounted for, some flaw in her perfect design?

The not-knowing gnawed at her worse than any physical wound. Control had always been her anchor in the chaos of galactic war. Information was power, and power was survival. Without it, she felt adrift, diminished.

And Kenobi... Her Master had gone after the old Jedi while she'd been distracted by the boy and his stolen lightsaber. The memory came in flashes, glimpses through the hangar's blast doors of two figures locked in mortal combat, the familiar snap-hiss of clashing sabers, her Master's imposing silhouette against the Death Star's sterile architecture.

Had Vader finally claimed his victory? Was Obi-Wan Kenobi dead, or had he escaped along with his precious padawan and Winter and the rest of their pathetic rescue party? The uncertainty made her jaw clench, sending fresh waves of pain through her damaged body.

Too many variables. Too many unknowns. Her perfect trap had become a tangle of loose threads, and she couldn't tell which ones had been severed and which remained intact.

A sound in the corridor outside made her tense, one hand instinctively reaching for a lightsaber that wasn't there. The motion sent fresh spikes of pain through her damaged shoulder, a reminder of how far she'd fallen from her usual deadly competence. Heavy footsteps, measured and deliberate, accompanied by the familiar mechanical rhythm of a respirator. Her Master was coming.

How much did he know? How much had he seen? The questions multiplied in her mind, each one spawning new anxieties she couldn't quite suppress. Had he witnessed her loss of control, her pathetic display of sentiment over a lightsaber? Had he seen her brought low by a common smuggler's lucky shot?

Leia forced herself to relax, assuming the position of meditative repose she'd learned during her early training. Spine straight despite the pain, hands folded in her lap, breathing controlled and even. When Vader entered her prison, for that's what this medical bay truly was, regardless of its sterile comfort, she would meet him as Darth Revaris, not as the broken girl who'd collapsed in that hangar.

The door hissed open, and Lord Vader's presence filled the chamber like a black tide. He stood silhouetted in the doorway for a long moment, his respirator the only sound in the oppressive silence. Even without looking, Leia could feel his displeasure radiating through the Force, cold, controlled, and infinitely dangerous.

It reminded her of the last time he’d stood in the doorway of a medical bay while she lay on the bed. She suppressed the urge to glance at her right arm. Last time, he’d implanted a control chip and made her his slave. Who was to say he hadn’t done it again?

But at the same time, she could feel another emotion from him, almost concealed by the anger, and one that she had never felt from her Master before, was it… relife?

It is probably the Force exhaustion; she is starting to imagine things in the Force.

"You're awake," he observed, his voice carrying its usual mechanical inflection. It wasn't a question.

"Yes, Master." She kept her eyes fixed on her hands, not trusting herself to meet his gaze just yet. The shame of her failure was still too fresh, too raw.

Vader stepped into the chamber, his cape rustling against the polished floor. "Good. We have much to discuss."

Vader moved deeper into the chamber, his imposing form casting elongated shadows across the medical bay's polished walls. Each footstep was deliberate, measured, the predatory stalk of an apex predator circling wounded prey.

"Your performance aboard the Death Star was... eventful," he said finally, the word carrying layers of meaning she couldn't yet decipher.

Leia kept her voice carefully neutral. "Master. My memories after the hangar are... fragmented."

"Are they?" Vader stopped directly in front of her, his respirator's rhythm unchanging. "Then allow me to illuminate the consequences of your actions."

He began to pace, his cape whispering across the polished floor. "The tracking device worked as intended. The Millennium Falcon led the Death Star straight to the Rebel base on Yavin 4. But after you killed its commander, and while I was occupied ensuring you didn’t die from a mere blaster shot, it fell into disarray. By the time they managed to contact me for instructions, the Rebels had already regrouped."

Relief flooded through her, quickly followed by anticipation. "And?"

"The rebels launched a desperate assault. A handful of starfighters against the Empire's ultimate weapon." Vader's helmet turned toward her. "Led by the boy—Kenobi's apprentice. The same desert rat who crossed sabers with you in the hangar."

Leia’s mouth drew into a thin line at the reminder of her humiliation, but she kept silent. Not only had he escaped, he’d recovered faster than she had, returning to the fight while she was still unconscious.

"The boy made an impossible shot," Vader continued. "Guided by the Force, he fired proton torpedoes down a thermal exhaust port no larger than a womp rat. The Death Star was destroyed."

Relief flooded her; at least that part of the plan remained intact, that obscene monument to the Emperor's hubris, that insult to the true power of the Force, was gone. She fought to keep satisfaction from her face.

"The rebel base?" she asked.

"Evacuated before the station could fire. They escaped to fight another day." Vader's voice carried no emotion.

"I see." Leia processed this information carefully. The rebels had survived, the Death Star was destroyed, and somehow the boy, that nobody, had been instrumental in both outcomes. 

Vader stopped his pacing and fixed her with that unseen gaze. "Grand Moff died with his precious Death Star, consumed by the very weapon he wielded so carelessly. The Emperor mourns the loss of such a... useful administrator."

The carefully neutral tone told her everything. Vader had covered for her, had allowed the galaxy to believe Tarkin perished in the station's destruction. No witnesses remained to contradict that narrative, which was ensured when the Death Star exploded with all of its inhabitants.

"The Emperor is... displeased," Vader continued. "The loss of the Death Star has complicated his plans considerably. He sees only failure where we see... opportunity."

"Good," she said before she could stop herself.

The Force slammed into her, driving her back against the medical bed with enough force to send fresh agony through her healing wounds. Vader's hand was raised, fingers splayed, but his voice remained eerily calm.

"Your satisfaction is noted, apprentice. And misplaced."

Black spots danced at the edges of her vision, but Leia refused to struggle. She met his hidden gaze unflinchingly, even as her damaged body screamed in protest.

After a long moment, Vader lowered his hand. The crushing pressure vanished, leaving her gasping but still upright.

"You misunderstand the nature of my displeasure," he said, resuming his pacing. "Tarkin's death serves our purposes well. The Death Star's destruction destabilized the Emperor's control over the dismissed Senate. These outcomes further our... long-term objectives."

Their conspiracy against Palpatine. The words hung unspoken in the air between them.

"Then why—?" she began.

"Because it was not your decision to make!" The words cracked like a whip, and for the first time, genuine anger leaked through Vader's mechanical calm. "You conceived and executed an entire operation without consultation. Without coordination. Without regard for the consequences."

Leia straightened despite the pain. "The plan succeeded. Tarkin is dead, the Death Star destroyed, the rebels—"

"Success is irrelevant!" Vader's respirator hissed sharply. "You could have eliminated every rebel in the galaxy, could have handed me the Emperor's head on a silver platter, and I would be equally displeased. This was not about the outcome—it was about your complete abandonment of discipline."

The rebuke stung worse than any physical blow. "Master, I—"

"You orchestrated a deception spanning months. You manipulated Imperial intelligence, influenced fleet deployments, and orchestrated the capture of a Jedi—all without a word to me." His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "And then, in the crucial moment, you lost control entirely. I felt your rage through the Force, your pathetic sentiment over a lightsaber, your complete disregard of focus when victory was within your grasp."

The shame of it burned fresh in her chest. Her pathetic display over her father's weapon, her moment of weakness before that boy from Tatooine.

"The rebels now have a symbol," Vader continued. "The boy who destroyed the Death Star has become a hero to their cause. Your failure to eliminate him when you had the chance has elevated a nobody into a genuine threat."

"Then we hunt him down," Leia said through gritted teeth.

"We do nothing." Vader stopped directly in front of her again. "You have proven that your judgment is compromised by pride and sentiment. You made decisions that should have been coordinated between us, decisions that affect our larger plans."

Leia stared at him, feeling something tightening in her chest. "Master?"

"You are relieved of active duty," he said flatly. "Confined to this fortress until such time as you demonstrate that you understand the meaning of being an apprentice. The Emperor believes you require... remedial instruction in patience and obedience. He knows nothing of your true role in these events—I have ensured that much. To him, you are simply another victim of the boy, defeated by Obi-Wan Padawan."

The implications were obvious. Vader had protected her, had spun a narrative that shielded her from the Emperor's wrath. She was alive and unpunished only because of his intervention. He also made sure it would seem that she was injured by a Jedi, not by some non-force-sensitive smuggler.

"But make no mistake," Vader continued, his voice deadly calm. "My protection comes with a price. You will learn to consult before you act. You will master the control that abandoned you in that hangar. And you will never again mistake independence for strength."

The words hit her like a slap. "I am not some failed acolyte—"

"No," Vader agreed. "You are my apprentice. But you are also young, impulsive, and demonstrably incapable of seeing beyond your immediate desires. The death of Tarkin and the destruction of that abomination were necessary steps, yes. But they were steps to be taken together, with careful planning and coordination."

He turned toward the door, his cape billowing behind him. "You will remain here until I deem you ready to continue your training. Use the time to meditate on the difference between strength and recklessness. Between strategy and impulse."

"And Kenobi?" she asked suddenly, desperate to salvage something from this humiliation. "At least tell me the old man is dead."

Vader paused at the threshold. "Obi-Wan Kenobi is dead. I struck him down myself, as was always my destiny. In that, at least, the mission succeeded."

Relief flooded through her, cold and bitter but real. The man who abandoned her was finally gone.

"Remember this lesson well, apprentice," Vader said without turning around. "Power without discipline is merely destruction. And destruction without purpose serves only our enemies."

The door hissed shut behind him, leaving Leia alone with her rage and the volcanic heartbeat of Mustafar pressing in through the walls. She sat in the gathering darkness, feeling the weight of failure and frustrated ambition crushing down upon her.

The boy had escaped. The rebels had their martyr. And she was trapped in a gilded cage of her own making.

But as she sat there, one thought burned bright and fierce in the darkness of her mind: Vader was right about coordination and planning. When she finally earned her freedom, she would not make the same mistakes again.

A week passed in uneasy silence.

Leia had tried everything. She roamed the fortress's obsidian corridors like a caged predator, her left arm still sluggish in its responses. The bacta had done its work on her other injuries, but this will take a bit longer to heal, a constant reminder of the smuggler's parting shot.

She spent hours in meditation, reaching through the Force with desperate fingers, seeking any fragment of information about the outside galaxy. But nothing, the Force did not answer her.

Her attempts to gather intelligence through conventional means proved equally fruitless. The fortress's communication arrays remained functional, but Vader had severed her access to Imperial channels with surgical precision. Her carefully cultivated network of informants and contacts might as well have been on the other side of the galaxy. Even the most basic intelligence reports were denied to her.

She had questioned the few officers stationed at the fortress, but they knew nothing beyond their immediate duties. Vader’s protection extended even to them; each one had been given strict orders to tell her nothing. And even after she killed two, after she demonstrated the Force with brutal clarity, they still feared her Master more than they feared her.

The isolation was maddening. For years, information had been her lifeblood, her weapon, her shield. Without it, she felt diminished, reduced to the powerless child she'd once been.

Vader knew exactly what he was doing.

The worst part, the one she hadn’t even admitted to the med-droid, was that she was starting to lose her mind. The dark side could twist thoughts, warp perception, but this felt different. Wrong in a way she couldn’t define. It had begun subtly, the strange flickers of emotions from her Master, worry, relief, feelings she was certain he wasn’t capable of.

Then the distortions began. Sounds that didn’t belong. A blue haze creeping at the edge of her vision. Movements that vanished the moment she turned to catch them. And the voice, someone shouting her name again and again. A pair of blue eyes in the mirror where her gold ones should have been. Gone in a blink, as if they’d never been there.

She was unraveling. And if her Master discovered it, he would cast her aside without hesitation. There was no room in the Empire for a broken Sith. He wouldn’t kill her out of cruelty, but caution. It was safer that way, better than risking an unstable apprentice with her level of power spiraling out of control. She knew the stories. She knew how it ended for Sith who cracked.

And she was cracking.

An alert pulsed through the fortress network, breaking her focus and dragging her from yet another fruitless meditation. She checked the signal and froze. She recognized the signature instantly, Kuat Drive Yards engines, heavily modified, paired with the unmistakable power curve of military-grade shields dropping to standby. Only one ship in the galaxy left that kind of footprint in the system logs. And its pilot had a talent for arriving at precisely the moments when his services were most needed.

Slave I had come to Mustafar.

The main hangar bay was a cathedral of black stone and polished steel, vast enough to house a light cruiser but currently occupied only by a single cargo shuttle and a scattering of crates.

She found him exactly where she'd expected, leaning against his ship's landing struts with studied casualness, his distinctive T-visor helmet tilted at an angle that suggested amusement. The Mandalorian armor was as pristine as ever, sage-green plates polished to mirror brightness over a dark gray flight suit. His EE-3 carbine rested in its holster, and she could see the outlines of half a dozen other weapons concealed beneath his tactical gear.

Boba Fett looked exactly as she remembered from their first encounter ten years ago, when she was ten, frightened, and on the run, and he’d hauled her back to Vader like a prized bantha. He hadn’t been cruel, merely efficient, as if delivering Force-sensitive children to Sith Lords was just another day’s work. They’d crossed paths a few times since. Each meeting had been just as unpleasant.

He was always professional. Detached. Somehow, that made it worse.

"Princess," he said, his voice carrying that familiar drawling mockery that had irritated her since their first meeting during her younger years. The vocoder in his helmet gave his words a metallic edge, but she could still hear the smile beneath the electronic distortion. "Nice eyes. I see you found your place since the last time I saw you."

Leia kept her expression neutral, though her fingers itched for a lightsaber that wasn't there. Her weapon had been taken by her Master since her wakaning in this place. Another reminder of her failure, another piece of herself stripped away by circumstance and poor planning.

"Fett," she replied coolly. "Still playing errand boy for whoever pays best, I see."

He pushed off from his ship with fluid grace, moving closer with the predatory confidence of someone who'd never met a fight he couldn't win or a target he couldn't claim. She'd studied his methods during their previous encounters, had learned to read the subtle tells that preceded his attacks. But he'd studied her as well, and she suspected he knew exactly how dangerous she could be even without a weapon.

"Credits are credits," he said with a slight shrug. "Though I have to say, your Master pays exceptionally well for simple courier work."

"Courier work?" She studied his posture, the slight cant of his helmet, the way his hands hung loose at his sides. He was relaxed, confident, and that meant he held all the cards in whatever game they were about to play. "How mundane for someone of your reputation."

"Not all hunts involve blasters and pursuit through shady markets, Princess. Sometimes the most valuable prey is information." His helmet turned slightly, T-visor reflecting the hangar's lighting like the eyes of some mechanical predator. "Your little rebel friends, for instance. They've been generating quite a lot of interesting data lately."

Her pulse quickened, but she kept her voice level. "I'm sure they have. Terrorists rarely rest, after all."

"Terrorists," he repeated, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "Is that what we're calling war heroes now? Because that's what they're calling the pilot who destroyed the Death Star. Quite the celebrity these days."

She kept her expression carefully neutral, though something cold settled in her stomach. The boy had become a symbol. A rallying point for the Rebellion.

"Celebrities rarely last long in wartime," she said.

"True enough. But this one's got more lives than a nexu, from what I hear." Boba began to circle her with lazy confidence, his boots ringing against the deck plating in a steady rhythm. "Survived the Battle of Yavin, and of course, a meeting with you. Escaped Imperial pursuit at least twice since then. Made quite an impression on your colleagues in Naval Intelligence."

Leia forced herself to remain still, to show no reaction even as her mind raced to process the implications. The boy was still alive, still fighting, still causing problems for the Empire. Good, that meant she could still catch and kill him.

"You don't know, do you?" he said, his helmet tilting in what she could only interpret as amusement. "About the pilot."

Leia said nothing, but her silence was answer enough. The bounty hunter had something, some piece of intelligence that had eluded her week of desperate searching. And he knew she needed it like air.

"The boy's got quite a story," Boba continued, his circling bringing him closer with each pass. "Raised on Tatooine by his aunt and uncle. Owen and Beru Lars, moisture farmers. Dead now, of course—Imperial troopers went to retrieve them after the battle of Yavin, only to find the place destroyed by sand people."

"Trained by Obi-Wan Kenobi," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Among others. But not the most interesting thing about him, not by a long shot." Boba stopped directly in front of her, close enough that she could see her reflection in his visor. "Funny thing about desert rats—they sometimes turn out to be more than they appear."

The implication in his tone made her skin crawl, though she couldn't pinpoint why. There was something he wasn't saying, some crucial piece of information dancing just beyond her reach. The way he emphasized certain words, the meaningful pauses, the careful construction of his sentences, all pointed to intelligence far more significant than simple biographical data.

"What makes this particular pilot so special?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing much. Just his parentage." Boba's helmet tilted again, and she could practically feel his grin behind the faceplate. "Though I suppose that's for your Master to explain. After all, he's the one paying for this particular intelligence briefing."

"Then why tell me anything at all?"

The bounty hunter was quiet for a long moment, his visor fixed on her with that unreadable mechanical gaze. When he spoke again, his voice had lost some of its mocking edge.

"Professional courtesy," he said eventually. "You and I have history, Princess. Not all of it is pleasant, but profitable enough that I can afford to share a warning or two."

"I'm listening."

"This boy—whoever he really is—he's important to your Master in ways that go beyond simple military considerations. The kind of important that gets people killed for asking the wrong questions." Boba stepped back, putting professional distance between them once again. "Take my advice: when Vader decides to share what he knows, listen carefully. And don't assume you understand the full picture until you've heard all the sides of the story."

The bounty hunter turned toward the hangar exit, but paused at the entrance to the hallway. "And another thing, Princess—next time you want to almost kill Force-sensitive desert rats, maybe don't do it alone. They have a habit of surprising people."

“And I'm guessing you recommend yourself?” She asked, raising a single eyebrow.

“If you can afford me, Princess, always.”

With that, he continued into the halls of Mustafar, without looking back. Just kept walking, deeper into the fortress.

Straight to Vader.

Not just a delivery, then. Not a bounty. Something more. Something important.

Leia felt it coil inside her, a quiet twist of dread and curiosity, like the cold before a storm. Fett hadn’t come to gloat. He’d come with knowledge.

Leia had retreated to her quarters after Fett's departure, but meditation proved impossible. The bounty hunter's words echoed in her mind, Professional courtesy, don't assume you understand the full picture. Whatever intelligence he'd brought to Vader, it was significant enough to warrant cryptic warnings and knowing smiles.

She paced her chamber's narrow confines, unable to shake the feeling that everything was about to change.

Then it hit her.

The sensation struck like a wave of molten durasteel, crashing through the Force with such violence that she staggered against the wall. Raw emotion, shock, rage, and something else, something deeper and more primal, flooded through her connection to her Master. Not directed at her, not meant for her, but impossible to ignore when it burned this bright in the Force.

Vader's presence, usually controlled and precisely contained, had exploded outward like a dying star. The emotion was so pure, so overwhelming, that for a moment she couldn't separate his feelings from her own. So much anger, she never felt such fury before; she didn't even know it was possible to be so furious about something.

The fortress itself seemed to respond to his fury. Deep in the volcanic rock, she felt the walls tremble. Dust rained from the ceiling as something fundamental shifted in the structure around them. The Force rippled and warped, reality bending under the weight of her Master's revelation.

Whatever Fett had told him, it had shattered something essential in Vader's carefully constructed world.

Leia pressed her back against the wall, overwhelmed by the psychic storm raging just corridors away. Through their bond, she felt the moment when shock crystallized into cold determination, when rage transformed into something far more dangerous, purpose.

The trembling stopped. The pressure in the Force shifted, compressed, focused into a singular point of deadly intent.

Hours later, he summoned her.

Leia found Vader in his meditation chamber. He stood with his back to the entrance, the chamber's acoustics amplified the sound of his respirator, creating an echo that seemed to reverberate through the very walls. Even motionless, he dominated the space, a figure of absolute authority carved from darkness itself.

"You spoke with the bounty hunter," he said without turning around. It wasn't a question. There was no trace of the anger before; he looked as collected as always.

"Briefly." Leia kept her voice neutral, professional. The anticipation that had sustained her through the past three hours was beginning to curdle into something that felt dangerously close to dread. "He seemed... amused by something."

"Boba Fett is amused by many things. Information is simply another currency to him, and he enjoys spending it as much as earning it." Vader's helmet turned slightly, not quite looking at her but acknowledging her presence. "But in this case, his amusement serves a purpose. You need to understand what we face."

"The boy," she said.

"Yes. The boy." Vader's voice carried a strange weight, as if the words themselves were significant beyond their simple meaning. "The pilot who destroyed the Death Star. The hero of Yavin. The last hope of the dying Jedi Order."

Leia waited, tension coiling in her stomach. There was something in her Master's tone, something that made her skin crawl with premonition.

"Tell me his name," Vader said quietly.

"I don't—"

"Tell me his name, apprentice."

The command was soft, but it carried the weight of absolute authority. Leia felt the words being pulled from her throat by an invisible hand.

"Luke," but that was not the answer he was looking for.

"Luke." The name fell from Vader's lips like a stone into still water, sending ripples of implication through the chamber's oppressive silence. "Luke Skywalker."

No.

No.

No.

The name drove the air from her lungs. For a moment, the world seemed to tilt on its axis, reality reshaping itself around three simple syllables that changed everything.

Skywalker.

Her name. Her legacy. Her birthright.

"No," she whispered.

"Fet had confirmed it." Vader's voice remained maddeningly calm, clinical. "The boy is the son of Anakin Skywalker and Padmé Amidala. The child, who same as you, I believed, died with his mother almost twenty years ago."

The chamber spun around her. Not just any desert rat from Tatooine. Not just Kenobi's convenient apprentice. Her brother. Her twin. The other half of a legacy she'd thought belonged to her alone.

"Your twin brother," Vader continued, as if he could read her thoughts. "Born together with you, hidden on Tatooine while you were taken to Alderaan. Separated, scattered, divided by those who would keep you from your true potential."

Then she understood her Master's fury.

They had done it.

They had hidden Skywalker's child from him, his prize, his weapon. He had believed he had uncovered their secret when he found her.

But in truth, they had concealed something far more dangerous. A child of Anakin Skywalker, raised in secret, trained by a Jedi Master.

A threat no Sith could afford to ignore.

Worse, he fell into their trap, because she knew now that his is what it was, a trap. One child to be hidden and taught, and one child to be put in Vader's path to make sure he will not look further.

"They tricked you." The words came out flat, lifeless. "When you found me, you didn't know there were two of us."

"I believed your Mother had died pregnant, and until I found you, I had no reason to believe otherwise. But twins..." Vader's respirator hissed softly. "That was not something I ever thought was possible. You were already a gift from the Force, I did not suspect there might be another one."

The pieces clicked into place with horrible clarity. The Organas, her loving adoptive parents, split them up. Hiding Luke on a backwater world while placing her on a prominent Core one. Ensuring that if Vader, inevitably, came looking for Padmé's surviving child, he would find her first.

"They used me," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Bail and Breha. They made me into bait."

"Strategically sound," Vader agreed. "One child visible, easy to find. The other hidden in obscurity. If I or the empire ever began to suspect, if we searched for Anakin's heir, they have ensured I would discover you instead of him."

“They sacrificed me to protect him. I had no Jedi to shield me, no one to train me. My destiny was either to fall… or remain ignorant of the Force entirely.” The betrayal cut deeper than any lightsaber wound. “Their own daughter, and they fed me to the Sith to keep him safe.”

"And Kenobi maintained his watch over the boy," Vader continued. "Nineteen years on Tatooine, waiting. Training him in secret, preparing him for the moment when he would emerge to continue the Jedi’s legacy."

"While I was left to the Dark Side, to you." The Jedi did not need two heroes. Why put all of your eggs in one basket? No, one to be hidden and trained by a clone war hero, and another to be used as a shield.

"While you were forged into a weapon." Vader's helmet turned toward her, and she could feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing. "But that is the past. What matters now is the future. The boy is not fully trained. The Jedi are extinct, and he stands alone against the Empire. We can turn him."

"Turn him." The word tasted like ash in her mouth. "You want him to join us."

"I want to save him from the Emperor's wrath. Palpatine knows a Force-sensitive pilot destroyed the Death Star. He will investigate, and when he does, he will discover what I have discovered. Luke's time is running out."

Oh.

Her time was up.

"So you'll replace me with him." The words came out dead, flat. "Just like everyone else."

"Replace?" Vader's voice carried a note of surprise. "No, apprentice. I intend to train you both. Together, as you should have been from the beginning."

"Liar." The word escaped before she could stop it. "There is only room for one apprentice. The Rule of Two—"

"The Rule of Two is the Emperor's dogma, not mine." Vader's presence in the Force pressed against her, but she stood firm. "I have seen what the Sith could become with proper vision. Not two, but many. An empire of darkness that could span the galaxy."

"You're lying." She was backing toward the chamber's entrance, but there was nowhere to run. "You've found your perfect apprentice, and you don't need the broken tool anymore. Just like the Organas. Just like Kenobi. Just like everyone else."

"Listen to me—"

"He has everything!" The words exploded from her in a torrent of rage and pain. "Everything I should have had! A loving family, a proper childhood, the chance to be a hero instead of a villain! He got to choose who he wanted to be while I was forced to become this! And now you want him too!"

"You are both equally—"

"I am nothing!" she screamed. "I am the mistake you made while looking for him! I am the consolation prize you settled for while he was being groomed to be everything you actually wanted!"

Vader's respirator paused for a moment, as if he couldn't quite process her words. "That is not—"

"Isn't it?" Leia felt tears streaming down her face, her voice rising to a scream, but she didn't care. "Look at him! Look at what he's accomplished! He destroyed the Death Star in his first real battle. He's already a symbol of hope for the galaxy. He's untainted by the darkness that is driving me insane! He's everything the heir to Anakin Skywalker should be, and I'm just the practice round you got stuck with."

"Your potential is—"

"My potential is worthless compared to his!" The words tore from her throat like pieces of her soul. "He's the hero. I'm the villain. He's the light. I'm the darkness. He's the apprentice you actually want, and I'm the one you got tricked to train!"

She was close to losing control again, to let the Dark Side take her. It was screaming at her. Suddenly, all of her life made sense. How foolish she had been, how naive, thinking she was the one to bring order to the galaxy, to the Force.

She was just a tool in her brother's path, a sacrifice to make sure he could stay on the right path. She was not some chosen one of the Force; she was not going to be the empress of a new empire.

She was… nothing.

This is why the Force is abandoning her; this is the reason for her losing her mind, the true heir has appeared. She is no longer needed.

"I will not choose between you," Vader said, his voice carrying that deadly calm that preceded violence. "You will help me bring him to us. You will help me save him from the Emperor's wrath. Together we will have him join us in the Dark Side, and the three of u-"

"No." The word came out quietly, absolute. "I won't help you replace me. I won't deliver my own replacement to your door. He is the hero of the rebellion, the galaxy will quickly unite behind him, while you made sure I will be looked at as a monster. The logical move is for him to take my place in our planes as the new Emperor, and I will not allow it."

"You will obey—"

"I will not." Leia straightened, meeting his hidden gaze with defiance burning in her eyes. "Kill me if you want. Torture me if you must. But I will not help you cast me aside for the shinier model. I will not help you choose him over me like everyone else has."

"There is no choice to be made!"

"There's always a choice!" she shot back. "And everyone always chooses him! The Organas chose him over me when they made me into bait! Kenobi chose him over me when he decided which twin deserved to be saved! The galaxy chose him over me when they made him their hero and me their monster! And now you're choosing him too! Even the Force itself had chosen him over me!"

"I am not—"

"You are!" The words came out raw, desperate. She was crying. Why was she crying?

"You're choosing the perfect apprentice over the broken one. The symbol of hope over the weapon of destruction. The son who could be everything Anakin Skywalker was meant to be over the daughter who became everything he was meant to destroy!"

Vader's presence pressed down on her, but she stood firm. She had spent ten years learning to withstand his displeasure, ten years building walls around the parts of herself that still remembered what it felt like to be wanted.

"You will help me," he said, his voice dropping to that whisper that had preceded the deaths of admirals and generals. "Or you will watch as the Emperor destroys him. Is that what you want? To see your brother die because of your pride?"

"Then I will kill the emperor," Leia replied, her voice steady despite the tears. “I would show you and the galaxy who is the better twin! I will prove once and for all that you were all wrong to choose him again and again!"

"You are a fool. You cannot beat the emperor in your current position; he will kill you."

"Maybe. But I'm a fool who won't help you discard me for my replacement."

The Force slammed into her with crushing weight, lifting her off her feet and hurling her against the chamber's curved wall. Stars exploded across her vision, but she refused to cry out. She had given him everything, her childhood, her innocence, her soul, and it still hadn't been enough.

It would never be enough. Not when he had found his perfect apprentice. Not when he had Luke.

"You will get yourself killed. You are not strong enough to win in a fight with the Emperor, no matter how strong you are in the Force." Vader said without turning around. "You will remain here, while I will go and capture your brother, and then we will discuss this matter when you have had time to consider your foolishness."

Leia pushed herself up from the chamber floor, her cybernetic arm sparking where it had struck the wall. Blood ran from a cut on her forehead, but her eyes blazed with undiminished defiance.

"No," she said again, her voice hoarse. "I won't let you lock me away while you collect your prize. I won't be your consolation trophy gathering dust while he becomes everything I was meant to be."

She turned toward the chamber's exit, her movements sharp and purposeful despite her injuries.

"Where are you going?" Vader demanded.

"To prove you wrong," Leia said without looking back. "All of you. I'm going to show the galaxy that your perfect golden boy isn't the only Skywalker who matters."

"You will remain here."

"Try and stop me," she said, but didn’t move.

She stood at the threshold, one hand resting on the doorframe, the other clenched so tightly her knuckles ached. Her voice was calm, too calm. "You think you can replace me. That he's the better twin. The Jedi. The hero." A pause. "Let him try."

The Force crackled, taut and waiting. Vader didn’t move. Neither did she.

She was going to betray him. That had always been the plan. She wasn’t going to go along with this twisted vision of Master and Emperess. She wasn’t going to be his apprentice. She was going to kill him.

So why did it hurt?

Why did the idea of being replaced hurt like nothing she had felt before? Why did it matter that he hadn’t chosen her, when she never intended to stay?

Why does it feel as if her heart is being shredded into pieces? Since when did she even have one?

She hated that she wanted to prove herself. Hated that some part of her still craved the title, the power, the recognition. That she wanted to be the one Vader looked at and said Mine.

"If this is a competition," Leia said, voice sharp with control, "then I’ll stay. And I’ll win."

She stepped back from the door. Chin high. Eyes bright with fury. In that moment, she finally understood the truth she had refused to name.

After all these years, after pain and control and darkness, Vader had become something more than a master. Something steadier than any ally, crueler than any enemy.

She had come to see him as a father.

Twisted, brutal, unyielding. But constant. And now, for the first time, she was losing him.

And it hurt.

He had broken her. Cut off her arm. Chained her with chip, lies, and fear. But now, standing at the edge of that bond, she saw it: in his own way, in the only language he knew, he had cared. He had shaped her into something strong enough to survive him.

And now, she realized with hollow clarity, he was preparing to discard her.

"You made sure I would care not for my previous life, you made sure I will see love and connections as weakness."

“Well… you got what you wanted.”

Then she turned and vanished into the shadows of the corridor, that blue haze in the corner of her eye… marking the fact that she is on borrowed time.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Princess


The volcanic heat of Mustafar pressed against the reinforced transparisteel of Darth Revaris's quarters, casting everything in an amber glow that matched her eyes. A week had passed since her confrontation with Vader, and the bruises along her back had faded to yellow-green shadows beneath her robes. But the emotional wounds remained raw, festering like the planet's eternal fires.

She stood before the narrow viewport, watching molten rivers carve their ancient paths through the obsidian landscape. Her reflection stared back, pale skin, golden eyes, the severe lines of her mask resting on the lower half of her face. Darth Revaris, heir to Lord Vader, and somehow, a Sith with a broken heart.

Why does it still hurt?

The thought came unbidden, and she crushed it with practiced efficiency. Pain was useful. Pain was fuel. Vader had taught her that lesson well.

Her mind churning through possibilities and half-formed plans. The revelation about Luke had shattered something fundamental in her understanding of herself, of her place in the galaxy. Twin brother. The words tasted foreign, impossible, even days later.

She had spent the time since their confrontation cataloging her options. None of them were good. Vader expected her to remain here like an obedient pet while he went hunting for his perfect replacement. The thought made her jaw clench hard enough to ache.

She could try to escape; she wasn’t a ten-year-old anymore. She was a Sith in her own right. But doing so would almost certainly make her a fugitive from the Empire, and she’d find no allies waiting for her in the Rebellion.

Even if she did, she would always be Darth Revaris to them. A Sith. And they would treat her like one. No, she wouldn’t be welcomed, she’d be a prisoner, a project, a dangerous pet brought back to heel by her Jedi brother. He and Winter would do everything they could to “save” her from the dark.

As if she needed saving.

No, she needed a better plan than throwing herself into the night recklessly.

The soft chime of her door's communication panel interrupted her brooding. She ignored it at first; whoever it was could wait. But the chime came again, more insistent.

"What?" she snapped without moving from her position by the window.

"My Lady," came the nervous voice of Lieutenant Kresh, one of the fortress's junior officers. "Forgive the intrusion, but... your ship is ready in Hangar Bay Seven."

Leia turned slowly, confusion replacing irritation. "My ship?"

"Yes, my Lady. The maintenance crew completed the requested modifications and restocking. All systems are nominal and ready for departure."

She stared at the door, her mind racing. She hadn't requested any modifications. More importantly, Vader had been crystal clear that she was confined to the fortress. So why...?

"Understood," she said finally. "Dismissed."

The officer's footsteps retreated down the corridor, leaving her alone with her confusion and a growing sense of unease. This felt like a trap, but then again, everything on Mustafar felt like a trap these days.

After a long moment, she pushed herself to her feet. Whatever game this was, she needed to understand the rules.

Alone again, Revaris gathered her belongings with mechanical precision. Her lightsaber found its familiar place at her belt. Her Master had returned it to her this morning; it was waiting on her bed when she returned from breakfast. As she moved through the ritual of preparation, questions multiplied in her mind. Why now? Why is he letting her go? Isn't he afraid she will go and kill Luke before he can capture him?

The walk to Hangar Bay Seven felt longer than usual, her boots echoing against the metal corridors with each measured step. Imperial personnel gave her a wide berth, their fear palpable in the Force. Good. Fear was respect, and respect was survival.

Hangar Bay Seven was Vader’s domain.

Only his ships were stored here, sleek, matte-black starfighters with experimental modifications, prototypes weren’t cleared to be mass-produced yet, and the shuttles he favored on missions too delicate for anyone else. The lighting was dimmer here, recessed into the ceiling like an afterthought. The silence was thick, mechanical hums punctuated only by the distant hiss of repressurizing vents.

She had been here before, a handful of times. Always at his side. Always silent unless spoken to. It was not a place meant for her.

Now, she walked in alone, just her and the waiting ship.

It was not his personal shuttle. This one was smaller, a diplomatic vessel of Alderaanian design. Clean. Familiar. And on the boarding ramp, unmoving, stood a protocol droid, burnished gold and newly polished.

C-3PO.

He was shut down. Peaceful. Maintained.

Someone had gone through the trouble of servicing him, tightening his joints, cleaning his plating, and replacing his photoreceptors. She knew who. There was no signature, but the precision was Vader’s. She could feel it in the stillness of the hangar. In the carefulness of the gift.

It was a peace offering.

Or a warning.

Either way… it was personal.

She knew her Master enjoyed tinkering with ships and droids, but it was assassin droids, or combat ones, for her training. Never a protocol droid, and while it is not something difficult for someone like him, why would he fix a protocol droid for her? But this wasn't just any droid. This was her droid. The one she'd grown up with, argued with, found comfort in during the lonely nights on Alderaan when the weight of royal duty pressed too heavily on a child's shoulders.

She climbed the ramp with deliberate slowness, her eyes scanning every shadow, every corner. 

"Threepio?" The name escaped her lips as barely a whisper.

At the sound, the droid's photoreceptors flickered to life, casting pale light across his pristine golden chassis. His head turned toward her with that familiar, slightly stiff movement she remembered so well.

"Oh my! Princess Leia! But... but this is most irregular. You're supposed to be dead!" C-3PO's voice carried the same flustered, overly dramatic tone that had once made her smile. "I attended your funeral myself, you know. Most distressing affair. I was quite beside myself with grief circuits for weeks afterward."

The droid took a tentative step forward, his optical sensors scanning her face. "But if you're not dead, which you're clearly not, though I must say you look rather pale, then where have you been for the past... oh dear, let me calculate... ten years, eleven months, and sixteen days? Your Highness, your parents were absolutely devastated. Queen Breha couldn't bear to have me reactivated for months after the funeral. She said my chatter reminded her too much of—"

"Threepio." Leia's voice cut through the droid's rambling like a blade. "How did you get here?"

"Well, that's rather a long story, Your Highness. You see, I was captured during that dreadful business at the Death Star—most traumatic, really—and then I was brought to this awful volcanic planet for what I can only assume were nefarious purposes. Though I must say, someone has taken excellent care of my maintenance. My joints haven't felt this smooth since… Well, since forever. Quite puzzling, actually, considering I'm supposedly a prisoner of the Empire."

“Tell me more about that. The Death Star”

"Oh yes! Most terrifying, really, though the others were quite brave. R2-D2 and I accompanied the rescue party to save Princess Winter from the Death Star. Such a dangerous mission! Master Luke was there, and Captain Solo, and even old Ben Kenobi! Though I must say, Master Luke's planning left something to be desired. Charging head first—honestly, the statistical probability of success was—"

"Luke." The name came out sharper than she intended. "You knew Luke."

"Oh my, yes! Charming boy, really. Always rushing headlong into danger without proper consideration of the odds. Most distressing habit, really. He was quite kind to me, which is most unusual for someone so young. Jawas captured R2 and me, but Master Luke seemed genuinely concerned for our welfare when he bought us."

Leia moved closer, her golden eyes fixed on the droid's faceplate. "Tell me about him."

"Master Luke? Well, he seemed like such a good young man, despite the circumstances. Always trying to do the right thing, you understand. He asked about my previous service when we had quiet movement on the ship." 3PO's voice took on that rambling quality she remembered. "He reminded me of... well, of you, younger you that is."

The comparison was unwelcome. Of course, Luke was earnest and kind. Of course, he cared about others. Her brother had been allowed to remain innocent while she'd been forged into something else entirely.

"You found him on Tatooine," she said, testing the words.

"Oh yes, dreadful place! All that sand, you know. Gets into everything. Though I must say, Master Luke spoke quite fondly of his aunt and uncle. He was worried about them when we left—But Old Ben Kenobi told him they would be well, they had a plan for this, you see, spoke of them with great respect."

Leia felt her jaw clench. Luke had people who mattered to him, people he worried about. While she was tossed aside faster than yesterday's spoiled lunch.

"What else?" she pressed.

3PO seemed to sense the intensity in her voice and became more animated, as if trying to provide comfort. "Oh, he worked well with the others! Captain Solo seemed to take a liking to him, though the Captain would never admit it. And brave! Foolishly brave, really. Even when our situation seemed hopeless, Master Luke kept looking for ways to help Princess Winter, even while I protested. You see, going to save her was a death trap, the odds of out-surviving were—" She interrupted his rambling, knowing this could go on for hours.

"And old Ben was with you all," she said quietly.

"Oh yes! Most peculiar, that. I had no memory of him initially, but there was something familiar about his manner. He seemed to know a great deal about many things, and he was quite protective of Master Luke. Like a grandfather might be, if you understand my meaning. Very wise, very patient, though a bit odd if you ask me."

Each word was another knife twist. Luke the hero. Luke the kind. Luke, the considerate young man, had people who cared about him, who worried about him, and who stood by him. Everything she should have been, everything she could never be now.

"He asked about you, actually," 3PO said suddenly.

Leia went very still. "What?"

"Master Luke. When he learned I had served House Organa, he asked about the royal family. About you, specifically. He seemed quite sad when I told him about your disappearance and presumed death. Said it was a terrible loss for the galaxy." The droid's voice softened. "He would be so happy to know you're alive, Princess. Perhaps when this unpleasantness is over—"

"He was not happy to see me when we met," Leia cut him off harshly. "Trust me on that."

C-3PO paused, his head tilting as he studied her more closely. "But Princess, if I may be so bold, there's something rather different about you. Your eyes, for instance—they're quite... golden. And that lightsaber at your side..." His voice dropped to a scandalized whisper. "Oh my stars! You're not... you couldn't possibly be... a Sith ?"

The word hung in the recycled air between them like an accusation. Revaris felt something twist painfully in her chest, an emotion she'd thought buried deeper than Serrano ashes. But again, if the past few weeks have proven anything, it is that she is not in control of her emotions as she thought she was.

