Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time Padmé Amidala meets Orson Krennic, she’s late.

The meeting is about a reconstruction proposal for a space station in the Chommell sector—her jurisdiction, but beneath her pay grade. Normally, it would be handled by aides or junior staff. Yet the moment she sees the schematics, something about the design bothers her. Efficiency laced with militarism. She insists on attending personally.

Unfortunately, changing her schedule at the last-minute means rerouting through half the Federal District during peak rotation. By the time she reaches the Engineering Corps Headquarters—a squat, concrete building with narrow oval windows and the charm of a military bunker—she’s thirty minutes behind.

The conference room is sterile and gray, lit by the glow of a holographic schematic hovering above a long table. Men and women sit along both sides, some in uniform, others in civilian clothes, murmuring as she enters. At the head of the table stands a tall, handsome man in a perfectly pressed light-gray uniform. His eyes are pale, piercing—an arresting shade of blue that seems to glow even in the dim light. He turns as she enters, one brow raised.

“Senator Amidala,” he says too smoothly. “How gracious of you to make time for us. I was beginning to think the reconstruction itself might finish before you arrived.”

Someone chuckles lightly.

Padmé stops mid-step. She was ready to apologize. She had rehearsed it in her head, even. But the condescension in his tone hits like a slap.

Her smile is practiced, razor-thin.

“Please forgive the delay, Lieutenant Commander,” she says, glancing deliberately at the insignia on his chest to confirm what she already suspects. “The Chancellor’s schedule has a way of drifting.”

A lie, but a useful one.

His pale eyes narrow. His pronounced jaw grows tense. The tension in the room crystallizes. Aides glance between them, suddenly very interested in their datapads.

She walks forward with measured calm, her robes trailing behind her like silk armor.

“Please don’t let me interrupt,” she adds as she takes her seat. Her assistants settle beside her. “Continue, Lieutenant Commander.”

He lifts his chin, clipped and cold.

“I don’t typically like to repeat myself, Senator.”

“How fortunate,” she replies coolly, “that I’ve read your materials in advance.”

“Really? My engineers were betting you wouldn’t.”

Engineers, she thinks bitterly. As if!

Padmé leans forward, eyes steady, holding his.  

“Then they should spend less time gambling and more time justifying Section 3 of your revised design, which relocates twenty percent of civilian space to classified auxiliary storage—without legislative oversight.”

The room stills.

Someone’s stylus clicks against a datapad, then stops.

Orson Krennic tils his head, his lips curling into a cold smile.

He’s angry. She can see it in the way his knuckles turn white, but there is something else. He seems intrigued.

She doesn’t fault him for assuming she was uninformed—though she certainly questions his tone. Most senators wouldn’t have bothered to show up, let alone read through pages of dense technical schematics. But she isn’t like most senators. And if Orson Krennic expected another well-dressed bureaucrat content to nod along and countersign his plans, then he needed to be corrected. Firmly.

Padmé leans forward, eyes on the shimmering projection. “Now, shall we continue? I see you were explaining the structural revisions to the central reactor ring.”

There is a pause. Krennic’s eyes do not leave her. Not for a while. Then, he clears his throat and begins again as if nothing happened, but she knows he knows he’s been challenged and lost.

The first meeting ends in an impasse. The second, much the same.

Padmé is never late again. And after her initial faux pas, Orson Krennic treats her with a cold, clipped respect—nothing more, nothing less. Even when their arguments grow heated and his voice rises, she sees him wrestle with control, jaw clenched, temper curbed by effort. It almost impresses her.

He wants to convert the orbital station into a makeshift military outpost.

She will allow no such thing.

“Militarization only begets further militarization,” she says during one particularly tense exchange, her voice tight but steady. “I won’t escalate the Separatist crisis by introducing weapons where there are none.”

Krennic’s eyes flash. His polished accent frays just slightly at the edge.

“And when the war breaks out, you’ll be scrambling. Unprepared. People will die, Senator.”

“Then let’s make sure it doesn’t come to that.”

“That’s your job. Not mine!”

It takes two more meetings before they arrive at a compromise—two long, exhausting sessions she’s fairly certain were never necessary. No amount of argument was going to change her position, and surely, he must have known that. Yet he insisted. Again, and again.

She suspects it was not entirely out of duty.

He wanted to best her just as she bested him, but she allowed him no such victory.

After their first encounter, she made it a point to understand every line of his proposed scheme—his careful threading of tactical systems through supposedly civilian corridors, his hidden redundancies and weaponry couched in technical jargon.

When the final plan is approved, it includes limited defenses—shielding, modest turbolasers, and emergency protocols. No weapon caches. No preemptive strike systems.

Orson Krennic is furious.

She sees it in the rigid lines of his posture as he intercepts her before she can leave the cold, concrete conference room. His mouth is tight, his voice low.

“You’re making a mistake, Senator.”

Padmé pauses, weighing her reply. She could shut him down—quickly, decisively. But she doesn’t. Not this time.

Despite everything, she respects the work he’s put into the project. His persistence. His precision. And though they rarely agreed, he had shown up, again and again—prepared, engaged, focused. That counts for something.

Besides, she’s not naïve. She knows this decision doesn’t begin or end with him. The push to militarize Chommell wasn’t his idea. He’s just the enforcer, the one sent to make it real. And beneath his anger, she can sense it—he’s worried too. They both are.

She meets his eyes and offers a tired, measured smile.

“All I can say is that I hope you’re wrong.”

He blinks; his pale blue eyes softened in surprise.

“Did you just—agree with me? Subtly?”

Her smile turns wry. “Don’t push it, Lieutenant Commander.”

He snorts—an abrupt, almost unwilling laugh. The tension eases, just slightly. Enough for her to see past the uniform, past the armor.

He’s younger than she realized. There are freckles scattered across his nose, faint and boyish, oddly at odds with the clipped cadence of his speech and the military steel in his bearing.

Silence stretches between them—not cold, just full of unsaid things.

She glances away, then back. His expression has shifted again—less stern, less calculating. Not approval. Not resentment. Something closer to fascination.

When she turns to leave, she can feel his gaze follow her down the hallway.

Several months pass before Padmé sees Orson Krennic again.

It happens at a diplomatic reception for the Festival of Light—a tradition she’s expected to host in her senatorial role, though it feels more like performance than tradition. The Grand Rotunda of the Nabooian Embassy shimmers with carefully arranged elegance: golden lanterns sway gently from gilded arches, their crystal pendants scattering fractured light across polished marble. A subtle electronic rhythm hums beneath the air, weaving through the crowd without ever overtaking the low, constant murmur of three hundred guests—diplomats, dignitaries, and opportunists alike, all cloaked in silk and ceremony.

She doesn’t notice him at first.

Not until her eye catches a gray uniform in a haze of jewel-toned robes and ceremonial silks.

He glides through the reception with the effortless confidence of someone who belongs—so at odds with the tightly wound officer she’d encountered months ago. He smiles easily, accepts a drink without hesitation, exchanges greetings like currency. And yet, Padmé is almost certain his name was never on the guest list. But then again, this isn’t really her party. It’s diplomacy. And diplomacy often includes both allies and... the other kind.

She watches him longer than she means to. There's something practiced about the way he moves—each handshake deliberate, each laugh well-timed. He never lingers too long in one circle, as if acutely aware of when his charm will start to curdle. The women, especially, lean in when he talks, their interest just a little too eager. She figures he knows exactly what those eyes of his can do—intense, pale blue, clear and arresting, set above that annoyingly charming dusting of boyish freckles.

When he finally crosses the room toward her, it’s with the precision of someone who’s already calculated how this will go.

“Senator Amidala,” he greets, offering a crisp bow of the head. “What a swell party this is.”

His voice is smooth, even warm. She barely recognizes it.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, Lieutenant Commander,” she replies evenly, her smile polite but unreadable.

He pauses. Just for a second. His gaze flicks downward, mouth tugging in a way that’s almost uncertain. Then, with the practiced ease of a man used to slipping back into character, he recovers.

“I’d be enjoying myself more,” he says lightly, “if I hadn’t had to smuggle myself way in.”

Padmé tilts her head slightly, watching him. Is it a joke? A veiled complaint? She can’t quite tell—and that, more than anything, unsettles her.

“I wasn’t aware you weren’t invited,” she says carefully, though her words come out more clipped than she intended. “My aides handle the list.”

“So they do,” he says, with a faint, knowing smile. And then, casually—almost carelessly:

“You dislike me.”

The comment slices clean through the practiced rhythm of diplomatic small talk. Her breath catches—just slightly. She glances away with a scoff and a shake of her head, trying to regain control of the moment.

“I don’t know you well enough to dislike you,” she replies. “I disagree with you. That’s not the same thing.”

He doesn’t press, not immediately. Instead, he studies her—really studies her—with a gaze that feels more direct than it should be in a room full of careful glances.

“A professional dislike, then,” he says at last, lightly. There’s something in his voice—a note of disappointment he doesn’t quite manage to hide.

She holds his ice-blue eyes.

“Do you want me to dislike you?” she asks, not as a challenge, but as a genuine question.

It stops him. The practiced charm falters—just enough to notice. His posture changes, barely perceptible: a subtle shift in weight, a straightening of the shoulders, as if retreating to a stance that feels safer, more familiar. The practiced ease slips from his expression, and in its place, the hard lines appear—measured, composed. For a while, he’s almost the rigid officer she met months ago. Almost.

When he speaks again, his voice is lower, rougher, his accent thicker.

“I don’t think anyone who’s ever met you would want that.”

She blinks and goes still. There is no flirtation, no pretense—just a moment of disarming sincerity that feels wildly out of place. So she defaults to protocol. A light smile. A change of subject.

“If you weren’t on the guest list, who did you come with?”

He breathes in slowly, recovering. Then he nods across the room to a man who looks like he wandered into the wrong conversation and is regretting it dearly.

“Galen Erso. I secured him a research post at the Institute of Applied Sciences.”

There’s pride in his voice. If he is proud of his accomplishment or of the man in question, she can’t quite tell.

She lifts an eyebrow. “And how do you know each other?”

“The Futures Program.”

That catches her off guard. She knows the program—its reputation for brilliance and ambition. But him?

Her silence betrays her surprise, and Krennic catches it.

“Ah,” he says dryly, a flicker of something wounded behind the sarcasm. “You thought I was stupid.”

She winces, inwardly. Still says nothing.

“Don’t worry. I’m not some revolutionary scientist,” he adds, more sharply now. “Just an architect.”

He takes a sip of his drink—too quickly. His expression hardens again, gaze sliding away from hers.

Before she can respond, a hand lands gently on her arm.

She turns to find Mon Mothma with a familiar, knowing smile. “We need your eye on something,” she says, offering Krennic a polite glance before moving on.

She came here to save me, Padmé thinks a little surprised, and gives a nod. “Of course. I’ll be right there.”

She turns back to Krennic, but he’s already scanning the room again, retreating before he’s even left.

“I’m sorry if I misjudged you,” she says, her voice quiet.

He doesn’t meet her eyes.

“Don’t let me keep you.” He lifts his chin toward Galen, who now looks on the verge of bolting from the cluster of overeager senators. “I should go save him anyway.”

She follows his gaze and lets out a soft laugh. “Please do. He looks like he’s suffering.”

Krennic nods, forcing a smile. He turns.

“Lieutenant Commander?”

He pauses, looks back—just cautious enough to make her wonder what he expects her to say next.

“I’ll ask my aides to add you to the formal invitation list.”

There’s a flicker. Surprise first. Then something else—muted, unreadable—before the usual mask slips back into place. His tight shoulders relax and he offers her a small smile that seems to actually touch his eyes for once.

“Thank you, Senator.”

She watches him slip back into the crowd, posture straight but not tense, steps casual—and somehow, she understands him even less than she did before.

The first attempt on Padmé Amidala’s life makes her furious.

She watches the HoloNews replay on loop—Cordé’s still form on the landing platform, a life lost in service, sacrificed without warning. The grief hits her in private, but the fury remains present, sharp and cold. She will not be frightened into silence. The Military Creation Act cannot pass, no matter the cost.

She is glad to see Obi-Wan Kenobi again, and even Anakin Skywalker—though he's changed. Taller, older, cloaked in confidence that borders on arrogance. Still, the idea of Jedi protection strikes her as unnecessary.

The second attempt changes that.

It happens too soon. Too close. In her own bedroom, while she is sleeping.

This time, the fear creeps in.

When the order comes down for her to leave Coruscant until the investigation yields answers, she wants to resist. What meaning does Cordé’s death hold if she simply flees the battlefield of democracy? Yet... she would comply—if only it weren’t Anakin they were assigning as her escort.

She remembers his childhood affection, sweet and naïve. She had expected it to fade with time. But apparently, it hasn’t. The look in his eyes now isn’t innocent. It’s hungry. Fixated. Paired with a growing sense of entitlement that the Jedi have either failed to notice or chosen to ignore. And more and more, she finds herself wondering, if she said no, really said it, would he hear her? Would he stop? Especially if they were alone.

But she doesn’t want to shame him. Doesn’t want to explain. Certainly not in a way that would implicate him or invite the scrutiny of the Jedi Council.

So, she approaches Obi-Wan alone.

He listens, patient and still, brow furrowed in thought as she speaks. When she suggests that he accompany her instead of Anakin, he strokes his beard slowly before sighing.

“Anakin isn’t ready for a solo mission of this scale,” he says. “But I understand your concern. I’m aware of his…” He hesitates. “...affections.”

Padmé meets his eyes, calm but direct.

“Master Kenobi, I’m aware of the Order’s rules. I have no intention of turning this into a disciplinary matter. I just want to feel safe.”

Relief flickers in his expression—followed quickly by renewed concern.

The problem is logistical as much as personal. She can’t return to Naboo without an escort—it’s too obvious. She can’t disappear to any place connected to her name. But she also cannot vanish into obscurity alone.

“It seems,” Obi-Wan says quietly, “we’ve reached an impasse.”

Padmé thinks for a moment. Then her eyes sharpen with sudden realization.

“Not necessarily. I may know someone who can help.”

Obi-Wan’s gaze sharpens. “Do you trust them?”

“No,” she answers plainly. “But I trust I can make him an offer he won’t refuse.” 

Padmé stands near the window of a modest office buried deep in her diplomatic tower. Crystal models on the shelves catch the early-afternoon sun, scattering fractured light across the room like stars trying to escape. The hush is deep here, broken only by the muted thrum of air traffic beyond the glass.

It’s a view she almost recognizes. Not her apartment, but close enough. Familiar enough to feel safe. Or so she hopes.

This is reckless, of course. She knows that. But it’s already too late to turn back.

She had misjudged Orson Krennic. That much, she has to admit.

After the Festival of Light, she hadn’t meant to look into him. Not really. But something about the purposeful way he moved through that evening had stayed with her. Days later, she’d found herself scanning personnel files, public records, and brief mentions in project reports, as if by accident.

Factory-bred on Lexrul. A teenage prodigy. Commissioned before most finished basic. She’d stood beneath ceilings he’d designed and never known his name.

He doesn’t want to be anonymous, though. She has observed his ambition. His hunger.

He wants to be seen.

And that desire of his is what she hopes will help her now.

The connection to Galen Erso is convenient. Fortunate, even. Padmé rarely trusts luck, but she took it this time.

Crystallography, that’s what earned Erso an invitation to her reception. He’d just relocated to Coruscant with his family and taken up a post at the Institute of Applied Sciences—a post Krennic boasted to have secured for him. The Institute Scholars were typically housed in one of the diplomatic towers, and Erso was housed in her tower, as it happened, hence the interest of her aids. Same building, different wing. No flagged visitors. No official attention. Dormé had confirmed it.

Padmé sent a short, encrypted message. No explanations. Just a favor. A place to talk.

To her surprise, Erso hadn’t questioned her. “Of course,” he’d said, with the kind of cautious kindness she expected from someone who didn’t really want to know what he was agreeing to. “I’ll ask Orson over for lunch.”

Now, the door chimes.

Murmured voices outside. A pause. Then a hush of air as the door opens.

Padmé turns. Straightens. Masks the thrum in her chest, she can’t quite explain.

Krennic enters.

Impeccably pressed. Predictably composed. He carries himself like this is just another routine meeting—like he wasn’t supposed to be having lunch with Galen Erso, despite the expensive bottle of something aged and amber in his hand.

“Senator,” he says, brows drawing together in quiet confusion.

“Lieutenant Commander.” Her smile is warm, nervous, even if she doesn’t let it waver.

Behind him, Lyra Erso lingers—arms crossed, posture stiff, her disapproval thinly veiled. Her gaze flicks between them, sharp and unimpressed.

“Thank you for the space,” Padmé says, offering a polite nod that indicates her wish for them to be left alone.

Lyra pretends not to see it. Her eyes shift to Krennic, her expression cooling further. Then, flatly: “Just lock up when you’re finished.”

She turns and walks out without another word.

The door seals behind her with a soft hiss. Silence follows, and it's in that silence when she realizes that it's not her Lyra Erso doesn't. It’s him.

When she turns back, Krennic is already watching her.

He set the bottle on the shelf beside the crystal, folded his arms across his chest, and leaned against the wall. The pose is too casual to be genuine—like he’s performing ease rather than feeling it, a quiet tension humming just beneath the surface.

“She doesn’t seem particularly fond of you,” Padmé offers, testing the ground.

He snorts, just once. “Professional dislike.”

“A pattern, then.”

A corner of his mouth lifts, but his pale blue eyes remain cold.

“What’s this about?” he asks then, tone flat.

She hesitates, but there is no turning back now. “I need your help.”

His eyes narrow. “With what?”

She breathes in, steadying herself. “Someone tried to assassinate me—”

“I read the news,” he cuts in, too fast.

Her jaw clenches. She wonders why he does that, then. Why does he do that to her in particular when she knows he can at least pretend to be charming? A tinge of regret settles in her stomach, a tinge she chooses to ignore.

“Of course,” she says. “But the news didn’t mention the second attempt. Two nights ago. In my bedroom.”

He flinches, just slightly, brows drawing together. Then he looks away, too fast to be casual, too slow to hide the slip. There is a sharp tick of his jaw. His fingers curl into restrained fists. Anger—coiled and quiet, and she doesn’t know whether it’s for her or at her.

“I need to disappear,” she says when he doesn’t say anything.

“Understandable,” he mutters, gaze fixed out the window. “What do you need me for?”

“I can’t go to Naboo. Can’t be seen with anyone close to me. Anyone I trust is probably already being watched. But we…”

She lets it trail off, hoping he’ll understand.  

He waits. Silent.

“We’re not close,” she finishes softly.

There’s a pause. His expression doesn’t change, but something in the air tightens.

“I see.”

“I looked into you,” she says quickly. “Lexrul. The Futures Program. The Engineering Corps. We don’t have a shared history. No connections. No reason for anyone to suspect you.”

The words are barely out before she regrets them. That wasn’t what she meant—not really. She hadn’t meant to make him feel small, like he didn’t matter enough to even be considered part of her world. But it sounded like that. And she knows it. So does he.

His jaw shifts—just slightly, but enough. A flicker of something tight and buried, too old to be fresh pain. He lets out a dry, hollow laugh.

“Charming,” he mutters.

He moves past her without a glance, stops at the window, and picks up one of the crystals on the sill, turning it over in his fingers. The silence stretches.

“Isn’t this a job for the Jedi?” he asks suddenly, voice low.

“I declined their services.”

He glances at her, frowning. “Why?”

“It’s personal.”

He doesn’t push. She’s not sure whether that’s strategy or grace.

“I’ll owe you,” she adds. “Not just favors. Access. Influence. I’ll put your name in the right ears.”

Krennic turns slightly, watching her now.

“How generous.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“It is. But—”

“You’ll get leave. Resources. And when this is over, I’ll take you to every gala, every fundraiser. I’ll put you in the Chancellor’s orbit if that’s what it takes.”

He studies her more intently now. The edge in his posture hasn’t softened, but she sees the shift—his curiosity outweighing his discomfort.

“And what exactly do you plan to say about me, Senator?” he asks, tilting his head with a mocking smile, his bright blue eyes gleaming. “Something like, ‘Have you met this man I disagree with?’”

Padmé clenches her jaw but doesn’t rise to the bait. She deserves the barb—at least a little.

“I won’t have to say anything,” she replies coolly. “If we’re seen together a few times, the HoloNet will take care of the rest.”

That makes him pause. One brow arches, slow and calculating. Then—deliberately—he turns to face her fully, putting a hand on the desk beside them. The space between them shrinks, noticeably and not by chance.

“You want to pretend to date me?” he asks, his voice low, edged with disbelief and something else she can’t quite place. He gestures toward her with the crystal still in his hand, as if it’s a question, a challenge, and a dare all at once.

“If you agree,” she answers, calm and unflinching. “Just long enough to make it believable. Six months. Maybe less. Long enough to give you momentum.”

Padmé wonders if he realizes what she’s truly offering. She doesn’t date. She doesn’t have time. Never has. Not since the Naboo Crisis, not since the galaxy decided to make her a symbol. Anyone seen at her side becomes part of the story, and that story never goes away.

If she gives him this—her proximity, her name—it won’t just follow them while the plan lasts. It will define them. Even after it's long over.

And yet... the galaxy might forgive one mistake. One lapse in judgment. A young senator, reckless, caught in something that looked like romance and felt like danger.

He can be that mistake.

Her mistake.

Without warning, Krennic tosses the crystal into the air and catches it with a quiet smile, watching it spin once in his palm before setting it carefully back on the sill.

“When do we leave?” he asks without looking at her.

A ripple of relief moves through her.

“Tonight, if possible.”

“I assume we’re taking my ship,” he says, meeting her eyes briefly.

She nods. “It’s safer.”

“Very well. Meet me at eighteen hundred. Public spaceport, Level 1500.”

She gives one final nod. The efficiency of his response—the quiet, immediate calculation—offers a flicker of reassurance. Until he turns and casually grabs the bottle he brought with him.

Her frown is instinctive.

He notices and shrugs. “For the ride. Galen doesn’t really drink, anyway.”

She just stares at him, uncertain whether to laugh or call him out. In the end, she says nothing, only shakes her head and follows him out the door.

Chapter Text

Padmé Amidala arrives at the docking site with only five minutes to spare. No matter how much she had to coordinate, she couldn’t afford to be late—not again. She scans the busy space-dock, searching for Krennic, but after a moment, sighs and turns back to double-check the docking number.

In her hand, she discovers the comlink Obi-Wan gave her, gripped tightly. Something she hadn’t even realized she was holding onto like a lifeline.

She exhales slowly. It's not hesitation, not really. She may not know Krennic deeply, but she knows him well enough—despite what Rabé, Eiraté, and Moteé might think.

He isn’t what unsettles her.

What does is the thought of having to explain him—explain them—when the time comes. She doesn’t want to lie to her friends or her family. But she doesn’t yet know how to defend what she could possibly see in him, either.

Maybe, in a few days, she’ll find the words.

Maybe by then, she’ll understand it herself.

Then she looks up—and there he is.

The uniform is gone, replaced by a black mock turtleneck, a leather jacket, and dark, tailored pants. He looks different—shorter, somehow. The authority stripped away, leaving him less imposing and far more uncertain.

"Late again," he says—mildly reproachful, though she suspects it's more teasing than annoyed.

"Right on time, actually," she replies, then adds, after a pause, "You look... different."

It lands somewhere between an apology and an unspoken recognition of the shift she can’t force herself to ignore.

He blinks, meeting her gaze. For a moment, she thinks she sees color rise in his cheeks. But then his eyes flick away, scanning the crowd. She watches the moment he decides not to answer—not to let it show.

"Let’s go," he says at last, voice low and a touch too rough. Just enough hesitation to betray the crack beneath his composure.

He steps closer, reaching toward her side. His hand brushes against hers—brief, almost accidental.

“Your bag.”

“Oh,” she breathes, caught off guard. Her fingers graze his again as he takes it. “Thank you.”

Krennic gives a curt nod. “After you.”

She swallows and walks past him, aware of his presence as he falls into step behind her.

Her hand twitches at her side, flexing once—like it’s trying to forget the feel of his skin. Warm. Smooth. Still somehow there.

It meant nothing, she tells herself.

Then why does it still feel like he never let go?

His ship is a medium-class personal craft—sleek, fast, and built for someone who prefers efficiency with a touch of flair. Two elongated engines are tucked neatly beneath each wing. She doesn’t recognize the emblem stamped on the hull, but it carries the quiet confidence a high-end model from a modest manufacturer—first-class performance for half the price. The interior confirms it. Pale leather seats, clean architectural lines, and subtle design flourishes that speak of someone who values appearances.

Padmé settles into the co-pilot’s chair, her fingers gliding over the controls, quietly taking in the layout. When she gives him a small nod, he lifts them into the sky.

Silence settles between them as they rise through the atmosphere. The stars sharpen—then stretch into brilliant threads of light.

Hyperspace.

“How long until Lexrul?” she asks, her gaze still fixed on the swirling starfield.

“About a day,” Krennic replies without looking up, his attention on the secondary systems—running diagnostics he’s likely already checked twice.

She nods and exhales slowly. With practiced care, she reaches up to remove her headdress, the gold catching in the soft cabin light as she sets it gently in her lap. The mustard scarf and velvet cloak—her disguise as a merchant’s attendant—have served their purpose. Now, they only feel heavy.

One layer at a time, she sheds them, and as she sinks back into the seat, a quiet relief settles over her shoulders.

When she lifts her gaze, their eyes meet. He looks away a second too late.

“Thank you for agreeing to this,” she says quietly.

“It’s not a favor,” he replies, flat, automatic.

Her lips press into a thin line. She studies him—posture too straight, shoulders tense, eyes fixed anywhere but on her. As if looking at her might reveal something he’s not ready to face.

It’s starting to feel like a pattern. Around others, he’s composed—smooth, in control. Whether it’s with his aides or the eclectic mix of elites at her party, even with Lyra Erso, who clearly despises him, he holds his ground with practiced ease.

But with her, something shifts.

There’s an undercurrent of unease—subtle but unmistakable. Not irritation, exactly, but tension, like he’s waiting for something to go wrong and doesn’t quite understand why.

Except when they argue.

Then he’s different: sharp, quick, utterly present. Sarcastic and incisive, stripped of pretense. Entirely himself.

She used to think it was arrogance. Now, she wonders if it’s something about her in particular that unsettles him.

“I know it’s not a favor,” she says, her voice softer now. A faint smile touches her lips. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not grateful.”

Something flickers across his pale face—quick, unreadable—then vanishes.

“Good,” he says, eyes still fixed on the hyperspace corridor beyond the viewport. A beat passes before he adds, almost casually, “In that case, I assume you won’t mind if we begin our arrangement a little early.”

She glances up, brow furrowing.

“What does that mean?”

He shifts in his seat—one hand pressed flat against his thigh, the other curling around the armrest.

“I told my mother she’s meeting her future daughter-in-law.”

Padmé blinks. Her body goes still.

“You’re taking me home?” she asks, keeping her tone carefully neutral.

They didn’t discussed specifics. There was no time. Still, she thought they’ll stay in some off-the-grid motel.

“You said you wanted to disappear,” Krennic says with a shrug that’s more defensive than casual. “The workers’ blocks in Sativran City are perfect. They are quiet, unremarkable, and insulated. A family visit sells the story. But I needed a reason. I haven’t been back in years.”

Her fingers tighten around the edge of her headdress, the cool metal pressing into her palm.

“You haven’t been back in years?”

“Ah,” he says, eyes flicking toward her, sarcasm curling in his voice. “So you don’t know everything about me.”

“I don’t follow.”

“You did your research,” he says—and she can’t tell if it’s an accusation or a simple fact. “But I’m guessing your sources left out the part where I haven’t set foot on Lexlur in over five years.”

She stills, properly this time. She can’t imagine not going home for such a logn time. Not seeing her family and she tells him that much.

He leans back, exhaling slowly. The cabin lights skim the sharp line of his jaw, catching on the tension there.

“Lexlur isn’t home. It’s a ditch I crawled out of.”

The words hang there, more honest than he probably meant them to be.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” she asks.

His mouth lifts at one corner, more bitter than amused. “Why would I sabotage my momentum?”

A laugh escapes her—surprised, dry. She shakes her head, not sure if she’s frustrated or impressed.

“Of course.”

He doesn’t respond. Just watches her, gaze steady, unreadable.

Padmé looks away before asking, “Do your parents know who I really am?”

“Just my mother,” he replies. “And no—of course not. What good would it do to put you in danger?”

“Your concern for my well-being is touching,” she replies dryly, looking away from him.

Krennic groans, rolling his eyes theatrically. “Force, you’re impossible.” He leans toward her, as if to punctuate the thought. “Look, this might’ve started as your plan, but I’m in charge of it now.”

Padmé arches an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth twitching despite herself. He’s almost cute when he’s flustered.

“Very well, Lieutenant Commander.”

In the end, it doesn’t matter what his mother thinks—fiancée, friend, aide—it’s all for show. And if they’re bound to appear on the front pages of the Holo-Gossip anyway, they might as well get ahead of the narrative.

So, she insists they craft a proper cover. Just for his mother.

They decide she’s an assistant to a Nubian Senator, assuming the name of one of her less prolific handmaidens, Moteé, introduced to Krennic during reconstruction talks in the Chommell sector. He invited her to a cultural function at the Gallery of Arts. They’ve been seeing each other discreetly ever since. No ring yet—but there’s a reason. The proposal was spontaneous, a heat-of-the-moment decision made after the recent attack on her Senator, an event she survived without injury—but not without consequence.

“You realized you could’ve lost me,” she says, with mock-dreaminess and just enough sparkle in her eyes to make it a dare.

“How romantic,” he replies flatly, giving her a humorless smile.

“Of course,” she smirks. “So, what should I know about you?”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Basics. Allergies, habits, strange affections. Things they aren’t on the HoloNet. In case I’m quizzed.”

He sighs. “Hay fever—Lexrul prepares you for a lot of things, but trees aren’t one of them.”

She chuckles—more at the attempt than the joke itself—but says nothing. The moment stretches, quiet settling again.

Then Krennic shifts, jaw tightening as he adds, almost like an afterthought, “The rest doesn’t matter. My mother doesn’t know me. Not anymore.”

Padmé watches him for a second longer, the weight behind his words hanging in the silence.

Not anymore.

“What about your father?” Padmé asks, her voice quiet.

Krennic flinches—just barely—but it’s enough. His eyes stay fixed on the shifting lights of hyperspace.

“He’s dead.”

“I’m sorry,” she offers, softly.

His mouth twists into something bitter. “I’m not.”

The answer stirs the air between them. Padmé watches him, frowning, sensing a story he has no interest in telling. She doesn’t press. Not yet.

“Siblings?” she tries instead.

A pause.

“A brother,” he says.

She opens her mouth to follow up, but he beats her to it.

“Also, dead.”

The words are flat. Final. She winces anyway.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” he says a little too loudly.

Padmé watches the tension build in his frame again. She wants to ask what happened—to his father, to his brother, to him—but each question feels like another cut. Every answer from him is a wince, a scar reopening.

She tries a different path. “What does your mother do?”

“She used to work as a laundress,” he says without hesitation.

“Used to?”

He glances at her then, briefly. “You’ll understand when you see her hands.”

Padmé nods, holding his gaze for a beat longer before looking away. The silence returns, heavier this time. She shifts.

“When exactly did you leave Lexrul?”

“Fourteen.”

She knows this.

Remembers reading this somewhere in her media sweep and yet, her breath catches. I left to become Queen at fourteen, she thinks—but she says nothing.

Different roads. Different burdens. One thing is certain, though. They both had to grow up fast.