"I am Darth Revaris," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. "Princess Leia died long ago."

"Darth Revaris?" C-3PO's optical sensors flickered rapidly. "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! This is most distressing! Princess, what has happened to you? Sith Lords are terrible, violent beings who cause nothing but suffering and chaos! Surely you haven't actually become one of... one of them ?"

The droid's obvious distress sent an unexpected pang through Revaris's carefully constructed defenses. She remembered this, the way Threepio fretted over her, the genuine concern in his artificial voice. It had been... comforting, once. Before she learned that comfort was weakness.

"I am what I need to be," she said, stepping closer to the droid. "And you, Threepio, belong to me now. You would do well to remember that."

"Oh my! 'Belong to you'? But Princess—forgive me, Lady Revaris—I've always belonged to the royal house of Organa. I was programmed to serve you from the day you were born. Though I must say, I never expected my service to include... well, this ." He gestured vaguely at her Sith attire with obvious disapproval.

"I do hope you don't intend to have me doing anything too villainous. My programming is quite specific about proper protocol, and I'm afraid assisting with evil schemes wasn't included in my behavioral matrices. Perhaps we could discuss alternative arrangements? I make an excellent translator, and my knowledge of diplomatic procedures is—"

"Threepio." The sharp command silenced the droid instantly. "You will serve me as you always have. Nothing more, nothing less. Can your circuits process that?"

The droid's photoreceptors dimmed slightly, as if he were processing this new reality. "I... yes, Your High—that is, Lady Revaris. I suppose if you insist, I shall have to adapt my protocols accordingly. Though I must express my strong reservations about this entire situation."

Revaris turned away from the droid, her mind racing. This was no coincidence. Vader didn't believe in such frivolous things as protocol Droids, and neither did she. But why? Why give her this gift, and it was a gift, no matter how she tried to rationalize it otherwise. What game was her master playing now?

"Threepio," she said without turning around. "Who maintained you during your captivity?"

"Oh, that's the strangest part of all! I never actually saw who was responsible. I would be deactivated, and when I came online again, I'd been cleaned, oiled, and had various components replaced or upgraded. Quite efficient work, actually. Better than anything I received on Alderaan, if I'm being honest. Though I suppose I shouldn't speak ill of my old maintenance staff, they did their best after all."

An Alderaan shuttle, a protocol droid, polished to near perfection, symbols of a girl who no longer existed. And yet here they were, restored, waiting. A chill ran down Revaris's spine that had nothing to do with the ship's climate systems. As she suspected, it was her Master’s work. But why preserve this link to her past when he'd spent years making sure to destroy every other connection to Princess Leia?

Unless…

Unless it wasn’t about Leia.

It was about Alderaan.

She had told him, half a truth, half a promise, that she spared Alderaan not out of sentiment, but strategy. A tool. A platform. A stage from which to rise.

And now, with the shuttle gleaming like a polished lie and the droid standing silently in its berth, he was sending a message: it's time. Time to return. To step into the role the galaxy once expected of her, as a senator’s daughter, as the Empire’s answer to the rebellion. As the voice of Alderaan.

A test. An opportunity. A reminder.

He was telling her she hadn’t been replaced. Not yet.

This was her chance to prove Alderaan truly was a political asset, and that she, not her brother, was still the one he’d chosen to stand beside him. She had fought to keep the planet alive; now she had to show why.

The galaxy would see Princess Leia return.

But it would be Darth Revaris who sat in her shadow.

"Prepare for departure," she commanded, moving toward the cockpit. "We leave immediately."

"But Princess, Lady Revaris, where exactly are we going? And might I suggest proper restraints? I do so hate space travel, and the prospect of being jostled about during hyperspace jumps makes my circuits positively queasy."

Despite herself, Revaris felt the corner of her mouth twitch. The sensation was so foreign she almost didn't recognize it as the beginning of a smile.

"Strap yourself in, Threepio," she said, settling into the pilot's seat. "We're going to do some… negotiations."

As the shuttle's engines roared to life and Mustafar fell away beneath them, Revaris couldn't shake the feeling that she was being maneuvered like a piece on a dejarik board. But toward what end?

In the cargo hold, C-3PO's worried voice drifted through the ship's comm system: "Oh dear, I do hope this ‘ negotiations’ doesn't involve anything too dreadful. In my experience, when Sith Lords go do that, someone usually ends up terribly dead..."

Someone usually does, Revaris thought grimly as the stars stretched into lines around them. 

The shuttle emerged from hyperspace at the edge of Alderaan's system.  Its sleek hull bore the angular lines of Alderaanian craftsmanship, but the Imperial clearance codes it transmitted cut through the blockade's defenses with surgical precision. Leia noticed how the blockage had stayed since she left with the Death Star. It must be hard, not having any communication with the rest of the galaxy.

"Unknown vessel, state your business," crackled the comm from the lead Star Destroyer Retribution .

The response came not in words, but in data, override codes that burned through Imperial channels with the authority of Vader himself. The comm officer's voice died mid-sentence, replaced by the static of enforced silence.

In the shuttle's passenger compartment, C-3PO's photoreceptors flickered with concern. "Lady Revaris, if I may—the probability of this meeting proceeding without anyone getting hurt is approximately—"

"You will remain on the shuttle, Threepio." Her voice carried none of the warmth she had decade ago. The woman seated across from him bore Leia Organa's face, but everything else had been carved away and rebuilt in shadow. "Do not follow me. Do not attempt to intervene. Do not record anything you witness here."

"But Mistress Leia, surely Master Bail and Mistress Breha would wish to see that you are—"

"They will see exactly what I choose to show them." She rose, adjusting the black gown that was stored on the suttel, one of her unused diplomatic attires, Vader's touch, no doubt. Another manipulation, another test. The Alderaanian cut mocked her even as it served her purposes. "Nothing more."

C-3PO's head tilted with mechanical confusion. "I'm afraid I don't understand. Are we not returning home?"

For the first time since leaving Imperial space, something flickered across her features. Pain, perhaps. Or its memory. As she removed her mask, knowing it's time for her real face, she replied.

"There is no home, Threepio. There never was."

From the observation deck of the Royal Palace, citizens watched the shuttle's descent with mounting dread. Another Imperial envoy. Another sentencing. Another reminder that Alderaan's rebellion had cost them their freedom, if not their lives.

The shuttle touched down on the palace's primary landing pad with barely a whisper. No honor guard waited. No protocol droids scurried forward. Only silence and the weight of unspoken fear.

The ramp descended.

She emerged alone.

The figure that stepped onto Alderaanian soil bore a face no one recognized; The gown she wore was cut in Alderaanian style, flowing, elegant, regal, but rendered in black so dark it seemed to swallow light. Maroon embroidery traced patterns across the fabric that spoke of both royal heritage and something far more dangerous. The angular designs resembled the symbols of Sith writings, though no observer would dare voice such a thought.

Her hair, once worn in elaborate braids that proclaimed her royal status, was pulled into a single, severe bun at the base of her neck. It was a rejection made visible, the casting aside of ceremony in favor of control.

Princess Leia Organa was dead.

Darth Revaris had come home.

She walked through corridors that had once echoed with her laughter, past servants who bowed not in recognition but in terror. None knew her face, time and darkness had changed too much. All felt her presence, a cold weight that settled over the palace like winter fog.

The solar chamber had always been Breha's favorite room. Floor-to-ceiling windows faced Alderaan's sun, filling the space with warm, golden light that made even the most difficult conversations feel hopeful. It was where the family had shared private meals, where state secrets were discussed in hushed tones, where eight-year-old Leia had once practiced her diplomatic speeches before windows that reflected not just her image, but her dreams.

Now those same windows cast harsh shadows across the faces of Bail and Breha Organa as they waited for their judgment.

They had aged far more than ten years should have carved from them. The rebellion had lined Bail's face with worry, but it was grief that had hollowed his cheeks and dimmed his eyes. Breha's hands trembled not from sleepless nights, but from the phantom weight of a child she had held for nine years and lost for ten more. They sat together on the simple couch where Leia had once curled between them for bedtime stories, holding each other against a decade of unanswered prayers.

The door opened without ceremony.

She entered, a Sith wearing their daughter's face, beautiful, terrible, and utterly cold. The face they had kissed goodnight a thousand times, now carved from marble and shadow. The eyes that had once sparkled with mischief and curiosity, now holding depths that spoke of things no child should have seen.

"Leia." Breha's voice broke on the single word, ten years of anguish compressed into two syllables. She tried to rise, to approach Leia, but a quick push with the force kept both of her parents sitting.

"That name died long ago." The response came without warmth, without recognition. But her step faltered, just for a moment, as those familiar voices reached her. "You made certain of that."

Bail looked at her slowly, his diplomat's training warring with every parental instinct that screamed at him to gather his daughter in his arms and never let go. "We never stopped trying to reach you. We never stopped hoping—"

"For what?" She moved to the center of the room with predatory grace, her gown flowing around her like liquid shadow. "That your little princess would skip home with flowers in her hair? That your rebellion's poster child would return to play her part?"

"For you to come home," Breha whispered, tears already tracing silver paths down her cheeks. "Just... come home."

Something flickered across Leia's features, too quick to name, too deep to dismiss. "I tried to come home. For six years, I believed you would save me. I held onto every story you told me, every promise you made, every 'I love you' whispered in the dark. I waited."

Her voice remained steady, but it carried echoes of the child she had been. "I waited when the pirates took me to that inquisitor. I waited when the inquisitors broke me piece by piece. I waited when Vader found me and made me watch what power really looks like. I waited until waiting became another form of dying."

"We tried everything," Bail said desperately. "Every system, every lead—"

"But not hard enough." The words fell like stones into still water. "Never hard enough. Because somewhere in your rebel hearts, you knew the truth. You knew what they would do to me. You knew what I would become. And you chose to let it happen."

"That's not true—"

"Isn't it?" She turned her eyes, now cold as space itself, on the man who had taught her to read, to think, to lead. "You hid Luke on Tatooine. A moisture farmer's nephew, anonymous and safe. But me? You kept me visible. Princess Leia Organa, heir to Alderaan, always in the public eye. Always documented. Always findable."

The accusation hung in the air like a blade, cutting through ten years of carefully constructed justifications.

"If the Empire ever came looking for Anakin Skywalker's children," she continued, her voice never rising but somehow filling every corner of the room, "they would find me first. I was the decoy. The sacrifice. The acceptable loss so your real hope could remain safe."

"It’s not true," Breha sobbed, reaching toward her daughter with trembling hands. "We loved you since the moment you were born, Bail knew how much I wanted a baby girl, and when Obi-Wan wanted to separate you, we knew you were meant for us—"

"Ment for you." Leia stepped back from the outstretched hands as if they carried poison. "But not meant to be trained, not meant to know my true heritage. Tell me, when you watched me as a child, did you already know what I have the potential of turning into? Did you see the monster inside the little girl?"

"We loved you," Bail said, his own voice breaking. "You were our daughter in every way that mattered. We raised you, we protected you—"

"You used me." The response came swiftly and mercilessly. "Every public appearance, every diplomatic function, every time you paraded me before the Empire's representatives—you were painting a target on my back. And when someone finally took aim..." She shrugged with terrible eloquence. "Well. At least your precious rebellion remains safe."

"You were all that mattered! We went to the emperor! We begged!" Breha was on her feet now, desperation giving her strength, or was it Leia too distracted to keep them pinned down with the force. "You are our daughter, our heart, our—"

"I am your consequence."

The words struck like physical blows, driving both parents back. But Leia wasn't finished.

"Do you want to know what I remember most from those first months? Not the pain, though there was plenty of that. Not the fear, though it nearly drowned me. I remember hope. I remember believing, with the naive certainty of a child, that you would move heaven and earth to bring me home."

Her laugh was soft and terrible. "I used to count days. Then weeks. Then months. I used to imagine the rescue that was surely coming. The dramatic entrance, the brilliant plan, the moment when Dad would sweep in with his diplomatic immunity and Mom would hold me tight and promise it was all just a bad dream."

She moved to the windows that had once framed her childhood dreams, her back to them now, a rejection made manifest.

"Instead, I learned about power. Real power. Not the kind that makes speeches or passes laws, but the kind that breaks worlds and shapes destinies. I learned that love is a luxury only the strong can afford, and that family is just another word for weakness to be exploited."

"That's not true," Bail said desperately. "That's what they told you, what they made you believe—"

"What they showed me." She turned back to face them, and for a moment, just a moment, they could see the child she had been, buried deep beneath layers of calculated ice. "Every day that passed without rescue was another lesson. Every night I spent in a cell was another proof that your love had limits. That your daughter was expendable."

"We never gave up," Breha whispered. "Never Not eve—"

"While running missions in my memory? While using my supposed death to rally your cause?" The child was gone again, replaced by something far more dangerous. "Tell me, how many rebels did you recruit with stories of the little princess kidnapped by Imperial monsters? How many credits did you raise? How many systems did you turn against the Empire by waving my ghost like a banner?"

The silence that followed was answer enough.

"But I survived," she continued, moving closer to them with each word. "I learned. I grew strong. And when I finally stopped waiting for salvation that would never come, I found something better. I found purpose."

"Purpose?" Bail's voice cracked. "You've killed innocent people, Leia. We've heard the reports, seen the footage—"

"I've eliminated obstacles to peace." Her correction was swift and cold. "I've done what was necessary to prevent greater suffering. What would you have preferred? That I remained your broken little princess, cowering in the dark while the galaxy burned around me?"

"We would have preferred that you came home," Breha said simply. "We would have preferred that you trusted us to love you no matter what you'd become."

For the first time since entering the room, Leia's composure cracked. Just slightly. Just enough.

"Love?" The word came out raw, unguarded. "Where was that love when I needed it most? Where was it when I was twelve years old and begging the darkness for just one sign that someone, somewhere, still remembered I existed?"

"Here," Breha stepped forward, ignoring the danger radiating from her daughter like heat from a forge. "It was here, Leia. It was always here. Every night, every prayer, every candle lit in empty rooms, our love never wavered. Never stopped. Never gave up hope that somehow, some way, you would come home."

"Hope." Leia laughed, but there were cracks in the sound now. "I used to have hope. I used to believe in rescue, in justice, in the fundamental goodness of people who claimed to love me. Do you know what that hope became? What it transformed into when it finally died?"

She was close enough to touch now, close enough that they could see the child's face still hidden beneath the woman's mask.

"Power. Cold, clean, absolute power. The only thing in this galaxy that doesn't lie, doesn't betray, doesn't abandon you when you need it most."

"We never abandoned you," Bail said desperately. "We never stopped searching—"

"You stopped trying." The words came out thick with ten years of buried pain. "Maybe not consciously, maybe not officially, but you stopped believing I could be saved. You wrote me off as another casualty of war and moved on to more winnable battles."

She stepped back, composure returning like armor sliding back into place.

"But I don't need saving anymore. I don't need rescue or protection or the kind of love that comes with conditions and expiration dates. I have something better."

From her gown, she produced a small communication device. A single touch connected her to Imperial Command.

"This is Darth Revaris. Authorization Omega-Seven-Seven. Lift the blockade of Alderaan immediately."

The response was instantaneous. "Yes, my lady. Withdrawing all Star Destroyers from the system."

Through the solar chamber's windows, they watched the massive ships that had held their world hostage for months simply... leave. No negotiation. No debate. No Senate hearings or diplomatic accords. Power, exercised with a simple command.

"You see?" She deactivated the comm with a gesture. "No speeches. No committees. No hope that someone else will solve your problems. Just results."

"At what cost?" Breha asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"At the cost of everything I used to be." The admission came without shame, without regret. "The little girl who believed in fairy tales and happy endings? She died in an Imperial cell years ago. What stands before you now is what rose from her ashes."

"She's still there," Breha insisted, reaching out again despite the cold radiating from her daughter. "I can see her, Leia. I can see our little girl in your eyes—"

"You see what you want to see." Leia stepped away from the offered comfort. "What you need to see to make this bearable. But that child is gone, and pretending otherwise won't bring her back."

“Then why are you here?” Bail asked, his voice strained with something between desperation and defiance. His eyes hardened, not the eyes of a grieving father, but of the senator who helped build the Rebellion, a man who once risked everything for what he believed was right. “If we mean nothing to you… if this world means nothing… why come back at all?”

For a long moment, Leia didn't answer. When she spoke, her voice was quieter, more uncertain than it had been since she entered the room.

"Because..." She stopped, started again. "Because I needed to see for myself. I needed to know if the love you claimed to feel was real, or just another lie I'd been told to keep me compliant."

"And?" Breha's voice was barely a breath.

"And I found my answer." The cold returned, settling over her features like winter frost. "You love your idea of me. Your perfect little princess, your diplomatic asset, your symbol of hope and innocence. But the moment I became something else—something harder, something necessary—that love became conditional."

"That's not—"

"You mourn the child I was," Leia continued, cutting off Bail's protest. "But you fear the woman I've become. You want to save me from choices I made freely, to drag me back to a life that no longer fits. That's not love. That's nostalgia."

She moved toward the chamber's exit, her business nearly concluded. But she paused at the threshold, her back to them.

"You are both under house arrest," she announced with the casual authority of absolute power. "You may continue to manage Alderaan's internal affairs—you're adequate at that much. But this world's future now flows through me. I am Alderaan's voice in the Empire, and the Empire's will in Alderaan."

"Leia, please—"

"I saved this world," she said without turning around. "While you played at revolution, I paid the price in blood and death. I am the only reason these mountains still stand, the only reason your people still breathe. Remember that when you curse my name."

She took another step toward the door, then stopped.

"Two final matters." Her voice carried no emotion now, no trace of the pain that had leaked through moments before. "First, you may send one final message to the rebellion, believe it when I say that any further contacts then that will be paid for. Tell the Rebellion, tell my brother, that Vader hunts him. And when he is captured..." She turned her head slightly, offering them a profile that was achingly familiar yet utterly alien. "I will be the one to kill him."

The second blade fell even deeper.

"Inform Winter that she is no longer welcome on Alderaan. As a terrorist and traitor, she will be executed on sight should she return."

"Winter was your friend," Breha gasped. "She loved you—"

"She was another lie." Leia's voice never wavered. "Another pretty story told to a child who believed the world was full of people who would never betray her. I know better now."

With that, she was gone, leaving only the sound of her footsteps echoing through corridors that had once known joy.

Bail reached for Breha with shaking hands, but found no comfort to offer. They had raised a princess and lost a daughter. In return, they had gained a ruler who would govern not with love, but with the terrible efficiency of perfectly controlled power.

In the shuttle, C-3PO waited in mechanical patience, systems cycling through probability calculations that all ended in the same conclusion: the young woman who had just boarded was not the child he remembered, and the pain radiating from her was beyond his programming to address.

"Is everything Ok, Princess?" he asked carefully.

"Yes." She settled into her seat, the midnight gown pooling around her like spilled ink. For just a moment, her composed mask slipped, revealing something raw and wounded beneath. "And Threepio?"

"Yes, Mistress?"

"Never call me Princess again. That title belongs to the past."

Her next destination was one she had been kept from since she was a child. Coruscant's atmospheric layers shone like a falling star, her ship hull gleaming under the capital world's artificial lights. Through the viewport, the endless cityscape sprawled in all directions, a monument to Imperial might that hid the truth: a cage built from durasteel and ambition, holding trillions of souls in careful, ordered lines.

Revaris—no, Princess Leia Organa, she reminded herself—stood before the mirror in the shuttle fresher, her hands trembling despite every meditation technique Vader had beaten into her. The reflection staring back was a masterwork of deception: brown eyes warm with calculated sincerity, skin unmarked by the grey corruption that should have stained her features hours ago, posture perfect with the practiced grace of royal breeding.

Breathe, she told herself. Control the lie. Become the lie.

The technique was one of the Bane line's most guarded techniques, a manipulation of the Force so subtle that even other Sith rarely mastered it. The ability to mask not just one's presence, but one's very nature. To appear as the person you once were, rather than the monster you had become. Vader himself had used it perhaps a handful of times in her presence, only to teach her; he had no use for this himself, and like every other force ability, he made it look so effortless, as if the Force is nothing more than another limb for him.

For her, it was agony.

The yellow eyes wanted to burn through. The darkness that had wrapped itself around her heart like armor wanted to radiate outward, to announce her true nature to every Force-sensitive within a thousand kilometers. Holding it back felt like trying to dam a river with her bare hands while standing in the current.

But she held it. She had to.

"My Lady?" C-3PO's voice carried a note of uncertainty that had been present since they left Alderaan. "The landing platform is prepared for your arrival. The honor guard is assembled, and I'm told there are quite a few members of the press present."

"Good." Her voice was steady, Princess Leia's voice, not the cold authority of Darth Revaris. "That's exactly what we need."

She turned from the mirror, and for just a moment, the mask slipped. Golden fire flashed in her eyes before brown warmth returned. "The galaxy needs to see Princess Leia Organa, loyal daughter of the Empire. Not what I've become."

"But surely honesty would be preferable to—"

"Honesty?" She laughed, and even that sound was carefully modulated to match her old self. "Honesty has no place in politics, and if I am to survive in that, I need to make sure my mask is perfect. No, Threepio. Today we lie. We lie beautifully, convincingly, and completely."

The shuttle touched down with barely a whisper on the ceremonial landing platform of the Imperial Palace. Through the viewports, Leia could see the assembled crowd, honor guards in pristine white armor, camera crews from the Imperial News Network, and a delegation of Alderaanian senatorial aids who had served her father and Winter, and would be loyal to them, to the rebellion.

She is walking into a snake's den, with no ally in sight.

"Remember," she said to C-3PO as they prepared to disembark, "you were never captured. You were never on Mustafar. You accompanied me during my... recovery period. We've been on a medical retreat, working to overcome the trauma of my kidnapping."

"Yes, My Lady. Though I must say, this story seems to have more holes than a Corellian cheese wheel—"

"It doesn't matter." She moved toward the boarding ramp, her black gown replaced by a flowing dress of Alderaanian white, the color of home, of hope, of everything she was about to betray. "People believe what they want to believe. And right now, they want to believe that Princess Leia Organa has come home."

The ramp descended with mechanical precision, and sunlight, real sunlight, filtered through Coruscant’s dense atmosphere, washed over her face. For a moment, she felt exposed. She wasn’t wearing her mask. She hadn’t realized how much she’d come to rely on the fear it inspired, the authority it projected. Without it, she felt almost… vulnerable.

The crowd erupted as she appeared. Cheers, applause, the snap and whir of holographic recorders capturing every angle. She descended the ramp with measured steps, her smile perfect and practiced, not too wide, not too reserved. Princess Leia Organa, returned from the dead.

Senator Aid Keph Segra, the ranking Alderaanian representative, stepped forward with tears in his eyes. "Your Highness," he said, his voice carrying over the crowd. "Welcome home."

Was it a lie? His feelings felt genuine in the Force, but with the effort she used to suppress herself, she wasn't sure if she was feeling his feelings or the crowd around them.

"Thank you, Segra." Her voice carried across the platform with the trained projection of a lifetime politician. "It's good to be back."

The lie tasted like ashes in her mouth.

A podium had been prepared, of course it had. This was theater as much as politics, and every detail had been orchestrated for maximum effect. As she approached the speaking platform, the crowd fell silent with the reverence reserved for the genuinely miraculous.

Princess Leia Organa, returned from the grave to serve her people.

She gripped the podium's edges, feeling the cool metal beneath her fingers. Through the Force, she could sense the emotions of the crowd, hope, relief, desperate gratitude. They wanted to believe so badly that she almost felt guilty for what she was about to do.

Almost.

"My fellow citizens of the Empire," she began, her voice carrying the warm authority that felt foreign on her tongue. "I stand before you today not as a victim, but as a survivor. Not as a rebel, but as a loyal daughter of the realm that has shown me nothing but mercy and protection."

The cameras captured every word, every gesture. This would be broadcast across the galaxy within hours, the triumphant return of one of the Empire's most celebrated figures.

"For ten years, I have been in hiding. Not by choice, but by necessity. Enemies of the Empire—enemies of peace itself—saw fit to remove me from the galactic stage through deception and violence. They staged my death, spread lies about my fate, and used my absence to further their own destructive agenda."

She paused, letting the weight of that revelation settle over the crowd. Somewhere in the press section, a reporter was frantically taking notes. The story would be on every news feed by evening.

"But the Empire's mercy is boundless. His Imperial Majesty's agents found me, protected me, and allowed me to recover from the trauma of my ordeal. Today, I reclaim my place—not as a princess lost to tragedy, but as Alderaan's voice in the Imperial Palace."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Segra's face went pale, but he maintained his diplomatic composure. This was the first anyone had heard of such a claim.

"My father, Bail Organa, served Alderaan with honor for many years," she continued, her voice carrying across the platform with practiced authority. "But the events of recent months have shown that new leadership is required. Leadership that understands the true meaning of loyalty, the true value of Imperial protection."

The applause was thunderous, but she raised a hand for silence. The hardest part was coming.

"Effective immediately, I am assuming the senatorial seat for Alderaan, with the full support of His Imperial Majesty's government. My first act will be to formally renounce any connection between our world and the terrorist organization that has brought so much suffering to the galaxy."

The crowd erupted. Some cheered, those who had suffered under the Rebellion actions, or merely fooled by the emperor's lies. Others looked uncertain, whispering among themselves about the constitutional implications of such a dramatic transfer of power.

"I know there are those who will ask about my sister, Winter. About her... choices." Her voice carried just the right note of sadness, of disappointed love. "Winter was once dear to me, even if we were adopted, I saw her as my true sister, trusted with secrets that should have bound us forever. But fear and desperation led her down a dark path. She chose violence over diplomacy, destruction over peace."

A perfectly timed pause. She felt nothing; she wondered if this was her current state forever, moving between all-consuming rage to total apathy, between having the Dark Side amplify her emotions or taking them completely.

"Under her influence, my own parents were led astray. Good people, loving people, but people who forgot that a leader's first duty is to protect those they serve, not to satisfy their own need for importance. The blockade of our world, the suffering of our people, these were the direct consequences of choices made in my absence."

The words hit like precise surgical strikes. Every sentence was crafted to absolve the Empire while condemning the rebellion, to position herself as the reasonable alternative to the chaos of revolution.

"I do not blame them. The trauma we all endured was real, and people react to such pain in different ways. But where they chose rebellion, I chose service. Where they chose to tear down, I choose to build up. Alderaan deserves better than the chaos of revolution. We deserve the stability and protection that only the Empire can provide."

The crowd was hers now. She could feel it in the Force, their emotions shifting from uncertainty to conviction, from doubt to faith. 

"As Aldaraan representative, I will work tirelessly to restore Alderaan's place of honor within the Empire. We will rebuild what rebellion destroyed. We will prove that loyalty, not defiance, is the path to prosperity. And we will ensure that never again will our people suffer for the misguided idealism of those who claim to know better than the galaxy's rightful ruler."

Her voice grew stronger with each word, carrying the conviction of absolute certainty.

"I pledge myself to His Imperial Majesty's service. I pledge Alderaan's loyalty to the Empire that has shown us such mercy. And I pledge to work tirelessly to ensure that the galaxy our children inherit is one of peace, order, and justice."

The final word rang out across the platform like a bell, and the crowd erupted in celebration. She had done it, sold the lie so completely that even she almost believed it. Princess Leia Organa, loyal Imperial servant, had returned to claim not just her birthright, but political power itself.

Senator Aid Segra looked stunned, his face cycling through shock, confusion, and what might have been rage. The other Alderaanian delegates whispered frantically among themselves. A senatorial seat couldn't simply be claimed, there were procedures, protocols, constitutional requirements. But none of that seemed to matter when the claimant had the implicit backing of the Empire itself.

And then everything changed.

The crowd's cheers died as if cut by a blade. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees, and even the sunlight seemed to dim. A presence was approaching, ancient, terrible, and utterly without mercy.

Emperor Palpatine emerged from the shadows of the palace entrance like a specter. But instead of the yellow-eyed monster Leia knew lurked beneath, the galaxy was greeted by a kindly grandfather. His expression was warm, his smile disarmingly genuine, his entire presence radiating benevolent concern. The mask was flawless, so flawless that, for a heartbeat, even she almost believed it.

It made her act, her mask, look like a child's play. As if she is playing pretend while he is a masterful actor.

"My dear Princess," he said, his voice carrying easily across the silent platform despite its soft, grandfatherly tone. "How wonderful to see you returned to us at last."

Every instinct screamed at her to run, to fight, to do anything but stand there and accept his approach. But Princess Leia Organa has no reason to fear the Emperor. More than that, she would show the proper respect.

She dropped to one knee immediately, her head bowed in perfect submission. "Your Imperial Majesty. I am unworthy of your presence."

"Unworthy? Nonsense, child!" His voice carried genuine warmth, audible concern. To the watching crowd, he was the very picture of a worried grandfather finally reunited with a beloved grandchild. "Please, rise. You must never kneel to me—you are the daughter of dear friends, a treasure I feared lost forever."

He moved forward with surprising speed for his apparent age, his hands gentle as they helped her to her feet. The touch sent ice through her veins, but his public manner never wavered.

"When I heard the news of your disappearance all those years ago, I was beside myself with worry," he continued, his voice pitched perfectly for the cameras and crowd. "Bail and Breha were such dedicated servants of the Republic, and later the Empire. To lose their precious daughter..." He shook his head, the very picture of sorrowful sympathy. "I mobilized every resource at my disposal to find you."

The lie was masterful. The crowd was eating it up, their Emperor, showing such personal concern for one family's tragedy. Holonet feeds across the galaxy would replay this moment, cementing the image of Palpatine as a leader who cared deeply for his people.

But why? That was the part that didn’t make sense. She had chosen this performance, this carefully choreographed display, to secure herself a place too visible to erase, too political to quietly destroy. It was a shield made of press holocams and Imperial ceremony.

But he had no reason to play along.

He stepped into the spotlight himself, wrapping her in his theater of mercy. Why would he strengthen her position with his presence? Why would he lend legitimacy to her claim, to Alderaan, to the Empire, when it would have been easier to let her disappear in the shadows?

Unless…

Unless he wasn’t here to acknowledge her. He was here to own her.

"Your Majesty is too kind," Leia managed, her voice steady despite the terror clawing at her throat. "I owe my life to your agents' diligence."

"And now look at you!" His smile widened with what appeared to be genuine pride. "Not only returned to us, but ready to serve. I confess, when I heard you intended to claim Alderaan's senatorial seat, I was... intrigued. Such ambition at your age! Such dedication to your people's welfare!"

He placed one withered hand on her shoulder, a gesture that to the crowd looked like a blessing, but to her felt like a brand. "I believe the Palace political court would benefit greatly from such... youthful energy. Don't you agree?"

The question was rhetorical. The crowd cheered their agreement, cameras captured every angle, and somewhere in the political machinery of the Empire, gears began turning to make her claim official. With the Emperor's public endorsement, no amount of constitutional procedure could stand in her way.

"You honor me beyond measure, Your Majesty," she replied, her voice carrying perfectly across the platform.

"As you honor us with your service." He turned to address the crowd directly, his voice growing stronger, more commanding. "Citizens of the Empire! Today, we witness not just the return of a lost daughter, but the birth of a new hope for the galaxy. Princess Leia Organa represents the very best of what we can achieve when we choose loyalty over rebellion, unity over division!"

What game is he playing? Why do this?

The crowd erupted again, their cheers echoing off the palace walls. The Emperor basked in their adoration for a moment before turning back to her, his expression warm but his eyes carrying depths she didn't dare contemplate.

"But come, my dear," he said, his voice returning to that grandfatherly tone that somehow made everything worse. "We have much to discuss, and the day grows short. Perhaps you would honor me with your presence for a private audience? I confess, I am most eager to hear of your experiences, and to discuss your plans for Alderaan's future."

It wasn't a request.

She turned back to the crowd, her smile never wavering despite the ice forming in her veins. "Thank you all for this warm welcome. I look forward to serving you and the Empire in the days to come."

More applause, more cheers, more celebration for the princess who had returned from the dead to claim power in the Empire's name. They had no idea they were applauding at her funeral.

As she fell into step beside the Emperor, walking toward the shadowed entrance of the Imperial Palace, Leia felt the weight of her deception settling around her like a burial shroud. For years, Vader had kept her away from this place, away from the source of all darkness in the galaxy. Now that protection was gone, and she was walking into the heart of the Empire alone.

"I trust your reunion with your parents went well?" the Emperor asked conversationally as they walked, his own honor guard surrounding them, making sure no one was listening.

“As well as could be expected, my lord.” Now that they were alone, there was no need for pretense. Leia allowed the mask of the princess to fall away. As the apprentice of his apprentice, she reverted instinctively to the mannerisms of the Sith.

"Ah, but you are too modest. From what I understand, your performance was... masterful." His smile never wavered, but something cold flickered behind his eyes. "Though I confess, I am curious to learn more about you, the closest thing I have to a granddaughter. After all, you are of my own line, are you not? Darth Revaris?"

Leia did not flinch, but inside, something reeled. She had braced herself for agony, lightning crawling under her skin, a flash of rage behind his words, the sharp reprimand of a man who had once shaped Vader with nothing but cruelty and power. That would have made sense. That, she had prepared for.

But this?

This... approval? This familial claim?

She knew it was a game. It had to be. A calculated performance, a trap laced with silk. He was the Master of her Master, the one who made monsters of children. What purpose could she serve now but to unravel his legacy?

She nodded slowly, lips curling just enough to resemble a smile. But behind her eyes, the doubt festered. Was this his test? Was she already failing it?

They had reached the palace entrance now, the massive doors opening before them without anyone touching them. Beyond lay corridors that seemed to stretch into infinity, lined with shadows that moved independently of any light source.

Leia looked at the threshold, at the line between what she was and what she was about to become. Behind her lay the cheering crowd, the successful deception, the political power she had just claimed through sheer audacity. Ahead lay something she couldn't name but instinctively feared.

She had no choice. She had never had a choice.

Princess Leia Organa stepped into the darkness beside the Emperor, and the great doors closed behind them with the sound of a tomb being sealed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Choices



The chamber was not what Leia had expected.

She had braced herself for the throne room, that cathedral of intimidation with its impossible height and theatrical shadows. Instead, she found herself in something that might have been called cozy, if such a word could exist within the Emperor's domain. Soft lighting emanated from hidden sources, casting everything in warm amber tones. Plush chairs faced each other across a low table set with a tea service of obvious quality. Books lined the walls, real books, not holofiles, their leather spines suggesting centuries of careful preservation.

It was the study of a scholar, not the lair of a monster.

Which made it infinitely more dangerous.

"Please, sit," Palpatine said, gesturing to one of the chairs with the practiced grace of a gracious host. "I took the liberty of having some Alderaanian tea prepared. I hope you don't mind the presumption."

The scent hit her before she could steel herself, chamomile and mountain herbs, the exact blend her Mother had served during their private conversations. The smell of home, of childhood, of everything she had just systematically destroyed. Her step faltered for just a moment.

"Your Majesty is most thoughtful," she managed, settling into the offered chair with careful composure.

"Nonsense. After such a trying day, comfort is the least I can offer." He moved to pour the tea himself, the picture of solicitous care. "I must say, your performance this afternoon was... exemplary. You have a gift for politics that your father possessed, but refined to a degree that surpasses even his considerable talents."

She accepted the delicate cup, noting how the porcelain bore the seal of House Organa. Every detail was calculated, every gesture designed to unsettle. "I had excellent teachers."

"Vader." The name hung between them like a blade. "Yes, I imagine he was... instructive. Though I confess, I am curious about the specifics of your education under his tutelage."

Here it comes, she thought. The interrogation disguised as a conversation. She sipped her tea, buying time while her mind raced through possible responses. The liquid was perfect, exactly as Breha had prepared it, down to the precise temperature and steeping time. The attention to detail was more unnerving than any torture chamber.

"My Master taught me discipline," she said carefully. "Focus. The value of strength in a galaxy that respects only power."

"Admirable lessons. Though I suspect you learned far more than that." Palpatine settled into his own chair, every movement deliberate and controlled. "For instance, your technique this afternoon, maintaining such a convincing facade while suppressing your true nature. That requires considerable skill."

The words were casual, conversational. But Leia knew he smelled her blood in the water, how lacking she is with that particular technique. He knew. 

She maintained her composure, though she could feel the strain keep adding. The effort of hiding her Sith eyes, of appearing as Princess Leia Organa instead of Darth Revaris, was like holding her breath underwater. Sooner or later, she would have to surface.

"I am what circumstances required me to become," she said finally.

"Indeed." His smile never wavered, but something shifted in his expression. "And what you became is just... marvelous."

The word hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. Leia felt the mask beginning to crack, not the physical technique, but the emotional control beneath it. His scrutiny was like sunlight through a magnifying glass, focused and burning.

"You may drop the pretense, my dear," he said softly. "We are quite alone here."

The relief was immediate and damning. She let the technique slip, allowing her true appearance to settle over her like a well-worn cloak. Gold flared in her eyes as the chamber's warm light caught them, the dark side surging to the surface like breath drawn after drowning. But she held it back, carefully restrained. She wouldn’t reveal all her cards, not here. She dimmed her presence in the Force, dulling the edges, masking her strength. Just enough to resemble the Inquisitors from years past, dangerous, but forgettable. Not worth special attention. Not yet.

Palpatine's own mask fell away just as easily. The kindly grandfather vanished, replaced by something ancient and hungry. His eyes burned with sulfurous fire, and the very air seemed to thicken with the weight of his presence.

"Much better," he said, his voice carrying new harmonics, deeper, more resonant. "Truth is so much more elegant than deception, don't you think?"

"Truth is a luxury," Leia replied, her own voice taking on the cold authority of Darth Revaris. "One rarely affordable in politics."

"Spoken like a true politician." His approval was unmistakable, and despite herself, she felt a flicker of... something. Pride? Validation? The emotion was too complex to name, but it warmed her in ways that disturbed her. "Tell me, what did you think of your performance today? Your first real step onto the galactic stage?"

"It was... effective." She chose her words carefully, sensing the conversation's hidden currents. "The crowd believed what they needed to believe. The press will spread the story I gave them. My political position is secure."

"Competent analysis. But you're thinking too small." He leaned forward slightly, his golden eyes fixed on hers. "You saw opportunity and seized it, admirable. But did you see the true scope of what you achieved?"

She remained silent, waiting for him to continue. This felt like a test, and she had learned not to answer too quickly when being evaluated by a Sith Lord.

"You didn't just claim political power," he continued. "You rewrote the narrative of an entire world. With a single speech, you transformed Alderaan from a symbol of rebellion into a model of Imperial loyalty. You took your parents' greatest political asset, their martyred daughter, and turned her into their greatest liability."

It was a game; he was complimenting her to lower her defences, each one precisely aimed. She had known what he was doing, of course. But hearing it laid out so clinically, so approvingly, made something twist in her stomach.

"More than that," he continued, his voice taking on an almost hypnotic quality, "you demonstrated something rare in one so young. You showed that you understand the true nature of power, not the crude application of force, but the subtle manipulation of perception. The ability to make others believe what serves your purposes."

"Lord Vader taught me well, "

"Vader taught you combat. Intimidation. The application of raw power to achieve immediate goals." Palpatine waved dismissively. "Useful skills, certainly. But limited. Tell me, in all your years under his tutelage, did he ever teach you to read the political currents of the Senate? To navigate the complexities of Imperial bureaucracy? To understand the delicate balance between fear and respect that keeps an empire stable?"

The answer was, of course, complicated. Vader had taught her power—raw, brutal, unyielding. His lessons were forged in fire and fear, not in diplomacy or statecraft. Politics was something he endured when he had to, never something he understood. And she, his apprentice, his creation, had inherited that limitation. For all the strength he carved into her, he could never teach her how to rule . Not truly.

And maybe, just maybe, that was what the Emperor saw. Or maybe it was just another lie, gilded and poisoned, like everything else he offered.

"I thought not." The Emperor's smile was knowing, almost paternal. "My apprentice is... single-minded in his approach. It serves him well in many circumstances, but it also limits him. He sees politics as a distraction from true power. But you, you understand that politics is power, don't you?"

"Power flows through many channels," Leia said carefully. "The wise learn to navigate them all."

"Precisely." His approval was like sunlight after a long winter. "You have an instinctive understanding of something that took me decades to fully appreciate. The greatest victories are not won on battlefields, but in the minds of those who witness them."

He rose from his chair, moving to the window that looked out over Coruscant's endless cityscape. "Do you know what I see when I look at you?"

She remained silent, though every instinct screamed at her to be cautious. This was the moment, the heart of whatever game he was playing.

"I see potential," he continued, still facing the window. "I see intelligence coupled with ambition. I see someone who understands that true power requires more than strength; it requires vision."