They sit in silence, the cabin dim and quiet—but not still. Padmé wonders why he hasn’t asked her anything. Wonders if he did his research too. She wouldn’t put it past him. From the moment they met, he’s been nothing if not resourceful.

Still, not everything can be pulled from the HoloNet.

And the strange thing is—she realizes she wants him to ask. Not about the Queen, or the Senator. About her. Because for reasons she can’t quite name, she wants those arresting blue eyes on her—really seeing her—instead of always looking away.

But she doesn’t press. Not tonight.

“I think I’m going to lie down,” she says, breaking the silence at last.

Krennic glances over, one brow lifting. “I’ll be here, Senator.”

She stands and walks toward the doorway. But just before she steps through, she pauses—something pulling her back. She turns slightly, her voice softer now.

“Before I go…”

He looks up, neck twisted slightly from the pilot’s seat, his brows raised, blue eyes wide.

“I think you should call me Padmé. At least when no one can hear.”

There’s a beat. Then he huffs a quiet, dry laugh. “Right. Orson.”

She nods, but it feels unfinished. Hollow. Some part of her had expected—hoped—he might rise, meet her halfway, reach for the moment she was offering. But he doesn’t.

The silence stretches. She lets it.

Then she turns and walks away.

The door slides shut behind her, quiet as a breath held too long.

The journey passes quietly, uneventful but not empty. They talk in circles about politics, art, and history. She knew he was intelligent, but she didn’t realize how well read he was even if she finds his view of certain topics rather skewed. They trade gossip too—frivolous, pointless chatter he seems to genuinely enjoy—and argue playfully over where to find the best kaf in the Senate District. She has her place; he has his, and neither of them is ready to retreat from their original positions until she suggests they go to both together and see. He’s taken aback, and she catches the flicker of surprise before his face smooths out and a grin tugs at his lips.

“You do realize this ends in your defeat, right?”

“We’ll talk when you start frequenting my place,” she counters with a smirk.

“I’d never give you that satisfaction.”

“Pride over kaf, Lieutenant Commander? I thought you were better than that.”

He tilts his head, his eyes briefly locking with hers in playful challenge before shifting the conversation.

It’s been a long time since she’s spoken to someone like this—unfiltered, without glancing at the chrono, without the weight of protocol or the need to rush off to the next meeting just to preserve appearances. But when she nudges toward anything personal, anything that touches his past, he shuts down. Every time.

Padmé senses it more than hears it—the shame. It coils under his words whenever Lexrul leaves his lips, as though even naming it costs him something. She doesn’t understand why. To her, his origin only proves how far he’s come.

When the ship drops out of hyperspace, her breath catches involuntarily.

The planet below is cloaked in a choking haze—greenish-yellow smog hangs over the surface like a sick veil, thick enough to obscure any natural landscape. It looks more like a decaying gas giant than a terrestrial world.

She leans forward toward the viewport, her voice low. “By the stars…”

“Welcome to Lexrul,” Krennic says dryly, clearly amused by her horror.

She turns to him, eyes wide, her expression stunned. “How can this be happening? There are—”

“Environmental protections?” he cuts in, his voice laced with sardonic bite. He weaves through the towering silhouettes of chimneys belching smoke into the atmosphere, their blinking control lights barely visible through the fog. “Lexrul and planets like it are classified as industrial zones. Not habitable worlds. Legally speaking, they’re assets. Facilities. Not homes.”

She stares at the view, aghast. “But what about the people?”

“They die,” he says, without pause. Flat. Like he’s reciting a statistic.

The words hit her like a slap. She looks at him, searching for irony, remorse—anything. There’s nothing. Just calm efficiency as he guides the ship into descent.

“You’re fine with that?” she asks, barely trusting her voice.

He shrugs. “The raw materials processed here built half the sector. They're shipped to the Mid-Rim, the Core… even that shiny new station of yours that now has no real defensive mechanisms.”

Padmé swallows hard, her stomach tightening. “It’s not right. If I’d known—”

“Please,” he snaps, not looking at her, adjusting the flight controls as the ship prepares to land. “Progress requires sacrifice. It always has.”

She stares at him, stunned into silence. How can someone who came from this place—who lived in this decay—justify this?

And worse, how could he wear that justification like armor?

He lands smoothly. Still, it’s clear that flying doesn’t come naturally to him. She can tell based on the slight relaxation of the cords in his neck when the ship touches the ground.

They collect their things, and Krennic strides outside with deliberate purpose. She lingers a moment, watching as he makes a beeline for the port keeper.

It takes less than thirty seconds before she hears his voice—sharp, disdainful, and rising.

“Come now, I know your silly little tricks, you rat!”

Clenching her jaw, Padmé looks away and waits, wishing—not for the first time—the man didn’t do the things he does. Luckily, the argument neither escalates nor takes too long. If it did, she knows she could not just stand around, she would have to intervene, and she doesn’t want to start her stay by arguing with him.

Still, from the look on the other man’s face, she knows Orson Krennic has won whatever there was to win.

“Was it necessary?” she asks when he returns. She does not know how much he earns, still, she is certain that he does not have to haggle with men dressed in rags covered in motor oil. Not here, anyway.

 “I won’t let them cheat me,” he growls, wrestling her bag from her hand to carry it.

Padmé watches him, noting the tension in his jaw and the sharpness in his narrowed eyes. He takes everything personally; she thinks as she lets go of her bag. If he wants to be gentlemanly in an aggressive way, she’ll let him.

Walking off the platform and into the city, Padmé lets her eyes trail over the skyline of towering factories and chimneys that dominate the horizon in all directions. Lexrul is like Coruscant, an ecumenopolis, yet the pollution obscures its grandeur. Its skyscrapers are marred by layers of grime and soot; its lights struggle to illuminate the streets through the foggy air. 

She wonders if the sun ever manages to pierce through the smog here. Somehow, she doubts it.

The air in the pedestrian zone tastes of industry. The locals navigate through the crowded streets with downcast gazes; only a few cover their faces with masks. Padmé thinks she understands: Why would they if this air is all they ever breathe?

She would have expected the city to be filled with noise, yet the street they walk on is eerily silent. Looking up, she wonders if the sounds of speeders and transports are muffled by the thick smog.

“I thought it was rush hour,” she says when Krennic stirs them into a side street lined with residential apartment blocks made from gray concrete that rise from the dark depths below into the heavy, low-hanging clouds.

“It’s always rush hour here,” he returns.

Padmé frowns in confusion.

He looks at her. Then sighs with a hint of annoyance.

“There are several work cycles to not overburden the transportation system. People work in shifts throughout the day, though, so that the factories never stop running.” 

Padmé nods absently. Of course, she thinks.

They walk through a courtyard with a couple of gray trees. They look dead, ossified. As if the smog both killed them and preserved them at the same time. Perhaps it did.

Soon, they arrive in an underpass lined with ten elevators, one of which Krennic calls.

They wait. The silence isn’t awkward per se, and yet Padmé wishes he would say something. Anything. He doesn’t. All he does is press the button again several times, impatient.

When the lift arrives, he selects Floor 1474. Padmé is only half surprised when she feels the elevator go down. Shortly thereafter, they get out, stopping in front of an unremarkable door tucked beneath a shadowed arcade, the kind of place that could vanish into the concrete if you didn’t know where to look. A flickering streetlamp above casts a weak amber light, illuminating the fine grime along the doorframe and the quiet tension in the man beside her.

Krennic doesn’t knock right away.

He glances at Padmé first—something caught between regret, embarrassment, and the kind of anger that takes years to properly root.

It’s okay, Padmé thinks, almost speaking the words aloud—though she’s not entirely sure what, exactly, she’s forgiving.

Before his hand reaches the door, it swings open.

A tall, gaunt woman stands in the threshold. Her hair is a coarse shade of gray, pulled back without ceremony. Her eyes are quartz, deeply set, shadowed, but lit with something startlingly alive. She could be seventy or fifty—Padmé honestly can’t tell. Hard years have erased the distinction.

“There you are!” the woman exclaims, her voice bright with a strange mix of delight and disbelief and thick with the exact accent he tries so hard to hide.

“Mom,” Krennic breathes—and the word catches in his throat with a warmth Padmé never imagined him capable of.

The woman lifts a gnarled hand to his face, fingers bent and swollen from years of harsh labor, brushing his cheek before pulling him into a tight embrace. He stiffens for half a second—then sinks into it, as if his body remembers how to be held, even if his mind resists it.

“You look good, my baby boy,” she says, stepping back to take him in. Her hands rest on his arms, firm and affectionate. Padmé cannot help but inspect the damage now, wondering if her hands were a subject of ion-bleach radiation or droid malfunction or both.

Krennic swallows and glances back at Padmé, cheeks uncharacteristically tinged with color.

“Uh—this is Moteé,” he says, clearing his throat. “Moteé, my mother, Maira.”

Maira turns to her, and her entire face softens into a radiant smile. “Of course,” she murmurs, as if this introduction had always been inevitable. Her eyes shine. “You look just like one of those women on the HoloNet.”

Padmé lets out a strangled laugh, half-surprised, half-unnerved.

But Maira doesn’t let it drop. She steps forward and takes Padmé’s hands in her own—warm, rough, and trembling slightly. “No, really, darling,” she says with utter sincerity. “You’re beautiful.”

“I—” Padmé starts, flustered. If only the woman knew she was one of those women. “You’re too kind.”

Maira only smiles wider, as though kindness costs nothing, even here.

And for the first time since arriving on this world, Padmé feels something like welcome.

Maira leads them through a narrow hallway and into a small kitchen, dimly lit and clean despite its age. The table is modest—four chairs, each showing signs of wear—but it’s clearly the heart of the home. A pot of kaf waits on the warmer, and within minutes, they’re each holding a mismatched mug and staring down at a pair of dry-looking pastries that crumble more than they chew.

Krennic gives his a resigned look, but bites into it anyway. The distaste on his face is barely concealed.

Padmé hides a smile behind her mug.

He sits beside her, closer than usual, his knee brushing lightly against hers beneath the table. Instinctively, she starts to pull back—then stops. Fiancée, she reminds herself. She stays still.

Maira takes the seat across from them, eyes gleaming with curiosity as she folds her arms on the table. The interrogation begins, as Padmé expected. Questions about where they met, who said what first, and what their wedding plans might be.

Orson lets Padmé do most of the talking, his silence deliberate. She can feel his gaze on her—steady, almost curious—as she weaves a carefully edited version of their story for the woman who once carried him. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t correct a single word. Only when Padmé asks to see old holo images, she feels him tense beside her. The shift is subtle, but immediate.

“You don’t need to see those,” he mutters under his breath.

She turns to him slowly, noting the pink flush creeping up the side of his neck.

“Oh, I most certainly do,” she says, meeting his gaze with a playful challenge.

Maira beams like she’s been waiting years for someone to say that. She disappears into another room and returns moments later with a small tin box filled with holos.

There’s an awkward school portrait. A gangly teen in a wrinkled uniform, shoulders stiff, gaze just off-center. Another shows him as a younger boy standing beside an architectural model, a datapad tucked under one arm, already looking too serious for his age. One captures him with an older boy—clearly his brother—both caught mid-laugh, the moment blurry.

Then comes the truly embarrassing one. Orson, maybe eight years old, dressed in a makeshift costume of foil and scrap fabric resembling senatorial robes, arms raised mid-performance in what looks like a school play. His expression is painfully earnest, every inch the child who believed in what he was saying.

Padmé lifts a hand to cover her smile.

Even that one isn’t scandalous. Just human. Ordinary.

Still, with each photo Maira passes her, Krennic grows more restless—arms crossed tighter, one foot tapping a steady, impatient rhythm beneath the table.

She teases him and finds herself enjoying it far too much.

If this feels like purgatory to him, well—he walked into it willingly.

“Would you like more kaf, sweetheart?” Maira asks suddenly from the counter.

Padmé blinks, startled. She realizes she’s been staring at the man next to her—his profile, the way his eyes move when he thinks no one’s watching.

“No, thank you,” she says quickly, smiling to cover the moment.

When she glances back at Orson, she finds him already watching her. His ice-blue eyes are intense, unreadable.

“Very well,” Maira says, rinsing her hands at the sink. “I’ll let you two settle in.”

Krennic nods, a sudden clipped, almost military gesture.

Padmé watches him from the corner of her eye as they rise from the table, suddenly wondering what weighs heavier on him—the lies they tell his mother, or the truth about him she’s beginning to see.

The hallway is narrow, dimly lit, and lined with another set of old holos that flicker slightly as they pass. The plastic floorboards creak underfoot. Maira walks ahead with slow, deliberate steps, pausing at a small wooden door halfway down. Her hand lingers on the knob, and when she opens it, it groans on its hinges.

The room is small—tighter than Padmé expected. Two narrow beds have been shoved together under a low ceiling. Dust coats the edges of the floorboards. A couple of mismatched closets sit flush against the walls, one hanging slightly off its hinge. In the corner, boxes are stacked in tired, uneven towers—some marked with faded handwriting, others left blank and dented with time.

“There’s not much space,” Maira says softly, eyes darting between her son and Padmé. “And sorry for the mess—”

“It’s fine,” Krennic says, too quickly, too flatly.

Padmé hears the effort in his voice—the control. His tone is even, but his body is still, rigid.

Maira hesitates. “Towels are on the bed.”

“Thank you,” he replies, managing a smile that never quite touches his eyes.

His mother lingers, as if she might say something else, then simply nods and slips away. The door clicks shut behind her with careful finality.

Krennic stays where he is for a moment. Then he turns slowly and lets the door close with a whoosh. He doesn’t move into the room—just leans his back against the wood, arms folded tightly across his chest.

Padmé watches him. The silence swells.

His eyes are fixed on the floor before moving to one of the beds. She sees the way his expression hardens, the way his shoulders draw in—not in anger, but in something quieter. Pain.

Following his gaze. It takes only a second to understand.

“This was your room,” she says softly. “The one you shared with your brother.”

He doesn’t answer, but the tight line of his jaw, the way he looks away, speaks louder than words.

“We could go,” she offers gently. “We can find a hotel.”

“No.” His voice is sharp, abrupt. He forces it to soften a moment later. “It’s too dangerous.”

Padmé steps closer. “I doubt anyone would recognize me out here.”

“My mother almost did,” he replies, eyes flicking to hers.

“She just wanted to be kind,” she says, trying to make the air lighter.

Krennic huffs, but it’s humorless. “You’re right. She usually wants that.”

Padmé tilts her head. Something shifts in his voice—something old and bitter, smoothed down by years but still present.

He exhales slowly, steadying himself. “Your face was all over the HoloNet last week. You’re not as inconspicuous as you think.”

“There are few establishments that provide accommodation here,” he says then, sensing her skepticism. “They either have rats in them, which neither of us care for, I assume, or they are high-class establishments where one of us would run into someone we’ve met before.”

She sighs—his engineering contacts, of course.

She looks around the room. The walls are thin. The air is stale. Even without the baggage, it wouldn’t be ideal.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

He shakes his head. “I knew what I was agreeing to.”

“I didn’t.”

He gives a half-shrug, a gesture that tries for nonchalance but doesn’t land. “I’ll be fine.”

Padmé studies him. He looks tired—and angry—in a way that feels quiet and old, worn down at the edges. His anger is usually sharp, righteous, something he wields. But not now. Not as he stands staring at the bed that once belonged to his brother.

She doesn’t know what happened in this house—only that it left its mark. It didn’t just shape him—it damaged something deep, maybe beyond repair.

She wants to reach for him—to take his hand, to offer something like comfort. But she’s afraid he wouldn’t accept it. Not from her.

So instead, she gives him a soft smile—a quiet offering, a wordless acknowledgment: I see you.

And Orson, still leaning against the doorway like the past might swallow him if he steps any farther in, sees her seeing him.

For a moment, something shifts. His eyes grow warmer, the sharp lines of his face easing—not much, but enough.

The evening is a relatively pleasant affair.