He turned back to her, and his expression was almost... fond. "Vader is a useful tool, but tools have limitations. They can only be applied in specific ways, to specific problems. But you… could be so much more."

"What are you suggesting?" The question slipped out before she could stop it.

"I am suggesting that you have gifts that are being... underutilized." He returned to his chair, settling back with the satisfied air of a master strategist moving pieces on a board. "Your performance today proved that you possess a rare combination of abilities. You can command fear when necessary, but you can also inspire loyalty. You can be the iron fist when required, but you can also be the velvet glove."

"My Master has taught me well."

"Your Master has taught you one perspective on power." His correction was gentle but firm. "But there are others. More subtle approaches. More... comprehensive methodologies."

The implication hung between them like a bridge waiting to be crossed. Leia felt something cold settle in her stomach, not fear, but dread. She could not turn him down even if she wanted to; no, he held too much power over her.

"You're offering to train me," she said quietly.

"I am offering to complete your education." His smile was warm, grandfatherly, and utterly terrifying. "You have learned much about the application of power. But have you learned about its cultivation? Its preservation? The delicate art of maintaining control not through constant force, but through the careful management of perception and expectation?"

"And what would you expect in return?"

"Nothing you are not already prepared to give." He leaned forward, his golden eyes boring into hers. "Loyalty. Dedication. The willingness to learn. The same things any master expects from an apprentice worthy of their attention."

The words sent a chill down her spine. This was more than an offer of training; it was a recruitment. The Emperor of the galaxy was offering to make her his student, to train her personally. To choose her.

"I already have a Master," she said, though the words felt hollow even as she spoke them.

"Do you?" His question was mild, almost curious. "Or do you have a teacher who has given you everything he is capable of giving? Tell me, when was the last time Vader challenged you? When did he last present you with a problem that required growth rather than simple application of existing skills?"

"Growth requires new challenges," Palpatine continued. "New perspectives. New teachers who can see potential that previous instructors might have missed."

"And you believe you could provide that?"

"I believe I could provide opportunities that would allow you to discover capabilities you never knew you possessed." He settled back in his chair, the picture of reasonable confidence. "Consider what you accomplished today with minimal preparation and no guidance. Imagine what you might achieve with proper instruction."

The seduction was masterful. He wasn't threatening or demanding, he was offering. Presenting himself not as a conqueror, but as a benefactor. Someone who saw value in her that others had overlooked.

"Why?" she asked. "Why would you invest such attention in me?"

"Because I recognize quality when I see it." His answer was immediate, carrying the ring of truth. "And because the Empire benefits when its most capable servants are allowed to reach their full potential."

"And because you believe I could be more useful to you than I currently am to Vader."

His smile widened. "I believe you could be more useful to yourself. Which, naturally, would benefit everyone who has the wisdom to ally with you."

The most powerful man in the galaxy was offering her unimaginable things: recognition, advancement, the chance to prove herself worthy of attention and respect. She was sure he would threaten her, try to kill her, even. Not whatever this is.

And she wanted it.

Despite every rational thought, every warning instinct, every lesson about the nature of Sith manipulation, she wanted what he was offering. The chance to be seen, to be valued, to be chosen. To matter.

"I see the conflict in your eyes," he said softly. "The battle between wisdom and desire. It is... understandable. Loyalty to one's master is a commendable trait. But loyalty to one's own potential is equally important."

"You're asking me to betray my Master, your own apprentice."

"I am asking you to consider your future." His correction was gentle but firm. "Vader is a great man, but he is also a limited one. His vision extends only as far as his abilities. Mine..." He gestured to the window, to the city beyond, to the galaxy that lay under his control. "Mine is somewhat broader."

"And if I were to accept your offer? What would happen to my current... arrangement?"

"Nothing precipitous. Nothing that would destabilize your current position or endanger your safety." His voice took on a practical tone, as if they were discussing logistics rather than treason. "You would simply... expand your education. Additional training, new perspectives, opportunities to apply your skills in different contexts."

"Lord Vader would notice."

"Vader sees what he chooses to see. And what he chooses to see is usually limited to the immediate and the obvious." Palpatine's smile was knowing. "Besides, your political responsibilities would naturally require you to spend time at the Imperial Palace. Who would question additional meetings with the Emperor? Who would think to look for ulterior motives in such an obvious necessity?"

The plan was elegant in its simplicity. Her new position as Alderaan's representative would provide perfect cover for expanded contact with the Emperor. What could be more natural than a young politician seeking guidance from the head of state?

"You've thought this through," she observed.

"I have given it some consideration, yes." He seemed pleased by her recognition of his planning. "I find that the best opportunities are those that serve multiple purposes simultaneously."

"And what purposes would this serve?"

"Your advancement. My access to a mind capable of perspectives that complement my own. The Empire benefits from having another skilled administrator in a position of influence." He paused, studying her face. "And perhaps most importantly, the satisfaction of seeing potential properly developed rather than wasted."

The last point hit home with uncomfortable force. Was her potential being wasted? Was she settling for limitations that didn't need to exist?

No—this was Darth Sidious. The master manipulator. The puppeteer of the galaxy. She knew what he was doing, could see the threads of control glinting in the dim light between every compliment, every carefully chosen word. He was playing with her, not out of malice, but out of sheer mastery. And she knew it. Every instinct screamed that this was a trap laid in honey, that every truth he offered was only sharp because it was wrapped in silk. 

But it still worked. Because beneath the manipulation was something that might be real, a sliver of understanding, of opportunity, of recognition. He saw her. Not as a broken apprentice or a half-redeemed failure, not as a tool or a liability. He saw potential . And even knowing it was a performance, part of her wanted to believe it. Because he wasn’t wrong, not entirely. And that was the most dangerous part.

"I would need time to consider," she said finally.

"Of course. Such decisions should never be made in haste." He rose from his chair, moving to a side table where a decanter of amber liquid waited. "But while you consider, perhaps you would accept a small token of my confidence in your abilities?"

He poured two glasses of what appeared to be Alderaanian brandy, another perfectly calculated gesture. "I’ve been preparing a series of reforms to streamline the Imperial bureaucracy, beginning with the dissolution of the Senate. An obsolete, rusted relic that achieved nothing of value, it had to go. A project like this could benefit greatly from someone with your... unique perspective."

"You want me to help you reform the Empire?"

"I want you to help me improve it." He offered her one of the glasses, and she accepted it automatically. "You have seen the galaxy from perspectives that few others have experienced. You understand both the view from the point of the Force, another like myself. That insight is invaluable when attempting to create systems that actually function."

It wasn’t her first drink—her Master had once forced her to learn how to use the Force to purge toxins from her system, a brutal lesson that began with something sharp, bitter, and undrinkable. She remembered choking on it, gagging as the burn lingered in her throat, hating every second of the experience. 

At least it wasn’t as bad as the time he taught her to purge spice from her system. That had been worse—far worse. A lesson in agony masked as training, one she still remembered every time her hands trembled in the dark.

This was nothing like that. The brandy was perfect. Smooth. Warm. She took a slow sip, letting it sit on her tongue as if it might help her decide.

This wasn’t flattery. It wasn’t seduction. It was calculated power. He was offering her more than a seat; he was offering her purpose. The chance to shape the galaxy’s bones, to carve her name into its new architecture.

And that, she thought, was almost enough to make her believe him.

"What kind of reforms?" she asked.

"Streamlining communication between planetary governments and the central authority. Reducing the bureaucratic barriers that prevent efficient resource allocation. Improving the mechanisms by which local concerns reach appropriate decision-makers." He settled back into his chair, his expression thoughtful. "The Empire is vast, but that doesn't mean it has to be unwieldy."

"You're talking about making it more responsive to local needs."

"I'm talking about making it more effective at serving the people it governs." His correction was subtle but significant. "A government that serves its citizens well is a government that maintains their loyalty without requiring constant displays of force."

The concept was seductive. The chance to actually improve the lives of billions of beings across the galaxy, to create systems that worked better for everyone involved. It was the main reason she fell; it was her purpose to bring peace and order through the dark.

"And you believe I could contribute meaningfully to such a project?"

"I believe you could lead significant portions of it." His confidence was matter-of-fact, carrying no trace of empty flattery. "Your experience gives you insights that traditional administrators lack. Your abilities would allow you to see solutions that others might miss."

"My abilities?"

"Your sensitivity to the Force provides a unique perspective on the emotional currents that drive political systems. Your training in negotiation and manipulation, sorry, diplomacy, gives you tools for managing complex personality conflicts. Your understanding of both privilege and suffering allows you to see problems from multiple angles."

He was right, and they both knew it. Her unique background did give her capabilities that few others possessed. The question was whether she was willing to use them in the service of his vision.

"I would want guarantees," she said finally. "Assurances that this isn't simply a way to remove me from Vader's influence for your own purposes."

"What assurances would satisfy you?"

"Actual responsibility. Real authority to implement changes rather than simply advise on them. The ability to see projects through to completion rather than being discarded when they become inconvenient."

"Done." His answer was immediate and decisive. "You would have a budget, a staff, and the authority to implement approved reforms within designated parameters. Your success would be measured by results, not by adherence to traditional procedures."

"And if Lord Vader objects?"

"Vader will be informed that the Empire requires your particular skills in this capacity." Palpatine's smile was sharp. "He may object, but he will not interfere. He understands the importance of serving the Empire's broader interests."

The conversation had moved from seduction to negotiation, and Leia found herself evaluating the offer with the analytical skills Vader had beaten into her. The benefits were significant: political power, meaningful work, and the chance to actually improve the lives of billions. The risks were equally substantial: the wrath of her current master, the danger of being manipulated by the most skilled political mind in the galaxy, the possibility of becoming a pawn in games she didn't fully understand.

But she could not refuse, no, this was possibly the only lifeline she would get before Palpatine decides it is better to just end her. 

"I accept," she said quietly.

"Excellent." His satisfaction was evident, but controlled. "We shall begin with small projects, reforms to the Alderaanian administrative interface with Imperial bureaucracy. A natural extension of your senatorial duties, and an opportunity to demonstrate your capabilities on a manageable scale."

"And beyond that?"

"Beyond that, we shall see what you prove yourself capable of handling." He raised his glass in a small toast. "To new opportunities."

"To new opportunities," she echoed, touching her glass to his.

As the amber liquid warmed her throat, Leia felt something shift inside her chest. She had just agreed to serve two masters, a dangerous position for anyone, but potentially fatal for a Sith. But she had also just claimed a degree of agency that had been denied to her for years.

The question was whether that path would lead to the power she craved, or to destruction more complete than anything she had yet experienced.

"Then I believe we have covered everything necessary for tonight." He rose, moving to escort her to the door. "I look forward to seeing what you accomplish in your new role."

As they walked through the corridor toward the palace exit, Leia felt the weight of what she had just agreed to settling around her. She had bought herself some time, but she had also gained a master who made Vader look kind by comparison.

As she walked back toward her shuttle, Leia felt the Emperor's words echoing in her mind. She had gained something precious tonight, recognition, opportunity, the chance to prove herself worthy of attention and respect. But she had also committed herself to a path that would require careful navigation of loyalties and interests that were far from aligned.

The holographic display flickered with the same image that had been broadcast across the galaxy mere hours ago: Princess Leia Organa, radiant in Alderaanian white, standing beside Emperor Palpatine on the steps of the Imperial Palace. Her smile was perfect, her posture regal, her words a masterclass in political theater. To the galaxy, she was a miracle, the lost princess returned to guide her people toward Imperial loyalty.

To the assembled Rebel leaders huddled in the ice-carved war room on Hoth, she was something else entirely.

"Turn it off," Winter said quietly, her voice cutting through the tense silence. "I can't watch it again."

Luke reached for the controls, but Quinlan Vos's hand shot out to stop him. "No. We need to see this. All of it. We need to understand what we're dealing with."

The recording continued, Leia's voice carrying across the frozen chamber with practiced authority: "I pledge myself to His Imperial Majesty's service. I pledge Alderaan's loyalty to the Empire that has shown us such mercy..."

Leia dropping to one knee before the Emperor, her submission perfect and practiced. Luke's hands clenched as he watched his sister, his twin, his other half, bow before the monster who had destroyed their father.

"She's been conditioned," he said desperately. "Programmed. We can break that programming, show her who she really is."

"Who she really is," General Airen Cracken interrupted, "is a woman who took control of an entire star system in a single afternoon. Who placed her own parents under house arrest. Who threatened to execute Winter on sight if she returns to Alderaan. That's not programming, Skywalker. That's choice."

"Mercy," Ahsoka Tano muttered, her montrals twitching with barely contained emotion. "She calls ten years of captivity and torture mercy."

"She's playing a role," Winter insisted, her pale hands clenched into fists on the metal table. "The Sith are always at each other's throats. Leia is doing it to protect herself from the emperor."

"Leia is dead," General Cracken interrupted, his voice flat and unforgiving. "What we're looking at is Darth Revaris. A Sith Lord who has spent a decade learning how to kill and destroy. The sooner we accept that, the sooner we can deal with the threat."

"Four billion people," he continued, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. "Did you forget Serrano? She pulled that trigger without hesitation. And now she's claiming to be the voice of Alderaan in the Imperial Senate." He looked around the table, his expression grim. "How are we even debating this? Darth Revaris is a mass murderer who now has political power. She's not Princess Leia anymore, she's a weapon pointed at the heart of the Rebellion."

Luke's hands clenched into fists on the table. "She's my twin sister."

"She's a Sith Lord," Cracken shot back. "Your sister died in that Imperial cell ten years ago. What came out is something else entirely."

"No." Luke's voice carried the quiet authority of someone who had felt the truth in the Force itself. "She's still in there. Buried, maybe. Changed, definitely. But she still has good in her."

Loose objects started to rattle around the room as Luke’s emotions spiked. "She's not a threat. She's a victim. And she's someone we swore to protect."

"Did we?" Cracken's eyes were cold as the Hoth wind. "Because I distinctly remember the Rebellion moving on from that particular cause years ago. We grieved, we memorialized, and we focused on winnable battles. Now she's back, and suddenly everyone wants to play savior."

Winter interrupted. "Luke's right. I know her, knew her better than anyone. Even as Revaris, even with everything she's done, there are moments when I can see the girl who used to sneak into the kitchens to steal cookies for the servants' children."

"The girl who also hunted the rebellion with Vader in the last two years," Quinlan Vos said quietly, his face thoughtful. "The girl who killed at least three of our top Generals, with her bare hands. The girl whose name is now worse than Darth Vader, she had razed planets to the ground on the sole crime of the rebellion stopping there to refuel." He paused, studying Winter's face. "I'm not saying she's beyond redemption. But let's not pretend she's just a lost child who needs a hug."

Ahsoka had been silent through the exchange, her montrals casting shadows across her face. When she finally spoke, her voice was heavy with conflict. "She's Anakin's daughter."

The words hung in the air like a confession.

"I failed him," Ahsoka continued, her blue eyes distant. "I walked away when he needed me most. I told myself it was the right thing to do, that I had no room by his side, with the Jedi. And look what happened." She gestured toward the now-empty holographic display. "I won't make that mistake again. Not with her."

"Ahsoka, " Kanan began.

"But I'm not blind to what she's become," Ahsoka interrupted, her voice growing stronger. "She's dangerous. More dangerous than her father ever was, because she was trained since she was a child in the Dark Side, and by Vader, a person who knows how to train someone of her strength the best. Vader didn't just train her to be a Sith, he trained her to be the ultimate power in the galaxy."

Mon Mothma leaned forward, her voice carefully measured. "The question before us isn't whether she's dangerous. The question is whether she's lost to us entirely."
She gestured to the tactical display showing Imperial fleet movements. "Revaris—Leia, if you prefer—has officially claimed the Alderaanian senatorial seat, with the Emperor’s personal endorsement. She’s not just a Sith apprentice anymore. She’s a political figure now, with legitimate governmental authority. According to our intelligence, the Emperor has already granted her extensive powers. Aside from him and Vader, no one in the Empire holds that much influence."

"She warned her parents," Luke said suddenly. "About me and Winter. About the hunt. She could have let Vader find me without warning, but she didn't. That has to mean something."

"Or it means she wants to be the one to kill you herself," Cracken said bluntly. "She made that threat pretty clear in her message to Bail."

"Because she knows what the Empire will do to us if we're captured," Winter insisted. "She's trying to keep us safe, the only way she knows how."

"Or she's eliminated the last people who might have been able to reach her," Vos countered. "Think strategically, Winter. If you were a Sith trying to consolidate power, wouldn't you want to remove anyone who might trigger inconvenient emotions?"

The room fell silent except for the distant hum of the base's heating systems. Finally, Vos spoke again.

"I've been where she is. Not exactly, but... close enough. The dark side doesn't just corrupt you, it convinces you that corruption is strength. That emotion is weakness. That the people you once loved are obstacles to be overcome." He met Luke's eyes across the table. "I wanted to be saved. But I had to want it. She has to choose to come back."

"And if she doesn't?" Cracken pressed.

"Then we prepare for war," Vos said simply. "Because a Sith with governmental authority and Imperial backing isn't just dangerous, it's apocalyptic. We've seen what happens when the Dark Side gets political power. We can't let sentiment cloud our judgment."

"This isn't sentiment," Luke snapped, his voice cracking with strain. "This is family. This is—"

"This is exactly what the Emperor wants," Kanan interrupted. "Division. Hesitation. He's using her as a weapon against us, and we're letting it work. Every moment we spend arguing about redemption is a moment they are planning against us."

He leaned forward, his scarred face troubled. "I've fought against her. There's still light in her, I've seen it. It was when she just fell, still struggling with the Dark Side, I was injured, and she could have killed me. Instead, she let me go. That's not the action of a true Sith."

"She stood beside the Emperor," Ahsoka pointed out. "That's not nothing."

"She stood beside him because she had to," Winter shot back. "Because that's what survival looks like when you're ten years old and everyone you trusted abandons you to monsters."

Several faces around the table flinched, but no one refuted it. The Rebellion had made choices, set priorities, and moved on from unwinnable battles. The fact that one of those battles had cost a child's life didn't make it less necessary at the time.

"Under Republic Law, she should be killed," Cracken said coldly. “We cannot let someone like her roam the galaxy, not now, and not after we bring down the Empire; the galaxy has no place for someone like her."

"This isn't the Republic," Luke snarled, his control finally snapping. "I'm not going to help rebuild a system that enslaved clones and signed treaties with the Hutts just to survive. She's not someone to be locked away or killed; she's a slave. And instead of trying to free her, you want to put her down like a rabid animal."

"If necessary," Cracken said coldly. "Because rabid animals, no matter how tragic their condition, are still dangerous."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Luke's hand drifted toward his lightsaber, and for a moment, the air crackled with tension.

Winter’s chair scraped harshly against the floor as she stood, her composure finally breaking. “You weren’t there! None of you were there when she was taken. You didn’t see what they did to her—what they had to do to break her. She was nine years old. And she held out for seven years. Seven years of torture, of conditioning, of being told, over and over, that no one was coming. That no one cared enough to save her.”

Her voice rose, years of guilt and anger finally breaking free. "We failed her. The Rebellion failed her. We let her rot in Imperial cells while we played politics and made careful plans. And now you want to kill her for becoming exactly what we forced her to become?"

"Winter, " Mon Mothma began.

"No!" Winter’s palm slammed against the table with a sharp crack. "You want to talk about our failures? Then let’s talk about the child we sacrificed to the worst nightmare in the galaxy." Her voice trembled, but it didn’t falter. "Let’s talk about how we all would rather die than fall into Vader’s hands—but we left her there. We left her!"

She looked around the room, daring anyone to meet her gaze.

"When Bail begged the Rebellion to act, to mount a rescue, you all told him it was too dangerous. That she was as good as dead. An acceptable loss." Her voice broke on those last words. "But she wasn’t dead. She held on. For years. Hoping. Waiting. And we left her to rot in the dark."

A heavy silence followed, thick with old guilt and fresh shame.

Vos cleared his throat quietly, his tone softer but no less serious. "For what it's worth…" He leaned forward, lacing his fingers. "I think she can be saved. Maybe. I’ve seen her in action—she’s ruthless, sure. But she’s not cruel."

His eyes flicked briefly toward Luke. "She doesn’t enjoy the killing. And more than once, when no one was watching, she chose mercy. That’s not nothing."

"She also saved those Force-sensitive children," Ahsoka said quietly, gesturing to the hallway where Kai and the rest of the padawans were waiting. ”When she had every reason to kill them under her Master orders, she helped them escape. That's not the action of someone who's completely lost to the Dark Side."

"Or it's the action of someone who's playing a longer game," Cracken countered. "She's been trained by Vader and the Emperor. Do we really think she's not capable of that level of manipulation?"

"She's capable of anything," Luke said, his voice heavy with the weight of truth. "That's what makes her dangerous. But it's also what makes her valuable. She has access to the highest levels of the Empire. She knows their plans, their weaknesses, their fears."

"Are you suggesting we try to turn her into a spy?" Mon Mothma asked, her eyebrows raised.

"I'm suggesting we try to turn her back into our sister," Luke replied. "The Empire took her from us. Maybe it's time we took her back."

Ahsoka shook her head. "It's not that simple, Luke. She's not some deep-cover agent waiting for extraction. She's a Sith Lord who's spent years learning to embrace the Dark Side. Even if we could reach her, even if we could somehow break through the conditioning... the person who comes out might not be… someone who can live with what they had done."

"Then we help her become someone new," Winter said fiercely. "Someone who chooses the light not because it's easy, but because it's right. Someone who knows the cost of darkness and chooses hope anyway."

"And if she refuses?" Cracken asked. "If she looks us in the eye and tells us she's exactly where she wants to be? What then?"

The question hung in the air like a sword. Luke was the first to answer.

"Then we keep trying. We don't give up on family."

"And if trying gets someone killed?" Vos asked.

"Then we'll have failed honorably instead of succeeding dishonorably," Luke said, his voice steady again but his eyes bright with unshed tears. "I won't become a killer just because it's convenient."

"Even if she's already become one?" Cracken challenged.

"Especially then." Luke met the general's gaze without flinching. "Because someone has to believe there's still light in the galaxy. Someone has to believe that people can change, that redemption is possible, that we're fighting for something more than just another version of the same corrupt system."

"Pretty words," Vos said, but his tone had lost its edge. "But what if you're wrong? What if she's too far gone? What if your mercy gets innocent people killed?"

Luke stood at the edge of the war table, hands clenched at his sides, voice steady but raw. “I’m not going to kill my sister.”

The silence that followed was brief but heavy.

“She was taken when she was a child,” he continued. “Raised by Vader. That’s not her fault. I’ve felt her through the Force. There’s still something there, something good. I’m not giving up on her.”

Ahsoka exhaled slowly, arms crossed, her eyes shadowed. “I won’t kill her either,” she said, voice quiet but certain. “I made a promise—and I intend to keep it. I told her I’d come back for her, and I will. Luke is right. You don’t give up on family.”

Kanan nodded. “She spared me once,” he said, his voice low. “When she didn’t have to. That wasn’t Revaris the Sith. That was the girl she used to be, the girl Bail Organa raised. I’m not saying we should trust her. But I believe she deserves another chance to find her way out.”

Quinlan Vos, leaning back in his chair with his boots propped up on the table’s edge, let out a breath. “Look, I won’t pretend I’m above doing what needs to be done. If push comes to shove, yeah, I’ll be the one to strike. But not alone. And not now. Against someone like her?” He shook his head. “I doubt even I’d survive the attempt. So unless you’re planning a suicidal mission, we won’t be doing it. Not today.”

General Cracken slammed his palm on the edge of the table, rising sharply. “Then you’re deciding for all of us,” he snapped. “If the Jedi in this room won’t act, won’t even consider action, then you’re forcing the entire council’s hand. You’re choosing her fate without a vote. Without the rest of us.”

Luke’s gaze snapped toward him. “No one’s stopping the council from making decisions. But we won’t be your executioner.”

“This isn’t about you,” Cracken shot back.

“Yes, it is,” Luke said. “You want us to be a weapon, like the Jedi were for the Republic. I’ve heard the stories. I know what they became, soldiers in a war they didn’t choose, tools of a system that used them until it collapsed.”

Ahsoka nodded grimly. “And look where that got us. Sidious rose to power in plain sight. We walked right into it.”

She looked around the table, eyes landing on Cracken, then Mon Mothma. “I’m not repeating the mistakes of the Republic. We’re not just fighting for a new government. We’re fighting to make sure we don’t become the last one.”

The room fell quiet again, this time with something heavier than silence, uncertainty.

A choice was coming, and none of them knew yet what it would cost.

Kanan nodded slowly. "Skywalker has a point. The Jedi way is redemption, not revenge. If there's even a chance..."

"There's always a chance," Ahsoka said, but her voice carried doubt. "The question is whether we can afford to take it. She's not just dangerous to us, she's dangerous to the entire galaxy. If we try to save her and fail, if we give her the opportunity to consolidate her power..."

"Then we'll face that when it comes," Mon Mothma said firmly. "But we won't become executioners. We won't sink to the Empire's level."

"So what do we do?" Cracken asked. "We can't reach her on Coruscant. She's surrounded by Imperial security, and even if we could get to her, how do you suppose we contain her?"

"We wait," Luke said. "We watch. We prepare. And when the opportunity comes, when she's vulnerable, when she's alone, when she's questioning her choices, we're ready."

"Ready for what?" Winter asked.

Luke met her eyes, and in them she saw the same determination that had once driven a moisture farmer's son to challenge the Empire itself.

"Ready to bring her home."

The room fell silent once more, but this time it was the silence of decision rather than debate. They would not abandon Leia Organa, no matter what she had become. They would not repeat the mistakes of the past.

But as they filed out of the war room, each lost in their own thoughts, none of them spoke the truth that hung between them like a death sentence: saving Darth Revaris might cost them everything they had fought to build.

Luke found himself wandering the corridor outside the war room, the weight of the meeting still pressing down on him. He moved past Ezra, Kai, and Sabine, who were waiting quietly nearby. Logically, he should be with them, not in that chamber of generals and council members. He was barely more than a Padawan. But Obi-Wan was gone, and in his absence, Luke had become something else— the symbol. The boy who destroyed the Death Star. The hero of the Rebellion.

He could feel the way they looked at him. Even his fellow Force-sensitives. They saw Vader when they looked at him. They saw Leia. And beneath it all, he could sense the question, unspoken but heavy: Are you going to become like them too?

He couldn’t face them. Not now. Not with the Force still thrumming with the memory of Winter’s rage, of Cracken’s threats, of Ahsoka’s careful, cautious words.

So he did what he always did when it all got too loud—he went to the Falcon , hoping to find a sliver of quiet in the familiar hum of the old ship.

"Kid."

The voice made him stop. Han was leaning against the corridor wall just outside the hangar, arms crossed, watching him with that familiar mix of concern and exasperation that always made Luke feel both seen and slightly judged.

Han hadn’t been at the meeting. Officially, because he wasn’t part of Rebel leadership. Unofficially? Luke suspected Han had no patience for debates about morality, redemption, or the ethics of killing Sith Lords.

And if Luke was being honest… he wasn’t sure Han was wrong.

"How'd it go?" Han asked, though his expression suggested he already knew the answer.

"About as well as you'd expect." Luke slumped against the opposite wall, suddenly feeling every one of his nineteen years. "They're not going to kill her. But they're not exactly rushing to plan a rescue either."

Han pushed off the wall and walked over, studying Luke's face in the dim corridor lighting. "You look like someone just told you the Falcon's hyperdrive is permanently broken."

"Worse." Luke ran a hand through his hair. "They're talking about her like she's already dead. Like the sister I never got to know is just... gone."

"Maybe she is."

The blunt words hit Luke like a physical blow. "Han, "

"Hear me out." Han held up a hand, his voice gentler than his words. "I'm not saying I agree with Cracken. But I've seen what the Empire does to people. What it did to Winter after just a few days in their hands. She's been there for ten years, Luke. Ten years with Vader."

Luke's jaw tightened. "She's stronger than you think."

"If she is anything like you, I don't doubt that. But strength has limits." Han moved closer, his voice dropping. "You want to save her. I get that. But you're also talking about saving him."

"Vader is my father."

"Vader is the man who tortured your sister for more than a decade." Han's voice was quiet but implacable. "He's the one who turned her into whatever she is now. You can't save them both, Luke. Not when one of them created the other."

Luke felt something cold settle in his chest. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you need to choose." Han's expression was serious, all traces of his usual humor gone. "You want to believe there's good in both of them? Fine. But as long as Vader's alive, she'll never be free. He's her master, her creator, her..." Han struggled for the word. "Her anchor to the Dark Side. You can't break chains that are still being held."

"You don't know that."

"Don't I?" Han stepped closer, his voice intense. "I've watched you, every mention of Vader, every time someone brings up your father, you get this look. Like you're carrying the weight of the galaxy on your shoulders. You think you can redeem him, save him, turn him back into the man he was before."

Luke didn't respond, but something in his expression must have confirmed Han's words.

"But here's the thing, kid, while you've been dreaming about saving Anakin Skywalker, Darth Vader has been busy creating another monster. And now you want to save her too? How's that supposed to work? You bring them both back to the light and they what, have a happy family reunion?"

"It's not that simple, "

"No, it's not. It's impossible." Han's voice carried the weight of hard-won experience. "You can't undo what he did to her. Even if you could somehow reach the good in him, even if you could turn him back... she'd still be what he made her. And as long as he's alive, she'll never be able to forget it."

Luke stared at the ice wall, his reflection fractured in its surface. "When Ahsoka told me," he said quietly. "About Vader. About who he really was."

Han waited, sensing the importance of whatever was coming.

"I couldn't believe it at first," Luke continued, his voice distant with memory. "When she pulled me aside after she heard who I was, and told me that Darth Vader was Anakin Skywalker. My father. The great Jedi hero of the Clone Wars." He laughed bitterly. "I thought she was lying. Or confused. Or maybe just trying to hurt me for some reason."

"What convinced you?"

"The Force." Luke's hands clenched into fists. "I reached out, tried to feel the truth of it. And there it was, this connection, this... recognition. Like looking into a dark mirror and seeing your own face staring back."

Han studied his friend's profile, noting the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders seemed to carry an invisible weight.

"It changes everything," Luke continued. "Knowing that the monster who's terrorized the galaxy for twenty years is also the man who loved my mother. Who was Obi-Wan's student. Who was supposed to be the chosen one." He looked at Han, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "How do you process that? How do you separate the man from the mask?"

"You don't," Han said simply. "That's the point. They're the same person. The good doesn't cancel out the bad, and the bad doesn't erase the good. They're just... both true."

"Then how do I choose?"

Han was quiet for a long moment, considering his words carefully. "You know what I think? I think you're crazy. Vader's a machine in a suit who cuts down children without blinking. Your sister's a trained killer who's got the blood of billions on her hands. The smart play is to run. Find a nice quiet planet on the Outer Rim, change your name, live a normal life."

Luke started to object, but Han held up a hand.

"But," Han continued, "if you're determined to save someone, if you absolutely have to play hero, then save the one who didn't choose to become a monster. Save the one who was nine years old when they broke her. Save the one who might actually have a chance at something resembling a normal life afterward."

"And my father?"

"Your father made his choices a long time ago. He chose to become Vader. He chose to serve the Emperor. He chose to torture his own daughter." Han's voice was hard but not unkind. "Maybe there's still good in him. Maybe he can be redeemed. But not while she's still his prisoner. Not while she's still living proof of what he's become."

Luke felt the weight of the decision settling on his shoulders. In the depths of his heart, he had always known this moment would come, the moment when he would have to choose between the father he had never known and the sister he wanted to live with.

"She warned them," he said quietly. "Her parents. She could have let Vader find me, but she didn't. That has to count for something."

"It counts for everything," Han agreed. "It means she's still in there, somewhere. It means she's worth saving. But it also means she's trapped, and the only way to free her is to cut the chains that bind her."

Luke looked at his friend, seeing the concern and affection behind the pragmatic words. "You really think it's impossible? To save them both?"

"I think you're one person trying to carry the weight of two souls," Han said. "And I think if you try to save both, you'll lose them both. Maybe lose yourself in the process."

"So I have to choose."

"Yeah. You have to choose." Han clapped a hand on Luke's shoulder. "But whatever you decide, you won't be doing it alone. I'll be there. So will Chewie. So will the others who matter."

Luke nodded slowly, feeling something settle in his chest, not peace, exactly, but a kind of grim resolution. "I keep thinking about what she must have gone through. What she's still going through. And I think... I think she's been waiting for someone to choose her. Really choose her. Not as a symbol or a political asset or a weapon, but as a person who deserves to be free."

"Then there's your answer," Han said simply.

Luke straightened, some of the weight lifting from his shoulders. "There's my answer."

As they walked back toward the main base, Han glanced sideways at his friend. "For what it's worth, I think you're making the right choice. And I think she's lucky to have a brother who won't give up on her."

"Even if that brother is completely insane?"

"Especially then," Han said with a slight smile. "Sanity's overrated anyway."

Luke managed a small laugh, the first genuine humor he'd felt since he saw his sister kneel before the Emperor. "Thanks, Han. For everything."

"Don't mention it. Just... promise me something?"

"What?"

"When we do this, when we try to save her, promise me we'll do it smart. With a plan. With backup. None of this rushing off to the Death Star nonsense."

Luke winced at the reminder of his impulsive rescue attempt. "I promise."

"Good. Because I have a feeling this is going to be a lot more complicated than rescuing a princess from a space station."

As they disappeared into the depths of the rebel base, neither of them spoke the truth that hung between them: that choosing to save Leia Organa might mean accepting the loss of Anakin Skywalker forever. But for the first time since the hologram had flickered to life, Luke felt like he knew which way forward lay.

Even if it led through darkness deeper than anything he had yet imagined.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Masks

The maintenance tunnels beneath Coruscant's government sector were a maze of shadows and forgotten spaces, more than one hundred levels below where senators debated the fate of the galaxy. Here, in corridors that hadn't seen official inspection in decades, the Empire's dirty work was done in silence.

Senator Kenth Hamner had made the mistake of thinking himself untouchable.

The mechanical breathing filled the narrow space with its rhythmic wheeze and hiss, each breath echoing off grimy durasteel walls. In the flickering light of a failing glow panel, a figure in dark robes chased her prey, hunting. 

"No, no, please!" Hamner pressed himself against the wall, his once-pristine senatorial robes now torn and stained with his own blood. "I can pay you—whatever they're offering, I'll triple it! I have accounts on Muunilinst, untraceable credits—"

The voice emerged as a mechanical rasp, distorted and inhuman. "You misunderstand your situation, Senator."

Hamner's face went white. That voice, that mask, those terrible yellow eyes, he knew exactly who stood before him. The whispered stories in Senate corridors, the rumors that made hardened Imperial officers cross themselves when they thought no one was looking.

"Darth Revaris," he breathed.

The breathing apparatus gave a soft hiss of what might have been amusement. "How gratifying to be recognized. Your reputation precedes you as well, Senator Hamner. Embezzlement, conspiracy, quite an impressive array of charges."

"Wait, wait!" Desperation made his voice crack and rise in pitch. "There's been a misunderstanding! I serve the Empire faithfully—I've done everything asked of me! My voting record is impeccable! I've supported every military appropriation, every security measure!"

"You've served yourself," the mechanically distorted voice cut him off with cold finality.

"No! Listen to me!" Hamner scrambled forward on his knees, hands clasped in supplication. "I understand the chain of command! If His Majesty has concerns about my loyalty, let me address them directly! I can be useful! I have connections in the Corporate Sector, influence with the Banking Clan—"

"Your usefulness has expired," Revaris replied, her yellow eyes burning brighter above the mask.

"Please!" Tears began streaming down his face. "I'll do anything—anything! Relocate my operations, cut my profit margins, donate everything to Imperial coffers! I have information about other corrupt senators—I can give you names, evidence, holorecordings!"

The mechanical breathing continued its rhythmic wheeze, unchanging. "And in doing so, you've become inconvenient to my Master. The Emperor values order above all else. Your particular brand of chaos no longer serves his purposes."

"I can change!" Hamner's voice broke into sobs. "Give me another chance! I swear on my family's honor, on my daughter's life—I'll be the most loyal senator in the galaxy!"

A blaster appeared in her gloved hand, the weapon steady despite Hamner's frantic pleading.

Above the breathing mask, those sulfurous eyes regarded him with the interest a scientist might show an insect. "Your family will be well taken care of," she replied, and the mechanical distortion made the words sound like a funeral dirge.

"What do you mean?" Horror crept into his voice.

"Your wife has already been taken care of," she replied, and the mechanical distortion made the words sound like a funeral dirge. "Her speeder exploded from a bomb. They will say it was meant for you, but caught the wrong target. These things happen in wartime."

The color drained completely from Hamner's face. "No... Mira... she was supposed to pick up Kayla for the opera..."

"Your daughter is safe at home, wondering why her mother is so late." The yellow eyes seemed to glow brighter. "Soon she'll be wondering why her father never came home either."

"You monster!" He lunged forward despite the blaster, tears streaming down his face. "My Wife was innocent! She never hurt anyone!"

The weapon's barrel pressed against his forehead, stopping his advance. "Your daughter will make such a perfect victim," Revaris continued conversationally. "A fifteen-year-old orphan, weeping over her parents' graves. The holonews will capture every tear as she speaks about the terrorists who stole her family. Such compelling testimony against the rebellion."

"She doesn't know anything about politics!" Hamner sobbed. "She just wants to study xenobiology at the Academy! She has dreams, a future—"

"She'll have a different future now. As the Empire's most sympathetic victim of rebel violence. Her grief will rally support for increased security measures. Her tears will be broadcast across the galaxy as proof of what monsters the rebellion truly are." The mask tilted slightly. "In a way, you've given her a much more important role than she could ever have achieved studying alien parasites."

"You're going to frame the rebellion—"

"The rebellion serves so many purposes," Revaris mused, her head tilting as the breathing mask's rhythmic wheeze never faltered. "Convenient scapegoats for every tragedy. Your death will complete the picture perfectly—devoted father murdered by terrorists, just like his beloved wife. Your daughter's suffering will be the final, perfect touch."

A soft chime interrupted the moment, and C-3PO's voice crackled through her comm unit. "Your Highness, I do apologize for the interruption, but time grows short. The opera begins within the hour, and your gown requires careful preparation if we're to avoid any—"

She pressed a finger to the comm, muting it with visible irritation. The yellow eyes never left Hamner's terrified face.

"Duty calls, I'm afraid." Her mechanically altered voice carried an almost conversational tone.

"Monster," Hamner whispered, his voice breaking. "You're nothing but a monster."

The yellow eyes flared brighter. "That's supposed to be an insult?"

The mechanical breathing continued. Then with deliberate slowness, she reached up to her mask. The breathing ceased as she disengaged the seals and pulled the apparatus away.

Senator Kenth Hamner's final expression was one of absolute, disbelieving shock.

The face revealed was impossibly beautiful, a face that had graced countless propaganda posters across the galaxy. The face of virtue itself, of hope and loyalty and everything good about the Empire.

"Princess Leia Organa," he gasped, his voice barely a whisper. "But... but you're..."

She smiled, and it was the same radiant expression that had charmed senators and citizens alike since her miraculous return from death. 

"We can’t have you die from a saber wound."

The bolt took him in the head. Senator Kenth Hamner died with the truth on his lips and shock in his eyes, the secret dying with him in the shadows beneath Coruscant.

Revaris stood over the corpse for a moment, holstering her weapon. The yellow fire in her eyes had already begun to fade, replaced by the warm brown that the galaxy knew and trusted.

"So uncivilized,"  She reattached the breathing mask, and the mechanical wheeze resumed as she activated her comm. She hated using blasters, and the killing itself seemed so wasteful. The emperor enjoyed killing whoever just annoyed him on a particular day. And sending her to do his dirty work. 

"C-3PO, I'm en route. Have the shuttle prepared for immediate departure."

"Oh, wonderful! I was beginning to worry about the time constraints. I do hope the evening's delay hasn't put us too far behind schedule."

"Not at all," she replied, stepping over Hamner's corpse without a second glance. The dark robes swirled around her as she made her way through the maze of maintenance tunnels. "I was merely handling some last-minute Imperial business."

By the time she reached the service lift that would carry her back to Coruscant's civilized levels, Darth Revaris was fighting to push away the blue haze that flickered at the edges of her vision. The voices had grown stronger, more insistent. When she'd been about to kill the senator, just as her finger moved to the trigger, she'd heard it clearly, fragmented words cutting through her focus like shards of glass. Stop!... please, Leia... Stop!...

She'd hesitated. For just a heartbeat, her aim had wavered as the desperate voice whispered Stop... still time... come back... But she'd pushed through it, pulled the trigger. Even as the blaster bolt found its mark and Hamner collapsed, the voice had followed her, keep saying her name, over and over again.

The episodes were getting worse. More frequent. How long before she completely loses her mind?

The lift chimed softly as it reached the shuttle bay level. She straightened her shoulders, forcing the disturbing thoughts into the back of her mind. The bay was a welcome change from the tunnels' oppressive atmosphere, all polished durasteel and soft lighting. C-3PO bustled about with his usual mechanical anxiety, a wardrobe case open beside him, silk and jewels glittering under the bay's illumination."

"Your Highness, we truly are cutting it close this evening. The Imperial Opera Guild has arranged for full holonews coverage, and the Emperor specifically requested your presence in his private box. The cultural significance of tonight's performance cannot be understated."

Leia removed the breathing mask, the mechanical sounds ceasing as she revealed her face. Her eyes were now completely brown; no trace of gold remained. She smiled, though something cold flickered behind the warmth.

"Yes, how thoughtful of His Majesty to include me in such an... enriching experience."

C-3PO's photoreceptors brightened with enthusiasm. "Indeed! Tonight's performance is a premiere of Corellian neo-expressionist opera. The reviews have been quite extraordinary; they say it pushes the boundaries of artistic expression to unprecedented heights."

"I'm sure it does," Leia murmured as the droid helped her out of the dark robes. The fabric fell away like shed skin, revealing the pale slip beneath. "Nothing the Emperor enjoys is ever... conventional."

"The composer, Jerris Kee, has described it as 'a meditation on the intersection of suffering and transcendence in post-Imperial society,'" C-3PO continued, completely missing the irony in his mistress's tone. "Quite profound, wouldn't you say?"

Leia stepped into the shimmering blue gown he held ready, the silk flowing like liquid starlight. "Profoundly tedious, I imagine."

"Your Highness!" C-3PO sounded genuinely shocked. "Surely you cannot mean that. The cultural significance—"

"Will be lost on me entirely," Leia finished, allowing him to fasten the delicate clasps at her shoulders. "But appearances must be maintained, mustn't they?"

As the droid worked, she caught her reflection in the shuttle's mirror. The woman looking back was everything the galaxy believed Princess Leia Organa to be: beautiful, gracious, refined. The perfect daughter of the Empire. But behind those warm brown eyes, she could still feel the echo of molten gold.

"The jewelry tonight is particularly exquisite," C-3PO noted, lifting a choker necklace of blue-white diamonds from their case. "His Majesty's personal jeweler selected each stone to complement the gown's fabric."

"Of course he did." Leia's smile was perfectly serene as the cold diamonds settled against her throat. "The Emperor has such... particular tastes."

The necklace was exquisite, each diamond catching the light like captured stars. It sat high on her neck, tight against her skin, multiple strands of precious stones that formed an elaborate band from her collarbone nearly to her jaw. Beautiful and unmistakably restrictive, the weight of it a constant presence with every breath, every turn of her head. A collar made of the galaxy's finest gems, but a collar nonetheless, a glittering reminder of exactly what she had become. Even when she swallowed, she could feel the diamonds press against her throat, as if the Emperor's hand were there instead.

The droid fastened matching earrings, then stepped back to admire his work. "You look absolutely radiant, Your Highness. The very picture of Imperial nobility."

"The very picture," she agreed softly, practicing her expression in the mirror. Cultured interest. Respectful attention. Gentle appreciation for the arts. All the faces expected of the Empire's beloved princess.

The breathing mask lay in its storage compartment, waiting. Just as she would wait in that opera box, enduring hours of incomprehensible noise while sitting beside the man who held her leash, both lives were in service to the same master. Both masks were worn for his pleasure.

"Shall I prepare the neural stabilizer, Your Highness?" C-3PO asked, producing a small medical device. "The opera is expected to run nearly four hours, and Corellian neo-expressionism can be quite... challenging for human mental processes."

"No." Leia's voice was sharp, then softened with practiced grace. "I prefer to experience the evening... authentically."

Better to suffer through it fully aware. Better to feel every moment of the tedium, to catalog every discordant note and meaningless gesture. The Sith grew stronger through suffering; she was certain the ancient masters had meant physical pain, but four hours of avant-garde opera qualified as torture by any measure.

"As you wish, Your Highness. Though I must warn you, the critics have described some passages as 'aggressive’ and 'intentionally challenging to traditional sensory processing.'"

"I'm sure they have." She turned from the mirror, the transformation complete. Princess Leia Organa stood where Darth Revaris had been moments before, radiant and perfect. "Let us not keep His Majesty waiting. I would hate for him to think I don't appreciate... culture."

The shuttle began its descent toward the opera house's landing platform, where camera crews and crowds of admirers waited to capture her arrival. Soon she would be walking the crimson carpet, smiling and waving, the galaxy's beloved princess graciously attending another cultural event.

Then she would sit in that box, enduring hours of torment while the Emperor watched her with those yellow eyes, perhaps enjoying her discomfort as much as the performance itself.

Different masks. Different stages. Same master pulling the strings.

The doors began to open, and Princess Leia Organa stepped into the light, leaving Darth Revaris sleeping in the shadows until she was needed again.

The opera house stretched before them like the maw of some great beast, its gilded walls rising in impossible curves toward a domed ceiling painted with scenes of ancient galactic conquest. Thousands of beings filled the crimson-velvet seats in perfect, ordered rows, their faces turned upward toward the stage where incomprehensible patterns of light writhed and pulsed in time with discordant alien music that seemed to emanate from the very walls themselves.

Leia sat motionless in the Emperor's private box, to the holocams positioned discreetly throughout the theater, she was the very picture of Alderaanian grace, her spine straight, hands folded delicately in her lap, her dark eyes fixed on the stage with what appeared to be rapt attention. The perfect princess, returned from the dead to serve her people and her Empire with unwavering devotion.

Inside, she felt empty. Lately, she has been feeling empty more and more often.

The performance, if it could be called that, had been going on for what felt like hours. Geometric shapes of pure energy twisted through three-dimensional space while sounds that had no earthly equivalent scraped against her consciousness like fingernails on durasteel. She had attended dozens of cultural events in the past months, each more tedious than the last, but this abstract Corellian neo-expressionist piece was particularly torturous. The program notes claimed it was meant to represent "the mechanism of suffering," which, as far as she could tell, was a pretentious way of saying "random lights and noise."

What disturbed her more than the performance itself was the Emperor's reaction to it. He sat beside her, seemingly transfixed, his wrinkly fingers steepled as he watched the lights dance. Occasionally, the ghost of a smile would cross his withered features, as if he understood some profound meaning hidden within the chaos. It was impossible to tell if his appreciation was genuine or merely another layer of the elaborate performance they were all trapped within, but something about his focused attention made her skin crawl.

She wondered if he genuinely enjoyed this. She had heard the Emperor was an avid opera fan, that his attendance dated back to his days as a Senator. But it had to be a ruse. Who in their right mind, Sith or not, could enjoy something like this?

She had learned, over the long months since arriving on Coruscant, that everything with Palpatine was a lesson. Every dinner conversation, every political briefing, every casual observation about galactic affairs, all of it was carefully constructed to shape her thinking, to guide her down paths she wasn't even aware she was walking. The worst part was that even when she could see the manipulation clearly, dissect it like a student analyzing an ancient text, it still worked. His praise still warmed her. His attention still felt like validation after years of existing in Vader's cold shadow.

The stage lights shifted from harsh white to deep crimson, casting the entire theater in shades of blood. Leia maintained her serene expression, though inside she catalogued every face in the audience that turned to look at their box, every holocam that lingered a moment too long on her composed features. Princess Leia Organa, the Empire's newest darling, helping to reinvent the dismissed Senate, bringing hope to refugees and dignity to political discourse. They couldn't see the exhaustion that pressed down on her shoulders like a physical weight, couldn't hear the bitter voice in her head that wondered how long she could keep this up.

Six months. Six months since she had last seen Vader, last felt the familiar presence of her Master in the Force. Whether Palpatine was blocking their communications or whether Vader had simply written her off as another casualty of Sith politics, she couldn't say. The uncertainty gnawed at her worse than either possibility would have.

At least she knew he didn’t catch her brother. No, Luke was still very much free, and very much a thorn in the Empire’s side.

That, at least, was some small comfort. He was out there, fighting, resisting, refusing to fall into her Master's hands. Just like she once had. Leia clung to that knowledge, to the hope that his presence in the galaxy still gave her leverage, still gave her options, because she didn’t know if she could stay in one piece if she heard her master had finally got his shiny new apprentice.

The Senate was gone. Her “reassignment” had been swift and public: the noble Princess of Alderaan, risen from the ashes, taking up her people’s voice with the Emperor’s blessing. But behind the shimmering dresses and choreographed appearances was a brutal reality, weeks swallowed by bureaucratic reshuffling, authority stripped from elected officials and handed to Imperial appointees. Leia had been instrumental in making it happen. Her signature was on the reforms. Her voice had calmed the press, silenced protests, soothed the Republic loyalists. And not once had she allowed the cracks in her façade to show.

Her days began before dawn and ended well past midnight, a relentless parade of meetings, committees, public appearances, and private lessons that blurred together into an exhausting haze of performance. The new Imperial court was Palpatine's latest project, a carefully orchestrated theater of loyalty designed to give the illusion of representation while maintaining absolute Imperial control. Princess Leia Organa had become its shining star, the perfect symbol of reconciliation and hope that made the whole charade palatable to the galaxy's weary citizens.

This morning alone, she had attended a three-hour committee meeting on Serrano refugee resettlement, delivered a speech to the Coruscant Press Corps about the importance of unity in rebuilding, participated in a holovid conference with Core World governors about resource allocation, and presided over the dedication ceremony for a new memorial to the Death Star fallen troops. Between each event, she had exactly enough time to change gowns, touch up her makeup, and ensure that not a single hair was out of place.

If she were a better person, she might have felt bad, as she stood before the refugees from Serenno, her voice trembling with carefully modulated emotion as she spoke of their losses, their suffering, their need for compassion and aid. She had perfected the art of looking genuinely moved by their stories, of appearing to be the gentle soul who had somehow survived unimaginable trauma and emerged with her humanity intact. The holonews called her Alderaan’s Angel , and she played the role, with white gowns and careful tears and speeches about hope rising from ashes.

They didn’t know of course. None of them did. Not the starving children clutching ration packs with shaking hands. Not the grateful elders who bowed before her as though she were a goddess made flesh. Not the hollow-eyed fathers who whispered blessings on her name. They had no idea who had truly condemned their planet, who had stood on the bridge of the Death Star and ordered its destruction without batting an eye.

They worshipped her. Called her savior.

Sometimes she wondered if any of them would realize the truth, if even one survivor from Serenno might look at her and know . Might see beyond the mask, the gown, and the brown eyes, might see the monster that lurked beneath the surface. But none ever did. She was Alderaan’s miracle. She was the face of mercy.

It was a lesson Palpatine had taught her well.

"The galaxy doesn't need to fear you, my dear," he had said once, voice soft as silk, warm as poison. "It needs to adore you. Let Revaris be the fist. And the princess, the velvet glove."

He never tried to teach this to Vader. Couldn’t. The brute force of the man, the endless, smoldering rage, it had its uses, but subtlety had always eluded him. The mask Vader wore was welded to his face in more ways than one. But Leia… Leia could wear two masks and wear them beautifully.

"You are the embodiment of the Bane doctrine," Palpatine had purred during one of their quiet, private sessions. "Not just power in the Dark Side, but power in the light. Let the galaxy see what it wants to see—a loyal daughter, a gentle princess, a shining hope. Let them love you, even as they feed your rise."

He had taught her how to smile at a child while sealing a planetary blockade. How to weep on command. How to speak in half-truths and let the lies bloom on their own. "Give them a symbol," he said, "and they will blind themselves with it."

And so she became one.

Alderaan’s Angel. Serenno’s Savior. The girl who faced death and came back kinder.

All his design.

She was the perfect student. The masterpiece he had never been able to make of Vader. And he knew it. Sometimes, in the way he looked at her, hungry, possessive, proud.

His prize project.

Every night, she collapsed into her vast bed in her quarters, her body aching with exhaustion that went deeper than mere physical fatigue. There was no moment of respite, no instant where she could drop the mask and simply exist.

The dark side had become her constant companion, though she wielded it with a subtlety that would have impressed her absent Master. During committee meetings, she would let tendrils of Force influence guide conversations toward conclusions that served the Empire's interests while appearing to champion the people's needs. In private negotiations, she could sense the fears and desires of senators and bureaucrats, using that knowledge to apply pressure so delicately that her targets believed their capitulation was their own idea.

Most exhausting of all was keeping her Sith nature buried so deeply that even she sometimes forgot it was there. The yellow eyes that marked a true Sith had to be constantly suppressed, a feat that required more concentration than any lightsaber form she had ever mastered. She had learned to channel her anger and hatred inward, to let it fuel her abilities while never allowing it to surface in her expression or posture. The slightest slip, the briefest moment where her true nature showed through Princess Leia's serene facade, could unravel everything.

When the Senate sessions ended and the refugee centers closed their doors, when the last holovid interview was completed and the final diplomatic dinner concluded, then came Palpatine's lessons. They were never scheduled, never announced, simply an Imperial Guard appearing at her door with a shuttle ready to take her to the emperor's palace. These sessions were subtle, nothing like Vader's brutal training, but they were lessons nonetheless. Political maneuvering disguised as casual conversation. Philosophy that sounded like wisdom until you realized it was teaching you to see beings as tools to be used. Most insidiously, praise and attention that made her hunger for more even as she recognized it for what it was.

He taught her to control her lightning, an ability he seemed to take particular pleasure in cultivating. Leia had begun to notice a pattern: Palpatine relished instructing her in techniques that Vader either could not or would not master. He was building them as opposites. Her Master was a fearsome Sith, a dark legend who stalked the galaxy like a living nightmare, his presence in the Force overwhelming and absolute. Vader did not need subtlety. He was terror incarnate, the Death Star made flesh, an unstoppable force before which all others crumbled.

She, on the other hand, was being shaped into something entirely different. 

Where Vader brought fear, she brought trust. Where Vader silenced through dread, she persuaded with grace. Palpatine was molding her into a creature of masks and manipulation, a weapon so refined that her victims would never see the blade until it was buried deep.

“You are everything he is not,” the Emperor said one night, seated beside her in his study as crimson lightning flickered between her fingers. “He crushes. You conquer .”

And Leia—no, Revaris —understood. She was not being raised to serve. She was being raised to compete.

But just as he was teaching her, cultivating the double mask politician, he also used her. The Emperor had made it clear that certain problems—certain people —occasionally needed to disappear. Traitors to the Empire, corrupt officials whose greed exceeded their usefulness, or just former senators and officers who were deemed an annoyance.

Those were the only moments when she could let the mask slip completely, when she could allow her true nature to surface without consequence. In the darkness of Coruscant's underlevels, pursuing targets through abandoned warehouses and forgotten maintenance tunnels, she could finally stop pretending to be gentle and kind. The yellow eyes she kept buried so carefully during the day would blaze freely as she hunted, and for those brief hours, she could remember who she really was beneath all the lies.

The music reached another impossible crescendo, and Leia felt her carefully maintained composure threaten to crack. Her head pounded with the beginnings of what would surely become another sleepless night. She had learned that suppressing her true nature for eighteen hours straight came with physical consequences that no amount of meditation could help. 

Palpatine leaned slightly toward her, his voice barely audible beneath the alien chorus. "Beautiful, isn't it? The way chaos and order dance together, creating something that transcends both."

She turned to him with her perfect princess smile, diamonds catching the stage lights. "It's certainly... unique, Your Majesty. I confess I'm still learning to appreciate the subtleties."

The Emperor's yellow eyes shifted to her, studying her profile in the strange light cast by the performance. "I trust Senator Hamner proved… cooperative?"

"As cooperative as expected, Your Majesty. The task is complete."

"Good. Clean work, I assume? The rebellion will make suitable scapegoats for his unfortunate demise."

"Of course, Your Majesty. His daughter will make a compelling witness to their brutality."

"Excellent." His satisfaction was palpable. "You continue to exceed my expectations, my dear. That necklace suits you perfectly, by the way. The blue-white stones complement both your gown and your complexion beautifully. My jeweler has such an eye for these things."

Leia's hand rose reflexively to touch the cold gems. "Your Majesty's generosity is overwhelming."

"Your presence here tonight is gratitude enough." His smile was almost grandfatherly, if one ignored the predatory gleam in his ancient eyes."Tell me, what do you think of young Skywalker's continued... activities?"

The change of subject made Leia's pulse quicken, though she kept her expression neutral. "I assume Lord Vader continues his pursuit?"

"Oh yes, quite obsessively so." Palpatine's tone turned almost amused, but his eyes watched her carefully. "Did you know the boy's father was a Jedi?"

Of course she knew. There was little she didn't know by now about her father. But she couldn't reveal that, as far as Sidious was concerned, her biological parents were two nobodies from Alderaan. "I had heard rumors, Your Majesty."

"Anakin Skywalker," the Emperor said, savoring each syllable as he studied her reaction. "The hero with no fear, they called him. You must have heard of him; his exploits during the Clone Wars were quite legendary. The Jedi's golden boy."

She kept her expression carefully neutral. "The Clone Wars were before my time, Your Majesty, but yes... the name is familiar."

"A fascinating man. Brilliant pilot, unmatched warrior, incredibly powerful in the Force." Palpatine leaned back slightly, his fingers steepled. "The Jedi believed him to be their prophesied Chosen One, destined to bring balance to the Force, to destroy the Sith."

"And yet here we sit," she replied.

"Indeed, we do." His laugh was soft and knowing. "Poor Anakin. Such potential, but the Jedi failed him so completely. Their rigid dogma, their fear of emotion... they never truly understood what they had in their grasp. While the Jedi wasted his talents on their petty assignments, I guided him. Showed him the galaxy he could command. The power he could wield."

The words stopped Leia cold. Her father, the hero whose legacy she had spent years trying to prove herself worthy of, had been mentored by this monster? Had trusted him? Had been shaped by him.

"How... extraordinary," she managed, her voice steady despite the turmoil within her.

"Oh, it was magnificent," Palpatine said, his tone warming with genuine fondness. "Imagine it, child. The Jedi's brightest star, mentored by a Sith Lord since he was a mere boy. And they never knew." He chuckled, a sound like dry leaves rustling in a tomb. "I took their greatest hope and made sure he would never be a threat to us. I taught him to trust me completely while planning their destruction. Every lesson, every word of guidance, every moment of supposed friendship—all in service of the ultimate deception."

She hadn't known this. From everything she'd read, everything she'd learned about her father, she'd never known about this connection. How closely did Sidious know him? Had he truly mentored him, or was this another lie? Was this another reason Vader wanted Anakin dead? To ensure he would not replace him as Sidious' apprentice?

Just as she wanted Luke dead. How closely he was following their father's footsteps without even knowing it. Even in this, being targeted by a Sith lord for apprenticeship while the current apprentice wanted him dead.

"The irony is... profound," she said, and meant it.

"Irony?" Palpatine's smile widened, showing teeth like yellowed bone. "My dear, it was artistry."

He studied her for a moment, seeming to weigh something in his mind. "Thinking of the past reminds me of another remarkable woman I once knew. Someone who possessed your particular combination of intelligence and... ruthless potential."

The topic shift felt deliberate, calculated. Leia kept her expression neutral, but inside, warning bells began to chime.

"Padmé Amidala," the Emperor continued, his voice taking on an almost nostalgic quality. "Such a brilliant politician. Beautiful, passionate, utterly committed to her ideals. She had that same fire I see in you—that same sharp mind hidden behind a composed exterior."

Leia's heart lurched, but she forced herself to remain still. Her mother. The woman she had never known.

"She sounds remarkable," Leia managed, her voice carefully neutral.

Oh, she was. We worked together often during the Clone Wars, you know. Before that, I was the Naboo senator while she was queen, then the chancellor when she was a senator. She was one of the few I truly saw as a force in politics." His smile was fond, terrible in its apparent sincerity. "Such a shame that she had to be killed in the end. She might have been an asset to the empire if her mind could have been changed, but alas, her ideals were too strong."

He continued, unaware that Leia's blood had turned to ice, that it took every bit of her training not to let the Dark Side rage, not to show her true feelings. "But now we see that her son survived, though. Young Luke is not only Anakin's son, but her's too. He carries her idealism, I'm told. That same naive faith in the goodness of others that made her so... vulnerable to manipulation."

Luke again. First, their father and now their mother, two people who had been manipulated by Sidious. But something didn't make sense. Leia tilted her head with practiced curiosity.

"Forgive me, Master, but how is that possible? Luke is the son of both Anakin and Padmé?" She let a note of confusion enter her voice. "Weren't the Jedi forbidden from such attachments?"

After all, she is not supposed to know anything about either of them, so playing it dumb seems like the right idea.

Palpatine's smile widened, clearly pleased to share this particular piece of intelligence. "Indeed, they were. But Anakin and Padmé married in secret on Naboo while he was still a padawan, hidden from the Jedi Council." His eyes glittered with satisfaction. "Anakin trusted me with this knowledge, you see—more than he trusted even his own master. While he hid his marriage from Obi-Wan and the Council, he confided in me. Such trust proved... useful in his eventual conversion."

The casual way he spoke of exploiting Anakin's confidence made Leia's stomach clench, but she kept her expression neutral. This had to have a purpose, mentioning them both. She felt something cold settle in her stomach, but she merely nodded.

"I always thought that if dear Padmé had possessed your gifts in the Force, she might have seen through the Jedi's deceptions. She might have stood at my side instead of falling victim to their treachery."

The compliment was wrapped in poison, and they both knew it. If her mother had been strong enough in the Force, she would have been the chosen one instead of ending up dead. The implication was clear: Sidious preferred mind over power, Padmé over Vader, her over Luke. He was trying to signal that Luke was not a threat to her; he was just a tool to be manipulated, unlike her.

She knew it was a lie, that she was just a tool for him, like all the others. And if the choice was between her and Luke... well, all the rest had chosen Luke, hadn't they?

"You flatter me, my Emperor," Leia replied with practiced grace.

"Not flattery. Recognition." His voice dropped to that hypnotic whisper that had seduced a thousand worlds. "I see in you what I saw in her—brilliant political instincts, unwavering determination, the ability to inspire absolute loyalty. But you have something she lacked: the power to enforce your will. To shape the galaxy according to your vision rather than merely hoping others will choose to follow."

She still felt a dangerous warmth in her chest at the praise. This is how he did it, she realized. This is how he made her parents trust him. Not through lies, but through truths wrapped in exactly what they needed to hear.

"And now," the Emperor continued, his voice taking on that hypnotic cadence, "another Skywalker rises. This boy, Luke. Perhaps as strong as his father. Perhaps stronger." His gaze bored into hers.

"How unfortunate," she said smoothly, "that the son seems determined to follow his parents' path toward destruction."

"Unfortunate, yes. Though perhaps... preventable." Palpatine turned his ancient gaze upon her, and Leia felt the weight of his expectations. "You know, if the boy is even a bit like his parents, manipulating him shouldn't be that difficult." He smiled, but it was not human; this smile was the Sith lord in his full glory.

"Tell me, what do you think drives Lord Vader's obsession with him?"

The question was a trap, and Leia knew it. But the wound was too raw, too fresh. The memory of standing in Vader's chamber, hearing him speak of bringing Luke to their side, of training them both together. The casual dismissal of everything she had suffered and sacrificed.

"Perhaps," she said slowly, "Lord Vader sees in this boy the potential Skywalker possessed, and he intends to use this potential as a weapon." She wondered if he knew she was lying. Sure, this was one of Vader's true goals, but in truth, he wanted Luke because of who their mother was, still not over his obsession with her.

"A Skywalker will make a great weapon. The Force is strong with them," Palpatine mused. "Yes, I suspect you're quite right. But I wonder... do you believe Vader's approach will succeed?"

The shift in the question caught her off guard. He wasn't asking about Vader's motivations anymore; he was asking about his methods.

"My Master is... persistent," she said carefully.

"Indeed he is. But persistence without finesse is mere brute force." Palpatine's voice carried a note of disappointment. "Vader sees this boy as something to be hunted, captured, broken. But consider, what if there were a more... elegant approach?"

Leia felt the conversation shifting beneath her, moving toward something she hadn't anticipated.

"The Rebellion sees him as their symbol of hope," she said, testing the waters. "Their golden boy, much as Anakin was for the Jedi."

"Precisely." Palpatine's eyes glittered with approval. "And if he were to... join the empire willingly? If he came to trust the one who would destroy him, as Anakin trusted me? It would shatter their morale completely."

Now she saw it. This wasn't about supporting Vader's plans; this was about replacing them. About showing that the Emperor's methods were superior to his apprentice's crude pursuit.

"But such manipulation requires the right touch," she said, understanding flooding through her. "The right...person." After all, there is no chance that Luke will ever trust Sidious.

"You begin to see the possibilities." His smile was predatory. "Lord Vader's approach lacks subtlety. He would hunt the boy across the galaxy, force a confrontation, attempt to dominate him through power alone. It is his way—crude, direct, ultimately limited."

"And you think he can be turned through deception instead?" Leia asked, though she already knew the answer.

"I think," Palpatine said softly, "that a boy who destroyed the Death Star to save the galaxy might be... receptive to someone who appeared to need saving herself."

Leia felt a chill as she glimpsed the true scope of the Emperor's ambition and his criticism of Vader's methods. Not just Luke's death or capture, but his complete corruption through manipulation rather than force. His willing transformation into everything the Rebellion fought against.

But she wanted him dead. She was not foolish enough to present Sidious with another option for an apprentice. She had enough competition from Vader for Sidious, and from Luke for Vader. There was limited space in this galaxy for Sith; they hardly needed another one.

Even three was too many. This is how the Rule of Two held on, not because apprentices didn't train their own apprentices in secret from their masters, but because the moment you had more than two Sith, they were bound to stab each other in the back just as quickly, reducing the number back to only two, or even one.

"I think that if the poor misguided princess of Alderaan comes asking for help..." she said slowly, understanding the full picture now, "to be saved from the Dark Side... The Jedi were always victims of their compassion."

"Yes," Palpatine breathed, his voice rich with dark satisfaction. "Yes, I believe it would work far better than Vader's heavy-handed pursuit.” his smile predatory. "Young Skywalker represents a fascinating challenge. One that might appeal to a student eager to demonstrate that finesse can achieve what brute force cannot."

The insult to Vader was clear, and so was the opportunity being offered, a chance to prove herself superior to her master's methods.

Below them, the opera reached its crescendo, holographic figures falling like broken stars as the tragedy reached its inevitable conclusion. Leia sat perfectly still, her hands folded in her lap, her expression serene as carved marble.

"I find myself," she said quietly, "quite intrigued by such a challenge."

She would try. She would see if the boy would try to save her. But either way, the only way this would end was with his head severed from his body.

She wondered if her parents would forgive her for killing her brother, but in the end, he was an obstacle to the galaxy she had promised them she would create. And unfortunately, obstacles had to be removed.

Palpatine's smile widened, showing yellow teeth. "How fortunate we are to have found each other, my dear. A brilliant political mind, strength in the Force, and the wisdom to understand that sometimes the greatest victories come not from crushing one's enemies, but from making them trust you completely." He paused, letting the words sink in. "Yes, I think you and young Skywalker will get along quite well indeed."

Below them, the opera reached its final, tragic crescendo. Holographic figures collapsed in swirls of dying light as the ancient story reached its inevitable conclusion. How fitting that they should sit here, in this theater of beautiful lies, crafting their own deadly performance.

The opera played on, and in the crimson darkness of the Emperor's box, two monsters smiled.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: Your father


Two and a Half Years Later

Leia’s Administrator's office occupied an entire floor of the Imperial Governance Complex, a clear statement of her position within the Empire's administrative hierarchy. The walls displayed sector maps, production quotas, and real-time status reports from dozens of star systems under her direct authority.

She commanded more territory and resources than most Moffs, with networks of loyal administrators executing her directives across the galaxy. But unlike her peers, she built systems that worked. Worlds under her authority saw reduced crime, improved infrastructure, higher productivity. The people prospered, even if they didn't understand the larger mechanisms. Wasn't that better than the Empire's usual approach of strip-mining worlds until they collapsed?

Leia sat behind her expansive desk as her two senior aides entered for the daily briefing. She had carefully structured her staff to serve different purposes, some unaware of the others' true function in the broader plans.

Mira Glem entered first, datapad in hand, her Alderaanian accent still faint after years on Coruscant. The older woman carried herself with elegance; she had been part of the Aldraan senator staff since before Leia was born.

She had kept Mira on staff for practical reasons - better to control the information flow than eliminate it. But she also knew that dismissing her would sign the woman's death warrant. The Emperor didn't leave loose ends, especially those who'd worked closely with his apprentice. And despite everything, Mira had been kind to her as a child. That had to count for something.

More than that, Mira was her last real connection to her parents. The carefully filtered reports that flowed back to Alderaan were the only way she could somehow maintain a connection with them. She was sure they hated her, but some small part of her still wanted even this connection.

Of course, Mira was also the only member of her staff who truly understood what she had become. The woman was closely tied to the rebellion before Leia put a stop to it, and as such, she is well aware of Leia's true nature as a Sith, and of her crimes. Mira knew exactly what kind of monster wore Administrator Organa's face.

It was dangerous knowledge. Mira walked the razor's edge daily, knowing enough to be a liability but not so much as to warrant immediate elimination. Leia had noticed how carefully the older woman avoided certain meetings, how she never asked about the psychological assessment programs, how her questions stopped just short of anything that might reveal the deeper mechanisms of control. Mira understood the game - she already knew more than was healthy for her survival. Digging deeper would be signing her own death warrant.

Behind her came Jynna Angarch, a sharp-featured woman from Chandrila whose ambition practically radiated from her person. Where Mira projected dutiful service, Jynna projected hunger. She had requested a transfer to Leia's administration a year and a half ago, citing "opportunities for advancement in innovative governance." The request alone had been revealing—most Imperial administrators avoided association with young appointees, viewing them as career dead ends.

"Administrator," Mira began, consulting her datapad, "the quarterly reports from the Corellian Sector are complete. Governor Horo confirms industrial output has increased thirty-seven percent since implementing the new efficiency protocols."

Standard administrative success, exactly the kind of mundane achievement Leia allowed Mira to handle. "Excellent work. What about the housing registration numbers?"

"Ninety-four percent compliance. The remaining populations have been flagged for relocation assistance programs."

Leia nodded approvingly. Mira understood her role perfectly, managing the public face of Imperial administration while remaining ignorant of the darker applications. The "relocation assistance" would be handled through entirely different channels.

Jynna stepped forward, her own datapad displaying more complex data. "Administrator, if I may add to Mira's report, the Corellian productivity increases correlate directly with our psychological assessment initiatives. Workers who complete the voluntary counseling programs show forty-three percent better performance metrics."

There it was, Jynna naturally gravitating toward the more sophisticated control mechanisms. The "voluntary counseling" was actually a comprehensive program to identify potential dissidents, malleable personalities, and useful skill sets. Jynna had designed most of the assessment protocols herself, demonstrating both ruthless efficiency and complete moral flexibility.

"Fascinating data," Leia replied. "Have you identified any patterns worth expanding to other sectors?"

"Several. The Sullust pilots, particularly. Their spatial reasoning scores suggest they'd be ideal candidates for specialized training programs." Jynna's tone remained professionally neutral, but her eyes held a predatory gleam. "With proper motivation, we could recruit significant numbers for advanced Imperial service."

"The construction colonies are requesting additional technical specialists," she continued, lowering her voice slightly. "The current projects require unprecedented scale and expertise. Entire cities of workers, Administrator. The logistics alone are staggering."

Mira looked puzzled. "I thought the Sullustans were primarily being integrated into standard labor pools?"

"Different populations require different approaches," Jynna said smoothly. "Standard integration works for most, but valuable skill sets deserve specialized attention. The humanitarian settlements on Kuat and Fondor have been particularly successful in matching worker capabilities with infrastructure needs."

What Mira didn't understand was that these "humanitarian settlements" were actually massive construction facilities housing hundreds of thousands of displaced populations. Engineers, miners, metalworkers, ship technicians, all recruited through Leia's relief operations and relocated to work on the Empire's most classified project. Entire planetary populations had been systematically assessed, processed, and deployed to construct the new Death Star.

The grateful civilians never realized they were providing both labor and materials for the Empire's ultimate weapon. But they were alive, weren't they? Fed, housed, purposeful. How many had she saved from starvation on dying worlds, from the chaos of Imperial raids, from the brutal inefficiency of standard conscription? Her methods were more humane than Sidious's, death was wasteful, terror was temporary. Order built through willing cooperation lasted longer than order imposed through fear.

"The material requisition efficiency has been equally impressive," Jynna added. "Our disaster relief programs have facilitated the movement of enormous quantities of durasteel, hypermatter, and specialized components. The affected populations are grateful for our assistance in clearing damaged infrastructure."

Leia suppressed a smile. The "disaster relief" often involved creating the disasters in the first place, mining accidents that required evacuation, infrastructure failures that necessitated total reconstruction, economic collapses that forced populations to accept Imperial assistance. The grateful civilians never realized they were providing both labor and materials for the Empire's ultimate weapon.

Leia watched the exchange with interest. Mira accepted the explanation at face value, or at least pretended to; she saw only administrative efficiency and didn't question the mechanisms. Jynna, however, understood that "specialized Imperial service" meant something far more significant than standard conscription.

"I'll review your recommendations for sector-wide implementation," Leia said. "Mira, please coordinate with Governor Pryce on the housing registration follow-up. Standard protocols."

"Of course, Administrator." Mira made notes on her datapad, satisfied with clear, achievable directives.

"Jynna, I'd like your assessment of expansion potential for the psychological programs. Full analysis, including resource requirements and projected timelines."

Jynna's expression sharpened with interest. "Comprehensive expansion, Administrator? All administrative zones?"

"All zones under my authority. I want to understand the full scope of what's possible."

It was a test, and Jynna recognized it immediately. Leia was offering her the chance to demonstrate both ambition and capability on a massive scale. The woman's response would reveal whether she truly understood the implications of such an expansion.

"I'll have preliminary projections within forty-eight hours," Jynna said. "However, an operation of that magnitude would require... discrete coordination with specialized departments."

Perfect. Jynna understood that psychological assessment programs operating across forty-three star systems would require intelligence services, security apparatus, and potentially more aggressive enforcement mechanisms. She was offering to handle the coordination that would make such an operation possible.

"Discretion is essential," Leia agreed. "I trust you can identify the appropriate channels."

"Absolutely, Administrator."

Mira glanced between them, clearly sensing undercurrents but unable to grasp their significance. "Will there be anything else for the standard administrative reports?"

"Nothing urgent. Focus on the routine sector updates and resource allocation reviews. Your work on maintaining operational efficiency has been invaluable."

The dismissal was gentle but clear. Mira gathered her materials and left, satisfied that she had handled her responsibilities competently. Leia waited until the door sealed before turning her full attention to Jynna.

"You understand what I'm really asking for."

"A comprehensive population assessment and management system spanning your entire administrative territory," Jynna replied without hesitation. "Integration with security services, intelligence gathering, and personnel recruitment for specialized Imperial projects. The scale would be unprecedented."

"And you believe such a system is achievable?"

"With proper authority and resources, absolutely. The existing psychological assessment programs are already producing remarkable data. Expansion would simply require systematizing the approach and establishing appropriate coordination protocols."

Leia leaned back in her chair, studying the woman across from her. Jynna Angarch was ambitious, ruthless, and completely untroubled by moral considerations, exactly the kind of subordinate she needed for complex operations. More importantly, the woman's loyalty appeared genuine, born from recognition that Leia offered opportunities for advancement that no other Imperial administrator could match.

"I may have additional projects requiring your particular talents," Leia said carefully. "Operations that would demand absolute discretion and unwavering commitment."

"I serve at your discretion, Administrator. Whatever the Empire requires."

The answer was immediate and delivered with complete sincerity. Jynna understood that attaching herself to Leia's rising star offered far greater potential than traditional Imperial career paths. She was betting her future on Leia's continued success, which made her loyalty as reliable as self-interest could provide.

"Excellent. Begin your preliminary analysis. I'll provide additional guidance as your work progresses."

Jynna left with visible satisfaction, already formulating plans for the massive expansion Leia had outlined. She would throw herself into the project with characteristic intensity, never questioning the ultimate purpose but dedicated to achieving maximum results.

Leia returned to her reports, pleased with the morning's work. Mira would continue handling routine administration while reporting harmless efficiency improvements to the Organas. Jynna would develop the infrastructure for comprehensive population control while advancing her own career through increasingly complex assignments.

Both women served their purposes perfectly, each seeing only what Leia allowed them to see. The art of administration was knowing which tools to use for which tasks, and ensuring that each tool remained unaware of the others' true functions.

Her desk comm chimed with an incoming priority transmission. Leia glanced at the sender identification and frowned. Imperial Intelligence, urgent classification. Such messages rarely brought good news; they usually meant some complication that demanded her immediate attention.

She despised dealing with the ISB. A nest of self-important bureaucrats, each one convinced he was the largest predator in the pond, until threatened, when they folded instantly beneath their superiors. When they faced Darth Revaris, they trembled in their boots, praying for mercy.

Unfortunately, today they would be meeting Princess Leia. Which meant they would mistake her for someone they could manipulate, another pawn to weave into their endless schemes.

The Imperial Security Bureau headquarters occupied a forbidding block of black durasteel in Coruscant's government district. Unlike the Senate building's ornate facades, ISB architecture spoke only of function and intimidation. Leia passed through multiple security checkpoints, her administrative credentials providing smooth passage despite suspicious glances from various officers.

Director Kallus waited in Conference Room Seven along with four subordinates. The space was deliberately stark, with gray walls, harsh lighting, and furniture designed for discomfort rather than diplomacy. They rose perfunctorily as she entered, showing minimal respect for her rank.

"Administrator Organa," Kallus said without warmth. "You requested this meeting. I trust it's urgent—our schedules are quite demanding."

The dismissive tone set the stage immediately. Leia took her seat across from them, noting how they'd positioned themselves to create physical and psychological distance. For weeks, they had been ignoring her directives, rerouting resources away from her operations, and treating her administrative authority as a suggestion rather than an order.

"Indeed, it is urgent," she replied coolly. "I've noticed significant delays in implementing the security protocols we discussed last month. My administrative networks require ISB coordination to function effectively."

Colonel Yularen leaned back in his chair with visible disdain. "Administrator, with respect, we've reviewed your proposals. They're rather... ambitious for someone in your position."

"My position?"

"You command impressive administrative territory," Major Thane interjected, "but security matters require different expertise. We've streamlined several of your requests to better align with established ISB protocols."

Translation: they had gutted her directives and redirected the resources to their own operations. For months, she had watched them systematically undermine her authority while taking credit for successes that emerged from her intelligence networks.

"Streamlined?" Leia's voice carried a dangerous edge. "You've ignored direct orders from a senior Imperial administrator."

Captain Brunson actually smiled. "Administrator, let's speak plainly. You may have the Emperor's favor currently, but your situation is... precarious. We know about your parents' activities. Bail and Breha Organa's loyalties have always been questionable."

The threat hung in the air between them. Kallus nodded approvingly at his subordinate's boldness.

"One word from us about suspicious activities in your administration," Yularen continued, "and you could find yourself transferred to a mining facility on Kessel. Permanently."

"The Emperor may appreciate your administrative efficiency," Thane added, "but he appreciates loyalty more. And with your family history..."

They thought they were clever, using her parentage as leverage while systematically stealing her resources and authority. The fools had no idea they were threatening the Emperor's own apprentice; if he wants to get rid of her, she won't be sent to some mining colony, and it will not be on their order.

Fury built behind Leia's composed expression. If they knew they sat three meters from Darth Revaris, the Emperor's personal executioner, the shadow whose very name made most of the Empire's officers tremble in fear, they would be prostrating themselves and begging for mercy.

The overhead lights flickered once, a brief surge in the electrical systems that made everyone glance upward momentarily. Leia forced her breathing to remain steady, her expression unchanged.

"Gentlemen," she said quietly, "I think there's been a fundamental misunderstanding about the nature of this meeting."

"Oh?" Kallus raised an eyebrow. "Enlighten us."

"You will implement my security integration protocols immediately and without modification."

Her voice carried harmonics that bypassed conscious thought, settling into their minds like invisible hooks. The men blinked in unison, their expressions shifting from smugness to sudden uncertainty.

"You will restore all diverted resources to my administrative networks within twenty-four hours."

"We will restore all resources," Yularen repeated slowly, his earlier hostility evaporating.

"You will provide weekly reports on all ISB operations that intersect with my administrative zones."

"Weekly reports," Major Thane confirmed, nodding enthusiastically.

"And you will remember that questioning my authority or my loyalty serves no useful purpose."