The woman chatters away, mostly about people Padmé doesn’t know, and Krennic pretends to remember. She asks Maira about the planet, about life in Sativran City and Maira indulges her, describing the industrial ecumenopolis with palpable pride which surprises Padmé.

The food—a meat pie of some sort—is tasteless, though, and Padmé wonders if the ingredients are simply sub-par here.

When they turn in for the night, they push the beds apart as far as the cramped room allows. But with boxes stacked in every corner and barely enough space to walk, the result is more of a symbolic gap than any real distance.

Now, lying in the half-dark gloom of the smog-choked city, Padmé can’t sleep. She’s exhausted—bone-deep tired—but every time she closes her eyes; all she can focus on is the sound of his breathing. Steady. Awake.

After a while, she gives up. She turns onto her side, folding her arms beneath her head.

“I can’t sleep,” she says quietly.

He turns his head. In the soft, grimy light that filters through the window, there’s surprise on his face—and something else, something fleeting she can’t quite name.

“Not much I can do about that.”

She shuts her eyes, hard.

She knows he doesn’t mean it—not really. It’s just another layer of armor, a reflex carved deep over time. Still, it stings. It’s like every word she speaks is some kind of threat. Doesn’t he know by now she isn’t attacking him with everything she says?

He shifts beside her, dragging a hand over his face before tucking it under his head. The muscle in his arm flexes beneath the thin fabric of his short-sleeved shirt, drawing her eye for just a moment.

“I—” he begins, and for a heartbeat, she thinks he might apologize. But instead, he says, “I can’t sleep either.”

She exhales softly, letting the moment settle before reaching for a safer thread.

“Why does everything taste... dull?” she asks. It’s a question she’s been holding onto since dinner.

He turns his head toward her again, one brow slightly raised. “Are you referring to my mother’s cooking?”

She stiffens. “No, I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” he says, with a quiet chuckle—genuine, unguarded. She realizes she likes the sound of it more than she should.

“It’s all artificially grown,” he adds. “All of it.”

Padmé frowns. “Why don’t they import their produce?”

“Too expensive. Producing low-quality artificial foodstuff pays off. There are places here where you can buy real food, but they are unaffordable for most, and even if the prices were lower, most natives never had real food. They typically find it overwhelming when they try it and hate it.”

“Even your mother?”

“Even my mother.” 

There is a moment of silence in which she watches his profile, noticing small details she has previously missed—the perfectly straight line of his nose, the thinness of his naturally downturned lips, the wrinkles at the corner of his eye.

She knows she is staring. She knows, he knows, and yet, and she continues to do so.

“Sleep,” he says suddenly. “I’ll show you the sights tomorrow.”

“Are there any?” she asks, genuinely curious.

He snorts, turning his head to look at her, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Of course not, but I can talk a big game.”

She chuckles, and in return, he gives her a small, wolfish grin.

Slowly, he shifts away from her, and she thinks the conversation is over. But then, to her surprise, he speaks again.

“Good night,” he says, his voice softer than usual—almost tender, lacking the sharpness that usually marks it.

“Good night,” she replies.

Neither of them falls asleep immediately, nonetheless, the strange tension she could feel before has vanished.

The next few days pass in a lazy routine. She sleeps in and enjoys it. It’s something she can rarely afford. He rises before her so that when she awakens, he is already in the kitchen, clicking away on his datapad.

“Don’t work—it’s your vacation,” she tells him the second morning.

“What else should I do?” He quirks an eyebrow at her, his tone almost playful, “Watch you sleep?”

She tilts her head; something tightens in her stomach. She decides to say no more.

During the day, they go outside to see the sights—it’s mostly factories of all kinds. Some abandoned, some fully functioning. Strangely, he uses it to provide her with a survey of industrial architecture as well as a tour of the various places where space stations like the one in the Chommell Sector get made piece by piece.

She has never seen so much industry; the noise, the heat, the pace of the work. It’s overwhelming. She asks about issues of work safety, health insurance, and the state of labor unions. He indulges her, answering her questions to the best of his ability, although it is clear he does not share her concerns.

Progress requires sacrifice, he has told her, and although she attempts to convince him otherwise, he is unyielding.

They don’t argue—she never lets it go that far. She knows he is doing her a favor, chaperoning her around, no matter what deal they might have made. Still, the conversation becomes uneasy at times, and so she enjoys their visits to phased-out warehouses and abandoned workrooms the most. They are calm and peaceful, so unlike the busy yet downcast world surrounding them. It’s there that she hears herself think again while listening to his voice, interrupted only by the echoes of their footsteps.

What’s more, she’s captivated by the transformation Krennic undergoes when he begins to speak about his craft. His stern expression softens and comes alive as he describes the spaces that once echoed with the hum of machines. The embedded arrogance in his posture melts away, replaced by animated gestures that trace the contours of supporting beams and glass-filled arches. His voice pulses with such infectious energy that she would be unable to look away, even if she wanted to.

And she doesn’t want to.

It’s troubling, really, but there is something about him—something disarmingly captivating.

He can be gentlemanly on occasion—stepping closer in a crowd, offering a steady hand when they cross uneven ground—and she notes those moments quietly, much like she notes the rare smiles that reach his ice-blue eyes. Still, he keeps his distance in other ways, often turning curt when her questions touch on things he’d prefer left unspoken.

Padmé knows he is trying. He buys her off-world food that actually tastes like something and while he quite noticeably tries to limit their time spent with his mother, he indulges her whenever she plays the fiancé part, and she interrogates his mother about his childhood whims. He even agrees to play a game of Sabacc with them and pretends he is not bothered when he loses four times in a row. It’s something the two women tease him about relentlessly before he stands up and leaves with an annoyed huff.

This is not how she imagined her week going when she arrived on the planet a couple of days ago. Then again, it’s been a long time since she could be just Padmé, and while Sativran City is not a place anyone would choose as a vacation destination, whenever she lies in the bed and looks at the man sleeping next to her, she knows she doesn’t regret the choice she’s made.  

On the fifth day, Padmé wakes up to animated voices.

She sits up, winking away sleep as she tries to listen for specific words muffled through the closed door.

“He didn’t want us—”

“The money wasn’t for him; it was for you!”

“You hurt his pride. He was the head of the family and you—”

“Spare me! He hated that I was right. He hated I made it despite the hell he made me go through. Insulting me took precedence over everything, including you.”

“He never meant to—”

“What?” Krennic snaps. “Insult me? Hit me? Over and over? Until I was on the floor with broken ribs, and you locked yourself in the bathroom just so you wouldn’t have to see it?” His voice is razor-sharp now. “He meant every word. Every blow. And you know it!”

“He never understood you.”

“He never fucking tried.”

“Orson, he—”

“Don’t,” he says, his voice like ice. “Don’t you dare defend him.”

“But—”

The front door slams.

Padmé flinches, frowning. For a moment, she hesitates—unsure of what to do—then rises from the bed, pulls her robe over her nightdress, and steps into the hallway. She finds Maira hunched over the kitchen counter, motionless.

“Are you alright?” she asks gently.

“I’m okay,” Maira replies, though her voice is thin. There’s a shimmer of unshed tears she doesn’t bother to hide.

Padmé moves toward her, but Maira lifts a hand, stopping her with a small, dismissive gesture.

“You should go to him,” she says quietly. “He’ll be on the roof.”

Padmé nods, jaw tight. She grabs her coat, slips it on, and leaves the apartment. As she waits for the elevator, silence settles heavily around her.

The ride feels longer than it is. She rubs the inside of her palm with nervous fingers, her thoughts racing. She wanted to understand—why he hates his father, what happened to his brother—but not like this. Not through a door, not through someone else’s pain. She wanted him to tell her because he chose to. Now he’ll have to—whether he wants to or not.

The elevator doors slide open, and a blast of cold wind hits her like a wall.

She shivers, pulling her coat tighter around her as she steps out. A dense, almost impenetrable mist blankets the rooftop—white, thick, endless.

I’m in a cloud, she thinks, turning slowly in place. Her eyes search the swirling fog for any sign of him, but there’s nothing. No shape, no sound—just the soft hiss of wind and the distant, high-pitched whine of speeders slicing through the city both below and above.

“Orson?” she calls, her voice sounding small against the vast silence. The name feels foreign in her mouth. She never calls him that—not when they’re alone. Truthfully, she doesn’t call him anything at all.

The mist absorbs her words, offering no reply.

She takes a few cautious steps forward, uncertain where the roof ends or what lies beyond the whiteness. Her fingers brush the edge of the low wall, damp with condensation.

And then—finally—she sees him: a silhouette at the edge of the fog, motionless, carved in silence.

She approaches slowly and comes to stand beside him. Her eyes linger on his profile, shadowed and sharp against the pale void.

“Orson…” she breathes, hoping the sound of his name will draw his gaze. But he doesn’t turn—he just keeps staring out into the mist.

“Fantastic,” he mutters through clenched teeth. “You heard.”

She says nothing, only watches him, waiting.

“He’s dead,” he says finally, jaw tight. “He’s been dead for years. And somehow, he still manages to screw with my life.” His eyes squeeze shut, as if trying to contain the fury threatening to spill over.

Padmé reaches out and takes his hand, tentative but deliberate. Her fingers wrap around his, warm against the coldness of his skin, and she gives the faintest squeeze. Not pleading. Just there.

He stiffens at first, startled. Then slowly, as if in disbelief, he glances down at their joined hands. His smooth brow furrows. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, confusion, and something else she can’t quite place—before he looks back into the white void.

“Tell me,” she says gently, but with quiet insistence. There is no need to elaborate on what. They both know.

He doesn’t speak. His jaw clenches, and his nostrils flare. Then, almost reluctantly, he meets her gaze.

His pale blue eyes are glassy with emotion. His chest rises and falls in tight, shallow bursts—his fury still close to the surface, but no longer spilling over.

Reluctantly, almost as if he’s not ready to let go of the warmth she offered, he slowly withdraws his hand from hers. Then, he turns, fists clenched in frustration. With a tense exhale, he sinks to the ground, his back hitting the low wall that borders the rooftop.

Padmé watches him wrestle with himself, his breath shallow, eyes darting, jaw clenched. Then, slowly, he closes his eyes, as if gathering the words from somewhere deep and buried. When he opens them again, they’re colder—calmer, but harder.

“My father…” he begins, the words forced through his teeth, “my father hated me.”

She says nothing, only watches him—still, quiet, letting him speak.

“I wasn’t like other kids,” he starts, his voice low and edged with frustration. “I was smart, and I knew it. Even as a kid, I was always a step ahead. I spent more time in my own head than with anyone else. I’d do math for fun—just to see how far I could push it. And I’d draw… whatever came to mind. Mostly buildings, structures, the kind of things most kids wouldn’t even think about.” He lets out a bitter, humorless laugh, the sound sharp and cutting. “The kids at school? They didn’t get it. But I didn’t care. The real problem was him—he didn’t understand any of it. Thought it was all nonsense. ‘Scribbling,’ he called it. Said only the rich had the luxury to waste time like that.”

He glances away, jaw twitching.

“He thought I believed I was better than him—and, in a way, he wasn’t wrong. I did think I was better. I was better. I could see it, feel it, in the way I moved through the world. But to him, that wasn’t something to be proud of. It was something to be beaten out of me. And he tried. He tried harder after my brother died in one of the mines. After the money started to dry up and the weight of everything came crashing down. He thought breaking me would fix it—make me more like him, more like what he wanted me to be.”

Padmé takes a breath. “Orson, I—” she starts, lowering herself to her knees beside him.

He shakes his head sharply, not looking at her.

“My mother never really stopped it,” he says, his voice softening, as if the words weigh him down. “I don’t blame her, not entirely. But I can’t stand the way she defends him. She never saw him for what he was. Perhaps because he has never hit her. He was a brute—primitive.”

Padmé hesitates, her voice soft as she asks, “Is that what you were arguing about?”

He exhales sharply, slamming his fists together in frustration. “No,” he growls, the word sharp as a blade. Then, after a long pause, he mutters, “Yes.”

She tilts her head, waiting—patient, unwavering—her gaze never leaving him.

“My mother’s arthritis started getting worse before I left,” he continues, his voice quieter now, laced with regret. “Once I had money, I thought I could help. I tried sending it for her treatment. But he refused to take it. Wouldn’t even look at it.” He shakes his head, his hands balling into fists again, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “He said he would never take anything from me.”

“But why—?” Padmé begins, but he cuts her off before she can finish.

“I don’t know,” he says, anger lacing his voice. “I never really understood. But, hell, he even blamed me for my older brother’s death. Said that if I hadn’t been around, he wouldn’t have had to work double shifts just to make ends meet. That if I hadn’t been home ‘doing nothing,’ he would’ve been able to focus. Like everything was my fault.”

He pauses, his hands tightening into fists at his sides, his gaze distant. “My brother, he understood. He wasn’t gifted, but he was a good man. Only a few years older, but he knew what I was capable of, even if no one else did. He saw that I could make something of myself—if only they’d let me be.” He exhales sharply, the emotion in his voice raw. “So, he did everything he could to help. Worked those damn double shifts, just so I wouldn’t have to start in a factory at twelve like he did. And then, one afternoon… he didn’t come back.”

Padmé sighs, pressing her side against the cold wall, her thoughts swirling. She wonders if, in some way, he had made his father feel insecure. If the misunderstanding and arrogance had created a situation that was destined to escalate. She imagines him, a proud, perhaps a little haughty boy, perhaps with little understanding for those who couldn’t keep up. But then, he was just a child back then. Children shouldn’t be punished. They should be nurtured, raised.

“Your mother’s condition isn’t your fault,” she says softly, her words meant to offer comfort, though she knows nothing can take away the weight of his pain. “And neither is your brother’s death.”

He flinches at the words, his voice cutting through the silence, too sharp—too quick. “No,” he spits, the words thick with anger and something else, something raw. “It sure isn’t.”

Padmé closes her eyes for a moment, letting the heaviness of the air fill her lungs. She breathes in, holding the weight of it, before opening her eyes again, unsure of what to say next.

“How did he die? Your father?”

“An accident, something to do with the steelworks,” Orson replies, his tone flat, before he tilts his head back to rest against the wall.

“Is that when you last came here?”

He gives a small, almost imperceptible nod. “I would’ve spat on his grave if there had been one.”

Padmé watches him for a moment, then replies softly, “I don’t think your mother would have liked that.”

“No,” he snorts, but the skin around his eyes tightens with something more than annoyance. “Then again, she wouldn’t have done anything to stop it. Somehow, she never does.” He pauses, his voice quieter now. “I came to take her off this planet. I thought she could live somewhere without the toxic air, but she refused.”

Padmé shivers slightly, the cold concrete pressing against her through the thin fabric of her robe, but she pays it no mind. “It upset you,” she says, her voice soft but firm. “You thought she rejected you, just like your father did. But, Orson… that woman loves you. She may not understand you, and she’s terrified of the world you live in, but her decision to stay here wasn’t about you—it was about her. She’s old, frail, and she doesn’t want to start over again.”

He snaps back at her, his eyes flashing with anger. “You don’t know that.”

“But I do,” she counters, her gaze steady, unwavering. “She’s proud of you. You just need to accept her as she is, on her own terms, just like she’s accepted you. You won’t change her, Orson, and she’s not an embarrassment—not here, not in this place, where she was born and raised.”

He stares at her, his gaze locking with hers, charged with a quiet intensity that feels almost tangible. Slowly, she watches the tension drain from his face, softening his features, revealing something raw and unguarded beneath. The wind stirs his short hazel hair, ruffling it with effortless grace. He looks so young, so startlingly vulnerable—and somehow, that pulls her in. With their heads resting against the wall behind them, she leans in just a fraction, her eyes drifting to the subtle curve of his lips. He notices. She sees the moment he does before she quickly looks away. Her pulse races. And for a fleeting, breathless second, she wishes she could vanish into the thick white mist curling around them.

What am I doing?