"No useful purpose," Captain Brunson agreed, his previous threat forgotten.

Kallus stared at her with newfound respect, though he couldn't quite understand why his attitude had changed so dramatically. "Administrator, your proposals are clearly well-considered. We should have recognized their value immediately."

"I'm glad we could reach this understanding," Leia replied with a warm smile. "Your cooperation is invaluable to the Empire."

They beamed at her with genuine enthusiasm now, delighted to be working with such an insightful colleague. The weak-minded were so easily reshaped, their thoughts molded like clay in skilled hands.

Shame she needed to be in their presence to mind-trick them; it would have saved her a lot of time to do this from afar.

As she gathered her materials, Leia felt a cold satisfaction. These bureaucrats had thought they could threaten her, steal from her networks, and undermine her authority with impunity. They had learned otherwise without ever understanding the true danger they had courted.

Her personal commlink chimed as she reached the corridor, but not the standard administrative frequency. This was a priority-encrypted signal from her most classified intelligence networks. She found a secure alcove and activated the decoder, ensuring complete privacy before accessing the message.

"Package delivered in cloud city," came the coded voice of one of her assets within the Rebellion. "Customer was dissatisfied with the merchandise. Transaction incomplete. The wrong package was delivered."

Leia felt something cold settle in her stomach. Luke had encountered Vader. One of his friends was captured - was it Winter? Does Vader have her adopted sister?

"Condition of primary customer?" The words left her mouth before she could stop them, sharp with an urgency that had nothing to do with strategic planning.

"Injured but mobile. Departed with remaining associates. All parties scattered to secondary locations."

Relief flooded through her so suddenly it was almost physical - Luke was alive, hurt but breathing, still free. But the relief was immediately followed by a sharper stab of fear. "The captured associate - do you have identification?"

"Negative. Communications were compromised. Scattered to avoid Imperial pursuit."

Leia's jaw clenched. She couldn't ask directly about Winter without revealing too much, but the uncertainty gnawed at her. Last time, she had been able to orchestrate Winter's escape. If Winter had been taken, she was beyond Leia's reach now. Beyond anyone's help.

The thought sent ice through her veins. If Vader had her now… She stopped herself. Why would she even care?

She wanted Luke dead - him being injured should be an advantage, not something that made her heart race with worry. And she had signed Winter's death warrant herself if her sister ever returned to Alderaan. So why did the thought of either of them in Vader's hands make her feel sick?

These feelings were weaknesses. Attachments that served no purpose except to compromise her judgment. She had more important concerns than the fate of rebels who had chosen their own path. But her hands were shaking as she closed the comm channel, and no amount of rational analysis could explain the hollow fear that had settled in her chest.

Her personal communicator blazed crimson, the Emperor's private frequency, priority override above all other communications. Leia's heart hammered as she accepted the transmission.

Palpatine's voice crackled through the speaker, deceptively soft but carrying unmistakable menace: "Darth Revaris. Report to the throne room at once. We have much to discuss."

The transmission ended without opportunity for response. Leia stared at the silent device, her carefully constructed administrative empire suddenly feeling precarious. She had been summoned not as Administrator Organa but as Revaris, which meant Palpatine knew about Cloud City, knew about Luke's escape, and undoubtedly had plans that would require her particular skills.

She straightened her robes, composed her expression, and walked toward the speeder bays. Within the hour, she would stand before her Master, wondering what he planned.

The mask of Administrator Organa would have to hold a little longer. But beneath it, Darth Revaris was already preparing for war.

The Imperial Palace stretched endlessly before Leia as she made her way through corridors she had long since memorized. Towering columns of black marble rose toward vaulted ceilings lost in shadow, where once pale stone had let in the sun. The red-armored forms of Imperial Guards stood motionless at strategic intervals, as silent as the ghosts of those who once walked these halls. Her footsteps echoed in the vast spaces that had once housed Jedi teachings, now repurposed into cold majesty. This had been their temple, once. Now it was his. And hers. Palpatine had erased them so thoroughly that if she hadn't known what to look for, she might have missed it. No plaques, no shrines, no remnants of robes or lightsabers. Just power, carved into every angle and reinforced with silence.

She passed through checkpoint after checkpoint, each scanner reading her biometrics and confirming her authorization to approach the throne room. Imperial officers and functionaries she encountered in the corridors averted their eyes, what stepped outside the shuttle was no Princess Leia, but Darth Revaris in all her glory.

The doors to the throne room were tall and curved, opening in silence to reveal the wide, circular chamber beyond. Once it had been the Jedi Council's seat, its domed ceiling and panoramic windows overlooking Coruscant still intact, though the transparisteel panes were now darkened to cast the chamber in shadow. The ring of seats where Jedi Masters once gathered in judgment was gone, replaced by stark banners of crimson and black, and statues that radiated authority rather than wisdom. At the room's heart, on the very spot where the Council had debated the fate of the galaxy, stood a single throne, raised, severe, and unmistakably Sith.

Emperor Palpatine looked exactly as he always did, a frail old man wrapped in simple dark robes, his yellow eyes the only hint of the power that had reshaped the galaxy. But something in his posture tonight suggested a predator who had finally cornered particularly interesting prey. He watched her approach with unconcealed satisfaction, as if a long-awaited game was finally beginning.

"My dear child," he said as she reached the base of the throne's steps, his voice carrying the warm affection of a grandfather welcoming a beloved grandchild. "Come, come. We have much to discuss tonight, and I fear the conversation may prove... illuminating."

Leia walked the length of the throne room, her footsteps the only sound breaking the oppressive silence. Each step brought her deeper into Palpatine's domain, away from the political masks and careful pretenses that governed her daily existence. Here, she was not Administrator Organa. Here, she was what Vader had made her.

She stopped at the base of the throne's elevated platform and knelt, assuming the formal position of respect she had been taught years ago. "Master. You summoned me."

"Rise, child. Tonight, we speak as equals." Palpatine gestured to a chair that materialized from hidden mechanisms in the floor. "Please, sit. Make yourself comfortable."

The offered comfort immediately put Leia on edge. Palpatine was many things, but comfortable was never one of them. She settled into the chair, maintaining perfect posture while every instinct screamed that this was a trap.

"Tell me," Palpatine began, his voice taking on an almost conversational quality, "what do you know of loyalty?"

"It is the foundation of order, Master. Without loyalty, there can be no trust. Without trust, no structure. Without structure, chaos."

"Wise words. Rehearsed, perhaps, but wise nonetheless." His yellow eyes seemed to pierce through her defenses. "But what of loyalty that is misplaced? Loyalty given to those who do not deserve it? Who would, given the opportunity, discard that loyalty without a second thought?"

A warning flickered through Leia's mind; this was leading somewhere specific, and her instincts suggested she wouldn't like the destination. "I believe such betrayal reveals the fundamental weakness of the one who discards it, not the one who offered it. True strength honors loyalty, even when it becomes inconvenient."

"Spoken like a true apprentice," Palpatine replied, his approval unmistakable. "But also like someone who has never experienced such betrayal firsthand. Tell me, my dear, how would you react if you discovered that your own loyalty—your own dedication and sacrifice—might be precisely such a wasted gift?"

"I would need more context to answer properly, Master. Hypothetical betrayals require hypothetical responses."

"Indeed." Palpatine leaned forward slightly. "And betrayal, my dear, is precisely what brings us together tonight."

A chill ran down Leia's spine, but she maintained her composure. "Master?"

"Recent events have brought certain... truths to light. Truths that I believe you deserve to know, given your dedicated service to the Empire. Your loyalty, unlike some others', has never wavered."

The emphasis on 'others' was unmistakable. Vader. Palpatine was talking about Vader.

"I am honored by your confidence, Master."

"As you should be." Palpatine stood, moving to a control panel hidden within the throne's armrest. "What I am about to show you may be... difficult to watch. But knowledge, even painful knowledge, is power. And power is what separates the strong from the weak."

Whatever this is, it's not going to be good. It had to be about Luke and Vader; this is no coincidence that this is happening directly after Vader almost captured Luke. But what can it be? 

A holographic display materialized in the center of the chamber, large enough to dominate the space. The image was grainy, clearly recorded from surveillance equipment, and showed a reactor chamber, a single platform with a railing, and the deep abyss beneath it. Leia's heart rate increased despite her efforts to remain calm.

"Imperial intelligence recovered this recording from Bespin," Palpatine explained, his voice neutral and clinical. "I thought you might find it... educational."

Luke looked so small beside him. A lone Jedi facing the worst of the Sith, the creature who had hunted him for three years, the monster who had destroyed his order. And yet he didn’t look afraid. He didn’t look lost. He stood there, weapon in hand, and fought as though his defiance alone might bend the galaxy. For the first time, Leia wondered if this was what the Jedi of old had looked like, people who stared into the abyss and refused to step back, simply because they believed it was the right thing to do. 

No wonder they were all dead.

The audio crackled with static, but the duel’s rhythm was plain enough. Luke pressed forward with desperate strikes, but Vader met each one with contemptuous ease, turning them aside and forcing him back step by step. Blood trickled into Luke’s eye from a shallow cut at his brow, while Vader’s armor remained untouched, immutable. It was not a contest. It was inevitability.

Leia’s breath caught as she watched her twin falter. His movements grew slower, his guard looser. She saw the mistake the instant he made it, his right side left open. Vader didn’t hesitate. His blade came down in a single, merciless stroke, severing Luke’s hand. The lightsaber tumbled away into the abyss as Luke collapsed against the gantry’s railing, clutching the smoking stump beneath his arm.

Phantom pain ripped through Leia’s prosthetic, memories dragging her back to her own mutilation. She had screamed just like that when Vader’s blade carved through her flesh with the same cold precision, the same indifferent efficiency. The sound still lived in her bones.

In that instant, clarity struck her. Luke would never break for Vader. Sidious had been right, Luke needed a different hand, not brute force. Vader’s method was a failure written in blood. Pain would not turn him. Mutilation would not make him kneel. Luke needed to believe he was right, that he was saving his friends, that he was serving some higher cause. Vader could tear him apart piece by piece, and still Luke would resist until his last breath.

The flaw was not Luke. The flaw was Vader. He could not be subtle, could not understand the touch Luke required. Vader’s strength was domination, not persuasion, and that made him unfit for the task.

Another part of her whispered that Luke would not turn no matter what, that he would die first; something in her brother's light was so blinding, she could see it turning into her shadow.

The recording stuttered, swallowing Vader's words in static, but fragments bled through:

"…Don't make me destroy you… Join me, and I will complete your training…"

Luke's reply was ragged but defiant, "I'll never join you!"

The sound cleared again as Vader advanced, his voice deep and commanding:

"If you only knew the power of the dark side. Obi-Wan never told you what happened to your father."

Leia stiffened, expecting the same venom Vader had poured on her so many times, that her father was weak, that Anakin Skywalker had been a fool. She braced for mockery. But then the words came, clear and deliberate, and they were nothing like she expected.

"No," Luke's voice shook with anger and pain. "Ahsoka told me the truth! She told me enough. You destroyed everything that was ever good about him!"

Ahsoka? So they have met, but what truth is there to reveal? That Vader had killed their father? that he murdered her master? 

For a heartbeat, the recording was silent, the static fading as though the galaxy itself held its breath. And then Vader spoke.

"Anakin Skywalker was a fool," Vader said, voice thick with contempt even with the vodocouder. "He clung to weakness and called it compassion. He worshiped rules that only chained him."

Luke shook his head, clutching his ruined arm. "You destroyed him."

"Destroyed?" Vader leaned in, mechanical breath loud as thunder. "No, boy. I am Anakin Skywalker. I am your father."

The universe went silent.

For one infinite, impossible moment, Leia's mind simply refused to process what she had heard. The words bounced around inside her skull without meaning, like sounds in a language she didn't understand. They couldn't mean what they seemed to mean. They couldn't be true.

I am Anakin Skywalker. I am your father

But the implications were clear soon enough, each one more devastating than the last.

Vader was Luke's father.

Vader was Anakin Skywalker.

Someone screamed her name, the Force itself confirming this realisation. The Dark Side relished it.

Which meant that Anakin Skywalker—the hero of the Clone Wars, the Chosen One, the noble Jedi who had supposedly died defending the Republic—was alive. Had always been alive. Was standing in that recording, claiming Luke as his son.

The man she had dreamed about during sleepless nights in her cell, when the pain became unbearable and she needed something pure to cling to. The hero whose memory had kept her sane through the worst of Vader's training. The father figure she had imagined rescuing her from her nightmares.

He was the one creating those nightmares.

The hero of her childhood, the Jedi she had worshipped during her darkest moments, the symbol of everything good and noble about the Republic, he was the monster who had tortured her. He was the man who had destroyed her innocence, who had made her into a weapon, who had taken a nine-year-old girl and forged her into something that could kill without hesitation.

Every time she read about brave Anakin Skywalker fighting to protect the innocent. Every moment she had whispered his name like a prayer while electricity coursed through her body. Every time she had thought My dad would save me while her Master carved away pieces of her soul.

He had been there. In the room. Holding the instruments of torture.

The noble Jedi who featured in her childhood fantasies was the same man who had cut off her arm. The war hero she had idolized was the monster who had overseen her conversion to the dark side. The father she had dreamt of, the one who died during the purge, was the architect of her suffering.

Anakin Skywalker had tortured her.

Anakin Skywalker had broken her.

Anakin Skywalker had turned her into a killer.

Vader was Anakin Skywalker.

The former slave put a chip in his own flesh and blood. He told her it was a tested and proven method to keep a Skywalker in line, tested on him, and used on her.

Every moment of pain, every scar on her body, ten years of torture—all of it had been inflicted by the man she had idolized. The man she had loved as the perfect father figure, the hero who represented everything she wanted to be.

The recording ended, leaving the throne room in silence except for the quiet hum of the holographic projectors powering down. Leia sat perfectly still, her hands folded in her lap, her expression serene as carved stone. Inside, her world was ending.

She was sure he could feel her pain in the Force; she could not contain it, the betrayal and anguish. And he was enjoying it.

"Fascinating, don't you think?" Palpatine's voice cut through her shock. "The boy shows promise, I'll grant him that. But more importantly, he reveals the weakness that has always plagued my current apprentice."

Leia found her voice, though it sounded strange and distant to her own ears. "Master?"

"Sentiment, my dear. Attachment. Vader's greatest failing has always been his inability to truly embrace the dark side. He claims to have killed Anakin Skywalker, but the recording shows otherwise, does it not? The man who destroyed a temple full of children, who helped bring down the Republic itself, who has served as my enforcer for over two decades, that same man who fell for his attachment, would never let them go."

The betrayal was so complete, so absolute, that for a moment she couldn't breathe. Everything she had built her identity around, her memories of a heroic father figure, her belief that someone good was watching over her, her faith that somewhere in the galaxy justice still existed, all of it crumbled to ash.

No wonder Vader had been so interested in her training. No wonder he had invested so much time and effort in breaking her down and rebuilding her. She wasn't a random Force-sensitive child of the woman he loved, that he had claimed as an apprentice; she was his daughter, and he had been molding her into his image from the moment he discovered her.

The thought made her sick. Every lesson in pain, every demonstration of the dark side's power, every moment when he had seemed almost proud of her progress, it had all been a father teaching his child. A father turning his daughter into a reflection of his own monstrosity.

Through the chaos of her disintegrating worldview, some part of her mind continued to analyze the situation. Why was Palpatine showing her this? He had to know she was Anakin's daughter—the Emperor knew everything that mattered in his domain. So why reveal that Vader was her father in this particular way, framing it as if he was choosing Luke over her?

The answer came with sickening clarity. Palpatine thought she didn't know.

He believed she still thought of herself as Alderaanian by blood, the orphaned child of nameless rebels who had died in the war. Watching this recording, she was meant to believe her Master was discarding her in favor of his child. She was meant to feel replaced, unwanted, and to lose all hope of ever being chosen over Luke.

He was expecting her to be angry about losing her position, jealous of this boy who had Vader blood, to be replaced, not because he was better, simply because he was his son. He wanted her angry enough to eliminate both threats to her standing, Vader for his betrayal, and Luke for his very existence.

It was cruel genius. Push her into killing Luke and Vader herself—thinking she was only defending her place—then reveal the truth. Let her discover afterward that she had slaughtered her own father and brother, and use that guilt as the chains that would bind her to him forever. Exactly as he had done to Vader. Exactly as he had once done to Anakin Skywalker.

He was creating the perfect weapon, someone strong enough to serve as his enforcer, yet too hollowed by shame to ever rise against him. It had worked before. He intended it to work again.

Because that was the truth, wasn’t it? Vader had told her himself, he believed he had killed her mother, and Sidious had exploited it. All this time, she had imagined Vader’s hatred of Anakin came from jealousy, from losing the woman he had loved to Anakin. But no. Vader despised Anakin because he had been the weaker version of himself. The man who lost everything. And Vader was what had risen from those ashes.

Except this time, Leia knew. She knew who Luke was. She knew who Vader was.

"Fascinating, is it not?" Palpatine’s voice slid through the chamber like a blade. "The way he claims the boy so readily, despite all his boasts that attachment is weakness. But blood calls to blood, does it not, my dear?"

The Emperor’s eyes glittered with cruel delight as he studied her face. He thought he was watching pride curdle into jealousy, anger at being cast aside. He had no idea that what truly burned inside her was the complete annihilation of everything she thought she knew about herself.

Leia didn’t bother with the mask this time. She let the rage bleed through, let it twist her features into something sharp and terrible. If Palpatine thought this was victory, if he thought Revaris was consumed by anger, so be it. Let him believe he had forged the perfect blade to sever Vader’s throat.

And he wasn’t wrong. She would destroy her Master. She would rip apart the Empire he worshiped, gut it from the inside until nothing remained but ash and ruin. He dreamed of ruling beside her and Luke, his precious dynasty carved across the stars? She would make certain Luke remained a Jedi, even if it was the last thing she ever accomplished.

Let Vader dream of turning him - she would make sure he would never fall. Not out of love, she told herself, but because it was the perfect revenge. Vader wanted his son at his side? He would watch helplessly as Luke rejected everything he offered.
It was the cruelest punishment she could devise. Vader wanted them both? She would make sure Luke would oppose everything Vadre has to offer, while she kills him.

Then she would take his hands. Slice them away one by one: the first for herself, for the child he mutilated into a weapon; the second for Luke, for the brother who carried his scars. And when he lay broken before her, when his body was nothing but a ruin of metal and failure, the last sight he would ever behold would be her face, the face of his daughter, striking the final blow.

"He would choose the boy over me," she said. "His son. His legacy. I cannot compete with that."

"Indeed," Palpatine purred, reclining against the throne. "Attachment—such a weakness. Your Master has served me well, but he clings to sentiment, to illusions of family and loyalty. He will never achieve true power so long as he allows such indulgences to rule him."

Every word was another nail in the coffin of her old illusions. Vader hadn’t been seeking Luke to replace her. He truly wanted both. He wanted his children at his side.

Force help her—she was his daughter.

"You seem unsettled," the Emperor observed, satisfaction radiating from him. "Understandable. To learn that your Master’s loyalty may be divided—it must sting."

"It is… unexpected, Master," Leia forced out, her throat tight. "I never imagined Vader had a child."

"Just so." Palpatine leaned forward, his yellow eyes gleaming. "That is why I chose to reveal this to you. Because his weakness is your opportunity. For the Empire. For me. And most of all—for you."

Leia tilted her head, feigning confusion. "I don’t understand, Master."

"Don’t you?" His smile was sharp as broken glass. "Consider it. Do you think Vader intends for you to remain his only apprentice? Since the day he discovered this boy, he has dreamt of shaping him. His own blood, untainted by the failures of the past. Why keep you, when he can have him?"

The words were meant to cut her, to twist jealousy and fear into fuel. But Leia barely heard them through the pounding in her ears. She was thinking of Anakin’s smile in old holos, the stories of heroism she had clung to as a child, the father she had imagined—gentle, brave, everything Vader was not. But that man had never existed. Anakin had always been Vader.

Palpatine’s voice pressed on, silk wrapping around iron. "Why do you think he sent you here? The Sith do not share power. There is only the Rule of Two. A master and an apprentice. By giving you to me, he all but invited me to rid him of the complication you represent. One day soon, he will replace you with the boy. And when that day comes, what do you think young Skywalker’s first trial will be?"

Leia gave the barest nod, as if she understood. "To kill me."

"Exactly," Palpatine said, his grin widening. "Better that you understand the truth now, before sentiment blinds you to your place. Two there should be—no more, no less. The only question that remains, my dear… is which of you will claim it."

"What would you have me do, Master?"

Palpatine's smile widened, showing teeth yellowed with age and corruption. "I think you know, my dear. Your master has shown himself to be... compromised. Weakened by sentiment and attachment. Unable to make the hard choices that true power demands. Perhaps it is time for a change in the hierarchy."

"You want me to kill Lord Vader."

"I want you to prove your worthiness to stand at my side as my true apprentice. Not the apprentice of an apprentice, but my equal in the Rule of Two. Vader's weakness has created a vacancy, one that could be filled by someone with the wisdom to understand that power requires absolute commitment."

Leia sat in silence for a long moment, letting Palpatine believe she was considering his offer. In reality, she was processing the full scope of what she had learned. Not just about Anakin and Vader being the same person, but about Palpatine's own ignorance.

He had orchestrated this entire conversation, believing she was just a tool, a convenient weapon he could aim at his apprentice when Vader's usefulness came to an end.

The irony was almost enough to make her laugh. Palpatine, the master manipulator, was trying to convince Vader's own daughter to kill her father out of ambition and fear. He wanted to use her ignorance of their relationship as leverage, planning to reveal the truth afterward to control her through guilt and horror.

But she already knew. Had always known. And that knowledge changed everything.

"I understand, Master," she said finally, her voice carefully modulated to suggest reluctant acceptance. "If Lord Vader has indeed been compromised by his attachment to the boy, then the Empire's interests must take precedence over personal loyalty."

"Wise assessment. You see clearly, my dear, without sentiment clouding your judgment. That is precisely why you will always be more valuable to me than Vader could ever be." The Emperor's approval was palpable. "His power is great, yes, but it is unfocused, driven by passion rather than purpose. You, however, understand the true nature of strength. The discipline required to wield it properly."

"You honor me, Master."

"No, child, I simply recognize potential when I see it." Palpatine leaned back, studying her with obvious satisfaction. "Between us, I have long suspected this day would come. Vader's... sentimentality... was always a liability waiting to be exploited. But you represent something different. Something better. The future of the Sith, unencumbered by the weaknesses that have limited those who came before."

"See that you don't. And remember—when the deed is done, when you have proven your worth, there will be a place for you at my side. Not as a tool or a weapon, but as my true heir. The future of the Sith Empire."

Leia bowed her head, the picture of a dutiful apprentice accepting a terrible but necessary task. "I am honored by your trust, Master."

"As you should be. Now go. Rest. Prepare yourself for what must come. And remember—the weak deserve no mercy, no matter what masks they may have worn."

Leia rose from her chair and bowed formally, the picture of a dutiful apprentice grateful for her Master's guidance. But as she turned to leave the throne room, her mind was already racing far beyond the game Palpatine thought he was playing.

The walk back through the palace corridors felt different now. The same halls, the same guards, the same oppressive grandeur—but everything had changed. She was no longer the woman who had entered the throne room an hour ago. That person had been built on a foundation of lies, and now that foundation had crumbled completely.

In its place, something new was taking shape. Something harder, colder, and infinitely more dangerous.

As she passed through the final checkpoint and emerged into the Coruscant night, Leia began to plan. Not the careful, patient schemes she had been crafting for years, but something more immediate and ruthless.

Vader would pay for what he had done. Not just for the torture and manipulation, but for the deeper betrayal of letting her love Anakin Skywalker while becoming Darth Vader. He had stolen her childhood hero and replaced him with a monster, and she would make him suffer for every moment of false worship she had offered.

And Palpatine... Palpatine would discover that he had made a fundamental miscalculation. He thought he had turned her against her family, but he had actually given her the tools to destroy everyone who had ever lied to her. Including him.

The galaxy belonged to the Skywalkers, that much was true. But it would be her vision of order that survived when the dust settled, not theirs. She would build something better than the Empire's crude brutality or the Rebellion's naive idealism. The rebels wanted to tear down order without understanding what would replace it. The Empire ruled through fear that bred only resentment. But true control came through willing participation, through systems so elegant that people chose to serve them. Something that would bring peace to the galaxy, not through conquest, but through perfect administration. Something worthy of the power that flowed through her veins.

Something that would make them all pay for what they had done to her.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: Slaves


The shuttle's engines hummed beneath her, but Leia couldn't feel them. Everything existed in fragments now, the leather seat beneath her hands, the city lights streaking past the viewport, the taste of blood where she'd bitten her tongue to keep from screaming in the throne room.

I am your father.

The words echoed in her skull, bouncing off the walls of her mind. She pressed her palms against her temples, but the pressure couldn't stop the memories from fragmenting and reshaping themselves. Every lesson. Every moment of pain when Vader looked at her while she suffered. Every time she'd whispered Anakin's name like a prayer while his hands, the same hands, tore her apart.

The holographic recording played on repeat in her mind. Darth Vader, her Master, cutting off her twin hand, claiming him as his son. With the same voice that had taught her to harness her pain, to channel it into power. The same mechanical breathing that had filled her nightmares and her training sessions.

He made me love him.

The cruel realization made her lose control for just a moment, sending a crack through the shuttle's internal viewport. The pilot glanced back nervously, but Leia barely noticed. She was drowning in the memories, watching them rewrite themselves with this new, horrible context.

Nine years old, crying in her cell, wishing her father would come to save her, the only father she knew back then. While her real father stood on the other side of the door, deciding which torture to try next.

Fourteen, being put in front of a torture droid under his orders, to make sure her shield and mind are immune to such things.

Fifteen, he made her drink poisons that would kill the average person, to make sure she could expel them from her system with the Force. It was agony.

Sixteen, losing her hand after she fell and knelt at his feet.

The shuttle lurched slightly as they hit an air current, and Leia realized her hands were gripping the armrests hard enough to leave impressions in the synthetic leather. The lights flickered overhead.

"Mistress," her pilot's voice came through the comm, carefully neutral, "we're approaching your residence. Shall I—"

"Land," she said, the word coming out rougher than intended. "And then go home. Don't wait for me."

"But your security protocols—"

"Go. Home."

The comm fell silent. Through the viewport, she could see her building rising from Coruscant's endless sprawl, windows glowing like stars against the dark. A home she'd built. A life she'd constructed. All of it based on lies.

The apartment door slid shut behind her, the soft hiss sounding like thunder in her ears. The sound triggered something violent in her chest, a need to break things, to scream until her throat bled, to tear down every wall that had kept this truth hidden from her.

"Mistress Leia!" C-3PO's familiar golden form appeared in the hallway. His voice carried that particular pitch of droid anxiety that usually amused her. Tonight, it grated against her nerves like static. "You've returned earlier than expected. Your calendar indicated you would be in meetings until—oh my. You appear to be quite distressed. Shall I prepare some tea? Perhaps contact the medical—"

"Pack," she said, her voice coming out flat and strange. "Everything. We're leaving."

C-3PO's head tilted in that annoyingly familiar way. "Leaving? But, Mistress, your schedule indicates several important meetings tomorrow, and the quarterly reports require your approval by—"

"Pack." The word came out sharper this time, carrying enough edge that C-3PO actually stepped backward. His servos whirred nervously. "Everything essential. We won't be coming back for a long time."

"How long is 'a long time,' if I may ask? And where exactly are we traveling? I should coordinate with your security detail and arrange for proper—"

"Just do it."

The droid remained motionless for a moment, processing her tone and body language with whatever social protocols governed his behavior. "Mistress, forgive me, but you seem quite upset. Perhaps if you could explain—"

"DO IT!"

The shout echoed through the apartment. Every piece of glass in the room, the display cases, the decorative vases, the crystal sculpture from Aldaraan, shattered. C-3PO's photoreceptors dimmed momentarily as his circuits adapted to the unexpected feedback.

"Of course, Mistress. Right away."

He turned and walked stiffly toward her private chambers, his gait carrying the particular rhythm that indicated wounded droid feelings. Under normal circumstances, Leia might have felt guilty about snapping at him. Tonight, she could barely register his existence beyond the mechanical sounds of his movement.

She turned away before he could come back to ask more questions, moving toward her private office. There were calls to make. Arrangements to finalize. An administrative empire to hand off while she went to war.

And she is going to war; there are no other words to describe what she is about to do. Reckless? Yes. Stupid? Almost definitely. But she can’t bear to stay here.

But first, she needed to make it through the next ten minutes without killing anyone, and if her feeble control over the Dark Side says anything, that includes herself..

The office was exactly as she'd left it that morning, a lifetime ago. Reports were stacked in precise order on her desk. Three holographic displays showing real-time status updates from her territories. The subtle scent of Alderaanian blueleaf incense from the air circulation system.

She activated the primary comm system and stood there for a moment, staring at the control panel. Her reflection stared back from the dark screen, pale, eyes too bright, hair disheveled from her unconscious habit of running her fingers through it when she was thinking. She looked like someone on the edge of breaking apart.

The first call connected after two chimes. Mira's face appeared on the holo, confusion etched in the older woman's features. She was in her own apartment, probably preparing for bed, but her expression sharpened immediately when she saw Leia.

"Administrator? It's quite late. Is everything—"

"I'm leaving Coruscant," Leia interrupted, keeping her voice level through sheer force of will. "Indefinitely. You and Jynna will manage my territories until further notice."

A pause. Mira's eyes sharpened, reading something in Leia's expression that made her straighten. The woman had survived decades in Imperial politics by learning to read danger signs. Whatever she saw now clearly registered as significant.

"I see. May I ask the nature of your departure? Are there specific instructions for—"

"Don't mess up." The words came out harder than intended. "Either of you. My networks stay intact. My projects continue on schedule. The population assessments proceed as planned. If I return to find you've damaged what I've built..." She let the threat hang unfinished.

Mira nodded slowly. "Of course, Administrator. We won't disappoint you. Should we... should we expect regular communication?"

"No." Leia stared at the older woman's face, seeing concern there that might have been genuine. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the rage building in her chest like a living thing. "Handle things. Don't contact me unless the Empire is falling apart."

"Understood. And if anyone asks about your whereabouts?"

"Tell them I'm attending to urgent Imperial business. Which I am."

The transmission ended. Leia stared at the blank holo projector, her hands still trembling with rage. In the background, she could hear C-3PO clattering around, muttering complaints about hasty departures and proper packing procedures.

The second call took longer to connect. Jynna answered from what looked like her office, the woman worked late most nights, driven by the same ambition that had brought her to Leia's attention. Her sharp features were illuminated by the blue glow of multiple data screens.

"Administrator." Jynna's tone was immediately alert and professional. "I wasn't expecting your call tonight."

"You're in charge," Leia said without preamble. "Effective immediately. I'm leaving on urgent business, duration unknown. All psychological assessment programs continue under your authority. Coordinate with Mira for administrative oversight."

Jynna's expression shifted to one of barely contained excitement. This was the opportunity she'd been working toward, real authority, real power. "I'm honored by your trust, Administrator. Should I prepare status reports for your review?"

"No. Run the programs. Expand them if you see opportunities. Use your judgment." Leia leaned forward slightly. "But remember—these are my networks. My systems. My territories. If you try to reshape them into something else, if you try to claim them as your own, I will know. And I will return to deal with you personally."

The threat was delivered in the same conversational tone Leia used to discuss resource allocation. Jynna's face went carefully neutral, but her eyes gleamed with something that might have been respect or fear.

"Understood completely, Administrator. Your work will be preserved and expanded, not altered."

"Good." Leia was about to cut the transmission before Jynna could ask any follow-up questions.

The third call required different protocols; she put her mask back on, and a hood from a clock she had ready in the corner of the room. Calling on a different com, Leia activated the secured Sith communication channels, her posture shifting as she accessed codes that would route directly to high military command. The holographic display flickered, and Grand Admiral Tigellinus appeared - a man whose career had been built on never asking the wrong questions.

"My Lady." His voice was carefully neutral, but she could see the tension in his shoulders. Sith Lords didn't make casual social calls.

"Admiral. I require three Imperial-class Star Destroyers deployed to the Tatooine system immediately. They are to await Administrator Organa's arrival and place themselves under her operational command."

Tigellinus's expression flickered with confusion. "My Lady, may I ask about the nature of this operation? Administrator Organa typically handles civilian matters, not fleet deployments."

"The Administrator has developed... romantic notions about freeing enslaved populations on Tatooine." Leia's tone carried subtle mockery. "The princess believes she can bring hope and security to slaves through humanitarian intervention. Quite touching, really."

"I... see. And you wish us to support this?"

"We will use her naive idealism for our purposes. Let the Administrator play at being a merciful savior - the fleet will demonstrate true Imperial might while she concerns herself with the slaves' welfare." Her voice grew colder. "I have been seeking targets beyond the pathetic Rebellion, and if our dear princess wishes to wage war on the Hutts, we will show them exactly how insignificant they are to the Empire."

"You expect fleet command to defer to Administrator—"

"You will follow my orders. The Administrator will command this operation publicly while I... expedite certain aspects from the shadows. The Hutts will learn their place, and the princess will have her humanitarian victory. Everyone benefits."

"Of course, my Lady. The ships will be dispatched within the hour."

"See that they are."

She closed the call, standing alone in her office, surrounded by the apparatus of power she'd spent three years building. Reports from forty-three star systems. Communication arrays that could reach any Imperial facility in the galaxy. Intelligence networks that fed her information about everything from rebel activities to Imperial security operations.

All of it felt meaningless now.

He made me love him. The thought returned with renewed force. While he tortured me, he made me worship the memory of who he used to be.

The office's transparisteel windows rattled in their frames. A stress fracture appeared on the surface of her desk, spider-webbing outward from where her hands rested. The holographic displays flickered and stabilized, their light casting strange shadows on the walls.

She was going to make him pay.

She was going to take everything from him, just like he'd taken everything from her.

And she was going to start with the first real lesson he taught her.

There is only one way to keep a Skywalker in line.

"Mistress?" C-3PO's voice came from the doorway, cautious and concerned. "I've completed the packing as requested, though I must say the selections seem rather arbitrary without knowing our destination. Also, I couldn't help but notice some unusual electromagnetic readings from this room. Are the building's systems malfunctioning?"

Leia turned to look at him. The droid stood in the doorway, a travel case in each hand, his golden plating reflecting the unstable light from the holographic displays. He'd been with her for years now, a constant presence through her rise in the Imperial hierarchy. Loyal, reliable, predictably anxious about proper procedure.

He had no idea what she really was. What she'd become. What she was about to do.

"We're going to Tatooine," she said.

C-3PO's photoreceptors brightened with what might have been an alarm. "Tatooine? Oh my. That's quite... remote. And rather dangerous, if I recall correctly. The planet is controlled by Hutt cartels, and the climate is extremely harsh for most forms of life. Might I suggest somewhere more... civilized?"

"No."

"But, Mistress, surely there are more suitable locations for whatever business requires your attention. Perhaps Naboo? Or Chandrila? Both have excellent facilities and much more reasonable—"

"We're going to Tatooine," Leia repeated, her voice carrying a finality that made the droid's servos whir nervously. "And we're going to free it."

"Free it?" C-3PO's head tilted at an angle that suggested deep confusion. "Free it from what, exactly?"

"From the Hutts. From slavery. From everything that made Anakin Skywalker into Darth Vader."

The name felt like poison on her tongue. Every time she said it, the connection became more real, more inescapable. Anakin Skywalker. Her father. Her torturer. Her Master. Her Hero. The person she'd dreamed about while he carved away pieces of her soul.

C-3PO stood motionless for several seconds, processing her words. "I... see. That seems like quite an ambitious undertaking for just the two of us. Shouldn't we contact your military liaisons? Or perhaps request additional resources from—"

"Already done, they will meet us there." Leia moved toward him, noting how the droid stepped slightly backward. "But they will only be on the sidelines; this is my personal project."

"Personal?" The droid's voice climbed to a higher pitch. "Mistress, freeing an entire planet from Hutt control seems rather beyond the scope of personal business. Perhaps we should reconsider—"

"Are you refusing to come with me?"

The question hung in the air between them. C-3PO's photoreceptors dimmed and brightened several times as he processed the implications.

"Of course not, Mistress. I serve at your pleasure. I simply... I worry about the practicalities. And your well-being. You seem quite distressed tonight."

"I'm fine."

"With respect, Mistress, you don't appear fine. Your emotional readings are highly elevated, and the electromagnetic disturbances in this room suggest significant Force activity. Perhaps some rest would—"

"I said I'm fine."

The words came out with enough force to crack the viewport's transparisteel. C-3PO took another step backward, his gait stuttering slightly.

"Of course, Mistress. Forgive me. When shall we depart?"

"Now."

"Now? But it's the middle of the night cycle, and proper flight preparations require—"

"Now, Threepio."

The use of his nickname seemed to calm the droid slightly. "Very well. I shall gather the luggage and meet you at your private hangar."

He turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. "Mistress? If I may ask... why Tatooine specifically?"

Leia stared at him for a long moment. The honest answer was too complex, too raw to explain. How could she tell him that she was going to destroy everything connected to her father? That she was going to prove she was nothing like him by freeing his homeworld from the same chains that he had used to bind her?

"Because it's where it all started," she said finally.

C-3PO nodded as if this explanation made perfect sense to him. "I see. Well, then. I suppose we'd better pack some extra cooling units."

He left, his mechanical footsteps echoing down the hallway. Leia stood alone in her office, surrounded by the wreckage of her carefully constructed life. 

Her personal comlink chimed with an incoming message. She glanced at the display, a routine report from one of her sector governors. A request for resource allocation approval. The kind of mundane administrative task that had filled her days for the past three years.

She deleted it without reading.

Then she deleted the next twelve messages.

Then she turned off the comlink entirely.

Let them all figure it out for themselves. Let the Empire run on momentum while she went to wage her private war. Let Palpatine wonder where his perfect apprentice had gone.

The walk to her private hangar took twenty minutes through the building's secured corridors. Security guards nodded respectfully as she passed, unaware that they were looking at someone who had just burned down her life and was preparing to start a war. Her personal ship sat waiting in the hangar's controlled atmosphere, sleek and black against the hangar's white walls.

The Nemesis was a modified light cruiser, heavily armed and equipped with the kind of stealth technology usually reserved for intelligence operations. Palpatine had given it to her as a reward for some particularly efficient work, the subjugation of a rebel cell on Malastare. She'd accepted it as her due, another tool in her arsenal of power.

Tonight, it felt like freedom.

C-3PO was already aboard, fussing with the luggage and muttering about proper storage procedures. The droid's anxiety was almost comforting in its familiarity; some things, at least, hadn't changed.

"Mistress," he called as she entered the ship's main corridor, "I've taken the liberty of reviewing the astrogation data for Tatooine. The journey will take approximately a week through hyperspace, assuming normal traffic conditions. I've also compiled a preliminary assessment of local conditions, though I must warn you that the political situation appears quite complex."

"Complex?"

"Well, the planet is officially neutral territory, but in practice it's controlled by several competing Hutt clans. Jabba the Hutt maintains the largest operation, primarily focused on smuggling and... and slavery, as you mentioned. There are also numerous smaller criminal organizations, plus a small Imperial presence at Mos Eisley. The local population consists primarily of moisture farmers and slaves."

C-3PO paused in his recitation, his photoreceptors focusing on her face. "Mistress, if you truly intend to challenge Hutt authority on Tatooine, we'll need significantly more resources than we currently possess. Perhaps we should request support from—"

"No." Leia moved toward the ship's command center, her footsteps echoing in the corridor. "This is my operation. Mine alone."

"But Mistress—"

"Prep the ship for departure. Calculate the jump to Tatooine. And then leave me alone."

C-3PO stood motionless for a moment, his servos whirring softly. "As you wish, Mistress. Though I do hope you'll reconsider the wisdom of this course of action."

"I won't."

The droid nodded and walked away, muttering something about the unpredictability of organic beings. Leia continued toward the command center, passing through corridors that had once felt like a sanctuary. Now, they felt like a cage she was finally escaping.

The command center was a model of Imperial efficiency, with multiple control stations, real-time communications equipment, and tactical displays showing local space traffic. She settled into the pilot's chair and began the pre-flight sequence, her hands moving through the familiar routines automatically.

Launch clearance from traffic control. Engine warm-up cycles. Navigation system activation. Hyperspace route calculation.

All of it is routine. All of it was meaningless compared to the rage burning in her chest.

Tatooine, she thought as the ship's engines hummed to life. The place that made him. The place where Anakin Skywalker learned to hate.

She was going to free it from everything that had shaped him. She was going to prove that she was nothing like her father.