A shiver runs through her body then, and she realizes just how cold it is. Even with the jacket wrapped around her shoulders, the concrete beneath her is damp and unforgiving, the chill sinking into her bones.

“Come on,” he says, his voice breaking the silence as he stands and extends his large hand to her. “You’re cold.”

She hesitates for a moment, then looks up at him, her gaze meeting his before she slides her hand into his. As he pulls her to her feet, the warmth of his hand envelops hers, a welcome contrast to the icy air.

When she lets go, it’s only reluctantly.

He doesn’t thank her. Doesn’t admit she’s right. But she doesn’t need him to. He’s just revealed something she suspects no one else knows—not even Galen Erso—and suddenly, it all clicks into place. The anger, the defensiveness, the relentless need to justify himself... it all makes sense now. He’s a man who’s never truly belonged—not even in his own family. A man clawing his way up the ladder, hoping that someday the questions will stop—how he got there, why he deserves it—or that, maybe, people will simply forget he ever had to climb at all.

They walk toward the elevator in silence, the fog still curling gently around them. Padmé’s thoughts drift back to Maira then—fragile, kind, afraid. And she wonders, quietly, what she might do for her. What might still be within reach.

“What if your mother went to Naboo for a couple of weeks?” she asks once the turbo-lift starts moving downwards.  

He glances at her, his brow wrinkling. “What would she do there?”

“We have baths in the Lake Country. She could spend some time there—healing.”

“There is nothing that can heal her hands.”

“I don’t mean her hands,” she returns. “I mean her soul.”

He snorts scornfully, shaking his head. Still, he doesn’t dismiss it. “Do you mean it?”

“Of course.”

“But that wasn’t part of the—"

“Orson, not everything needs to be an exchange. I want to help her.”

I want to help you both, she adds silently.

He looks at her, his blue eyes wide, softened by something like hesitation—or maybe hope. “She won’t want to go,” he says quietly.

“She will if I ask her,” Padmé replies, calm but certain.

Beside her, the man lets out a laugh, and she goes still. It’s not the dry, perfunctory chuckle she’s heard before—this is different. A real laugh. Low and rough-edged, like it’s rusty from disuse. Strange, even a little absurd. And yet, somehow, it’s deeply endearing.

Padmé turns to him, a surprised smile spreading across her face. She studies him openly, not bothering to hide her curiosity. “What’s so funny?”

He drags a hand over his face, shaking his head as if trying to wipe the smile away. “Nothing, really. Just—” He pauses, eyes flicking to hers with a crooked grin. “You might be right. It’s hard to say no to you.”

She lets out a breath, half a laugh, half a scoff. “You say no to me all the time.”

His smile falters, just slightly, replaced by something more honest. “I know,” he says quietly. “And I regret it. Every time.”

The lift jolts to a sudden stop. With a soft hiss, the doors slide open, and a gust of cold wind rushes in, cutting through the stillness like a blade.

Padmé doesn’t flinch. She hardly notices the chill. All her attention is fixed on the man beside her. There's something in his ice-blue eyes, something unreadable yet unmistakably focused, like she’s the only thing in the entire galaxy that matters.

Heat floods her cheeks. She looks away quickly, letting out a quiet, awkward laugh, as if it might dissolve the weight gathering in her chest. She doesn’t understand this feeling—this nervous flutter low in her stomach. Orson is infuriating. He is arrogant, calculating, sharp in all the wrong ways, and double-sided. She hadn't liked him when they first met. She’s not sure if she does now. And yet… she would be lying if she said she didn’t want him to like her.

After all, she almost kissed him a few minutes ago. Almost.

The silence stretches, charged and fragile. She shifts, stepping briskly out of the lift before it can chime again, needing the movement, needing space to breathe.

Behind her, she can feel him follow. His footsteps are quiet, but his presence presses against her back like a shadow—heavy, magnetic. Watching her move.

When they return to the small apartment, the breakfast table is already set, as if nothing had happened.

Maira moves through the room with practiced ease, her smile effortless, her voice light. Orson follows her lead, slipping seamlessly into pleasant conversation—surface-level observations, polite remarks, nothing more. It’s as though the earlier argument has been neatly erased, tucked away where no one has to look too closely.

Padmé watches them, quiet, unsettled. She wonders if this is what people settle for when the truth is too heavy to carry—small talk in place of honesty, silence standing in for resolution. 

It’s that day they first hear the news: the Battle of Geonosis.

The HoloNet flashes with urgent headlines—war has begun. A war Padmé had fought so hard to prevent. There are reports of a secret Clone Army, engineered in the shadows, bred for combat, waiting for the perfect moment to be unleashed. Soldiers created not to protect peace, but to serve those who had always wanted war.

Padmé stares at the broadcast in disbelief. Anger rises in her chest—at the Republic, at herself, at a galaxy so eager to collapse into violence. But not all hope is lost. She knows there are still those who will resist, if only to spare the staggering cost of prolonged conflict.

“I told you it was coming,” Krennic says smugly.

“I hoped you were wrong.”

“We’ll defeat them,” he replies, confident, certain.

“At what cost?” she asks, quietly.

He says nothing.

And for once, she’s grateful for his silence.

That evening, a message arrives from Master Kenobi. It’s brief, but unmistakably clear. She may return to Coruscant. He’ll explain everything in person.

When she tells Orson, he doesn’t hesitate. They’ll leave immediately—he’s been recalled to the capital as well. The timing, as always, is too neat to be a coincidence.

Before they step out of the small bedroom they’ve been sharing, she stops him with a quiet but firm voice. “We need to tell your mother who I am. She shouldn’t have to hear it from the HoloNet.”

He pauses, his jaw tightening. A flicker of resistance passes through his eyes before he nods. She knows he would like to avoid the conversation entirely, but she also knows he’ll do it. Not because it’s easy—because it’s right. Whatever tension lies between him and his mother, Orson Krennic still loves the woman who raised him.

Maira is visibly stunned when Padmé tells her.

“I hosted a Queen?”

“Former Queen,” Padmé corrects gently, though a smile plays on her lips. “I’m a Senator now.”

She thanks Maira warmly, not just for her hospitality, but on behalf of the entire Chommell Sector. Then, without hesitation, she extends an invitation to visit Naboo. Maira begins to protest—clearly overwhelmed—but Padmé won’t hear it.

As they prepare to leave, Maira glances between the two of them, hesitation in her eyes.

“But are you—?” she begins, uncertain.

Padmé pauses, turning slightly toward Orson. This is his moment. His lie to tell.

“We’re not engaged,” he says quickly, shifting his weight with clear discomfort. “We just… ehm… enjoy each other’s company.”

Maira’s brows pull together in a doubtful frown, and Padmé has to look away to stifle a smile. The phrasing, the delivery—it’s so painfully awkward, so utterly him. She shakes her head, amused despite everything.

The journey back is quiet. The war might have begun, but the lights of the hyper-space did not change. They remain cold, brilliant streaks slipping past the viewport. Padmé is tired—still, there is much to prepare. It’s why she suggests staying up to monitor the ship, but Orson refuses.

“I have work too, you know?”

“I don’t doubt it,” she says slowly. “War needs infrastructure.”

“Precisely! I might even get a promotion!”

Forcing a smile, Padmé looks away from him.

She understands his excitement. She just doesn’t approve. Still, the arrangement they agreed on means that she’ll be around him, and considering the circumstances that might prove useful, especially if he becomes a Commander. Who else from her circle will have access to someone from the other side—the side that wanted this war and will be eager to wage it, get rich, and quickly rise in the ranks?

They arrive on Coruscant in the dead of night. The city’s lights shimmer around them, a cold, distant glow. Orson maneuvers the ship into the docking bay with tense, precise movements, his jaw clenched, the air thick. When the ship powers down, he doesn’t immediately move. Instead, he turns to her with awkward rigidity.

“I’ll accompany you home,” he says, the words more of a statement than a question.

Padmé thinks there is a faint tremor in his voice. Maybe she imagines it. She hesitates, a tightness forming in her stomach. “Thank you, but…” She pauses, the words feeling heavier than they should. “I notified Rabé when we left. My detail is waiting outside.”

His eyes flicker, and his nose wrinkles slightly, though his expression remains carefully controlled.

“Ah. Of course.”

The silence stretches between them, thick and oppressive. They hold each other’s gaze, neither of them moving, as if the space between them is too delicate to break. There’s an intensity in the way he looks at her now, like he’s trying to find a reason—any reason—to keep her there, to hold onto this moment a while longer.

Padmé looks away, her chest tightening as she inhales, the realization sinking in.

He doesn’t want this to end, and neither do I.

This moment, these past couple of days—it felt right. She liked being herself, she liked being herself with him. Just as she liked seeing him outside of his usual, rigid persona. Without the uniform. Without the politics. She was grateful he had let her in, even if only reluctantly. The rawness of emotion he had shown—vulnerable, unguarded—helped her understand him in ways she hadn’t before. She saw him now, fully.

Someone who hides rough edges behind a veil of practiced charm. Someone who needs to hear that he has nothing left to prove. Someone who craves love, even as he instinctively pushes it away.

In this cockpit, for what feels like the last time, they are simply two people, sitting together in the stillness of the night, while the world outside spirals into chaos.

But they are not just two people.

They have their roles to play.

“There’s a fundraising gala at the end of the week,” she says, breaking the silence.

“I saw.”

“I suppose we’ll arrive there together.”

He presses his lips together briefly. “We should.”

Padmé swallows, her throat suddenly dry. This shouldn’t feel awkward. Why does it feel so impossibly awkward?

“Will you pick me up?”A flicker of surprise crosses his face before he quickly masks it.“Yes, of course.”

Padmé stands, offering a smile that’s more uncertain than she’d like it to be. “Good. I’ll see you then.”He gives a small nod but doesn’t make a move to follow.

Taking the unspoken cue, she grabs her bag and heads toward the exit, walking toward her waiting escort.

But even as the six men Rabé sent guide her across the hangar to her ship, she finds herself glancing back, hoping to see him step down onto the landing dock.

When he doesn’t, a quiet, inexplicable disappointment settles in her chest.

Chapter Text

Padmé Amidala sips on her champagne while listening to yet another hollow monologue of one of her collogues.

They are at yet another Fundraising Ball. The fourth one in the last month, and as per usual it is a showcase of uniforms and speeches of meaningless valor. Few of the men present will fight in the war they are eager to support, and fewer still truly understand its consequences.

Death, displacement, and relocation of most funds towards armament while other agenda suffers—agenda which could fix some of the issues the separatists have criticized.

The Republic failed many, she cannot deny that and yet she refuses to believe that war was inevitable.

Or was it?

She has wondered about the secret Clone Army—of men literally bread for war on the behest of some unknown entity. Men that were curiously ready exactly when the war broke out.

“What do you think, Senator?”

Padmé blinks, realizing she has paid little attention to the Bothan in front of her.

“I think I’d like another glass of champagne,” she says with a practiced smile, before excusing herself with a small bow.

The politicians nod, and Padmé makes her way across the room.

She doesn’t want another drink; she wants to go home. Unfortunately, she didn’t come alone, her eyes searching for a man in white.

Before she can spot him, Mon Mothma comes to stand next to her.

“If you are looking for the Commander, he is on the terrace.”

Padmé clenches her jaw. She did not think Mon would confront her tonight. Then again, perhaps it’s best to get it over with.

“I’m, in fact. Thank you.”

“Who is he?” the red-headed woman asks, her voice laced with curiosity and perhaps a slight touch of judgment.

“Commander Orson Krennic. Architect, engineer, and as of last week, a member of the Republic’s Strategic Advisory Committee.”

“I’ve learned that much. That pretentious white uniform is a dead giveaway. Who is he to you?”

“A friend.”

“A friend? I don’t want to be nosy, Padmé, but I’ve known you for years, and I have never seen you with a man, and suddenly—”

“I met him more than six months ago. I wouldn’t call it that sudden.”

Mon frowns momentarily before her green eyes widen with realization.

“The space station in Chommell Sector. You said the chief architect was nothing but a warmonger and a snob."

“That hasn’t changed, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I, really,” Padmé lets herself smile a little because she is not lying. They have few things in common, and yet she was looking forward to seeing him again this past week, just as she looked forward to seeing him the week before. Indeed, somehow, she always does.

He is less guarded with her now, less curt, and sometimes even unabashedly charming when there are other people around. When alone, they enjoy a pleasant rapport most of the time, and she cannot help but admit she likes not going to these functions alone, if only because some of the men who always surrounded her started to back off. He’s not a bad dancer either, something that surprised her a little too much not to let it show. He teased her about it—of course he did. But where a month ago that teasing would have been laced with something cold, now it was just that. Teasing.

In addition, he was right. They did promote him, and somehow, he has become strangely powerful. He almost doesn’t need her. Not in this brave new world, anyway, but she can use him and his pride to extract information, and that’s exactly what she does. Or at least what she tells herself she is doing.

“He was the one who hid me following the assassination attempt.”

“I thought the Jedi protected you.”

“Yes, but—," she trails off. If she doesn’t enjoy talking about her relationship with Orson Krennic, she definitely doesn’t enjoy talking about Anakin Skywalker. “They were otherwise occupied.”

“So, he just stepped in?”

“No, I asked him. Look, Mon, I—”

“There you are,” a smooth male voice comes to her from behind, and she cannot help but exhale with relief.

“Orson,” she says, turning to see him approach with a confident swagger. “Have you met Senator Mothma?”

“Not officially,” he says smoothly. “However, I believe our paths crossed at Senator Amidala’s Nabooian Festival of Light.”

Mon forehead wrinkles before nodding. “Indeed,” she says before offering him her hand. “I think you are right, Commander.”

Once the introduction is over, Mon turns to Padmé and nods meaningfully before taking her leave: “I will see you tomorrow.”

She turns toward Krennic, who looks at her, concerned.

“Did something happen?” she asks.

“I don’t know, did it?”

Padmé frowns.

“You looked uncomfortable,” he explains.  

That makes her snort. “I was—she was interrogating me about you.”

“Ah,” he chuckles. “I came right in time.”

“You did. Would you mind terribly if we left? I just can’t stand this charade here any longer.”

“Charade?”

“Half of them didn’t want the war last month. Now they are its biggest supporters.”

“I see,” he smirks lightly, his blue eyes gleaming, but there is tension in his neck. “They dressed for it, too.”

That makes her chuckle. “They certainly did,” she agrees, thinking of all those ceremonial uniforms that the galactic representatives pulled out of their closets for the occasion.

“Do you mind leaving then?”

“Not at all, I feel the same way.”

“Really?”

“Of course,” he nods. “They are all for the war effort until you ask them about financial support.”

“That’s strangely reassuring.”

“To you, it would be.”

They share a look of understanding. They have led this debate before, time and time again. They don’t need to argue about it now.

They arrive at her apartment just before midnight. The speeder's engine hums softly, the city lights flickering all around them. Krennic steps out, helping her to climb onto the platform. Typically, he bids her goodnight and leaves. At least that’s what it has been in the past three weeks. It’s time, though.

“The press will be here any moment and...” She trails off, unsure how to finish.

He stares at her for a second, considering her words. Then, he nods and follows her inside.

“How long do you think I should wait?” he asks, his voice uncharacteristically innocent.

“Orson,” Padmé laughs lightly, rolling her eyes. “They’ll be here until morning.”

Krennic breathes out, then adjusts the collar of his jacket, clearly uncomfortable.

“I had a guest bedroom prepared for you,” she says, watching him closely.

“You did?” He’s distracted, still trying to fix the collar.

“Yes. If you leave, the whole thing is pointless.”

He nods, his face softening a little. “Thank you.”

She watches him struggle with the collar, then takes a couple of steps toward him, her hands rising instinctively toward his neck. She stops just before touching him.

“May I?”

He swallows, clearly torn, but then looks down at her and nods.

She reaches for the clasp of his collar, her fingers grazing his skin as she unhooks it. He freezes, his breath hitching in his throat. For a moment, she stops, forcing herself not to look at him, not to meet his eyes. Then, she finally pulls the collar free and sees the red, irritated mark around his neck.