And if it started a war with the Hutts, if it destabilized the entire Outer Rim, if it caused exactly the kind of chaos that Palpatine thrived on—well, that wasn't her problem anymore.

The ship lifted off from the hangar, climbing through Coruscant's endless layers of traffic toward the freedom of open space. Behind her, the capital of the Empire fell away into the distance, its lights fading until they were just another star in the darkness.

She had left everything behind.

Now all she had to do was figure out how to live with what she'd learned.

And how to make everyone who'd lied to her pay for it.

The Nemesis cut through the swirling blue of hyperspace, its hull humming with the rhythm of faster-than-light travel. Leia sat in the command chair, staring at the hypnotic patterns beyond the viewport without really seeing them. Her hands gripped the armrests, knuckles white beneath pale skin.

I am your father.

The words wouldn't stop. They played on an endless loop in her mind, each repetition carving the truth deeper into her consciousness. Anakin Skywalker was Darth Vader. Her childhood hero was her torturer. The man she'd dreamed about rescuing her had been the one holding the chains.

A datapad slipped from a nearby console and clattered to the floor. She hadn't touched it.

"Mistress?" C-3PO appeared in the doorway, his golden form reflecting the hyperspace glow. "I noticed you haven't eaten today. Shall I prepare something from the ship's stores?"

"Not hungry," she said without looking at him.

"But, Mistress, proper nutrition is essential for—"

"I said I'm not hungry, Threepio."

The droid's photoreceptors dimmed slightly. "Of course, Mistress. Perhaps some rest then? You've been sitting here for fourteen hours."

Fourteen hours. Has it really been that long? Time felt strange now, elastic and untrustworthy. She could have been sitting here for minutes or days.

"I'm fine."

C-3PO hesitated in the doorway. "Mistress, if I may say so, you don't appear fine. Your vital signs are elevated, and there seem to be some unusual electromagnetic fluctuations—"

"Get out."

The droid left without another word, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. Leia returned her attention to the viewport, watching the blue tunnel of hyperspace stretch endlessly ahead.

The hallucinations kept getting worse. At first, she thought it was because she'd lost control over the dark side, but as the ship got further away from Coruscant, she started to think it might be the distance from the Imperial Palace. It was a dark Force nexus, had it been protecting her from losing her mind?

Another datapad fell from a shelf across the room.

She heard the voice again, clearer this time. "Leia..."

She stood abruptly from the command chair, scanning the empty chamber. "Who's there?"

Silence. But the feeling of being watched persisted, pressing against her mind like fingers made of static.

Sleep hadn't come. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the recording, Luke's hand severed, Vader's mask turning toward her, that mechanical voice claiming paternity. She'd given up trying around hour twenty and simply remained in the command chair, watching hyperspace flow past.

The ship felt different now. Oppressive. The air recycling system hummed with a tone that reminded her of Vader's breathing apparatus. The lights flickered at irregular intervals, responding to her emotion, she knew she needed to calm down. Sith or not, losing control of her emotions, of her anger, would only put her in danger, would bring her back to what she was in the first years after she fell, losing her mind completely..

C-3PO had tried to bring her food twice. Both times, she'd sent him away. The third time, he'd simply left a nutritional bar on the console beside her and retreated without a word. The bar remained untouched, a reminder of normal biological needs that felt completely irrelevant. She can sustain herself with the Force; her record includes two agonizing weeks spent locked in a cell by her Master's orders, her Father's orders, to ensure she learned that ability.

He made me love him while he destroyed me.

The thought circled through her mind like a predator, each pass leaving deeper wounds. How many times had she whispered Anakin's name during those long nights in her cell? How many times had she imagined his gentle hands healing the damage Vader's had caused? The irony was so perfect it felt like deliberate cruelty, which, knowing the other Sith, it probably was.

The whispers were getting stronger. Sometimes she could almost make out words, fragments of apology, her name spoken with infinite sadness. But whenever she tried to focus on them, they slipped away like smoke.

Blue light flickered in her peripheral vision. When she turned to look directly, it vanished.

"What do you want?" she said to the empty air.

But the presence retreated, leaving her alone with the hum of hyperspace and the growing certainty that she was losing her mind.

The ship was falling apart around her.

Not literally—the Nemesis was too well-built for that. But every system seemed to be developing minor malfunctions. Lights dimmed and brightened without pattern. The environmental controls cycled through temperature fluctuations that made no sense. The artificial gravity felt unstable, as if reality itself was becoming unreliable.

C-3PO had stopped trying to approach her directly. Instead, he performed his duties at a distance, casting nervous glances in her direction and muttering about electromagnetic interference. His anxiety would have been amusing under normal circumstances. Now, it was just another irritation.

Leia hadn't moved from the command chair in over sixty hours. Her body ached; normally, her throat was supposed to be dry, and her stomach cramped with hunger, but none of it seemed to matter. Physical discomfort was nothing compared to the emotional devastation consuming her from within.

The presence was almost constant now. Whispers of her name, fragments of words she couldn't quite understand, and always that overwhelming sense of regret emanating from somewhere just beyond her perception. Blue light flickered more frequently, sometimes taking almost human shapes before dissolving back into nothing.

"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice hoarse from disuse. "What do you want from me?"

But the presence pulled back again, leaving her questions unanswered. The blue light faded, and she was alone.

"Leia..."

The whisper was right beside her ear now, so clear she could feel breath that wasn't there.

"ENOUGH!" The scream tore from her throat, carrying three days of accumulated rage and confusion. "STOP HIDING! SHOW YOURSELF! TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT!"

The ship shuddered around her. Every light went out simultaneously, plunging the command center into absolute darkness. Emergency lighting kicked in a moment later, casting everything in hellish red. Warning alarms began to sound.

"Mistress!" C-3PO's voice came from somewhere down the corridor, high with panic. "What's happening? The ship's systems are—"

"I SAID SHOW YOURSELF!" she roared, and the alarms cut off abruptly. The red lighting stabilized, but she could hear various systems throughout the ship cycling on and off as power fluctuations cascaded through the electrical grid.

In the strange crimson glow, blue light began to coalesce in front of her. Not flickering or fragmentary this time, but steady and growing brighter. A human shape emerged from the light, translucent but unmistakably solid, radiating a presence in the Force that made her breath catch.

"Hello, Leia," Obi-Wan Kenobi said softly.

For a moment, she couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. The figure before her was impossible, a man she'd known was dead, standing in her ship's command center as if death were merely an inconvenience. His expression was infinitely sad, infinitely tired, as if he'd been carrying the weight of the galaxy for decades.

"You," she whispered.

"Yes."

"You're dead."

"I am. The Force binds us together, even in death. I've been trying to reach you for years, but your pain has been... overwhelming. I couldn't break through until you stopped fighting my presence."

Leia stared at him, her mind struggling to process what she was seeing. Force ghosts were theoretical, stories told by the Jedi to comfort themselves about death. They weren't supposed to be real. They certainly weren't supposed to manifest in her ship's command center while she was having a breakdown.

"You've been watching me," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Since the moment I died, I've stayed as close to you as I could. I've checked on Luke occasionally, but..." He paused, his expression growing more pained. "You needed to watch more than he did."

"Because I'm a Sith Lord."

This was the worst kind of security breach she could think of. Was he reporting her actions to the rebellion? Could she even do something against a Force ghost?

"Because you're in pain. Because I failed you."

The admission made her pause. She'd expected denials, justifications, the same careful non-answers he'd given her as a child. This quiet acceptance of guilt was almost worse than silence would have been.

"Failed," she repeated, her voice growing harder. "Is that what you call it?"

"What would you call it?"

"Lies." The word came out like a curse. "You lied to me. When I asked you if you knew my parents during our journey, you said you didn't. And you lied! You knew exactly who he was! You knew Anakin Skywalker and that he was the one hunting us like animals! Darth Vader!"

Obi-Wan's form flickered, and she could see the pain that crossed his features. "I did."

"I deserved the truth.”

"You were nine years old, Leia. What was I supposed to tell you? That your father had murdered children? That he'd helped destroy everything good in the galaxy? That the father you were asking about had become a monster?"

"The truth!" The words exploded from her with enough force to crack the transparisteel viewport. "You were supposed to tell me the truth!"

"You were a child asking about a father you'd never known!"

"I was his child! I had a right to know what he was!"

"You had a right to some small comfort." Obi-Wan's voice was firm despite the pain in his expression. "You had a right to believe that somewhere, someone had cared about you. I couldn't tell a nine-year-old that her father was the most feared man in the galaxy."

"So instead you gave me lies." Leia's voice was deadly quiet now, more dangerous than her screaming. "For years, I thought he was a good man. Your best friend. I watched the holos, the recordings, every piece of information I could find. The Hero with No Fear, the Negotiator, the Clone Wars hero. Do you know how much I clung to that information? How did I use it to survive what came after?"

"I thought..." Obi-Wan's form flickered again, becoming more translucent. "I thought you would never have to know. I thought we could keep you safe, keep you hidden from what he'd become."

"Well, you failed at that too, didn't you?"

The words hit him like a physical blow. "Yes. When I heard Reva had captured you, when I realized Vader had taken you... I've never forgiven myself for not being fast enough, not being clever enough to prevent it."

"But you didn't try to rescue me." The accusation hung in the air between them. "Luke got to grow up safe on Tatooine with his family. You watched over him, protected him, then trained him when he was old enough. But you left me with Vader."

"I tried, Leia. I was there at the fortress, and I tried to reach you. But I failed, you were with him, and I had to run."

"And you never tried again?"

"Because I knew it was hopeless. Luke was hidden from Vader, protected by distance and ignorance. But you... Vader would never have let you go. Any attempt to rescue you would have been suicide, and it would have accomplished nothing except getting more people killed."

"So you abandoned me."

"I chose the path that might save the most lives."

"While I suffered." Leia's voice was rising again, rage building like pressure in a sealed container. "While he tortured me, while he turned me into a weapon, while he destroyed everything innocent in me, you were watching over Luke. The boy who got to grow up free, who got to have a childhood, who got to choose his own path when he was ready."

"Leia—"

"No. It's Darth Revaris to you. Not Leia—you left Leia to die, and I am what remained. Do you know what kept me sane during those first years?" She was standing now, her entire body trembling with fury.

"The belief that someone would come to rescue me, the belief that if I was strong enough, brave enough, I could run away to the rebellion, become a Jedi." She raised her right hand, a prosthetic replacing her flesh. "And he put a slave chip in me! So I won’t run, so I couldn't leave! He enslaved me! Where were you?! Where was the rebellion?! I know you could have reached me! Your Jedi friend sent me a kriffing package! You had contacts there! I could have been saved!"

"I… Bail tried, he tried so many times, Leia, and I… I had to make sure at least Luke remained safe."

"I am not Leia! The girl who would whisper to herself in her cell, reminded herself that somewhere out there had been someone who represented everything good and noble! That maybe, somehow, he was watching over her. That girl is dead!"

Obi-Wan's expression crumbled. "I never meant—"

"The worst thing?! He was watching over me!" The scream echoed through the ship's corridors. "He was in the room! He was the one holding the torture devices! Every time I repeated the words—'I will be a Jedi like my father'—Darth Vader was standing right there, deciding which lesson to teach me next!"

"I'm sorry." The words came out as a whisper. "I'm so sorry, Leia. If I had known what would happen, if I had seen what was coming—"

"You would have done exactly the same thing." Her voice was cold now, emotionless. "Because that's what Jedi do, isn't it? Make the hard choices. Sacrifice the few for the many. Choose the greater good over individual suffering."

"No. That's not—"

"It is exactly that. You chose Luke over me because he was more valuable. The still safe, the hidden hope, the boy who could bring down the Empire. I was just collateral damage."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?" Leia laughed, a sound devoid of humor. "Luke had a childhood. Luke got training. Luke got to grow up believing in heroes. What did I get? Years of torture designed to turn me into everything I once dreamed of fighting against."

"You're not irredeemable, Leia. You still have choices—"

"Do I? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like every choice I've ever made has been shaped by the lies the galaxy told me. Every time I tried to be good, I was modeling myself after Anakin Skywalker. Every time I tried to be strong, I was channeling the memory of a man who never existed."

Obi-Wan stepped closer, his ghostly form radiating desperation. "He did exist. The man I loved, the hero you dreamed of—he was real. Anakin was all of those things before he fell."

"Before he fell? Or before you failed to stop him?"

The accusation struck home. Obi-Wan's form dimmed visibly, as if her words were interfering with his ability to maintain coherence.

"Both," he said quietly. "I failed Anakin just as completely as I failed you. I was his master, his friend, his brother. I should have seen the darkness growing in him. I should have helped him instead of judging him. I should have been better."

"Yes. You should have."

"I can't change the past, Leia. I can't undo the choices that led you here. But I can try to help you now."

"Help me?" She laughed again, the sound harsh and bitter. "Help me do what? Forgive the people who destroyed me? Find redemption in the light side of the Force? Become the Jedi I was supposed to be before my father got his hands on me?"

"Help you choose who you want to become, regardless of what was done to you."

"I already know who I am. I'm Darth Revaris."

"You're Leia Organa. You're Anakin's daughter and Padmé's daughter and Bail and Breha's daughter. You're someone who still protects people when she could destroy them, who still chooses mercy over cruelty when either would serve her purposes."

"Pretty words. But they won't change what I've done."

"What are you about to do now? Why leave Palpatine suddenly?"

"Because I’m going to show my dear family who is the better twin, who is the best Skywalker of them all. My father made me a slave, told me that there is one way you keep a Skywalker in line. He learned it from the Hutts, you see. So I'm going to free Tatooine from them. End the slavery that showed him how to keep me in line, because that won't work anymore."

Obi-Wan's expression shifted, surprise replacing some of the pain. "Free the slaves? Leia, that's... that's a noble goal. Not very Sith of you."

"Don't try to—"

"I'm not trying to manipulate you. Ending slavery is good, necessary work. But tell me—are you doing this for them, or to spite Vader?"

The question hit her like a physical blow. "Does it matter? The slaves will be free either way."

"Your motivation matters because it determines your methods. And your methods determine whether you actually help these people or make their situation worse." Obi-Wan's voice grew gentler. "Leia, you care about them. I can feel it. Beneath all the anger and pain, you genuinely want to help people who are suffering the way your father once suffered. That's not darkness—that's light trying to break through."

"But are you planning this liberation, or are you planning revenge? There's a difference, Leia, and it matters more than you might think."

"What's the difference? The slaves get freed either way."

"The difference is in how you do it. If you charge in, driven by anger, without understanding the political situation, without allies or a plan for what comes after, you could make things worse. Tatooine's economy depends on Hutt operations. Remove them suddenly and violently, and you might cause a power vacuum that leads to even worse suffering."

Leia's expression flickered with uncertainty. "You think I shouldn't do it?"

"I think you should do it right. Take time to understand the situation. Find local allies who know the people and their needs. Plan for what comes after the Hutts are gone. Act from compassion rather than anger, and you might actually save lives instead of just making yourself feel better."

"You're saying I'm being reckless."

"I'm saying you care about people, and that matters. The impulse to help slaves, to end suffering—that's good, Leia. That's the light in you fighting to get out. But good intentions paired with poor planning can cause as much harm as evil intentions. I've seen it before."

"You don't get to lecture me!" Leia's voice cracked with the force of her emotion. "You don't get to play the wise mentor now! You had your chance to guide me when I was a child, asking innocent questions about my father. You chose to lie instead."

"I chose to protect your innocence."

"My innocence was doomed the moment Reva decided to use me as bait. All you did was make sure I'd suffer more when it was destroyed."

Obi-Wan was silent for a long moment, his form flickering in and out of focus. When he spoke again, his voice was thick with regret.

"You're right. I made the wrong choice. I should have told you the truth. I should have prepared you for what might come."

"Yes. You should have."

"But I can't change that now. All I can do is try to keep you from making choices you'll regret for the rest of your life."

"What if I don't regret them? What if I'm perfectly happy being a monster?"

"Then I'll stay anyway. I won't abandon you again, Leia. Not to Vader, not to Palpatine, and not to the darkness inside yourself."

The promise settled into her chest like a weight. Part of her wanted to accept it, to believe that someone actually cared. But the dark side whispered warnings about trust, about the weakness of hope.

"Why?" she asked. "Why do you care what happens to me? You barely knew me as a child."

"Because I failed you once, and failure leaves scars. Because you deserve better than what you were given. And because..." He paused, his expression growing more pained. "Because I see so much of Anakin in you. The good parts, before the darkness took hold. The parts I couldn't save."

"I told you—I'm not him."

"No. You're not. You're stronger than he was, in some ways. More aware of your own capacity for darkness. That awareness might be what saves you."

"Or it might be what destroys me."

"That's up to you."

Leia closed her eyes, feeling the weight of exhaustion settling into her bones. The ship around her felt more stable now, the electrical fluctuations calming as her emotional state stabilized. But the fundamental question remained: what was she going to do?

When she opened her eyes again, Obi-Wan was beginning to fade, his form becoming more translucent.

"Where are you going?"

"I've maintained this manifestation for as long as I can. The Force requires balance—I can't stay indefinitely."

"Will you come back?"

"When you need me. I told you, Leia—I won't abandon you again. But the choices ahead are yours to make. I can't make them for you."

"Don’t, I don't need you."

"And I will still come, because I am not going to leave you again in the dark, because you deserve hope, even if you think otherwise." His smile was gentle, fatherly in a way that made her chest ache. "You're not defined by your mistakes, child. You're defined by how you respond to them."

"Obi-Wan..." She reached out instinctively, but her hand passed through empty air. He was almost gone now, just a faint outline against the ship's interior.

"I'm always here if you need me," he said, his voice growing distant. "Remember that. And remember—your capacity for good doesn't disappear just because it's been buried. It's still there, in you."

And then he was gone, leaving her alone in the crimson-lit command center with nothing but the hum of hyperspace and the weight of impossible choices.

C-3PO appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, his photoreceptors dim with concern.

"Mistress? The ship's systems have stabilized, but I detected some unusual energy readings. Are you... Are you feeling better?"

Leia looked at him for a long moment, this loyal droid who'd served her faithfully despite having no idea what she really was. Another choice to make: honesty or deception. Truth or comfortable lies.

"No, Threepio," she said finally. "I'm not feeling better. But I'm feeling... different."

"Different how, if I may ask?"

She turned back to the viewport, watching hyperspace flow past in its eternal blue tunnel. Somewhere ahead lay Tatooine, and all the choices that would determine what kind of person she became.

"I'm not sure yet," she said. "Ask me again when we arrive."

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Tattoine




The shuttle broke through Tatooine's atmosphere, sand-colored clouds parting around its hull. Inside the cockpit, Leia sat with her hands steady on the controls, watching the desert planet expand beneath her. Three Star Destroyers maintained high orbit behind her, their hangar bays loaded with stormtroopers awaiting orders.

She adjusted the mask covering the lower half of her face, feeling the seal click into place. She thought about leaving it; it was a clear mark of ownership from Vader, from her father. But she needed to keep Princess Leia and Darth Revaris separated, and the mask did that. So she would wear it, let her voice be distorted, let everyone remember why Darth Revaris was feared across the galaxy.

The palace rose from the desert ahead, a sprawling complex of domed structures and towers, its sandstone walls weathered by centuries of wind. Jabba's fortress. Soon to be hers.

She brought the shuttle down on the main landing platform where a small delegation already waited. Protocol dictated courtesy between allies, after all, and the Hutt Cartel had maintained profitable arrangements with the Empire for years. They had no reason to suspect this visit would be different.

The landing ramp extended. Revaris stood, pulling her hood up to shadow her face, and descended into Tatooine's brutal heat.

She felt as if it should mean something, the first time she stood on her father's home planet, the first time she experienced the heat of the twin suns. This place was drenched in blood from generations of her family, slaves, forced to kneel in palaces like this one.

No more.

A Twi'lek slave waited at the platform's edge, his lekku bound with leather straps, collar visible around his neck. He bowed deeply, eyes fixed on the ground. "Honored guest," he said in heavily accented Basic, "I am to escort you to His Magnificence, Jabba the—"

"I know who Jabba is," Revaris said. Her voice emerged distorted through the mask's filters, each word carrying mechanical weight. "Take me to him."

"Of course, of course." The slave straightened but kept his gaze lowered as he turned toward the palace entrance. "Please, follow. Mind the steps."

Two Gamorrean guards flanked the entrance, their pig-like faces watching her with dull suspicion. They gripped vibro-axes but made no move to stop her. Why would they? The Empire and the Hutts had business arrangements. This was just another meeting.

The palace interior was cool compared to the desert, but the air was thick with incense and other smells, sweat, spice, fear. Narrow corridors wound through the structure, lit by dim glow panels that cast everything in shades of amber and shadow. Slaves moved past carrying trays and cleaning supplies, their eyes fixed on the floor. They wore collars. Some bore scars. All of them had the hollow look of people who had forgotten what freedom meant.

Revaris catalogued each face as she passed. These were the ones she came to liberate. Not for their sake, she was no Jedi playing savior. But because every freed slave would become a soldier in her army, every broken chain would forge loyalty stronger than credits could buy.

The Twi'lek slave led her in silence, clearly terrified of speaking unbidden. Good. Fear had its uses.

They descended a ramp into the lower levels, where the walls changed from hewn stone to something older, carved centuries ago. The music grew louder, discordant notes from alien instruments mixing with laughter and conversation. The throne room.

Massive doors loomed ahead, their surface decorated with reliefs depicting Hutt conquests and pleasures. The Gamorrean guards here were larger, better armed. They stepped aside without question as she approached.

The doors groaned open.

The throne room was chaos contained within stone walls. At least fifty beings filled the space, bounty hunters comparing weapons in corners, slaves serving drinks, musicians playing in an alcove to the left where a blue-skinned Bith led a full band. Smoke drifted through the air from water pipes and less legal substances. The ceiling arched high overhead, disappearing into darkness where chains and hooks suggested past entertainments.

And dominating it all, sprawled on a raised dais of black stone: Jabba the Hutt.

He was massive. Easily four meters of bloated flesh draped in silk and jewelry, his tail coiled beneath him on the throne. His eyes, small, cunning, cruel, fixed on Revaris as she entered. A Twi'lek dancer performed to his right, her movements mechanical. To his left stood a pale humanoid majordomo who whispered updates that Jabba ignored.

The room didn't fall silent immediately. Conversations continued, drinks were poured, a Rodian laughed at something his companion said. But awareness spread like ripples on water. Beings noticed the hooded figure crossing the floor. The music faltered. Conversations died.

By the time Revaris reached the base of the dais, silence had claimed the room.

Jabba leaned forward slightly, his bulk shifting. When he spoke, it was in Huttese, his voice a deep rumble that resonated in the chest. "Well, well. The Empire sends an ambassador. How unexpected. And unannounced."

"I am no ambassador," Revaris replied in flawless Huttese, her filtered voice somehow making the language sound more menacing. "I am Darth Revaris. And my business concerns you directly, Jabba."

A ripple of reaction passed through the crowd. Whispers. Shuffling. A Sith title carried weight, even here. Several beings edged toward the exits.

But Jabba laughed, a wet sound like stones grinding underwater. "A Sith! In my palace! How delightful. Tell me, young Sith, what business could possibly bring you to my humble establishment?"

"Your slaves."

The laughter stopped.

"My slaves?" Jabba said slowly.

Revaris pushed back her hood, revealing eyes that burned gold in the throne room's dim light. The mask covered her lower face, but her expression was clear enough in that gaze, cold, certain, deadly.

"Every slave on Tatooine will be freed within the hour," she said. "Your operations will cease. Your organization will dissolve. You can leave this planet and return to your clan, or stay here for them to judge you."

For three full seconds, no one moved. Then someone laughed, a nervous bark from a Weequay near the back. Another joined in. Then more. Within moments, the entire throne room shook with laughter.

Jabba's amusement was loudest, his whole body quaking. "Oh, this is wonderful! This child thinks she can demand things from me! In my own palace!" He studied her for a long moment. "Tell me, little Sith, how many soldiers did you bring? How many Star Destroyers wait in orbit to enforce your... requests?"

"Three Star Destroyers," Revaris said calmly. "But I don't need them."

The laughter grew stronger, more mocking. Someone shouted a crude joke in Rodian. A bounty hunter made an exaggerated bow toward her, prompting more guffaws.

"You walk into Jabba's palace," the Hutt said, still chuckling, "surrounded by my guards, my hunters, my soldiers—and you think you can threaten me? You don't even have your weapon drawn!"

"I'm not threatening you," Revaris said. "I'm offering you a choice. Comply with my terms and run away like the worm you are. Or refuse, and die here, now, with everyone who stands between me and my goal."

The laughter finally died. Something in her tone—flat, mechanical, absolutely certain—cut through the amusement like a blade. Beings throughout the room reassessed the situation. Hands drifted toward weapons. Eyes searched for exits. The musicians had gone completely silent.

Jabba's expression shifted, humor curdling into anger. "You dare? In MY palace? I have ruled this world for decades! I have armies across the Outer Rim! What do you have, child? A lightsaber? The Force?" He leaned forward, his bulk casting a shadow across her. "I have crushed Jedi before. What makes you think you're different?"

Revaris tilted her head slightly. "Because I'm not a Jedi."

The first Gamorrean charged before Jabba could respond, his vibro-axe already swinging in a brutal arc. He was fast, faster than something that large should be, and his weapon hummed with energy as it descended toward her skull.

Her lightsaber ignited mid-draw, the crimson blade catching the axe's haft just below the head. The vibro-blade's energy field shrieked against the plasma, then gave way. The lightsaber continued through, shearing metal and flesh in a single stroke. Blood sprayed. The Gamorrean's head tumbled from his shoulders before his body registered that it should fall.

Chaos erupted.

Blaster fire lit the throne room in stuttering flashes of red and green. Revaris moved through it like smoke, her lightsaber spinning in defensive patterns that sent bolts ricocheting into walls, into ceiling, into the beings who fired them. A Rodian's shot came back at him and took off his gun arm at the elbow. A Weequay's blast deflected into his own chest, punching through armor and lung.

She advanced up the dais steps. Another Gamorrean lunged from her right, her prosthetic hand snapped out, caught him by the throat without breaking stride. She squeezed. His neck crumpled like paper. She released him and he dropped, forgotten.

A Nikto bounty hunter opened fire from the right side of the room with a rotary blaster cannon, its multiple barrels spinning up to fire rate. The stream of bolts came at her like a solid bar of red light.

She didn't deflect them all. She didn't need to. Her free hand extended, fingers splayed, and lightning erupted from her palm. Not wild arcs—focused, controlled streams of pure energy that met the blaster bolts mid-flight and consumed them. Palpatine had trained her well in that. The lightning continued forward, struck the Nikto in the chest, and he went down screaming as his nervous system overloaded.

More guards rushed her. She cut through them methodically. Her blade opened throats, severed limbs, carved through armor like it was cloth. When three rushed her simultaneously, she swept her hand in a broad gesture and they all lifted off their feet, crashed into the far wall hard enough to crack stone, and fell to the floor in broken heaps.

A Trandoshan slaver tried to flee toward the exit. Her lightsaber left her hand, spinning through the air in a horizontal arc that passed through his neck, then curved back to her waiting palm. His body took three more steps before it understood it was dead.

Through it all, she was careful. Every strike hit only combatants. Every bolt of lightning targeted those who threatened her. When slaves cowered behind pillars, no stray shot reached them. When a young human girl froze in terror directly in a bounty hunter's line of fire, she pushed her with the Force away from the bolts.

The Twi'lek dancer on Jabba's dais screamed and ran. Revaris let her pass untouched.

Four minutes. That's how long it took to kill forty-seven beings and incapacitate another dozen.

When the violence ended, bodies covered the throne room floor in spreading pools. Smoke hung in the air. The only sounds were crackling flames from where lightning had ignited tapestries, and quiet sobbing from survivors hiding in alcoves.

Revaris stood at the base of Jabba's throne, her lightsaber still ignited, not even breathing hard. She fixed her gaze on the Hutt crime lord.

Jabba stared back. For the first time in decades, genuine fear showed on his face.

"Wait," he said quickly, his voice higher than usual. "Wait. We can negotiate. I have credits—millions of credits! Information on rival cartels, on Imperial corruption, on—"

The chain that used to hold the Twi'lek dancer started to move toward Jabba.

It started slowly, the heavy links sliding against each other with soft metallic sounds. Then it wrapped itself around his neck, tighter and tighter. The chain he used to bind and kill so many slaves, which symbolized his power, became his prison, constricting around his massive throat.

"Please!" Jabba gasped, his small hands clawing at the chain. "I'll free them! All of them! Just—"

"You had your choice," Revaris said quietly. Her hand extended toward him, fingers slightly curved, and the chain continued to tighten with inexorable force. "You made it."

The chain gave a final, vicious contraction. Jabba's eyes rolled back. His massive form shuddered once, then went completely still. The mighty Jabba the Hutt, scourge of the Outer Rim, was dead.

Revaris held the corpse suspended for a moment longer, then released her grip. Jabba's body slumped forward on the throne, chains rattling.

She turned to face the survivors. Slaves mostly, huddled against walls or peering out from behind pillars. A few criminals who'd had the sense to surrender or hide. All of them stared at her with expressions mixing terror and disbelief.

Revaris extinguished her lightsaber. The silence that followed was absolute.

"Citizens of Tatooine," she said, her voice carrying clearly through the mask's filters. "You are free."

She activated a comm unit on her wrist. "Execute Operation Sandstorm."

High above, in the three Star Destroyers orbiting the planet, commanders received their orders. Launch bays opened. Transports descended carrying stormtrooper battalions with specific instructions: locate all slave markets, all trafficking operations, all hidden compounds. Break the chains. Arrest the slavers. Free the prisoners.

It would take days to sweep the entire planet, but it would be thorough. Tatooine's days as a slave world were over.

Revaris walked to Jabba's throne. The dead Hutt still slumped on it, chains tangled around his bulk. She seized the corpse by one of those chains and pulled. The body rolled, slid, tumbled down the dais steps with wet thumping sounds. It hit the floor and lay there, just meat now, no longer an empire.

She settled into the throne. It was too large for her, designed for Jabba's massive form, but she sat straight-backed and composed, her presence filling the space regardless of her physical size.

"By my authority," she announced, "slavery is now illegal on this world. Any who attempt to re-establish such operations will meet the same fate as your former master."

She paused, scanning the survivors.

"You have a new ruler now. A council will be formed from among you to handle the daily administration of this world—food distribution, law enforcement, and infrastructure. But that council answers to my associate. This palace is ours. This world is ours."

Her hand rested on her lightsaber.

"This is the first world. There are others held by the Hutts, other slaves waiting for liberation. I will bring war to every slaver territory until every slave is freed and every slaver is dead." Her voice carried absolute authority. "I will not force you to fight. I am not a slaver—I will not replace one chain with another. But I know what slaves dream about in the dark. Revenge. Justice. The chance to kill the masters who broke them."

She stood, her presence dominating the room despite her size.

"I offer you that chance. Those who wish to fight, join me. Those who cannot or will not—rebuild this world, make it strong, make it free. But know this: the Hutts will come for you. They will try to reclaim what they lost. Only through strength can you remain free. I will provide that strength, and I will welcome any who choose to stand with me."

A young Twi'lek girl emerged from behind a pillar, her collar broken but still hanging around her neck. She couldn't have been more than fifteen. She stared at Revaris with huge eyes.

"You're... you're really freeing us?" Her voice was barely a whisper.

"I am."

The girl's legs gave out. She collapsed to her knees and wept, huge, wracking sobs that shook her whole body. Other slaves began crying too, the sound spreading through the throne room like wildfire. Some laughed hysterically. Others simply stood in shock, unable to process that the nightmare had ended.

Without looking away from the freed slaves, she addressed the corner of the room. "You can show yourself now, Fett. You've been here since before I arrived."

Movement in the darkness near the entrance. A figure stepped into the light, Mandalorian armor painted in green and grey, T-shaped visor reflecting the throne room's fires. Boba Fett approached with that same casual confidence she remembered, his hands resting on his belt in studied nonchalance.

"Princess," he said, his voice carrying that familiar drawling mockery through his helmet's vocoder. "Nice work. Though I have to say, your techniques have improved since the last time we crossed paths."

Revaris's eyes narrowed behind her mask. "Fett. Still lurking in corners and watching other people do the work?"

"Professional observation," he replied, tilting his helmet slightly. "I find it educational to watch how others handle... regime change. Quite the spectacle you put on."

"What do you want, Fett?"

He gestured vaguely at the carnage around them. "Just happened to be in the neighborhood. Had a contract for delivery to Jabba, but it seems my business here is done. Permanently."

"The rebel you captured in Cloud City, was it not?"

"Yes." Fett's helmet tilted in that way that might have been amusement. "Funny you should mention him. He was just a bonus on the main bounty that escaped. A young man, pilot, destroyed his favorite battle station. You might have heard of him—goes by Skywalker."

The temperature in the room dropped.

Revaris descended from the throne slowly, her boots clicking on stone as she walked toward the bounty hunter. When she spoke, her voice was cold as void.

"If you're here to tell me you think I will help you capture Luke, Fett, I suggest you reconsider your next words very carefully."

"Your brother." He said it like he was tasting the words. "See, that's the interesting part. I know about young Luke. Know about your... family connections. The old man in the mask, the twins separated at birth, the whole dramatic saga." His voice carried that edge of professional detachment that had always irritated her. "I'm quite good at keeping track of valuable information."

"Then you also know," Revaris said, stopping directly in front of him, "that Skywalker business is family business. And I don't appreciate interference."

"Oh, I'm aware." Fett's helmet dipped slightly, almost like a nod. "Which is why I'm here instead of going straight to Vader. Professional courtesy, you might say. We have history, after all."

She could feel her jaw clench behind the mask. "You mean when you hunted me like an animal and dragged me back to Mustafar in chains."

"You were ten. Running from the most powerful Sith Lord in the galaxy. If it wasn't me, someone else would have captured you; at least I did it with minimal injuries." A pause. "And now look at you—taking down Hutt crime lords single-handedly. I'd say Vader's training was effective."

"Is there a point to this walk down memory lane, or are you just here to gloat?"

"I'm here," Fett said, shifting his weight slightly, "because I'm very good at reading situations. Vader wants Luke. You want Luke. That's a conflict of interest that's going to get messy, and I have no interest in ending up collateral damage in a Skywalker family dispute." His T-visor reflected her masked face. "So I'm informing you, as a courtesy, that I'm stepping away from that particular contract. Consider it a professional survival instinct."

Revaris studied him for a long moment. "Smart. Because if you'd brought Luke to Vader, I would have hunted you across the galaxy. And unlike when I was ten, I can kill you."

"I'm aware." There was something almost like respect in his voice. "I'm quite good at capturing your family, Princess. You, your brother—I have the skillset. But there's good money, and then there's suicidal money. Vader's contract qualifies as the latter, given present company."

"You knew," she said quietly, dangerously. "When you captured me all those years ago. You knew who I was. You knew what Vader was to me."

"Information is currency. And I'm very good at acquiring it. Yes, I knew. But unlike some people, I know when to keep my mouth shut and when to use what I know." He paused. "I also know that you knowing I know creates a certain... understanding between us."

"An understanding. You mean leverage."

"I mean mutual benefit. You don't kill me for knowing your secrets. I don't sell those secrets to the highest bidder. We both profit." His helmet tilted. "Speaking of profit—you're going to war with the Hutts. That's ambitious. Possibly suicidal."

"I will win."

"Maybe. Probably, given what I just witnessed." Fett shifted his stance. "But you'll need help. The Hutts have been entrenched for centuries. They have resources, armies, fleets across the Outer Rim."

"Are you offering your services, Fett?"

"I'm a practical man. Vader's contract puts me in the middle of a family war I want no part of. But hunting Hutts?" He looked around at the bodies. "That's just good business. Name your price."

"Ten thousand credits for every Hutt crime lord. Fifty thousand for a clan leader. One hundred thousand for a ruling family member."

Fett was quiet for several seconds. "That's a lot of credits for someone building a new army. You sure you can pay?"

"Jabba's vaults are mine now. Along with every credit he had stashed across Tatooine. I can pay." She crossed her arms. "The question is whether you can deliver. The Hutts won't roll over like Jabba did."

"I'm aware. But I've been hunting dangerous targets for a long time, Princess. I'll manage." He started toward the exit, then paused. "One more thing—Solo. Is he part of some master plan, or are you just keeping him as a trophy?"

Revaris looked back toward the alcove where Han Solo remained frozen. "Bait. Luke Skywalker cares about his friends. When he hears Solo is here, he'll come. And when he does—"

"Family business," Fett finished. "Right. Just making sure I'm not stepping on any toes by mentioning him." He headed for the doorway again. "I'll be in touch about those Hutt contracts. Try not to start the war without me—I'd hate to miss the profitable parts."

"Fett." Revaris called after him.

He stopped, looking back.

"If you change your mind about Luke," she said quietly, "if Vader offers you enough credits to make you reconsider—remember this moment. Remember that I gave you the chance to choose the smart path."

"Noted." His helmet dipped slightly. "For what it's worth, Princess—you've come a long way from that scared ten-year-old on Takodana. Vader did forge you into something dangerous. Almost makes me nostalgic for the easy bounties."

"I was never an easy bounty, Fett."

"No. No, you weren't. That's why you're still alive."

The bounty hunter disappeared into the shadows of the corridor. Behind him, Darth Revaris surveyed her new domain, slaves weeping in relief, bodies of their former masters cooling on blood-slicked stone, and somewhere in orbit, her forces spreading across the planet to tear down an empire built on suffering.

Tatooine was hers. Next would be Nal Hutta. Then Nar Shaddaa. Then every other world where the Hutts dealt in flesh and misery. She would wage war across the Outer Rim, and every slave she freed would become a soldier in her army. Every world she claimed would strengthen her position.

The conference room Leia had chosen was located in the upper levels of Jabba's palace, far from the throne room where bodies still awaited removal, far from the smell of death that clung to the lower chambers. She'd ordered the space cleaned and reconfigured overnight, transforming what had once been Jabba's private meeting chamber into something that resembled the council rooms of Alderaan.

Almost.

The long table was salvaged from palace stores, its surface scarred but serviceable. Chairs had been gathered from various quarters, mismatched but functional. Glow panels provided steady illumination, and someone had even found tapestries to cover the more grotesque wall decorations. It wasn't elegant, but it would serve.

Leia stood at the head of the table, waiting as the representatives filed in. She wore no mask now, no respirator to distort her voice. Her face was bare, her expression carefully composed into something that might pass for compassionate authority. She'd changed from her black Sith robes into simpler attire, still dark, but cut in a style that echoed Alderaanian fashion. Her hair was pulled back in an elaborate braid, the way her mother had once worn it for state functions.

Princess Leia Organa. Savior of the oppressed.

Not Darth Revaris. Revaris would be the death, while Leia would be the hope.

The representatives entered cautiously, still uncertain of their role in this sudden transformation of their world. First came Khetaan, a Twi'lek man whose collar scars were still visible despite his attempts to hide them with high-necked clothing. He'd been chosen to represent the freed slaves, not by election, but by acclamation from those who'd watched him survive fifteen years in Jabba's services.

Behind him came Vyra Sandskimmer, a human woman whose weather-worn face spoke of decades working the moisture farms. She walked with the careful pride of someone who'd built something from nothing and refused to let anyone take it from her.

Then Jeth Moross, a bounty hunter who'd had the sense to stay neutral during yesterday's massacre. He moved with professional wariness, his hand never far from his blaster even in this supposedly safe space.

A Rodian merchant named Teeko followed, his large eyes scanning the room as if calculating profit margins on the furniture itself.

And finally, surprisingly, Varlo Heff, a former slaver who'd reportedly opened his pens and released every being he'd claimed to own the moment news of Jabba's death reached him. He looked like a man waiting for execution, his shoulders hunched, his gaze fixed on the floor.

But it was the last two who made Leia pause.

An older couple entered together. The woman was small and sturdy, her grey-streaked hair pulled back in a practical bun. Her face was kind but lined with worry, her hands work-roughened. The man beside her was taller, broader, his beard neatly trimmed despite living in the desert. His eyes were sharp, assessing, and when they fixed on Leia, she felt something shift in the Force.

Recognition. Not of her face, he'd never seen her before. But recognition of what she was.

"Please, sit." Leia gestured to the chairs around the table, her voice warm and welcoming. "Thank you all for coming. I know this has been a difficult time, and the future remains uncertain. But together, we can build something better than what came before."

They settled into their seats with varying degrees of comfort. The Twi'lek man sat carefully, as if unused to having a chair of his own. The moisture farmer woman nodded politely but said nothing. The bounty hunter sprawled with deliberate casualness, while the merchant perched on the edge of his seat, ready to flee or negotiate as circumstances demanded.