“Orson!”

“I know,” he cuts her off, stepping back out of her reach. He quickly unbuttons his jacket, revealing a simple white t-shirt underneath. “It’s too small. All the white jackets they sent me are.”

“Can’t you get new ones?”

“I did, but with everyone else getting new clothes, it’ll take a while.”

She shakes her head. “How did you wear that all night without choking?”

“Who says I didn’t?” His voice is dry.

“I didn’t see you.”

“You don’t see me do a lot of things.”

She exhales, then turns and calls for a droid to bring some balm.

“I’m fine,” he protests, but she doesn’t listen.

“Take it off and sit down,” she says, her tone firm.

He doesn’t argue, slowly removing the jacket and sitting down, clearly resigned. She watches him for a moment before turning her attention back to the droid that hands her a small tub.

Suppressing the urge to treat him, she hands him the cream and sits beside him, waiting with a pointed stare.

He sighs but does what she expects, before handing it back to her.

“Don’t they have your measurements?”

“Of course they do.”

“Then—?”

“Someone tampered with them.”

Padmé blinks. She might’ve laughed if he didn’t look so deadly serious. “That sounds a little far-fetched.”

“You have no idea what these people will do to undermine me,” he snaps, standing abruptly.

Padmé instinctively shrinks back.

Orson shuts his eyes, jaw tight, one hand resting on his hip.

“I’m sorry. That was—”

“Why do you do that?” she asks suddenly, forgetting herself.

He blinks, clearly thrown. “Do what?”

“Snap at me. Push me away.” Her voice trembles, but she keeps going. “At first, I thought it was just how you are. But you’re all charm and calm with everyone else—even when they’re deliberately trying to provoke you, you somehow manage to keep yourself in check. I know they get under your skin. You hide it from them. But not from me. With me, it’s just sharp words and cold stares. Even when I’m just trying to help.” She pauses, her voice quieter now. “What is it about me that you can’t stand?”

He laughs. Too loud. Too suddenly. Little unhinged.

She stares at him. Hurt flickers across her face, but she swallows it down.

“Well,” she says briskly, standing. “Silly me. I thought we could have a real conversation.” She turns. “I’m going to bed.”

But before she can leave, he catches her hand.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly now, the edge gone from his voice. His blue eyes have lost their usual chill. “I don’t mean to hurt you.”

Padmé hesitates, caught by the sincerity in his tone. She is more than aware of the pressure he is under, how unpopular he will soon become, especially with her circle of allies. Some will resent his politics, others his background. No matter how much he studies, how polished he becomes, to them he’ll always be a dressed-up commoner. A man from the wrong class, pretending to belong. And worse, giving orders.

He’s smarter than most of them. And just as ambitious, and now that he is with her, they won’t be able to ignore him.

It may be that she is just a useful lightning rod. After all, who does he have apart from Galen?

She shouldn’t overreach. Shouldn’t take things personally.

“I know,” she says gently, her voice barely above a whisper. She squeezes his hand, still caught in his grip. “I know it’s not easy.”

He shakes his head, frowning.  “You really don’t see it, do you?”

Her brows knit together, lips parting as she looks at him.

“You drive me mad,” he says, eyes searching hers. “Since the day you walked into that meeting, late and proud like the room owed you something, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head. I tried to engineer ways of seeing you again. Then you show up and ask for my help, say you’ll pretend to date me—and I’m supposed to just play along, like it’s nothing? How am I supposed to pretend to look at you, to touch you, when all I want is to do it for real?”

He leans in slightly, voice lower now, barely controlled.

“So forgive me if I snap when you try to rein me in or when you’re kind. Because I don’t want your kindness. I don’t want your friendship. I want you. All of you. And if I don’t keep my guard up, I’ll forget that this is just some game we agreed to play.”

Padmé stares, heart thudding against her ribs, his hand still tight around hers.

His breath is shallow. Neither of them speaks.

She should be surprised, and she is, but somehow not as much as she would expect herself to be. Because he’s looking at her with those pale blue eyes, sharp, frantic, and searching, and she’s always been helpless against them. She never could look away.

“I thought you hated me,” she finally says, voice barely audible.

He lets out a bitter, breathless laugh. “I wish I could.”

Her gaze drops to his lips. He leans in—not rushing, just closing the space between them inch by inch. His hand doesn’t leave her wrist. Her breath hitches.

She should say something. Stop this.

But she doesn’t.

She watches him—freckles across the bridge of his nose, the slight tremble in his jaw, the red mark on his neck from his ill-tailored uniform. She bites her lip, nervous. Too late, she realizes she’s holding her breath.

He stops just shy of kissing her. His nose brushes hers, feather-light.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low, laced with the accent he usually tries to hide.

Her eyes flutter shut. Her pulse is thunder in her ears. She should say something. She always does.

But this time, she doesn’t.

Because she can’t. Because she’s trembling with a desire that scares her. Because it was all supposed to be an act.

Only... if it’s an act, why does her heart feel like it’s tearing itself apart?

Why can’t she say stop?

His lips finally touch hers—tentative, reverent. He tastes of liquor and mint, sharp and warm at once. She leans in without meaning to.

And then something shifts.

The kiss deepens, from cautious to consuming. His hand slips to her waist, pulling her closer. She clutches his shirt, grounding herself, breath mingling with his.

Her mind screams that this is a mistake. That they’ve crossed a line they can’t uncross. But her body doesn’t care.

When they finally part, she’s breathless—lips tingling, heart still racing. A part of her hopes he’ll kiss her again, if only to delay the inevitable: the conversation that will follow.

She keeps her eyes closed. She’s not ready to see his face, not ready to see what this has done to him—what it’s done to her.

He must take her silence as permission. He leans in again, pressing slow, featherlight kisses along her jaw, then lower, down the line of her neck. She gasps, involuntarily, a soft sound escaping her lips. She feels him smile against her skin.

“This shouldn’t be happening,” she breathes, her voice barely audible.

He stops.

His body tenses, every muscle going still. “Why?” he asks, too loud for how close they are.

Her eyes snap open. His face is inches from hers, his expression tight, guarded, as if bracing for impact. His eyes—so often cool and unreadable—are wide now, vulnerable.

She swallows hard. Why?

Because she doesn’t do this. Because she hasn’t let herself want anyone since Clovis—and that ended in wreckage. Because everything about this was supposed to be calculated, strategic. Because they disagree on everything, argue like it’s a sport.

Because she searches for him in every room, like it’s a reflex.

Because she wants him to kiss her again.

Her brow furrows. She shakes her head, unsure whether she’s confused or simply overwhelmed.

“I don’t know,” she admits, her voice thick.

Then, a soft laugh escapes her. Barely a sound, more breath than voice. She lifts her hands and cups his face gently, thumbs brushing along the smooth skin of his cheekbones. “I don’t know,” she repeats, smiling.

Something in him releases—shoulders easing, the sharp tension in his jaw melting. His eyes soften, and then brighten, as though her confusion is the clearest answer he could’ve hoped for.

He kisses her again.

This time, it doesn’t start as softly or tentatively.

This time, it’s a decision.

Padmé wakes to the scent of freshly brewed kaf and something warm and sweet—spiced Moogan syrup, maybe cinnamon. It wraps around her senses like a memory. She stretches beneath the covers, the ache in her muscles a quiet reminder of last night.

She smiles into the pillow, not yet ready to face the day. His scent lingers there—clean, crisp, unmistakably him—and for a moment, she just lets herself savor it.

Eventually, she slips into a robe, pulls her hair back with twice as much care as she normally would, and freshens up. The sounds from the kitchen—quiet clinks, the soft hiss of something cooking—draw her toward the light.

She leans on the doorway and watches.

He’s fully dressed—almost. His jacket hangs neatly over the back of the chair, but otherwise, he looks like he's preparing for a briefing rather than making breakfast. Of course he is. Always dressed, always composed.

Except for last night.

She watches the way he stares at the pan with near-military focus, lips slightly pursed, spatula poised.

“A droid could do that, you know…” she calls out, voice lazy with affection she doesn’t bother to hide.

He looks up, grinning. “You’d take a droid’s pancakes over mine?”

“That remains to be seen,” she teases, stepping forward and slipping her arms around his waist.

He turns to kiss her, slow and deliberate, as if trying to undo her entirely with tenderness alone. And it nearly works. When he pulls back, he tugs her in a little closer with one arm, still keeping an eye on the pan.

They eat together, legs brushing under the table, her plate suspiciously filled more than his. She must admit—grudgingly—that he’s outdone the droids this time. The slightly burned edges? Well, that’s her fault. She’d leaned in and said something teasing right when he was flipping the last one. A fair trade, really.

They talk about nothing in particular. Not politics or fuel rates, but the bizarre gossip floating around the Senate halls. Every now and then, their knees touch, and neither of them moves away.

And then—mid-bite—she freezes.

“Wait. Where are my—?”

Being alone with him like this seems like a second nature after the few days they spent together on Lexrul, but they are not on his planet; they are on Coruscant, and she has an entourage of people to cater to her every need.

“I dismissed them,” he says, far too casually.

“You what?”

“I’m sure they’re close. Your guards watch you like hawks. As they should.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That you’d call them if you needed anything. And then I put my clothes on, because apparently walking around half-naked causes a bit of a stir in this household.”

She laughs, loud and surprised.

“Who saw you?”

“All of them?”

“You do realize I’ll never hear the end of this, right?”

He smirks, unbothered. “Let them talk.”

He finishes the last of his kaf in one smooth gulp and rises, glancing at the chrono.

“I should go. There’s a meeting I may now be fashionably late for.”

“You hate when people are late,” she says, raising a brow.

“I do,” he snorts, leaning in to kiss her again, quick and warm. “Luckily, no one will say anything. I outrank them all—What are you doing tonight?”

“Preparing a new motion for the trade commission.” She pauses. “Why? Want to go over it during dinner?”

He grins, crooked and far too charming. “Absolutely not. But I’ll listen while you try.”

She hesitates, then adds, softer, “I’ll probably be done before midnight… if you’re still awake.”

His smile turns wolfish, and her stomach flips. “For you? I’ll wait.”

It’s alarmingly easy when she lets go.

So easy, in fact, that Padmé almost forgets how this began—not with affection, not with trust, but with a calculated deal. An arrangement meant to serve appearances, not feelings.

They laugh. They gossip. They sparkle for the cameras and the onlookers and then—inevitably—they argue.

At his apartment, or hers, about motions and military spending, and political principle. About idealism and pragmatism. About everything. She calls him a technocrat. A warmonger slips out more than once, sharp as a blade.

He only laughs, maddeningly amused. “You’re a hopeless idealist,” he says, shaking his head as if she’s a brilliant, exasperating child. “They’ll come for you—and all you’ll have to defend yourself are words.”

She thinks she hates him in those moments and everything he stands for.

Then one of them kisses the other—hurried, heated, or just weary—and the debate dissolves into something unsaid, unfinished, as they disappear down the hallway, leaving their convictions behind on the living room floor.

He’s gone often.

Dispatched for military assignments he won’t—or can’t—discuss. Occasionally, he lets something slip, then catches himself and tries to backtrack, his accent thickening.

She records those slips—encrypted, filed away. Not shared. Not yet. She tells herself it's protocol. A precaution. She feels guilty every time she types one into the file. But it isn’t him she doesn’t trust. It’s the men above him. The ones who pull the strings.

Her friends are less discreet about their mistrust. Mon, especially, disapproves—her glances sharp, her silences louder than any words. But a few weeks in, she stares at Padmé during a late evening gala and sighs.

“You’re in love with him.”

Padmé stiffens. The heat rises to her cheeks before she can stop it. “I don’t know—”

“Oh, please,” Mon interrupts with a knowing laugh. “You’re utterly besotted.”

Padmé tries to look offended but can’t manage more than a flustered smile. She looks at the floor, resisting the urge to fidget with her hands.

“You know,” Mon continues, “when you first told me, I thought it was some insane strategy. Or charity. But no. You’re completely mad for him.”

Padmé laughs quietly, still not looking up. “Maybe. We disagree on many things but…”

She has never been in love before. Not really. She always thought she was too careful, too disciplined for it. That love was something for simpler lives.

And yet here she is.

Slightly ashamed. Exhilarated. Undone.

“I’m happy for you,” Mon says. “I don’t quite understand, but I’m happy for you.”

Padmé smiles and squeezes her hand half in gratitude, half in sympathy knowing all too well Mon never had a chance to choose. Her parents chose for her.

The months pass in a blur.

She works relentlessly trying to stop the war he is arming. Everyone looks at him with suspicion. Her friends tolerate him now, even Mon, but she can feel they are guarded when he is around, and she understands. The one person who hates him blatantly is the wife of his friend, Galen. They dine there at times, taking a respite from the cameras, and while Padmé is treated by the woman with cold politeness, Orson is treated with hostility. He ignores it, of course, chatting away with the only man she has ever heard him call a friend.

When the Galactic Senate is in a brief recess and he happens to have a couple of free days, she suggests accompanying his mother to Naboo.

“She won’t go.”

“Let me ask her.”

He shakes his head but makes the call, and just as Padmé expects, the woman agrees without much pressure, especially when she hears they will come with her and see that she is settled.

“Does this mean you will introduce me to your parents?”

“I was hoping to,” she says with a small smile.

He leans in, smirking. “Does this mean you’re serious about me?”

“I’m always serious,” Padmé snorts, brushing it off with practiced ease. But in truth, the thought tightens something inside her. She is serious. Too serious, maybe. Her family already knows who he is—thanks to the tabloids, the whispered Senate conversations, the half-true op-eds. She never lied to them about her feelings in the end. She did not have to. But she also couldn't ignore the wary look in her father’s eyes.

“He’s an architect,” she told her father when they first talked about him, with a little more force than honesty. “He builds what others tell him to.”

“Not anymore,” Ruwee Naberrie had replied quietly. “Now he decides what gets built—and why. And you know that.”

She does. And she chooses to live with that knowledge while counteracting it where she can.

On Naboo, Maira is radiant. The Lake Country is more than a reprieve—it’s a revelation. She laughs more, sleeps better, lingers by the water as though trying to soak in every golden shimmer. Padmé sees the light return to the older woman’s eyes. She knew this would happen as the woman’s hands were never the real issue that needed fixing.

Orson, for his part, is unexpectedly quiet.

They arrive by shuttle just before sunset, the lake glowing copper beneath the sky. He stands at the edge of the stone balcony, staring out across the glassy water, and for once, says nothing. Padmé watches him from a distance. There’s no swagger, no snide remark. Just stillness.

Later, when they’re alone, he admits, “It’s beautiful. I didn’t think places like this still existed.”

“They don’t,” Padmé murmurs.

He nods, slowly, and for a moment, she thinks she sees something unguarded flicker behind his eyes. Not regret—not quite—but a shadow of what could have been, if the galaxy were different. If he were.

“It’s not what I expected,” he says. “I see now why you fight so hard to protect it. And I want you to remember that I want to protect it, too.”

A chill settles beneath her ribs.

Protect it. The words should comfort her. But coming from him, they twist into something uneasy. Guns. Concrete. Surveillance towers and military checkpoints. She can see his version of safety, and it has nothing to do with peace.

She wants to ask—By what means? But she doesn’t. Not tonight. The sunset is too soft, too golden, too fragile for another argument.

Instead, she just takes his hand, and together they watch the sun slip behind the mountains.

At her family’s home in Theed, the air smells of warm stone, flowering vines, and home-cooked food. The late afternoon sun filters through the open windows, bathing everything in gold.

Inside, Orson and her father navigate each other carefully—two men instructed to avoid volatile topics. They talk instead about the land, the village her father helped build when she was a child. He pulls out faded architectural plans with pride, spreading them across the table, his fingers lingering over the contours of rooftops and pathways.

To her surprise, Orson leans in with genuine interest. He listens, asks thoughtful questions, even unrolls a few of his old sketches from the days before his career turned toward large-scale project. Smaller homes. Simpler ideas. Things meant to shelter, not dominate.

He is charming—of course he is—with her mother and Sola, gracious without being performative, and more at ease than she expected. But what truly startles her is how effortlessly he falls into play. Ryoo and Pooja drag him into the garden, shrieking with laughter, and he lets them, giving chase through the orchard with mock ferocity. His pristine white jacket is soon streaked with grass and soil, but he doesn’t seem to care.

Padmé watches from the kitchen, her heart caught between joy and disbelief.

“He’s not quite what I imagined for you,” her father admits, his voice low, thoughtful. “But he’s not without sense either. I disagree with him—same as I do with Captain Panaka when he visits—but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t understand where they’re coming from. I was afraid he was a bad man, Padmé. But maybe… maybe he’s just a man shaped by the wrong place.”

Sola glances over from the stove and smirks. “Well, he’s handsome, at least.”

Her father rolls his eyes, but there’s a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. “Maybe you’ll be good for him. Maybe you’ll remind him what actually matters. He’s smart, dedicated. He could do much good if he wanted to.”

Her mother, more subdued, speaks from where she’s setting the table. “Just don’t think you can fix him, child. That’s not love. If you can’t love him as he is—broken pieces and all—there’s no future in it.”

Padmé turns to the window. Outside, Orson is laughing—laughing—as Pooja hurls a stick at him like a spear. He stumbles back theatrically, clutching his chest, and the girls collapse in giggles. In his uniform, he seems entirely out of place, and yet somehow… not.

“I do love him,” she says quietly. “And he loves me, I think.”

Her mother pauses, folding a napkin, then looks up at her with something heavy in her eyes. “That I don’t question. I only worry he’s the kind of man who would burn the world for you—when the man worth keeping is the one who would burn himself instead.”

It happens at a gala in a floating atrium of glass and light, where war profiteers and power brokers toast under the stars. The music is rich, the conversation hollow. Padmé stands apart from it all, elegant in sapphire silk, her posture perfect, her eyes distant.

She wouldn’t have come—this isn’t her world. But for Orson, this is the event of the year, and so she promised she’d be there for him.

They keep their disagreements out of the public eye: no politics, no judgments. Just presence. Still, it’s not easy. He still wears his military affiliation like a badge of pride, and she still despises everything it stands for.

She’s mid-sip when she feels it—that ripple in the air.

Then she sees him.

Anakin Skywalker.

Older. Taller. Dressed in dark leather, no longer the restless boy from Tatooine, nor the awkward young man with too many edges. His eyes find her instantly, and in them: recognition, surprise... something else. Possessive. She doesn’t like it.

He moves toward her with purpose, threading through the crowd without breaking stride. Her stomach knots.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t look for Orson. She lifts her chin, sets her face into a calm mask, and waits.

“Senator,” he says as he reaches her, voice lower, rougher than she remembers. It’s only been a couple of months and yet…

“Anakin.” She forces a smile. “You’ve changed.”

“You said that the last time.”

There’s a beat of silence. His eyes search hers. Then: “You didn’t come visit me.”

Her grip tightens on her glass. “I wrote to you.”

“I know. Empty words of comfort.”

Padmé frowns. “I meant what I said.”

“Nothing more?”

“Ani…”

“I waited for you,” he hisses, stepping closer to her.

“You shouldn’t have. I’m not yours to wait for.”

Anakin reels, just slightly. Pain flashes across his face—then hardens into something colder. Hurt becoming anger.

A voice cuts in—smooth, practiced.

“Is there a problem here?”

Orson, pristine in white, arrives like a blade. He sets a hand lightly behind Padmé’s waist, not forceful, but clear.

Anakin’s gaze drops to the touch. His breath catches. His shoulders tighten.

Krennic smiles, cool and polished.

“General Skywalker—the hero with no fear. Your reputation precedes you.”

Anakin’s tone is acid. “Does it now?”

“Oh yes,” Krennic says, voice smooth but eyes sharp. “Tell me, do you actually enjoy destroying things? Because the rest of us spend months fundraising, negotiating, building… only for you to sweep in and turn it all to ash in an afternoon.”

Padmé cuts in quickly. “Orson, please—”

The man’s smile hardens. The white of his uniform gleams under the atrium’s gold light.

“That’s the problem with people like you—used to power, never told to stop. And when you are, you don’t listen.”

Anakin takes a step forward, tension crackling off him like a live wire.

“You’re out of your depth, Commander.”

Krennic doesn’t flinch.

“Am I?” he says quietly, eyes narrowing. “Because from where I’m standing, you don’t take no well—from your superiors or from her.”

Padmé looks at Orson, unsure whether he pieced it together on his own or dug around for answers. She never told him who the Jedi was that unsettled her—and this is exactly why.

Anakin freezes. His jaw tightens, his fists clench.

Krennic continues, relentless now, each word measured like a scalpel.

“She rejected you, Skywalker. Chose someone else. Me, as it turns out. So do yourself a favor—walk away. Now.”

Anakin doesn’t budge.

The crystal flute in Orson’s hand shatters—glass and champagne erupting in a sharp, sudden burst.

Guests around them start to notice. Heads turn. But the string music does not falter, not yet.

Orson recoils, startled, but it’s too late—his body locks, suddenly seizing. He grips at his throat. No fingers touch him, but he’s being crushed.

Padmé moves between them instantly. “Anakin—stop!”

His eyes are wild now, breath fast. He doesn’t seem to hear her.

The music comes to a sudden halt.

Orson sinks to one knee, choking.

“Master?!” a young Togruta—a girl barely fifteen—pushes through the crowd. Her voice trembles. “Master, that’s enough!”

A beat.

Then Anakin blinks—startled, like waking from a fever dream. His hand drops.

Orson collapses forward, coughing hard, chest heaving.

Padmé doesn’t go to Anakin. She doesn’t even look at him. She kneels beside Orson. Her hand on his shoulder, steady. Present.

Anakin stares at them. His fists clenched, eyes wide.

Then he turns and walks out.

No apology. No backward glance.

His Padawan follows him, shaken. She glances once, briefly, at Padmé, and then is gone.

All eyes are on the woman in blue.

Senators whisper behind crystal flutes. Military officers pretend not to stare. Someone calls for security.

Padmé breathes deeply.

“Can you stand?” she asks Orson, softly.

He nods, rising with effort. “I’m fine,” he says—automatically, like someone trained to dismiss injury. But he’s shaking. Embarrassed. Enraged. And all the guests are still watching.

The city glides past in streaks of gold and red. The windows are polarized, the privacy settings engaged. In the backseat, silence thickens.

Orson dabs at his bruised throat with a linen cloth. The skin there is red and will be mottled purple come tomorrow. His pride was worse for wear.

“He lost control,” he says in a high-pitched voice. “And no one stopped him!”

“They were in shock,” Padmé replies, still looking out the window. “So was I.”

“He could’ve killed me.”

“But he didn’t.”

Orson whirls toward her, eyes narrowing. “You’re defending him?”

“No.” She exhales, steady but tense. “But you provoked him—not that it excuses his reaction. How did you even know?”

He scoffs. “I was able to find out it was either Kenobi or Skywalker. The rest? Your body language gave it away.”

She doesn’t say anything right away. Just folds her hands in her lap, elegant and still. Finally:

“We met during the Naboo blockade,” she says. “I was Queen. He was nine. Just a boy—a slave, rescued by a Jedi named Qui-Gon with a silly crush. He was bright, brave... sweet, even. He helped us win the battle.”

“Touching.”

She ignores the sarcasm.

“I didn’t see him again until the assassination attempts. The Council sent him and Obi-Wan to guard me. I thought it would be... comforting. Familiar.” She glances at Krennic. “It wasn’t.”

“What changed?”

Padmé’s voice softens, but not with nostalgia.

“The way he looked at me. Spoke to me. Like I was some thing he was entitled to. As if the years hadn’t passed, as if he’d written the ending and was surprised I was reluctant to play the part.”

She looks down at her hands. “He scared me.”

Krennic watches her. “He scared you tonight, too. I saw it.”

She nods, eyes meeting his.

“I don’t want you to press charges."

Krennic snorts. “You can’t be serious!”

“Please, Orson, I beg you.”

“Fine,” he says. “Not that it changes anything. Half the Republic saw it—senators, generals.” He leans back against the seat, voice bitter. “Even if I stood in front of the holocams tomorrow and called it a misunderstanding—which I won’t—he’s finished. The Order’s already under fire. People think the Jedi hold too much unchecked power. Maybe they’re right. Either way, this just adds fuel.”

He looks at her, voice dropping. “No prophecy’s going to save him now.”

Padmé flinches—just slightly. But she knows he’s right.

The boy she once knew is gone. And the man left in his place is unraveling, and only the Force knows what the years ahead might unleash.

Chapter Text

Orson Krennic keeps his word. He doesn't press charges against Anakin Skywalker. But Padmé knows better than to confuse that with forgiveness.

Yes, he does what she asked—but not without making sure the galaxy sees him as the noble one. The wronged man who rose above revenge. He revels in the attention, soaking in every ounce of sympathy the scandal brings.

Padmé forces herself to let it go, even if she cannot deny the uneasiness as she watches him spin it to his advantage. Still, it's his right. Anakin did attack him after all.

The fallout is worse than she feared.

The HoloNet blazes with footage from the gala. The moment Anakin’s gloved hand grips Orson’s throat—blurry, half-obscured and without actual touch—has become iconic. The press spins it in every direction: some romanticize it, others condemn it, and many, just as Orson predicted, use it to attack the Jedi.

The Senate moves quickly, seizing the moment. Military leaders call for tighter control over the Jedi Order. Legislation is drafted—aggressive, sweeping—but it stalls, if only just, held back by the lingering reverence for the ancient ‘keepers of the peace.’ In the end the Order escapes unscathed, but Anakin does not. He is detained, charged with severe misconduct and transferred to a maximum-security facility built for Force-sensitives.

And then—he vanishes.

No breach. No alarms. Just… gone.

Whispers circulate—of missing footage, tampered feeds. All signs point to outside help.

She contacts Obi-Wan as soon as the news reaches her ears. When he answers, his voice is quiet and frayed.

“I don’t know where he is,” he says, and though his words are simple, the tension laced through them makes her believe him. Whoever helped Anakin wasn’t him.

“What happens to his Padawan?” she asks, folding her arms tightly, as if bracing herself.

“Ahsoka Tano,” he exhales slowly. “She was meant to be my apprentice, originally. The Council thought giving him a Padawan would anchor him—force him to mature. I was to watch them both.”

Padmé raises an eyebrow. “And now?”

A small, bitter laugh cracks from his throat. “Now? I train her. Of course. What else can I do?”

She doesn’t have long to wait before she hears of the girl.

The alert comes through her comms while she’s in a late briefing. One of her senior aides leans in, whispering against the low hum of discussion.

“Senator, there’s a Jedi at the front. Ahsoka Tano. No appointment.”

Padmé straightens slightly. “Let her in,” she says, more quickly than she means to. “I’ll meet her in my office.”

Jar Jar trails her as she exits, his usual clumsy shuffle softened by concern.

“Yousa sure 'bout dis, Padmé?” he asks, hands-a wiggling nervously. “What if dis bein’... somethin’ bigga? Wit Ani gone an’ all…”

“She’s just a child,” Padmé says quietly. “And she’s alone.”

Jar Jar hesitates but nods, stepping aside as the doors to her office part.

The Togruta stands at the center of the room, flanked by two security officers until Padmé signals them to leave. The girl had asked to speak with her alone, and something in her eyes—a mixture of bruised discipline and fear—makes it impossible for Padmé to refuse her.

“Ahsoka Tano,” she says with a pleasant smile. “Please, sit!”

The girl moves to the desk stiffly. Her face is composed, but her eyes are alert, watching the older woman anxiously.  

“Thank you for seeing me, Senator. I know this isn’t… proper.”

“You’re not here about politics,” Padmé replies, sitting. “You’re here about Anakin.”

Ahsoka nods. She lowers herself into the chair but doesn’t relax. Her hands stay folded in her lap, thumb rubbing anxiously against her fingers. Her shoulders under her lekku are drawn tight.

“I was hoping you might know where he went,” she says. “I don’t believe he would leave without a reason. I just… I don’t understand why he wouldn’t tell me.”

Padmé watches her for a long moment. There's too much pain behind that young face—too much guilt for someone still considered a student.

“I’m sorry,” Padmé says. “I wish I did. But the truth is… Anakin always believed we were closer than we really were, and I’m afraid I’ve never quite seen him as clearly as I thought I did.”

Ahsoka looks down, blinking hard. “He was a good Master,” she says softly. “He didn’t always do things the Jedi way, but… he always cared.”

“I believe you,” Padmé says, leaning forward slightly. “You miss him.”

Ahsoka nods once, quickly, as if she doesn’t trust herself to dwell on the thought.

Padmé’s voice softens with understanding. “If you ever want to talk—or just get away from the Temple for a while—you’re welcome here or at my home. My staff may ask questions, but I’ll make sure they know you’re always allowed in.”

A small smile tugs at Ahsoka’s lips. “That means more than I can say, Senator. Thank you.”

As the door closes behind her, Padmé stares after her, thoughts spiraling.

The Jedi had placed their hopes on Anakin becoming something greater. But in the end, all padawans were still just children, taken from their families and taught to fear love.

She has never understood the system. Now she cannot help but question it.

That night, Padmé doesn’t go home.

The Senate is quiet, a hollow shadow of itself after hours. Outside, the city pulses with speeders and light, but in her office facing the turquoise reflecting pools, time feels suspended. She doesn’t touch the datapads or answer the waiting holos. Just sits, hands wrapped around a cup of cold kaf, listening to the silence—until a chime breaks it.

Before she can turn, the doors hiss open.

Not a staffer, then.

Orson.

He steps inside, out of uniform for once. The dark civilian coat he wears is crisp, perfectly tailored—but the sharpness in his eyes remains. He scans the room, alert, not unlike a young Jedi earlier.

“Why are you still here?” he asks, voice low, edged with quiet reproach.

“I wasn’t ready to leave,” she replies calmly.

He offers her a fresh kaf and leans against the desk, arms folded. “Your office should’ve cleared hours ago. I told you’re the last couple of staffers to go.”

“You’re very good at issuing orders when no one asks you to.”

He gives her a dry look but doesn’t argue. Instead, his gaze flicks to her face, searching.

“I heard who came to see you.”

Padmé leans back in her chair. “She didn’t pose a threat.”

“She shouldn’t have been allowed in without clearance.”

“I gave her clearance.”

Orson sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You really can’t make this easy, can you?”

“She’s a child, Orson. One who is trying to make sense of someone who meant everything to her, leaving without saying goodbye.”

His jaw shifts slightly. He doesn’t answer.

“She came for emotional support. For something no one else was willing to give her.”

“And what did you get out of it?” he asks quietly, but there is an edge to his voice.

Padmé looks away. “I don’t know. Closure?”

“There is no closure as long as he’s out there.”

Padmé sighs, wondering if, given the chance, he’d volunteer to lead the hunt himself. He’d already secured a full security detail to shadow his every step—for protection, he claims, though she suspects it is just as much about spectacle as safety.

She stands now, slowly, setting the steaming kaf aside. “When I asked you to protect me back then, you never really asked me why.”

“I didn’t have to,” he replies, matter-of-fact.

“You barely knew me, and you didn’t know who I was running from. You just knew they were Jedi. Weren’t you worried?”

He leans forward, folding his arms. “I figured you wouldn’t have asked me if you didn’t think I could handle it.”

That nonchalant arrogance—Padmé almost smiles. Her eyes linger on him now, studying his face. It’s a lie, of course. He is too smart not to know that hiding her was dangerous. And yet, with that cold precision of his, he’d calculated that whatever the risk, it was worth the reward. It’s why she picked him after all.

There were other reasons, of course. Reasons she wasn’t quite aware of just yet.