The former slaver took the seat furthest from Leia and looked like he wanted to disappear through the floor.

The older couple sat together near the middle of the table, and Leia noticed how the woman's hand briefly touched the man's arm, a gesture of reassurance or warning, she couldn't tell.

"I should introduce myself properly." Leia took her own seat at the head of the table. "I am Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan. Some of you may have heard of my home world—we've long opposed slavery in all its forms, though our efforts have been... limited by political realities." She let a hint of frustration color her voice. "Yesterday, those limitations ended. With the help of Darth Revaris and the Imperial forces she commands, we've freed this world from the Hutt Cartel's control."

"Where is the Sith?" the bounty hunter asked bluntly. "Thought she'd be here, considering she did most of the actual killing."

"Darth Revaris is currently pursuing slaver operations in the northern territories," Leia replied smoothly. "She and I have an... understanding. I provide the vision for Tatooine's future, and she provides the force necessary to make that vision a reality." She paused. "But make no mistake—this world belongs to its people now, not to any Sith Lord or Imperial authority. My goal is to help you establish a government that serves your needs, not the ambitions of distant powers."

Khetaan leaned forward. "And what does this government look like, Princess? Because with respect, we've had plenty of powerful people tell us what's good for us before."

"A fair question." Leia folded her hands on the table. "I propose a system modeled after Alderaan's own government—a constitutional monarchy with an elected council. I would serve as Queen, providing stability and continuity during the transition, while you would form a council with real legislative power. Together, we would govern."

"Why would we want another monarch?" Vyra Sandskimmer asked, her voice rough from years of breathing recycled moisture farm air. "Seems to me monarchs are just Hutts with better table manners."

Several people around the table shifted uncomfortably, but Leia smiled. "Another fair question. The answer is practicality. Tatooine needs leadership immediately—infrastructure is collapsing, former slaves need housing and support, and criminal organizations are already moving to fill the power vacuum left by Jabba's death. An elected government takes time to establish, and time is something we don't have." She met the moisture farmer's eyes. "But I won't rule alone, and I won't rule absolutely. The system I'm proposing mirrors Alderaan's government—a constitutional monarchy where the monarch and an elected council share power. I would handle executive decisions and foreign relations, while the council would control legislation, taxation, and local governance. Real power, not just advisory roles."

She paused, letting that sink in. "This is meant to be a transitional arrangement—five years, perhaps ten. During that time, we establish the institutions, train administrators, and build stability. Then, like Alderaan, my role becomes more limited—I remain as Head of State for continuity and tradition, but the council governs. The people come first. Always."

"And if we say no?" the Rodian merchant asked. "If we decide we don't want an off-world princess ruling us?"

"Then I'll help you establish whatever government you choose and leave." Leia said it with perfect sincerity, though it was a lie. "I'm not here to conquer. I'm here to help. If you don't want that help, I won't force it on you."

The older woman spoke for the first time, her voice quiet but carrying clearly through the room. "You say you and the Sith have an understanding. What exactly does that mean?"

Leia turned her attention to the woman, studying her more carefully. There was something familiar about her features, though she couldn't place it. "It means we share certain goals—the abolition of slavery, the destruction of the Hutt Cartel, the establishment of order in the Outer Rim. Our methods differ, and our ultimate visions for the galaxy may not align perfectly, but for now, we're allies."

"And when your goals stop aligning?" the older man asked, his voice deeper, more cautious. "What happens then?"

"Then we'll deal with that when it comes. But I can assure you, Darth Revaris has no interest in enslaving people or establishing the kind of brutal regime the Hutts maintained. Her methods may be violent, but they're directed at those who profit from suffering, not at innocent people trying to live their lives."

"You'll forgive us if we're skeptical," the man said. "Sith Lords aren't known for their restraint or their concern for innocent lives."

Leia felt a flicker of irritation but suppressed it. "You don't have to trust her. You only have to trust that our interests align for now—and they do. She wants the Hutts destroyed. I want this world freed and rebuilt. Those goals work together."

The former slaver finally spoke, his voice trembling slightly. "What... what happens to people like me? I released my slaves as soon as I heard what happened to Jabba. Didn't wait for orders, didn't try to run. Does that count for anything?"

Leia regarded him coolly. "It counts for something. Slavery was legal under Hutt rule—I acknowledge that. But legality doesn't erase what was done, and your former slaves may seek their own justice regardless of what I decree." She paused. "So you have a choice to make."

The man swallowed hard. "A choice?"

"You can leave Tatooine now, take whatever wealth you've accumulated, and start over somewhere the victims of your past won't find you. I won't stop you." Leia's gaze didn't waver. "Or you can stay and face what you've done. Try to make amends."

"How?" He looked up, meeting her eyes. "I can't take back the harm I caused. But if there's a way to help make things right..."

"Justice and mercy must be balanced. Darth Revaris would execute you for your crimes without hesitation. I'm inclined toward a different path—restitution." Leia leaned forward slightly. "You'll use your resources and knowledge of the slave trade to help us hunt down other operations. You'll work without compensation for the next five years, all your profits going toward supporting the people you once held captive. If you do this faithfully, you may eventually earn a place in this new society—and protection from retribution." She paused. "But if you betray that trust, I'll turn you over to Revaris personally. Understood?"

The man nodded quickly, relief and terror mixing on his face. "Understood. Thank you, Princess. I'll stay. I'll help."

The bounty hunter snorted. "Soft. The Sith would've just killed him."

Would she? When she is sitting right here? Sidious did a good job making the Sith a bunch of bloodthirsty monsters; her father definitely helped that impression. But it made it easier for her to hide herself, probably why Sidious sis it in the first place.

"Perhaps. But we're trying to build something better than what came before, not simply replace one brutal regime with another. That requires room for redemption—however conditional."

"Speaking of building something," the Rodian merchant interjected, "what about trade? The Hutts controlled all the major shipping routes through this sector. With them gone, we need new arrangements, or this world starves."

"Already being addressed. I currently serve as Imperial administrator for forty-seven systems in the Mid and Outer Rim. All of those systems will immediately begin establishing trade routes with Tatooine. We're talking about hundreds of merchant vessels, supply chains for food, water reclamation technology, medical supplies—everything this world needs." She leaned forward. "The Empire may be brutal, but it's also efficient. And those systems answer to me, not to some distant Moff who doesn't care if Tatooine thrives or dies."

The merchant's large eyes widened. "Forty-seven systems? That's... substantial."

"It's a start. But Tatooine can't survive on charity forever—you need a real economy." Leia gestured toward the window, toward the desert beyond. "This world has been seen as worthless for too long. But you sit at the junction of three Outer Rim hyperlanes. Under the Hutts, this was a place honest merchants avoided—lawless, dangerous, controlled by criminals. But under proper governance?" She let that hang for a moment. "Tatooine becomes a profitable waypoint. Ships need to refuel. Crews need to resupply. Cargo needs secure storage during transfers between routes."

Teeko leaned forward, his merchant's mind already calculating. "Port fees. Customs tariffs on goods traded here."

"Exactly. We'll build proper spaceport facilities, establish fair but profitable tariff rates, offer Imperial protection for legitimate trade. Within a year, Tatooine could generate substantial customs revenue. Within five, you could be one of the more prosperous port worlds in the Outer Rim." She paused. "But it requires infrastructure investment. Proper landing facilities, warehouses, and defense stations. That's where my forty-seven systems come in—they'll provide the initial capital and trade volume to get the economy moving. After that, Tatooine stands on its own."

"And if the Hutts try to interfere?" Vyra asked. "They won't like losing their monopoly on Outer Rim shipping."

"Then they'll learn what happens when you threaten Imperial commerce," Leia said simply. "I'm not offering charity. I'm offering partnership—and protection."

The man, part of the couple that didn't introduce themselves, cleared his throat. "That all sounds wonderful, Princess. But I have to ask—and don't take this wrong—why? Why does a princess from the Core Worlds care so much about a backwater desert planet in the Outer Rim?" He paused, then added carefully, "Or maybe the question is: are you really from the Core Worlds?"

The room went still. The other representatives looked at Owan with a mix of alarm and curiosity. You didn't challenge royalty quite so directly, not unless you had a death wish.

But Leia didn't look offended. She seemed to have been waiting for this question.

"You're observant. What gave it away?"

"Your eyes," The woman said softly. "We know those eyes, Your Highness. Eyes of a former slave."

Owen leaned forward. "And your name. Leia Organa is an adopted name, isn't it? But your birth name..." He let the question hang in the air.

Leia was quiet for a long moment.

"Skywalker. I was born Leia Skywalker. My birth father was a slave, born here on Tatooine, as was my grandmother, as was every Skywalker before that."

The reaction was immediate. Khetaan straightened in his chair, his lekku twitching with recognition. Vyra's expression softened considerably. Even the bounty hunter looked impressed, in his own cynical way.

"Skywalker," Khetaan repeated. "That's a slave name. One of the old ones, from before the Hutts even came to power."

"Yes. My biological mother died shortly after I was born. I was… adopted by the Organas, raised as royalty on Alderaan, given every privilege, every advantage." Her eyes swept across the assembled faces. "But some of you already know what happened. I was stolen from my home, taken. It was years before the Empire saved me."

She swallowed, steadying herself. The sincerity wasn't difficult, it had been a hard truth to live. "For many of those years, I carried a slave chip. I was broken down, piece by piece, by a cruel Master who took pleasure in it. But now I am free. And I came here for you, because I know what it is to suffer."

"To free your people," the former slaver said quietly, and there was something like awe in his voice.

"To free everyone. Slave, free-born, doesn't matter. Tatooine deserves better than what it's had. And yes—perhaps I feel that more strongly because I was born a Skywalker." She met Owen's eyes across the table. "Because I understand what it means to be owned."

The atmosphere in the room had shifted dramatically. Where before there had been cautious cooperation, now there was something warmer, not quite trust, but recognition. She was one of them. Not some outsider playing savior, but a daughter of Tatooine returned to claim her heritage.

"That's why you're really here," Vyra said, and it wasn't a question. "Not just politics, not just the Empire's interests. This is personal."

"Everything is personal. But that doesn't make it any less real. The slaves I freed—they're still free. The war I'm bringing to the Hutts—it's still happening. Whether I do this out of compassion or vengeance or both doesn't change the outcome."

Khetaan spoke up, his voice thick with emotion. "My grandmother was a Skywalker. Died in the spice mines when I was young. If you're truly one of us, if you carry that name..." He stood, placing his hand over his heart in a gesture of respect. "Then you have my support. Not just as a representative, but as kin."

"And mine," Vyra added. "That name means something here. It means someone who stands up when others fall down."

Even Jeth the bounty hunter nodded. "Explains why you went after Jabba alone. That's Skywalker pride—stubborn, reckless, and usually effective."

They spent the next hour discussing practical matters, food distribution, law enforcement, infrastructure repair. Khetaan spoke passionately about housing for the freed slaves. Vyra raised concerns about water rights and moisture farming regulations. Jeth questioned how they'd maintain security without Jabba's enforcers. Teeko wanted assurances about property rights and trade agreements.

Through it all, the older couple remained mostly quiet, asking occasional pointed questions but offering little commentary. Leia found herself increasingly aware of them, of the way they watched her with something between curiosity and suspicion.

Finally, as the meeting began to wind down, the woman spoke again.

"You haven't asked about us. About what we represent."

Leia tilted her head. "I assumed you were representatives of the moisture farming community, like Vyra here."

"Not exactly." The woman glanced at her husband, who gave a slight nod. "We're part of something, a network of people who helped slaves escape. Smuggled them off-world, provided false documents, hid them when hunters came looking. Small scale, quiet, but persistent."

Leia felt genuine surprise, an emotion she hadn't expected to experience in this carefully choreographed meeting. "A resistance movement. Here, under the Hutts' noses."

"Someone had to. We couldn't free everyone, couldn't stop the slave trade entirely. But we saved who we could, when we could. It wasn't much, but it was something."

"It was more than most people did," Leia said quietly, and meant it. "What are your names? I should have asked earlier."

"Beru Lars. And this is my husband, Owen."

Lars. The name triggered something in Leia's memory, data she'd reviewed while researching Luke Skywalker's background. Owen and Beru Lars, moisture farmers in the Jundland Wastes. Luke's aunt and uncle by marriage. The people who'd raised him.

These were Luke's family. The ones who'd hidden him, raised him, kept him safe from the Empire for nineteen years.

And now they sat at her table, studying her with those sharp, knowing eyes.

"Lars. That's an uncommon name in these parts."

"Uncommon enough." Owen's gaze never wavered from her face. "We had a nephew. Grew up with us, helped on the farm. Good boy. Left a few years back."

"Sounds like a good man," Leia said carefully, her words measured. "Raised by people who risked their lives for a cause they believed in." They both knew she wasn't talking about freeing slaves.

"He is." Beru agreed softly. "Though I worry about him out there. He's brave—maybe too brave. Gets that from his father, I think." She hesitated, then added, "His father was a Jedi, before the Purge. Did you know that?"

The room had gone still. The other representatives looked on with varying degrees of curiosity and unease, but Leia's attention was fixed solely on the Lars couple.

"The Jedi are outlawed in the Empire. But that won't be held against your nephew. Not here. We don't choose our parents."

And no one will choose Anakin Skywalker if they can help it, both of her and Luke's right arms are proof of that.

"Yes. We can't." Owen said. "And what's happening now—with this Darth Revaris, with you— Power changing hands. People claiming they're bringing freedom, bringing peace. We've seen it before." His expression hardened slightly. "Forgive me, Princess, but we're simple people. We judge by actions, not words. You say you want to free slaves and build a better world. That's good. We'll support that. But we'll also be watching to make sure this new government doesn't become just another group of masters with different titles."

It was a challenge. Polite, respectful, but unmistakable. They knew who she was, and they knew what she was. They'd lived through the fall of the Republic, the rise of the Empire, and decades of Hutt rule. They'd learned to be suspicious of powerful people bearing gifts.

And they were right to be suspicious.

"I'd expect nothing less. In fact, I'm counting on people like you to keep this government honest. That's why I want a council with real power, not just a rubber stamp for royal decrees. You've already proven your commitment to justice by risking your lives to help slaves escape. That's exactly the kind of moral backbone this world needs."

Beru's expression softened slightly, but the suspicion didn't entirely leave her eyes. "We'll serve on your council, Princess. We'll help build this government, work with you to free more slaves and fight the Hutts. But understand—we're doing this for the people of Tatooine, not for you or your Sith ally. If we see you becoming something other than what you claim, we'll oppose you."

"I wouldn't want it any other way," Leia said, and in that moment, she almost meant it.

The meeting concluded shortly after, with agreements to reconvene in three days once everyone had consulted with their communities. The representatives filed out in groups—Khetaan and Vyra talking quietly together, Jeth and Teeko negotiating something in hushed tones, Varlo scurrying away as if afraid someone might change their mind about his reprieve.

Owen and Beru lingered, waiting until the others had left before approaching Leia at the head of the table.

"A word, Princess?" Owen asked, though there was something different in his tone now, not deference, but challenge.

"Of course."

They moved closer, and Leia noticed how they positioned themselves, careful, deliberate, aware of exits. These were people who'd spent decades keeping dangerous secrets in one of the most dangerous places in the galaxy.

"We know who you are," Beru said quietly, cutting straight to the point.

Leia's expression didn't change. "I just told the council who I am."

"No. We know who you really are. Obi-Wan told us everything before he went into hiding. About Anakin. About what he became. About the twins who had to be separated for their own protection." Owen's eyes were hard. "We know you're Luke's sister. We know you're our niece. We know you're Darth Revaris."

Well, they want a Sith? They will get one. She let her eyes bleed back to gold, her kind smile grew sharper, and she let a bit of the dark side loose, letting the temperature drop.

"I see. And what do you intend to do with that knowledge?"

"That depends. What are you planning? Taking over Tatooine. Pretending to be a saint. Han Solo frozen in carbonite downstairs. You're setting a trap."

"I'm establishing order on a freed world. And Captain Solo is... insurance."

"Insurance for what?" Owen demanded. "Bait to lure Luke here?"

"Luke will come whether I bait him or not. That's who he is. Reckless, heroic, predictable." She met their eyes steadily. "I have no intention of hurting him."

"Then what?" Beru asked. "What happens when he arrives?"

"I'll warn him. About Vader. About staying out of matters that don't concern him. About not playing hero when he doesn't understand the full picture." Her voice hardened. "Luke is going after our father, after the Empire. That's dangerous for everyone involved, including him. He needs to understand that and stay away."

"Stay away from Vader?" Owen asked. "Or stay away from you?"

"Both, perhaps. We're not on the same side, your nephew and I. But that doesn't mean I want him dead."

"Just controlled," Beru said quietly. "Just manipulated into doing what you think is best."

"I prefer 'guided.' And yes, I'd rather he survive by following my guidance than by following his reckless Jedi friends."

Owen and Beru exchanged a long look. Some silent communication passed between them, the kind that came from decades of marriage, of shared secrets, of raising a Force-sensitive boy in hiding.

"We don't trust you. We can't. Whatever Vader did to you, whatever you've become—you're still a Sith Lord setting traps for our son."

"Yes, I am a Sith Lord. And yes, I'm setting a trap. But not for the reasons you think."

They were silent for what felt like hours, no one making the next move.

"We'll work with you. For Tatooine's sake. The freed slaves deserve support, and you're offering that, whatever your motives. We'll serve on your council. We'll help build this government." Owen paused. "But we'll be watching. And when Luke comes, we'll tell him everything."

"He'll come anyway."

"Yes. But he'll come knowing his sister is here. Knowing what you are. Knowing that you claim to want to protect him while setting traps." Beru's voice softened slightly. "Maybe then you two can actually talk instead of fighting. Maybe you can be family instead of enemies."

"We're not enemies."

"Aren't you?" Owen challenged. "You're using his best friend as bait. You're planning to 'warn him' about staying out of your way. That sounds like enemies to me."

Leia was quiet for a moment. "Luke is hunting Vader. So am I. But I'm actually going to succeed—I'm going to kill him, and the Emperor with him. Luke will get himself killed trying to play hero, or worse, Vader will turn him. I need him to stay away until it's done."

"Your way involves chains," Beru said softly. "Maybe not literal ones, but chains nonetheless. Manipulation. Control. Lies." She paused. "You have Shmi's eyes, you know. Luke's grandmother. Your grandmother. She was a slave here once. Owen's father bought her freedom and married her. She understood what it meant to be powerless, to have your choices taken away." Her gaze held steady. "She would have wanted better for both of you than this."

Something flickered across Leia's face—pain, perhaps, or anger. But it was gone in an instant.

"My grandmother is dead. As is my mother—everyone who might have wanted 'better' for me. What I am now is what I made myself into. What I had to become to survive."

"And what about Luke's choices?" Owen asked. "Does he get to decide whether to hunt Vader? Or do you make that decision for him too?"

"He gets to live. That's the choice I'm giving him. Stay away from Vader, stay out of my way, and he gets to live. That's more than most people get in this galaxy."

Owen shook his head slowly. "You really believe that, don't you? That you're helping him."

"I'm keeping him alive. Whether that's help or not is a matter of perspective."

Another long look passed between Owen and Beru.

"We'll see. When Luke arrives, we'll see what kind of sister you really are. Whether you're the girl Obi-Wan tried to save, or just another weapon Vader created."

"Maybe I'm both. Has that occurred to you?"

"Yes," Beru said, and there was genuine sadness in her voice. "That's what makes this so tragic."

They turned to leave, but Owen paused at the door. "One more thing—if you hurt him, if anything happens to Luke because of your plans, we will find a way to stop you. I don't care if you're a Sith Lord or our niece or the Queen of Tatooine. You're not taking another child from us."

"Noted."

They left then, walking side by side through the palace corridors. And Leia stood alone in the empty conference room, feeling the weight of their words settle over her like a shroud.

They knew. They would watch. And when Luke came, they would tell him everything.

But that was a problem for another day.

For now, she had a government to build and a war to wage. Everything else—family, loyalty, the question of whether protecting Luke meant controlling him—could wait.

The door hissed open behind her, interrupting her thoughts.

"Oh! Mistress Leia, I do apologize for the intrusion!" C-3PO's voice carried that familiar blend of anxiousness and perfect politeness as he shuffled into the conference room. "But I was instructed to inform you immediately when—"

"What is it, Threepio?"

"Your guest, Mistress. Captain Solo." The droid's photoreceptors flickered with what might have been concern. "The medical droids report he has regained consciousness and is... well, lucid might be a strong word, given his rather colorful language about the hibernation sickness, but he is awake and demanding to know where he is."

"I see. And his condition?"

"Stable, according to the medical assessment. Temporary blindness from the carbonite freezing should resolve within a few hours. Some muscle weakness, disorientation, but nothing permanent." C-3PO tilted his head.

She moved to the window, looking out over the desert landscape of Tatooine. Somewhere out there, Luke was training, fighting, becoming stronger. And soon—very soon—he would hear that his friend was here, trapped in Jabba's palace.

No. Not Jabba's palace anymore.

Her palace now.

"Shall I tell him anything, Mistress?"

"Tell him he's safe. Tell him he's on Tatooine, in what used to be Jabba's palace. Tell him..." She paused, considering. "Tell him he's under the protection of the new government. Nothing more."

C-3PO left, still muttering worriedly about proper protocol for informing thawed carbonite prisoners of their circumstances.

And Leia stood alone at the window, watching the twin suns set over Tatooine's endless dunes.

The trap was set. The pieces were in position. And Han Solo was awake.

Now all she had to do was wait for her brother to come.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: Need Saving


Leia:

Leia stood outside the medical bay for five full minutes.

She'd delayed this for a few hours, but she couldn't put it off any longer. 

Captain Han Solo. The man who'd shot her in the back on the Death Star. Who'd saved Luke's life by nearly ending hers. She'd felt the blaster bolt punch through her shoulder, felt herself falling, her lightsaber spinning away across the deck. Another few inches to the left and she'd be dead.

She could repay that favor. Thoroughly. The lightning answered to her will now, precise and controllable. She knew exactly how much pain a body could take before breaking, and knew which nerves to target for maximum effect. A few hours and he'd tell her everything—Luke's training, the Rebellion's plans, every secret he knew.

But Luke would come regardless of what Solo told her. And torturing his best friend would guarantee Luke saw her as the enemy. Would confirm every nightmare he had about his Sith sister.

She needed Luke to listen. Just listen. That started with keeping Solo alive and unharmed.

Practical, not merciful. She had to remember that.

Leia pressed the door control.

Han Solo sat on the medical bed, eyes unfocused, squinting toward the sound of the door. The blindness from carbonite hadn't fully cleared. He looked thinner than she remembered from the Death Star. Did the rebellion not feed him?

"Someone there?" His voice was rough.

"Yes."

He turned toward her voice. "You going to tell me where I am, or is this one of those mysterious captor things?"

"Tatooine. What used to be Jabba's palace."

"Perfect. Just perfect." He rubbed his face roughly. "So the slug finally decided to thaw me out? What's he want—payment? Information? Because I hate to break it to him, but I'm broke and I don't know anything worth—"

"Jabba is dead."

Solo went completely still. "What?"

"I killed him. This palace belongs to me now."

She watched him process that, saw his entire posture shift as he reassessed the situation. His hand moved instinctively toward where his blaster would normally be, found nothing, dropped back to his side.

"You. Killed. Jabba the Hutt."

"Is there an echo in this room?"

"No, I'm just trying to figure out what kind of crazy person kills Jabba and takes over his operation. That's suicide-level stupid. The Hutts don't forgive that kind of thing."

"Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan. Imperial Administrator. Also known as Darth Revaris."

The name made him pause. She saw recognition flash across his face, followed by shock, then something harder to read.

"You," he said slowly. "You're Luke's—"

"Twin sister. Yes."

"The Sith Lord."

"Yes."

"The one who tried to kill us on the Death Star."

"Yes. Well, only Luke, I couldn’t care less about the rest of you."

Solo let out a long breath, ran his hand through his hair. "I need to sit down."

"You're already sitting."

"Then I need to lie down. Or drink. Preferably both." But he didn't move, just kept his unfocused eyes pointed in her general direction. "Luke's sister. So, is this another one of your father's plots to capture Luke?”

So Luke had told him. Of course he had. They were best friends.

"What did Luke tell you?"

"That Vader's his father. Which makes Vader your father too, since you're twins." Solo's eyes were clearer now, focusing on her better. "Vader put bounties on Luke. We spent almost three years dodging bounty hunters and Imperials while trying to help the Rebellion. The other Jedi wanted to bench him—every mission he was on went sideways because of it."

She remained quiet, wanting to see if he would reveal anything else about those three years, about the Jedi the rebellion had.

“The Jedi called it the Skywalker luck.”

"Yes. Our father wants Luke captured. To turn him. Make him rule alongside us as some sort of Sith royalty."

"You don't sound convinced."

"I'm not. Even if my plans didn't include killing our father in the most painful way possible, Luke would die before he turned. Vader's wasting his time."

"You got that right. Kid's the most stubborn person I ever met—" Solo stopped. "Wait. You're planning to do what to Vader?"

"Why do you sound so surprised? I'm a Sith. Betrayal and murder are practically our tradition."

"Well, I don't know much about Sith, except that according to the Jedi bunch, you're all evil because of that Force thing."

"Force thing?" Leia's voice went cold, almost insulted by how he referenced the Force. "It's our connection to the dark side. The corruption that makes it hard to see beyond your own immediate goals. The appeal of death and destruction to get what you need. The ability, the knowledge, that you can make the galaxy kneel."

"Sounds like a bunch of excuses to me. You just want to do what you want, damn the consequences, and you use the Force as something to blame."

"It's not, only the weak Sith succumbed to it—" She stopped, frustrated. "Never mind. That's not the point. I am going to kill Vader and Palpatine. And I need Luke to stay out of it."

"Why?"

"Because he'll get himself killed trying to go after Vader, never mind Sidious. He couldn't win against me. He definitely can't win against them."

"When you almost killed him."

"Yes. As you saw, he's too weak. He will die if he tries."

"He won't stop. He wants to save you. Half the Rebellion's arguments are about you—whether you can be saved, whether you want to be saved, whether it's worth the risk, or whether they should have you killed."

Something twisted in Leia's chest. "They talk about me?"

"Talk about you? Princess, you're practically all they talk about sometimes." Solo's voice was rough. "Half the Rebellion thinks you're a lost cause, too far gone to save. The other half thinks Luke's crazy and you should be locked up. And Luke..." He stopped. "Luke just wants his family. Sure, one is Darth Vader himself, and the other—"

"The other's also a Sith Lord. I know what I am."

"Do you?" Solo leaned forward, his cloudy eyes trying to focus on her. "Because you just told me you killed Jabba the Hutt. That doesn't sound like typical Empire behavior."

"Why? Sith is best at killing."

"Yeah, but the Empire is allied with the Hutts; I don’t see them approving of killing Jabba." 

“Well, I didn’t ask, and slavery is illegal in the Empire, so I have the law on my side.” Not that it mattered, she is a Sith, they make the rules.

He was quiet for a moment. "You know… Winter told us. About why you are a Sith. About what Vader did to you when you were a kid."

"What exactly did my dear sister tell you?"

"That Vader took you when you were nine. Trained you, tortured you, turned you into his apprentice. That you've been his weapon for over a decade." Solo's jaw tightened. "Luke thinks you're still in there somewhere. That he's going to save you, even if it kills him. Which it probably will."

"Luke is an idiot. I don’t need to be saved."

"Luke is the best person I know." There was steel in Solo's voice now. "He doesn't give up on people. Even people who've tried to kill him. Especially family."

“Well, I didn't succeed, did I? You shot me in the back and stopped me.”

They stared at each other—Solo with his unfocused eyes, Leia with her arms crossed defensively.

"I'd do it again," Solo said finally. "If I thought you were going to hurt him. I don't care if you're his sister or a Sith Lord or both. Nobody hurts Luke."

"How touching."

"Listen here, Your Highness, Luke saved my life more times than I can count. Came back when he didn't have to, when the smart thing was to run. He's my best friend. I'd die for him." Solo tilted his head. 

That caught her off guard. 

"So, Princess, are you just using Luke? Sure, you told me you are not going to turn him to Vader, doesn’t mean you are up to any good."

Oh, this man was so annoying; all she wanted was to use the Force to make him shut up. He will die for Luke? He is the best man he knows? Of course, her perfect brother has such loyal friends. 

"I'm planning to keep him alive, you moron. That's why I need to talk to him."

"And then? You're going to let him be a Jedi? A rebel? Fighting against you?"

"The Rebellion has no reason to fight me, I am not my Master, or Sidious, I go after the Hutts and slavers, and I don't see the Rebellion fighting alongside the Hutts."

“They won’t. But the Rebellion is quite sure you have some sort of long game going on; this is just going to make them think you have some sort of ulterior goal.”

“And what can it possibly be? I am saving the slaves, killing Hutts, I am doing what the Jedi were supposed to do when they were alive, but were too cowardly to do.”

He seems to think for a bit.

"So you're not working for Vader, right? You're planning to move against him when the time is right."

"As I already said, you are quite slow, aren’t you?”

"Does he know?"

"Of course not."

"So you are definitely playing a long game. Pretending to be a kind ruler while building power. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike."

"I might."

"That's exactly what Palpatine did. You know that, right?"

The comparison was uncalled for.

"I'm nothing like the Emperor."

"Sure you are, Princess. The methods are similar. Lie, manipulate, gather power, strike when people least expect it." Solo's expression was hard to read. "When you're fighting monsters, you have to be careful not to become one."

"So nothing to worry about, I am already a monstar."

“Oh, I know monsters when I see them, princess, and you're not one. No matter how much you're trying to pretend.”

“You can’t see anything, you are still half blind from the carbonite sickness.”

“Sure thing, your highness, but I can still see that.”

How can one person be so annoying? She will kill him, the second she can get away with it without angering Luke.

Solo rubbed his face again. "This is insane. I’m talking to Luke's Sith Lord twin sister about keeping him safe from their Sith Lord father. This is the weirdest week of my life, and I've had a lot of weird lately."

"Welcome to my family."

He actually laughed—short and bitter. "Your family. Right. You're also Winter's sister by adoption, right? And Ahsoka—she was Vader's Padawan before he fell, which makes her... what? Your weird Jedi step-sister?"

"Something like that."

"That is one hell of a family you got there."

Leia felt something in her chest tighten. "Yes… I guess you're right."

"So here's how this is going to work, Princess. I'm assuming you're keeping me here as bait. Luke will come when he finds out where I am. You'll try to convince him to stay away from Vader, maybe tell him about your plans. He'll probably not listen because that's who he is. And somewhere in all of this, I'll be watching to figure out if you're actually trying to help him or if this is all an elaborate trap."

"It's not a trap."

"Then you won't mind me observing everything you do. Learning your patterns. Watching for the moment you slip up and reveal what you really want."

"And if I object to being watched?"

"You won't, because you want me too, don't you?"

Leia's eyes narrowed. "Don't flatter yourself, you nerf harder. I've had more appealing propositions from Hutts."

"Hutts? Really? That's the best you've got?" Solo laughed, actually laughed. "Come on, Princess. You're supposed to be this terrifying Sith Lord, and that's your comeback?"

"I could kill you with a thought."

"But you won't. Because you need me for Luke." He took a step closer, still unsteady but deliberately invading her space. "And that's not what I meant. You want me because you want my knowledge—about Luke, about the Rebellion, about what makes him tick. That's why you're really here, isn't it?" His smirk widened.

“But it's good to know where your mind went first, Princess. Maybe you do want me like that after all."

Leia felt heat flood her face. "That's—this is—you're twisting my words."

"I didn't twist anything. You went straight to that interpretation all on your own." He was clearly enjoying this now, the bastard. "I'm just a simple smuggler making observations."

"You are insufferable."

"And you're blushing. I can't see it clearly yet, but I can hear it in your voice." Solo tilted his head. "For a Sith Lord, you get flustered pretty easily."

"I am not flustered!"

"Am I? I thought we were still talking about you watching me. Or me watching you. Gets a little unclear." He tilted his head. "You know, your voice goes up half an octave when you're flustered. That's interesting."

"I am not flustered!"

"You sure? Because you just raised your voice at a blind guy who can barely stand. That seems like flustered behavior to me."

"I—you—" Leia stopped, forced herself to take a breath.

That stung more than it should have. Leia forced herself to stay calm.

"You'll stay here until Luke arrives. You'll have comfortable quarters, food, freedom to move about the palace. But you won't leave Tatooine."

"And if I try?"

"I'll freeze you in carbonite again. Permanently this time. That's not a threat, it's a fact. You're a wanted Rebel, and I'm an Imperial Administrator. I have every right to keep you in custody."

Solo flinched at the mention of carbonite. Good. He needed to understand the boundaries.

"So I'm your prisoner, princess. I thought it was supposed to be the other way around."

"You're my guest."

"Guests can leave."

"Not when they're bait." She moved toward the door. "You'll address me as Princess Leia. You'll cooperate with security. And when Luke arrives, you'll let me talk to him before you start filling his head with conspiracy theories."

"No promises on that last one."

"I'm not asking for promises. I'm asking for the chance to keep my brother alive."

“If you think so, I’m not convinced of that, not sure that you are.”

"I am."

"Are you? Because it sounds like you're planning to control him. Keep him safe by keeping him away. That's imprisonment."

Leia felt heat rising in her face. "You don't understand the situation."

They glared at each other. Leia realized her fists were clenched, that the Force was responding to her anger, making the lights flicker slightly.

Solo noticed too. "There it is. The Sith temper. Can you do more than make a light show?"

"You don’t want me to do more than that. Trust me."

Solo took a step closer, even though he couldn't fully see her. "Here's what I do trust. I think you actually do care about Luke. I think somewhere under all the Imperial training and Sith philosophy, you're still his sister. But I also think you're dangerous. Not because you're evil, but because you're desperate. And desperate people make terrible decisions."

"I'm not desperate."

"You killed Jabba the Hutt and freed his slaves, even though the Hutt Cartel will come after you for it. You're keeping me here as bait even though it might alienate Luke from you. You're planning to take on Vader and the Emperor with what—a handful of freed slaves and some tactical knowledge?" Solo shook his head. "That sounds pretty desperate to me, Princess."

He was right. She hated that he was right.

"What would you have me do?" Leia asked quietly. "Stay with Vader? Keep being his weapon? Let Luke throw himself at our father and die?"

"I'd have you trust someone. Tell Luke the truth. Work with the Rebellion instead of against it. Stop trying to do everything alone."

"The Rebellion is a bunch of fools, even if they somehow did manage to win, what they have won’t last."

"Not now, they wouldn't. But if you work with them, help them build—"

"I won’t because they have ideals, they have things they are not willing to sacrifice. Things that need to happen. Democracy didn't fall in a day, and it takes a lot longer than that to build it back up." She turned away. 

Silence. Then Solo spoke, his voice softer.

"Luke thinks differently. He thinks everyone can be saved. Even Vader, which is completely insane. But especially you. He talks about finding you, about showing you there's another way. He's got this whole speech prepared about family and hope and light side nonsense." Solo paused. 

Leia's throat tightened. "It won’t work."

"Maybe not. But Luke thinks he can. And I'm going to help him try, even if it gets me killed." Solo straightened despite his weakness. "So here's the deal, Princess. I'll stay. I'll be your bait or your guest or whatever you want to call it. But I'm going to watch everything you do. And when Luke gets here, I'm going to tell him everything I've learned. Then he can decide if you're worth saving."

"I never asked to be saved. I don’t need to be saved."

"No. But Luke's going to try anyway. That's who he is." Solo moved toward the door, feeling along the wall. "Now, where's that refresher you mentioned? And food. I'm starving."

"I'll have C-3PO show you to your quarters."

"The protocol droid? Yeah, I remember you took him from the Death Star. Figures." He paused at the door. "My ship. The Millennium Falcon. Where is it?"

Leia remembered the battered freighter from that night, the one that had somehow outrun a Star Destroyer despite looking like it might fall apart at any moment. "Last I checked, your friend from Cloud City had it. Lando Calrissian, wasn't it?"

"Lando's got the Falcon?" Solo looked pained. "That... actually, yeah, that makes sense. If anyone could keep her running while I was frozen, it'd be him." His expression darkened. 

"Your ship is of no importance, Captain. Focus on your own situation."

"The Falcon's always my situation." He stepped into the corridor, then glanced back. "At least Lando won't crash her." He glanced at Leia. 

"I don’t see why you care for that piece of junk so much. Your ship looked... unreliable."

"Unreliable?" Solo's voice rose. "The Falcon is the fastest ship in the galaxy!” 

"Fastest at falling apart, perhaps. That rust bucket looked like it might not survive launch."

The look on Solo's face was pure offense. "Rust bucket? That's the Millennium Falcon!"

"That's a mobile scrap heap with delusions of adequacy."

"She made the Kessel Run in twelve parsecs!"

"That's a measure of distance, not speed."

"She outran Imperial Star Destroyers!"

"While shedding parts, from what the sensor reports indicated."

"Those were cosmetic!"

"Captain, I've seen better-maintained ships in salvage yards."

"You—" He stopped, visibly collecting himself. "Okay. Okay. You clearly don't know the first thing about ships. The Falcon has a class 0.5 hyperdrive. Point five. She's got reinforced shields, enhanced sublight engines, military-grade sensors, and enough modifications to make her faster than any ship in her class. In any class."

"And yet she looks like she's held together with nothing but the Force and duct tape.”

"She's held together with my mechanical skill and quality engineering."

"If you say so."

"I do say so. And when Luke gets here, the first thing I'm telling him is that his sister has terrible taste in starships."

"I'll survive the disappointment."

"And I'm telling Winter you insulted the Falcon. She liked that ship."

"I'm sure she'll understand I was being honest."

"Nobody understands insulting a man's ship, Princess. That's just cruel." He shook his head, started down the corridor. "I need food, a shower, and not to think about you calling the Falcon a rust bucket for at least an hour."

They stared at each other. Leia realized she was actually annoyed, not threatened or calculating, just genuinely irritated that this smuggler was defending his rust bucket like it was a work of art.

"I'll have Threepio show you to your quarters."

She left the room and went to find C-3PO. Solo would need to be escorted to his quarters, fed, and monitored. Kept comfortable but controlled.

Just like Vader had done to her.

No. Not the same. She was not torturing him; she was not putting him in front of assassin droids for the fun of it. 

Wasn't she?

Han Solo was going to be a problem. That was obvious.

Because somewhere in that conversation, he'd made her feel like Leia Organa again instead of Darth Revaris. Like a person instead of a Sith Lord.

And that was the most dangerous thing of all.

Han:

Three months on Tatooine, and Han Solo had developed opinions.

Not about the planet, Tatooine was still a dust-covered hellhole, no surprises there. Not about his situation, still technically a prisoner, still waiting for Luke to show up and inevitably do something stupid.

No, his opinions were about Leia Organa, and they were becoming a problem.

The first time he saw her actually working, he'd expected... he didn't know what. Evil Sith stuff. Torturing informants, maybe. Cackling over battle plans.

Instead, he'd wandered into what used to be Jabba's throne room, now a command center, and found her arguing with three different holograms at once.

"—don't care about the traditional trade routes, Administrator. The traditional routes went through Hutt-controlled space. We're establishing new ones—"

"General, if our troops aren't ready for integration, they stay in separate units. I'm not risking lives because someone wants to prove a point about unity—"

"Princess, with all due respect, the Empire's opinion on our governance structure is irrelevant. We are free. We'll govern ourselves—"

She was juggling a planetary government, a military campaign, and trade routes simultaneously. Without notes.

Han had backed out before she noticed him.

By week three, he'd mapped her routine. Not because he cared, but because he was bored and gathering intelligence.

She woke at 0400. Two hours of lightsaber training in the courtyard. Then military commanders. Then, planetary administrators. Intelligence reports. Then the lower levels where she trained the Force-sensitive kids she'd freed.

Every day. No breaks. The only thing breaking the routine is when she leaves the planet to go and kill Hutts in another.

"Doesn't she ever just... stop?" Han asked C-3PO one morning.

"Oh, Mistress Leia is very dedicated to her responsibilities, Captain Solo. Though I must confess, I do worry. She hasn't taken a full rest cycle in several weeks."

"Weeks?"

"According to my calculations, she meditates approximately two hours per day. Usually in brief intervals. She claims meditation provides adequate rest, but I remain unconvinced."

That's when Han started noticing she also never ate. Or rarely ate. She'd sit at meals, push food around, take a few bites if someone was watching. But he'd seen her dinner thrown away, mostly untouched, more times than not.

"You planning to eat that, or just rearrange it artistically?" Han asked one evening, deliberately sitting across from her in the mostly-empty dining hall.

Leia looked up from her datapad. "I'm working."

"You're always working. You can work and eat."

"Some of us have responsibilities, Captain."

"Yeah, and one of those responsibilities is not starving to death. Luke's gonna be really annoyed if he shows up and finds out you died of malnutrition before he could have his big emotional confrontation."

"I'm not starving. The Force—"

"—provides sustenance. Yeah, Threepio mentioned that's your line." Han leaned back. "But here's the thing. I've known Force users. Not many, but a few. And they all ate food. Like normal people."

"I don't have time for—"

"For basic survival? That's stupid."

"What did you just say?"

"You heard me. It's stupid. You're running yourself into the ground for what? So you can collapse in six months and leave all these freed slaves and new governments without a leader? I once watched Luke try to fight a rancor with a bone, and that was still a better decision."

Leia set down her datapad carefully. "You're lecturing me?"

"I'm lecturing you on not being an idiot."

"I could kill you where you sit."

"But you won't. Because Luke would be sad, and you're trying to stay on his good side." Han picked up a piece of bread from his plate, tossed it at her. "Eat something. I'm not leaving until you do."

"You're insufferable."

"And you're stubborn. Looks like we're stuck with each other."

She glared at him. He smiled back.

Finally, with exaggerated irritation, she picked up the bread. Chewed. Swallowed.

"Happy?"

"Getting there. Now eat something with actual nutritional value."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't. But you really want to, which is almost as good."

She ate a few more bites before going back to her datapad. Han counted it as a win.

That became their pattern. He'd find her working and interrupt. Bring food. Make annoying comments. Refuse to leave until she at least pretends to take care of herself.

She'd insult him. He'd insult her back. They'd argue about everything from military strategy to ship maintenance to whether moisture farming was "a legitimate profession", his position, or "the saddest way to waste a life", hers.

And somewhere in all that arguing, something shifted.

"You're doing it wrong," Han said one afternoon, watching Leia inspect a newly acquired transport in the palace hangar.

"I'm doing what wrong?"

"The inspection. You're checking all the obvious places. But you're missing the good stuff." He walked over, ran his hand along the interior wall. "Hidden compartments. Every smuggler worth their salt has them. This model usually has one right about... here." He pressed a sequence of rivets, and a panel popped open, revealing containers packed inside.

Leia pulled one out and opened it. "Spice."

"Yep. Probably two hundred thousand credits worth of glitterstim."

"Confiscated." She started removing containers. "Add it to the inventory for destruction."

"Whoa, hold on. Destruction? That's a lot of credits you're just burning."

"I don't traffic in spice, Solo."

"I'm not saying traffic it. I'm saying there are ways to handle this that aren't just setting money on fire. Controlled distribution, medicinal applications, regulated—"

"No."

"Come on, Princess. You can't stop the spice trade entirely. It's everywhere. Better to legalize it, control it, tax it—"

"I said no." Her voice went cold. "I know exactly what spice does. I don't need a lecture from a smuggler about harm reduction."

"Right, because a good girl like you would never—"

"I tried it when I was fifteen."

Han stopped. "What?"

Leia continued removing containers, not looking at him. "Vader wanted to prove I could use the Force to purge toxins from my system. He had me ingest glitterstim and then taught me how to metabolize it before it could take full effect."

"He... Vader gave his fifteen-year-old daughter spice?"

"Among other things. The spice was relatively harmless, just a bad trip before I figured out the purging technique. The poisons were much worse."

"Poisons. He poisoned you."

"Multiple times. Different varieties. Neurotoxins, blood agents, paralytic compounds." She said it like she was listing training exercises. "The goal was to build tolerance and teach me to heal myself. Very practical for assassination attempts."

"That's not practical, that's—" Han couldn't find words. "You were fifteen."

"I was his apprentice. His weapon. Weapons need to be tested." She finally looked at him. "So no, Captain. I will not legalize the spice trade in my territories. I know exactly what it does, and I know exactly how it can be weaponized. This gets destroyed."

Han stared at her. "Leia..."

"Don't." She cut him off. "I don't need your pity. It made me stronger. That's what matters."

"That's not what matters. That's what he told you matters."

"I'm a Sith. We grow from pain."

"It's really not the same thing."

They stood there, surrounded by confiscated spice, having a conversation about ten other things besides drug policy.

"Are there other compartments?" Leia asked finally.

"Yeah. Probably three more in a ship this size."

"Show me."

So he did, finding two more caches, weapons, and unregistered currency chips. Leia confiscated all of it, documenting everything methodically.

"You're good at this," she said as he revealed the final compartment. "Finding things people want hidden."

"Years of practice. You don't survive as a smuggler without knowing every trick."

"Teach me."

"What?"

"Teach me. How to find these compartments. What to look for." She gestured at the ship. "I'm seizing a lot of vessels from Hutt operations. I need to know what I'm actually getting."

"That's... actually smart."

"I occasionally have intelligent thoughts, Captain."

"Occasionally is generous."

Her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.

And Han realized he'd just agreed to spend more time with her, teaching her smuggling tricks, which meant more conversations that would probably end with her casually mentioning horrific things from her past like they were normal.

After that, Han found himself involved. Training some of her troops in combat tactics, which turned out to be in firefights for years, gave him practical knowledge her military commanders lacked. Reviewing supply lines because apparently, he knew more about smuggling routes than her logistics officers. Even sitting in on governmental meetings because Leia wanted "perspective from someone who doesn't worship the ground I walk on."

"I don't worship the ground you walk on either," one of her councilors protested.

"You asked permission to speak three times in the last hour. Solo just told me my trade policy was 'dumber than a concussed bantha.'"

"It was! You can't just embargo half the Outer Rim and expect—"

"We're not embargoing half the Outer Rim, we're establishing standards—"

And they'd be off. Han would make deliberately provocative statements. Leia would defend her positions. Eventually, they'd land on something that actually worked.

It was infuriating. It was exhausting.

It was also the most fun Han had had in months.

"You realize you're helping her, right?" Han muttered to himself one night. "The Rebellion's gonna have questions."

If he ever got to talk to them again. Leia wasn't stupid; the comm systems were locked down tighter than an Imperial vault. He'd checked. Multiple times. She'd caught him the third time and just raised an eyebrow.

"Did you really think I'd leave communications accessible to a Rebel prisoner, Captain?"

"Guest. You said guest."

"Guest without comm privileges."

So he had no idea what was happening out there. Whether Luke was close. Whether the Rebellion even knew where he was. Whether Lando had crashed the Falcon yet.

All he had was what Leia chose to tell him, which wasn't much beyond "Luke's still alive and still training" delivered in a tone that suggested she had much better intelligence than she was sharing.

He was stuck here. Helping a Sith Lord reorganize the Outer Rim. And somehow not hating every minute of it.

But the situation kept getting more complicated.

He started noticing details. How Leia's hands trembled slightly when she was exhausted, but steadied the moment someone watched. How she'd check on the Force-sensitive children every evening, even when she was clearly dead on her feet. How she never talked about herself, only about plans, strategies, what needed to be done next.

"You don't have hobbies," Han said one afternoon.

"I don't have time for hobbies."

"That's my point. You work. You train. You manage. But you don't do anything just for fun."

"I'm a Sith. We don't do fun."

"Everyone needs fun. It's what keeps people from burning out."

"Not Sith Lords."

"Everyone burns out eventually, Princess. Even Sith Lords."

She didn't respond, just kept working. But she stayed silent for a long time, like she was actually considering it.

Han started paying more attention after that. Like when he snuck down to watch one of her training sessions with the Force-sensitive kids.

It didn't look like Sith training at all.

"Concentrate," Leia was telling a group of younglings, mostly freed slaves. "Feel the ball, not just with your hands, but with the Force. Now, Tali, lift it slowly. Good. Now pass it to Kel."

They were playing. Actual playing. Floating a ball between them like it was normal.

"Again," Leia said. "And this time, Kel, try to feel where Tali's going to throw it before she does."

"Like reading minds?" a young Twi'lek girl asked.

"Not quite. More like sensing the shape of what someone's about to do. Try it."

When the kid successfully caught the ball by predicting the throw, Leia actually smiled. Not her usual careful expression—an actual smile.

"Excellent. Now, who wants to play hide and seek?"

The kids cheered.

“Rules are simple. Use the Force to hide your presence, while I will use the Force to find you. No cheating with impossible places—" She looked at the Twi'lek girl. "—Yalda, that means no climbing into the ventilation system again."

"But I fit!"

"You also got stuck, and we had to dismantle half the ductwork. Regular hiding places only."

The kids scattered, giggling. Leia closed her eyes, counting slowly, and Han realized she was genuinely playing with them. Teaching them through games instead of pain and fear.

"You're good with them," Han said later, after the kids had been sent off.

Leia was reviewing reports. Back to business. "They need proper training."

"That's not what I saw. I saw you playing hide and seek."

"Training exercise. Teaching them to mask and sense Force presences."

"You were smiling."

"Tactical decision. Positive reinforcement improves learning outcomes."

"Right. Tactical." Han leaned against the wall. "You care about them."

"I care about their utility as future—"

"Don't. Don't do that." He cut her off. "Don't pretend they're just weapons to you. I've seen you check on Yalda every night."

Leia was quiet for a moment. "They're children. They deserve to be children, not... not what I was."

"Not weapons."

"Yes."

"So you do care."

"Caring is a liability."

"And yet you do it anyway."

She went back to her reports without responding. But Han had seen the truth.

After that, he stopped trying to categorize her. She wasn't just the Sith Lord, or just Luke's sister, or just Princess Leia. She was all of it, this complicated mess of contradictions that somehow worked.

She was fierce and protective and ruthlessly practical. She'd execute Hutt lieutenants without hesitation but make sure freed slave families had proper housing. She'd plan military campaigns without blinking at casualties but personally teach children to play games with the Force.

She was terrifying in combat and awkward with basic self-care. She could command armies but couldn't remember to eat. She spoke five languages fluently but had no idea how to have a normal conversation that wasn't about work.

"You're staring again," Leia said one evening. They were on the palace's observation deck, overlooking the desert. Han had started bringing her here in the evenings, claiming the sunset was "the only good thing about this dust ball." Really, it was because it was the only place she'd actually stop working for twenty minutes.

"I'm thinking," Han said.

"About?"

"How you're nothing like what I expected."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Haven't decided yet." He leaned on the railing. "Three months ago, you were the enemy. The crazy Sith Lord who tried to kill Luke. Now you're..." He gestured vaguely.

"This?"

"Still someone crazy, but a different someone who tries to actually fix things instead of just destroying them." He looked at her. "That's not what Sith Lords do."

"You don't know what Sith Lords do."

"I know what evil looks like. And yeah, you've got darkness in you. But you're not evil. You're just doing your best with a bad situation." Han laughed. "Which sounds stupid when I say it out loud."

"It does, I’m a Sith Lord, you don’t know my plans, this is a way to make sure I have the power to resist Sidious and Vader."

"Yeah, you keep saying that. But you also haven't slept in days, you barely eat, and I'm pretty sure you're running on Force powers and stubbornness at this point."

"That's an accurate assessment."

"It's not sustainable."

"It is."

"It’s not, and you know it. And you keep doing it."

"Because I have to." She finally looked at him, and Han saw how exhausted she really was. The gold eyes were dim. Her face was drawn. "If I stop, even for a moment, it all falls apart. The government's collapse, the Hutts return, Luke does something stupid, and gets himself killed. I can't stop."

"You don't have to do it alone."

"I don't have anyone else."

"You have me."

The words were out before Han could stop them. Leia stared at him.

"You're my prisoner," she said finally.

"I'm your friend. Whether you want me to be or not. I'm here, I'm helping, and I'm not going anywhere until Luke shows up. So you might as well accept it."

"Friends." She tested the word. "I don't have friends."

"You have me. And Winter, if you'd talk to her. And Luke, who's probably going to show up any day now, being annoyingly heroic."

"Everything's complicated."

"Yeah, but this doesn't have to be." Han moved closer. "Look, I'm not saying we're best friends or anything. But we're something. We argue. I bring you food. You teach me about the Force even though you probably shouldn't. That's... something."

"Something," Leia repeated. Then, softer, "I don't know how to do this."

"Do what?"

"This. Friends. Normal interactions. Everything in my life has been about survival or manipulation, or power. I don't know how to just... be."

"Well, that's convenient. Because I'm excellent at just being. It's practically my specialty." Han grinned. "We'll figure it out."

They stood there as the suns set, turning the sky orange and red. It should have been uncomfortable; Han was still technically a prisoner, Leia was still his captor. But somehow it wasn't.

Han realized he was starting to care what happened to Leia. Not just because she was Luke's sister or part of some grand cosmic drama. But because she was Leia, and watching her work herself to death was genuinely upsetting.

Also, inconveniently, she was attractive. Even exhausted and running on fumes, something was compelling about her. The way she moved. The sharp intelligence. The rare smile that sometimes appeared when she thought no one was watching.

The mouth on her, which Han had always appreciated in a woman. The way she'd argue about anything, never backing down, matching him word for word.

"We should head back," Leia said. "I have reports to review."

"You always have reports. They'll still be there in the morning."

"Nevertheless."

"Fine. But you're eating dinner first. Real dinner. And I'm sitting there to make sure you actually eat it."

"You're very annoying."

"It's one of my best qualities."

Her mouth twitched again, that not-quite-smile he'd learned to watch for.

They walked back through the palace together, falling into easy conversation. Han told her a story about a job gone wrong on Ord Mantell. Leia actually laughed, a real laugh, not her usual controlled response.

He was starting to like her. Enjoy her company. Look forward to their evening conversations. Notice little things like how she touched her lightsaber hilt when she was thinking, or how her eyes softened when she talked about the children, or how she bit her lower lip when she was trying not to smile.

They'd reached the dining hall. Leia sat down, actually putting her datapad out of reach.

Han grabbed food for both of them. As he sat across from her, he realized this had become routine. They did this now—shared meals, argued about nothing, existed in the same space without it being about Luke or the Rebellion or their impossible situation.

They were friends. Or something close to it.

Maybe something more complicated than that.

But that was a problem for future Han. Present Han was just going to enjoy this moment, Leia eating actual food, their comfortable silence, the warmth in her expression when she thought he wasn't looking.

Even if it was all going to fall apart the moment Luke showed up.

"Stop thinking so loud," Leia said. "I can practically hear your internal monologue from here."

"I don't have an internal monologue."

"Everyone has an internal monologue."

"Not me. I'm a simple man with simple thoughts."

"You're many things, Captain Solo. Simple isn't one of them."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

Too late. Han was already smiling.

Kai:

Kai sat in the back of the meditation chamber, trying to focus on the breathing exercises Master Voss had taught him. In through the nose, hold for four counts, out through the mouth. Feel the Force flowing through him, around him. Let the tension drain away.

It wasn't working.

His hands wouldn't stop shaking.

He looked down at them, scarred from training, callused from lightsaber practice. His hands looked older than they should. Hands that had killed.

Not many. Three people, to be exact. But three was still three.

The first had been an older acolyte at the Fortress. Ren, his name was. Forteen, cruel, enjoyed hurting the younger kids. The Inquisitors had put them in a training ring together and said only one would walk out. Kai had been eight. He'd been so scared he could barely hold the training blade.

Ren hadn't been scared. Ren had smiled.

Kai had killed him anyway. Barely. Desperately. Because the alternative was dying, and even at eight, Kai had wanted to live.

The second and third had been during his last year at Nur, before Darth Revaris came. Two more training exercises, two more "only one survives" scenarios. By then, Kai had learned how to shut off the part of him that felt things. How to move without thinking. How to do what needed to be done.

The Inquisitors had praised him for his progress.

Now he was here, training to be a Jedi, and nobody talked about those three people. Master Voss knew, Kai had told him during one of the nightmares, when the memories got too heavy to carry alone. But his Master had never pushed, never demanded details, never asked Kai to answer for it.

But if the Rebellion wanted Darth Revaris to face justice for her crimes, would they eventually want him to face justice too?

"You're not meditating."

Kai jumped. Master Voss stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

"Sorry, Master. I was trying—"

"I could hear your guilt from three corridors away." Voss came into the chamber, sat down beside Kai. "Want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Tough. Talk anyway."

Kai was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Do you think I'm a bad person?"

Voss raised an eyebrow. "That's a big question for a meditation chamber. What brought this on?"

"The arguments. About Darth Revaris. About justice and accountability and..." Kai's voice dropped. "I killed people, too, Master. At Nur. Three people. I was just following orders, trying to survive, but I still killed them."

"I know."

"And nobody's asked me to answer for it. Nobody's put me on trial or demanded justice or called me a monster." Kai looked at his hands again. "But Lord Revaris killed people following orders, trying to survive under Vader, and everyone wants her punished. How is that fair? What's the difference between what she did and what I did?"

Voss was quiet for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful. "Scale. Power. Choice."

"What?"

"You killed three people when you were a child, when the alternative was dying. Terrible, traumatic, but not your fault. You didn’t choose to be taken to Nur. You didn’t choose the situations they put you in. You did what you had to do to survive."

Vos’s expression softened with sorrow. "Darth Revaris killed thousands with her own hands. Maybe more. She hunted Rebels. Executed prisoners. Destroyed Serenno—billions of lives, Kai. An entire world." He drew a slow breath.

"And even if we forgive some of that—because, like you, she didn’t have a choice for much of it—we can’t ignore that at some point, she did. Since the age of seventeen, at least, she was strong enough to escape. Powerful enough to resist. And yet she chose to stay with Vader. Chose to keep following his orders."

"But maybe she didn't feel like she had a choice. Maybe to her it was still survival."

"Maybe. But that's the difference between you and her—you got out as soon as someone gave you the chance. She had chances to leave, to reach out to the Rebellion, to stop. She didn't take them." Voss put a hand on Kai's shoulder. "You're not a bad person, kid. You're a survivor who did what you had to do. That's not the same as what she is."

Kai wanted to believe that. But it still felt uncomfortably close.

"Besides," Voss continued, "you were eleven. She was in her twenties when she destroyed Serreno. There's a difference between a child killing to survive and an adult committing genocide."

"She was nine when Vader took her."

"I know. And what happened to her was terrible. But Kai, at some point, we all have to take responsibility for our choices. Even when those choices are limited. Even when they're hard." Voss's voice was gentle. "You're taking responsibility. You're here, training to be better, to help people instead of hurt them. That matters."

"Is that enough? To just... try to be better?"

"Sometimes that's all we can do."

They sat in silence for a while. Outside the meditation chamber, Kai could hear the constant noise of the Rebellion base—people moving, ships launching, the endless hum of a war that never stopped.

"The Rebellion's falling apart," Kai said quietly.

Voss's expression darkened. "It's fracturing. And I think that might be exactly what she wants."

"What do you mean?"

"Think about it, Kai. The Empire's been trying to destroy the Rebellion for years. They've thrown fleets at us, Star Destroyers, kriff, they sent the Death Star on us, legions of stormtroopers. And we've survived. You know why?"

"Because we're an idea? Hope?"

"Exactly. You can't kill an idea with Star Destroyers. You can't bomb hope into submission." Voss leaned forward. "But what happens if you give people another idea? Another hope? One that looks better, works faster, gets results?"

Kai's eyes widened. "Darth Revaris."

“Princess Leia,” Voss corrected. “That’s what the freed slaves call her. That’s what the HoloNet shows—not the Sith Lord who destroyed Serenno, but the benevolent princess who frees the oppressed and builds stable governments.” He gestured around them. “And look at us. We’re tearing ourselves apart arguing about her. Some think the Rebellion needs to stop her before she becomes too powerful. But others believe in what she’s doing. To them, it doesn’t matter that she’s Imperial, or that she’s a Sith—they don’t think we should interfere with someone freeing slaves. They say stopping her would make us no better than the Empire. And while we argue, she keeps gaining power… keeps looking like the better alternative to our messy, hesitant idealism.”

"You think she's doing it on purpose? Dividing us?"

"I think she's a Sith Lord who was trained by Vader for over a decade. Strategic thinking is probably second nature." Voss's voice was grim. "The Empire couldn't destroy us with military force. But if she can turn the galaxy against us, make us look like we're defending slavers and crime lords, make our cause seem like all we want is chaos and suffering... she destroys us without firing a shot."

"But she saved us. And sent us to you. Why would she do that if she's trying to destroy the Rebellion?"

“I don’t think she had much of a long-term plan back then,” Voss said with a shrug. “She was sixteen—freshly fallen, barely holding herself together. But now? Now she’s a full Sith Lord. Trained, disciplined, in control of the Dark Side… or at least, she believes she is.” He paused. “She’s not the same person anymore.”

Kai felt cold. "So everything—the freed slaves, the governments, all of it—could be a plan to destroy us from the inside?"

"Could be. Or it could be genuine. Or it could be both—she might actually believe in what she's doing while also understanding it undermines us." Voss rubbed his face. "That's what makes this so dangerous. We can't figure out her motives, so we can't predict her next move. All we can do is watch the Rebellion tear itself apart while she gets stronger."

"What do we do?"

"Keep fighting. Keep helping people. Try to stay unified even though everyone's taking sides." Voss stood. "And hope that someone—probably Skywalker—figures out what Darth Revaris actually wants before it's too late."

They walked through the base together, heading for the hangar. Kai watched the people around them, rebels, soldiers, pilots, mechanics. All of them are exhausted. All of them are still fighting.

All of them fractured over what to do about one person.

In the mess hall, Kai spotted a group of soldiers arguing. He couldn't hear the words, but he recognized the pattern. One person defending Darth Revaris's actions, another condemning them, a third trying to stay neutral.

In the command center, Kai saw Princess Winter Organa and Mon Mothma in intense discussion, their faces drawn. Winter looked especially tired; her father was under house arrest on Alderaan, put there by her own sister. The weight of that had to be crushing.

"Is Princess Winter okay?" Kai asked quietly.

"No," Voss said bluntly. "Her father's a prisoner, her sister's a Sith Lord, and she's trying to hold the Rebellion together while half of it argues about whether we should send someone to kill her. Nobody's okay right now, kid."

In a side corridor, Kai passed two mechanics having a heated argument about whether freeing slaves made up for destroying planets.

The Rebellion was fracturing. Not splitting, not yet. But cracking along fault lines that might not heal.

"Master?" Kai said as they reached their ship. "What happens if we can't figure this out? What happens if the Rebellion tears itself apart before we even decide what to do about Darth Revaris?"

"Then she wins," Voss said simply. "The Rebellion collapses, the Empire stays in power—maybe under new management, but still a dictatorship. Everything we've fought for means nothing."

"That's terrifying."

"Welcome to war, kid. It's all terrifying." Voss climbed into the pilot's seat. "But we keep fighting anyway. Because the alternative is giving up. And I'm too stubborn for that."

As they jumped to hyperspace, Kai found himself thinking about the day Darth Revaris had come to Nur. How she'd looked at them, twenty-three terrified children, and made a choice. She could have killed them. Should have, probably, by Vader's orders.

But she'd saved them instead.

She gave them a choice at another life, a chance to be more than weapons to be used and disposed of by the Empire.

Kai had chosen to train. Had chosen to be better than what the Inquisitors tried to make him.

Had Darth Revaris ever gotten that choice?

"Master?" Kai said after a while. "When you met us—me and the other acolytes—what did you think?"

"That you were the bravest kids I'd ever seen," Voss said immediately. "Traumatized, terrified, but still alive. Still fighting."

"Did you think we could be saved? Or were we too... damaged?"

Voss glanced at him. "Where's this coming from?"

"I just... I'm trying to understand. If we could be saved after Nur, after what the Inquisitors did to us, why can't Darth Revaris be saved after what Vader did to her?"

"You want the real answer?"

"Yes."

"Because you wanted to be saved. You wanted help. You took it when it was offered." Voss's voice was gentle. "I don't know if Darth Revaris wants to be saved. I don't know if she thinks she needs saving. That makes all the difference."

"But we don't know because we haven't asked. We've just assumed."

"Kid, she destroyed a planet. She's building an army. She's taking over systems. Those aren't the actions of someone looking for redemption."

"Or they're the actions of someone trying to get strong enough to break free. To fight back against the people who made her into a weapon." Kai surprised himself with his own words. "What if she's not trying to destroy the Rebellion? What if she's trying to destroy Vader and Palpatine, and we're just... in the way?"

Voss was quiet for a long time. "That's an optimistic interpretation."

"Is it wrong?"

"I don't know. That's the problem."

They flew in silence after that. Kai watched the stars stretch into lines, thought about choices and salvation, and whether anyone was ever truly beyond redemption.

About Master Skywalker, who was so desperate to save his sister that he was willing to walk into what might be a trap.

About Princess Winter, trying to hold the Rebellion together while her own family fell apart.

About the Rebellion itself, fracturing along fault lines that might never heal.

About Darth Revaris, who'd saved him for reasons he still didn't understand.

And about himself, a former acolyte trying to become a Jedi, carrying guilt for three deaths he couldn't undo, hoping that being better now was enough.

"Master?" Kai said as they approached Ord Mantell. "Thank you. For giving us that choice. For not giving up on us."

"You're welcome, kid." Voss's voice was warm. "You're a good student. Gonna be a good Jedi someday."

"Even though I was an acolyte?"

"Especially because of that. You know what darkness looks like. You've lived in it. That means you'll fight harder for the light." Voss began their landing approach. "Just remember—the dark side isn't something outside of us. It's in all of us. The anger, the fear, the easy solutions. Darth Revaris isn't scary because she's a monster. She's scary because she shows us what any of us could become if we had her power and her pain and her choices."

Kai nodded slowly. That made sense. Terrible, uncomfortable sense.

Serra:

Serra adjusted the mask one more time, checking the seal. The vocoder clicked into place, distorting her voice into that familiar mechanical tone. She looked at her reflection in the polished metal wall, black armor, hood drawn up, golden eyes visible beneath, lightsaber at her hip.

Darth Revaris.

Or at least, a convincing copy.

She'd been doing this for six months now. Standing in as her Mistress when Princess Leia and Darth Revaris need to be in the same place, or two places at the same time.

Nobody questioned it. With the mask and the hood, with her eyes the same corrupted gold, with a few simple Force tricks, levitating a datapad, chilling the air, nobody looked close enough to see the differences. They saw what they expected: Darth Revaris, cold and terrifying.

Serra practiced the stance one more time. Perfectly still, hands clasped behind her back, radiating control. Her Lord stood like that when she was thinking, when she was making people wait, when she wanted them to remember exactly who held the power.

It had taken months to get it right. The way Leia tilted her head slightly when listening. The way she never fidgeted, never showed impatience. The absolute stillness that made people nervous.

Serra had watched. Learned. Practiced.

Now she could be Darth Revaris, and nobody knew the difference.

"You're getting better at that."

Serra turned. Captain Solo leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, studying her with that perpetual smirk.

"At what?"

"The whole intimidating Sith Lord thing. You almost had me convinced." He pushed off the wall, came closer. "Almost. You're still too tense. Leia moves like she's absolutely certain nothing in the room can hurt her. You move like you're waiting for an attack."

He was the only person in the entire Free System Coalition to call her Lord by her name, at least the only one who didn’t suffer for that.

"I'm always waiting for an attack. That's how you survive."

"That's how pit fighters survive. Sith Lords don't survive—they dominate." Solo circled her slowly. "Loosen your shoulders. Stop tracking me with your eyes. You're supposed to be above threats, remember? Not watching for them."

Serra tried to relax. It didn't come naturally. Twenty-seven years of being a slave, four years of being free but fighting, her body remembered what it meant to be prey.

"Better," Solo said. "Keep working on it. You've got the military briefing in two hours. Leia will be addressing the Christophsis government at the same time, so you need to sell this."

"I know."

"And after the briefing, you're making her eat something. She didn’t eat today."

Serra almost smiled beneath the mask. "You're making her eat. I'm just providing moral support."

Solo headed for the door, then paused. "You're doing good work, Serra. The body double thing, keeping her functional, all of it. She's lucky to have you."

Pride warmed Serra's chest. "I'm lucky to have her."

After Solo left, Serra stood alone in the training room, studying her reflection. Four years ago, she'd been certain she was dying. Not quickly, but dying. The corruption, what her Lord called the dark side, had been consuming her piece by piece. Her eyes had turned yellow, then gold. She'd felt herself slipping away, the anger and pain and violence becoming all she was.

In the fighting pits, they'd called it inevitable. Use the Force long enough under torture, channel enough rage into your fighting, and eventually, there was nothing left but the corruption. You became a weapon, nothing more. And then you died, because weapons that couldn't be controlled got destroyed.

Serra had been twenty-three. She'd killed at least fifty people in the pits by then. Maybe more, she'd lost count. Every fight was the same: survive or die. Kill or be killed. Channel the Force into speed, into strength, into precognition that let her dodge attacks half a second before they landed.

The corruption had loved that. Fed on it. Grew stronger every time she used the Force to hurt someone.

She remembered the night Darth Revaris came to Zygerria. It was burned into her memory like a scar.

The arena had been full; hundreds of spectators came to watch Force-sensitive slaves tear each other apart. Serra had been scheduled for the main event against a Zabrak who'd survived five years of fights. She'd been sharpening a blade in the holding area when the screaming started.

Not from the other slaves. From the arena itself.

Serra had run to the entrance, looked out, and seen death.

A figure in black moved through the crowd like a shadow from the void of Space itself. Lightsaber flashing red, lightning crackling from her fingertips. She cut through everyone, officials, guards, spectators, anyone who didn't run fast enough. The dark side radiated from her so strongly that even the other Force-sensitives could feel it, a crushing weight of rage and pain and power.

It should have been terrifying.

It was terrifying.

But Serra had also thought: That's what I'm becoming. That's what the corruption makes you.

The figure, Darth Revaris, though they didn't know the name yet, had finished with the arena and turned toward the holding area. Toward them. The other slaves had shrunk back, some weeping, others resigned. They knew what came next.

But Serra had stepped forward. Because if she was going to die, she'd die standing.

"Are you here to kill us too?" she'd asked, keeping her voice steady through sheer will.

Darth Revaris hadn't answered. Just pushed past her to the control panel for the slave implants. Serra had watched her study it, understanding with sick certainty what was about to happen. One button. That's all it would take. Activate their implants, kill them all instantly.

Serra had watched Revaris's hand hover over the button. Had seen it tremble.

The hand had pulled back. And she stood there for a long moment, perfectly still, and Serra could feel the battle happening inside her. The dark side demands blood. Something else, something smaller, quieter, refusing.

"I can't," It was the first time she heard her Lord's voice, the vocoder making the words sound distorted, wrong. "I won't."

"What?"

Then Revaris had turned back to the panel. But not to activate the implants. To deactivate them.

Around the room, shock collars had clicked open. Slave implants had gone inert. Freedom, instant and unexpected and impossible.

Darth Revaris had removed her mask.

Serra remembered the shock of seeing her face. Not a monster. Not some ancient Sith Lord. A girl. A teenager. Eyes burning gold like Serra's own. Face pale and drawn. Looking half-dead from exhaustion and something worse than exhaustion.

Looking like she was drowning.

"You're... you're just a girl," Serra had said, because someone needed to say something.

"Yes," the girl had said in her real voice, soft and ragged. "I am."

"There's a hangar bay three levels up," she told them. Serra could see the fight in her eyes, how she was struggling to do it, to save them. "Shuttles. Supplies. Take what you need and get as far from the Empire as you can."

"Why? Why would you help us?"

"Because I was a slave once too," Her Lord said, and Serra understood, she was one of them, someone cursed with abilities that the galaxy wanted, that were used against her. "I still am." The corruption, she could see her struggling with it; it was a cruel Master.

"Come with us,"

Her Lord shook her head then. "I can't. You are not safe with me, my Master is different then yours." 

But Serra had seen her eyes before the hood went up. Had seen the desperation, the exhaustion, the corruption eating away at her. Had thought: She's too young for this. She's breaking. She won't last another year like this.

They'd run. Used the ship, flew to a remote station where Rebellion contacts found them and helped them disappear into the Outer Rim.

Serra should have taken that gift and lived a quiet life somewhere. Should have been grateful for freedom and tried to forget the fighting pits.

Instead, she'd spent four years learning to control the corruption. Learning to use the Force without losing herself to it. Learning to fight because she chose to, not because she was forced.

And listening. Always listening. For news of the girl, they were all surprised when they learned who she is, Darth Revaris, one of the Empire's weapons.

The stories had been... complicated.

Darth Revaris was the Empire's mad dog, even putting Vader to shame with her killing and bloodshed. Everything Serra expected from someone consumed by the dark side. Killing civilians, butchering entire communities. She was the corruption made real, a darkness that kills everything in her path.

But later, more stories began to appear, about Princess Leia, and while most did not know the connection, Serra had seen her face. Princess Leia and Darth Revaris were the same.

Thouse stores were even harder to believe, a princess who reforms the old senet. Who has more humanitarian causes than most people can keep track of, the empire darling, a young woman who stands against corruption, against chaos, everything the empire should be.

And then, six months ago, everything changed.

Darth Revaris, or Princess Leia Organa, took Tatooine. Killed Jabba the Hutt. Freed every slave on the planet. Declared war on the entire Hutt Cartel.

Serra had been on Corellia when she heard the news. She'd stared at the holonet broadcast showing Princess Leia in white, beautiful and regal, talking about freedom and justice and building something better.

Then the broadcast cut to battle footage. Darth Revaris in black, efficient and merciless, cutting through Hutt forces without hesitation.

Two identities. The same person.

She had only one thought.

She had survived. She had made it. She had become strong enough to break free.

And now, Serra wanted that. She wanted to be that strong.

So she'd come to Tatooine. Along with eleven others from that night on Zygerria. All of them trained fighters, all of them with Force sensitivity, all of them wanting to help the person who'd saved them.

Four of them with burning yellow eyes.

Leia had been surprised to see them. "You should be free. Living normal lives."

"We want to fight," Serra had said. "We want to help free others."

"I won't train you as Sith. I won't make you into what I am. The galaxy doesn't need more Sith."

"Then train us as soldiers. As pilots. As whatever you need."

Leia had studied them for a long moment. Then nodded. "If that's what you choose."

So they had stayed. Most of them served now as pilots or infantry—good soldiers who knew how to take orders, how to survive. A few worked in logistics, using their knowledge of the old slave networks to identify targets.

With time, as more planets were freed, as more fighting pits were dismantled and Force-sensitive hunting grounds destroyed, their small unit grew. Her Lord refused to train them; the most she allowed was for those already touched by corruption to receive a few lessons in how to control it.

But they all knew who they followed. Even if she didn’t teach them, didn’t train them, their Force-sensitivity was a weapon—a powerful one—for her cause. With them, more slaves could be freed. More masters could be overthrown.

And Serra… Serra had found her purpose in the shadows.

She'd noticed how exhausted her Lord was. How she ran herself ragged trying to maintain two separate identities. How people expected Princess Leia to be in one place and Darth Revaris in another, sometimes at the same time.

"I could help," Serra had offered. "We're the same height. I have the eyes. With the mask and hood, nobody would know the difference."

Her Lord had hesitated. "It's dangerous. If you're discovered—"

"I've been in fighting pits since I was sixteen. I can handle dangerous."

"This is different. You'd be impersonating a Sith Lord. If anyone finds out—"

"They won't. I'll be careful. I'll do exactly what you tell me. Nothing more, nothing less."

She studied her for a long moment. Then "Alright. But we do this right. You'll need training. Basic lightsaber forms, just enough to defend yourself if necessary. Force techniques for levitation and temperature control. And you'll need to study how I move, how I speak, every mannerism."

So Serra had learned. Practiced. Become a convincing copy.

And in the process, she'd gotten close enough to see the truth. The girl from Zygerria was still in there, but she'd grown. Matured. Become exactly what Serra wanted to be—strong, fierce, in control of the darkness instead of consumed by it.

Four years ago, Darth Revaris had been half-lost to the corruption. Eyes burning, movements erratic, barely holding herself together. That girl had been drowning in darkness with no way out.

Now, Leia stood above the darkness. Used it as a tool. Channeled it without being consumed by it. She freed slaves not because she had to, but because she chose to. Built governments because she believed in them. Fought using the darkness but never lost herself to the rage.

She'd become everything Serra aspired to be.

"My Lord. I didn't hear you coming."

"You weren't paying attention. That'll get you killed." Leia came closer, studied Serra in her Darth Revaris costume. "How do you feel about the briefing?"

"Ready. I know the talking points. I'll stand there, project menace, and let the generals do most of the speaking."

"Good. Don't improvise. If someone asks you a direct question you can't answer, use the 'I'll consider your recommendation and inform you of my decision later' line. It buys time."

"I know."

Leia nodded, turned to leave.

"My Lord?" Serra said. "When will you eat?"

"After the meetings."

"You always say that. Then more meetings happen."

"I'm fine."

"You're exhausted. You've been working for hours. Captain Solo and I are bringing you food whether you want it or not."

Leia actually smiled slightly. "You and Han are conspiring against me."

"Someone has to keep you alive."

"I'm perfectly capable of—"

"I know. That's why I came back. Because you are strong, capable, exactly what I want to be." Serra replaced the mask. "Strong enough to use the darkness without being consumed by it. Fierce enough to fight the Hutts and the Empire. But still human enough to free slaves when you could destroy them."

"Careful. That almost sounded like worship."

"It's not worship. It's gratitude and aspiration." Serra adjusted her hood. "You gave me freedom. I'm choosing to use it by helping you. That's not slavery. That's a choice."

"And if I order you to leave? To go live a normal life?"

"Then I'd disobey. And you'd have to decide whether to make me leave or accept that I'm staying."

Leia studied her. Then: "You're stubborn."

"I learned from the best."

That actually got a real smile. Small, but genuine. "Fine. After the briefing, you and Solo can force-feed me if it makes you happy. But then I have to review the supply reports from—"

"No. After the briefing, you eat. Then you rest for two hours. Then supply reports."

"I don't have time for—"

"You have to make time. Or you'll collapse, and then everything falls apart." Serra stepped closer. "Please, My Lord. Let us help."

Leia sighed. "You're as bad as Han."

"Worse. He just brings you food. I'm learning to replicate your intimidation techniques. Soon I'll be able to stare you into submission."

"That's a disturbing thought."

"Then eat and rest voluntarily, and I won't have to use them."

Leia shook her head, but she was still smiling slightly. "After the briefing. Two hours of rest. But then I'm working, and you're not stopping me."

"Deal."

After Leia left, Serra stood alone in the training room, adjusting the mask one more time.

Movement in the corridor outside caught her attention. Serra turned her head slightly, tracking it.

A small figure darted past the doorway. Blue skin, head-tails wrapped in cloth. The Twi'lek girl. Yalda, her name was. Maybe six years old, freed from one of the Hutt operations.

The girl was following Leia again.

Serra had noticed it weeks ago. Wherever Darth Revaris went, eventually Yalda would appear. Not boldly—the child had learned caution in slavery. But she'd shadow her through the palace, always a corridor behind, always just out of sight. Watching. Learning.

Just like Serra did, but smaller. Younger. More obvious to anyone actually paying attention.

Leia had noticed, of course. Nothing happened in her palace without her knowledge. But instead of sending the child away, she'd... adapted. Slowed her pace through the corridors so Yalda could keep up. Made sure the kitchens knew to leave snacks in places the girl frequented. Pretended not to notice when Yalda peeked around corners to watch her work.

Last week, Serra had seen Leia teaching a group of the Force-sensitive children. Yalda had been there, tiny and determined, concentrating so hard on levitating a small stone that her face had scrunched up.

"Good," Leia had said, crouching down to the girl's level. "You're doing well. But don't force it. Let the Force flow through you, not from you."

Yalda had tried again. The stone had wobbled, lifted an inch, then dropped.

"Better," Leia had said. "Practice. You'll get stronger."

"Like you?" Yalda had asked, voice small and hopeful.

Leia had hesitated. Then: "Like you want to be. Not like me."

Serra had understood that distinction. Leia didn't want to create more Sith, just like she refused to train her. Didn't want to pass on the corruption that had nearly destroyed her. But she also couldn't turn away children who needed guidance, who had the Force and no one to teach them how to use it safely.

So she taught them games. Fun, harmless applications of the Force. Nothing dark. Nothing that would set them on her path.

But Yalda clearly wanted more. Serra could see it in how the girl watched Leia—with the same mix of awe and determination that Serra felt. The same desire to be strong, to be powerful, to matter.

The small blue figure darted past the doorway again, this time in the opposite direction. Following Leia's expected route to the command center.

Serra almost smiled beneath her mask. Two apprentices-in-waiting, both learning to be shadows. 

Both of them chose to follow the person who'd saved them.

Both of them want to become strong like her.

Serra wondered if Leia knew she was building something. Not an army of Sith, but something else. People who chose to learn from her. Who wanted to be fierce and protective and strong enough to free others.

Maybe that was better than the traditional Master-apprentice relationship. Maybe choice mattered more than power.