“Did you even know Anakin before the gala?”

“No,” he says. “But I saw enough right there. He walked toward you like you belonged to him—didn’t even try to hide it. And I don’t like competition.”

Padmé lifts an eyebrow. “You mean you don’t handle competition.”

“I handle it just fine,” he replies with a cool grin. “I just prefer better odds—makes winning easier.”

She lets out a dry, tired laugh. “That explains a lot.”

There’s a beat. He watches her. Then, he adds:

“I may not have known who he was, but I knew enough about you to know that you wouldn’t have run unless you felt trapped. So, the day you asked me to help you, I knew someone had backed you into a corner and that you were afraid, and I realized that I would do anything for you not to feel that way again—ever.”

Padmé looks down. “You never said that before.”

“You never needed to hear it.”

He hesitates for a moment. Something more fragile flickers beneath his confidence.

“Look, I’m not good at this,” he says, gesturing loosely between them. “Feelings. Honesty. All the messy, sentimental things. I can fake it when it doesn’t matter—I’m very good at that. But when it does…”

He trails off, then locks eyes with her, and this time, there’s no mask.

“I make sense of the world by controlling it. That’s how I survive. But with you—” He exhales, his voice softer now, “I’m trying. I’m really trying… not to turn this into something I feel the need to control.”

Her voice is barely a whisper. “Why?”

“Because if I did… if I tried to control you, you’d look at me the way you looked at him. And I don’t think I could survive that.”

Padmé stares at him, unmoving.

And that’s when he does it.

No warning. No build-up.

“Marry me.”

She freezes.

He watches her closely. He’s not embarrassed. Not even hesitant. He just raises a brow, as if challenging her not to be surprised.

“I mean it,” he says, voice calm. Clear.

Padmé doesn’t speak.

He presses on, because of course he does. “I know this isn’t the moment. Everything’s raw. Every eye is on us because of him. But I don’t care. I know what I want.”

She raises an eyebrow, slow and sharp. “And you think I’ll say yes just because you decided that?”

“No,” he says, without missing a beat. “I think you’ll say yes because if the idea truly repulsed you, you wouldn’t be with me. You think too much to waste time on something you don’t want.”

Padmé’s breath catches because, of course, she’s thought about it. She’s weighed it like everything else. She wouldn’t be in this room if she hadn’t.

“You just told me you don’t want to control me,” she murmurs, stepping closer, “and now you want me to sign a contract?”

“You can say no,” he replies smoothly, not backing down an inch. “You can throw the kaf in my face and tell me I’ve misread you completely. I’ll live… or not. Your risk.”

She stops in front of him now. Not in defiance—just to be nearer.

“You’re impossible,” she says softly.

A faint smirk tugs at his mouth. “I’ve heard that before.”

Then his voice lowers, almost reverent.

“But I’m yours. If you want me.”

There’s no kiss. No answer. Only a long, suspended moment where she reaches up and lightly touches the lapel of his dark coat, studying it. 

“I try not to think about the future,” she says softly. “There’s too much to do now. I can’t even really predict what tomorrow will look like.”

“You don’t have to,” Orson replies, voice even, eyes on hers. “You just have to decide whether you want me in it.”

She lets out a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Somewhere in between.

“You really didn’t plan this, did you?”

“Absolutely not,” he says, his mouth curled in a lazy grin. “What kind of ring do you want?”

“I haven’t said yes,” she says, a quiet, sheepish smile slipping through.

“No,” he says, his blue eyes sparkling—not with mischief this time, but something steadier, something like belief. His hand finds the small of her back, fingers warm and deliberate, and he draws her gently toward him. There’s no force in the movement, just the natural pull of gravity.

Their bodies align with practiced ease. He leans in, his nose brushing hers lightly as his breath stirs the air between them, soft and warm against her lips.

“Not yet.”

When he kisses her, it’s quiet and certain and gentle. There’s no urgency, no rush.

He knows what her answer will be—he's never had any doubt. And if she's being honest with herself, neither has she.

Padmé leans into him. Her fingers tighten at the collar of his coat, grounding herself in its crisp fabric. The tension she’s worn like armor since the morning softens, loosens, slips away, unraveling in the warmth of his mouth on hers.

And outside, beyond the walls of the Senate, the galaxy spins on—unaware that its course just shifted.

They marry in a quiet ceremony at Varykino Villa in Naboo’s Lake Country, far from the Senate’s gaze. Padmé invites only a few—her parents, her sister, and the four people in the galaxy she still trusts without condition: Mon Mothma, Bail Organa with his wife Breha, and Jar Jar Binks. Orson arrives with his mother and with Galen Erso, accompanied by Lyra and their young daughter, Jyn. Lyra, to her credit, manages—for once—to keep her disapproval carefully disguised behind polite smiles and restrained conversation.

But restraint has its limits.

Just before the ceremony, Padmé finds herself alone with her near the water’s edge, the sunlight flickering off the lake’s surface and throwing quiet light between them.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” the woman says at last, her tone even but taut. “He’s the kind of man who’ll walk over corpses if it gets him the view from the top and he won’t look back.”

Padmé doesn’t flinch.

“I know you don’t like him. I know you think he is a bad influence, and perhaps he is, but I have never seen him be anything but kind to you.”

“He must. Galen wouldn’t stand for anything else, and he can’t afford to lose him, although who knows now that he has you…”

“I know who I’m marrying,” she says, calm and resolute. “He’s not the monster you think.”

Lyra hesitates, watching her. “I hope you’re right. For your sake, more than his.”

Padmé doesn’t know what to say. Lyra has never justified her dislike of Orson. Never provided concrete evidence and so she merely smiles a sad smile and walks away.   

In the end, it turns out to be a surprisingly pleasant weekend. Padmé enforces a strict ban on politics—though, as expected, it’s loosely observed. Mon and Orson can’t help but prod at each other now and then, veiling sharp barbs in flashy smiles and sarcasm.

Still, with enough people around to diffuse the tension, they both manage to behave—mostly.

Padmé suspects they both enjoy the sparring. Orson certainly seems to, his smirk widening like the Lothal cat that got the cream every time he manages to back Mon into an argumentative corner.

It was a calculation on her part. Spending time together outside the political arena allows everyone to see one another in a new light—a small but meaningful shift Padmé hopes will ease tensions once they return to Coruscant.

It’s why she chose to have any guests at all and to a certain extent, it works.

Bail and Breha take a genuine interest in Miara, asking about her home world and making her feel welcome among strangers. They even invite her to visit Alderaan. Mon talks mostly with Lyra and Galen, quizzing them on their scientific pursuits.

In this constellation, Orson gravitates—without prompting—to her sister’s children. He’s patient, fully present, and Ryoo especially is clearly enthralled by him. At one point, Padmé finds them seated on the villa’s terrace, heads bent over a sketchpad. Orson is teaching her to draw the villa’s architecture in precise, careful strokes, narrating the logic of line and proportion with the poise of a man who rarely talks down to anyone, least of all a child.

It’s oddly mesmerizing, and she sees Mon see it. File it.

Somehow, Padmé finds it comforting. Perhaps when the war is over, when they all settle into a less heightened environment. Her friends will come to treat him with less suspicion.  

When the guests depart, leaving them with a rare afternoon to themselves, Padmé stands at the edge of the veranda. Her bare feet rest against the sun-warmed stone as she gazes out over the lake. The water lies still, interrupted only by the occasional ripple from a passing breeze.

Behind her, she hears footsteps—measured, deliberate.

“You’re not hiding, are you?” Orson’s voice is dry, but soft.

She doesn’t turn around. “That depends. Are you here to talk politics or kiss me?”

A pause. Then, footsteps again—closer now. She feels the heat of him at her back before his arms come gently around her waist, his chin settling lightly against the crown of her head.

“No politics,” he murmurs. “You banned them. I’ve decided I’ll be a very obedient husband.”

She lets out a quiet laugh, resting her hands over his. “No one believes that.”

He chuckles against her skin, and for a moment, the world feels right even if she knows it isn’t.

“I liked seeing you with the children,” she says after a while, her voice quiet, almost tentative. “Ryoo hasn’t stopped talking about arches and measurements and… ‘structural integrity.’”

Orson hums in response, pulling her just a bit closer. “She asked real questions. I respect that. Also, she corrected me when I misnamed a column order. Fiercely.”

Padmé smiles into the breeze. “Sounds like someone I know.”

He tilts his head to the side, brushing a kiss against her temple. “I like your niece.”

“And she likes you. My mother said she hasn’t seen her sit still for that long, even when they tried to teach her music.”

“Ah,” he says, mock solemn. “Architecture is the superior art.”

She laughs again, but this time, it fades more gently.

After a long moment, she half-turns in his arms to face him. He looks down at her with something close to wonder. It’s still strange to her how soft his blue eyes can be when he lets them.

“Do you ever imagine it?” she asks quietly.

He raises a brow. “Imagine what?”

“This,” she says, gesturing vaguely to the horizon, to the stillness around them. “A quiet life. No Senate. No war. No military. Just… peace.”

Orson exhales sharply, almost a laugh but without humor. “That’s an illusion.”

His tone isn’t cruel—just certain.

She studies him, but he’s not looking at her anymore. His gaze drifts out over the lake, jaw set.

“You don’t believe it’s possible?”

“I do,” he says slowly, choosing each word with care. “Just not for me. Maybe for someone who hasn’t spent years clawing their way into rooms that were never meant to include them. That kind of life—it’s not made for people who move the world. It’s made by them.”

He looks at her then, and there it is again—that unsettling clarity in his ice-blue eyes. Hard-earned realism that doesn’t blink, doesn’t budge.

“People like that don’t get to stop,” he adds quietly but firmly. “I don’t get to stop, and neither do you, I fear.”

 “We could…,” she murmurs.  “Together. Not today, but one day.”

He huffs a soft breath, almost a laugh. “Maybe. But we wouldn’t know what to do with ourselves.”

Padmé doesn’t argue. Instead, she reaches up and touches his face, fingers brushing the straight line of his jaw with deliberate tenderness.

“Then let this afternoon be the exception,” she says. “Just this once. Let us pretend.”

He nods, slowly. Tries to smile. But it never quite reaches his eyes.

Later, they share a simple meal outside: sun-warmed fruit, soft cheese, torn flatbread. The last of the Naboo red is passed back and forth straight from the bottle. Their feet brush under the table, bare and unhurried.

Orson sketches idly between bites, quiet little renderings of how he’d redesign the villa’s west wing.

She teases him for it—calls him incorrigible. No one touches Varykino. Not even him. But she doesn’t stop him. Not when he’s like this.

When the sun finally slips behind the lake and the sky turns a deep blue, he stands and holds out his hand.

No music. No audience. Just the hush of the water against the stones, and the sound of crickets in the grass.

They sway in silence. And for a moment, she lets herself imagine another life—one where she leaves the Senate behind. Where she writes, or serves Naboo quietly, without titles or speeches. Where he teaches—at Theed University, perhaps. Architecture or engineering, something brilliant and slightly arrogant. Or disappears into the private sector, where ambition doesn’t have to bleed.

In another time, in another place, maybe that life could have been theirs.

But she isn’t sure.

Maybe he’s right—maybe neither of them was ever meant for a quiet life.

The next morning, they leave early.

The air is still, the villa hushed. Their bags are already stowed when Padmé walks the garden one last time, her fingers skimming the dew-slick sandstone as if trying to memorize its shape.

From the doorway, she can feel Orson watching her—coat fastened, spine straight, though not as rigid as usual. He doesn’t call to her. Doesn’t interrupt. He just waits, quietly, letting her take her time.

When she finally turns back, her chest aches for a life that will never be hers.

“Back into the storm,” she murmurs as they board the ship.

Orson leans in, his hand brushing hers—just enough to steady her. “Let it rage,” he says with a faint wink. “We’ll win.”

As the ship lifts off, slicing through the clouds, the lake and garden shrink into memory.

And all Padmé can think about is that there are no true winners in war—only those who lived, and those who didn’t.

The wedding makes a splash across the HoloNet. No photos leak, which only fuels the interest. For weeks, the media runs wild—speculating, prying, spinning ridiculous stories. Orson suggests they give them something to chew on. Padmé, exhausted by the circus, agrees.

They release a few pictures. Carefully selected. Elegant, composed. The press spends a full week analyzing every stitch of her gown, every angle of his expression.

Then, the interest dies down, and life begins.

They drift in and out of each other’s day-to-day lives, both often pulled from Coruscant for long stretches. Days pass—sometimes weeks—before they’re in the same room again.

When they are, Orson’s silences feel heavier. His moods shift without warning: sudden flashes of anger, interspersed with moments of inexplicable joy. He shares less. Slips less. Everything about him feels more carefully contained.

Padmé doesn’t press. She’s figured out he’s building something—vast, secretive. She suspects it’s taking shape somewhere in the Outer Rim. Probably the Arkanis Sector.

It’s funny how often he calls from there. The same sector as Tatooine.

They never find Anakin. Never discover who helped him vanish.

Eventually, Padmé stops watching shadows, stops scanning unfamiliar faces. Orson doesn’t let go so easily. Every few months, he reopens the case, reignites the search, but it’s pointless.

Anakin is gone. Maybe it’s better that way.

Sometimes, Padmé thinks about that afternoon in Varykino—how distant her life is from the quiet ideal she imagined. A part of her wonders what might’ve been, had she chosen differently, but she fell in love with a man who has a mission. And she admires that in him—his drive, his ambition. She would never ask him to walk away from it. Still, when he’s gone, she misses him.

At the same time, she knows that the distance is its own kind of mercy. With fewer shared moments, they argue less. Time softens the edges... though not always. Not completely.

When Padmé along with Mon and Bail speak out against a bill to funnel more funds into clone troop production—arguing instead for a renewed commitment to diplomacy—Orson shuts her down without hesitation. He scoffs when she suggests that Senator Onaconda Farr’s sudden death might have been an assassination, orchestrated to silence opposition before the vote. Only after she exposes a conspiracy in the Senate—uncovering that Farr was poisoned by Senator Lolo Purs, who blamed him for the war reaching Rodia and viewed his anti-war stance as betrayal—does Orson begin to walk back his certainty. Even then, he refuses to stand beside her as she delivers a searing speech condemning the Senate’s descent into corruption and militarism. To him, it’s simple. However unsavory the action, every credit not spent on arms or the welfare of clone soldiers is a credit wasted.

Her decision to open a direct diplomatic channel with the Separatist leadership is equally explosive, if not more.

The Holo projector flickers to life, casting a cold blue sheen across the room as Orson’s uniformed figure appears, rigid with fury.

“What were you thinking?” he spits, his voice sharp.

Padmé straightens, arms crossed, chin held high. “I had thought I’d meet with Mina Bonteri, which is what I did.”

“A Separatist!? Padmé, you must be out of your mind?”

“She’s an old friend,” she says calmly. “Someone I trust. And she’s willing to negotiate. The Separatists are ready to discuss mutual de-escalation. This is the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for.”

His clenched hands move in a desperate gesture. His mouth twists. “You took an immense risk—without authorization. Without even telling me. What if you’d been arrested? Held hostage? Or worse?”

“I wasn’t alone,” she says, her voice firm but quiet.

He narrows his eyes. “Who went with you?”

“I asked Ahsoka Tano to accompany me.”

His body recoils as if struck. “You dragged a child into this?”

Padmé’s eyes flash. “A child? The first time she came here, you thought she was an assassin.”

Orson’s jaw works, but no words come. He swallows, lips pressed into a thin line.

“You could have been kidnapped,” he says finally. “You could’ve died, and I would’ve found out from a news bulletin.”

She softens for half a breath, then steels herself again. “You’re the one who said progress requires sacrifice. I am willing to risk my safety for peace. And for what it’s worth… Count Dooku gave tacit approval. He’s not opposing the talks.”

Orson exhales harshly, shaking his head. “Dooku’s word means nothing. He plays the diplomat until the saber’s in your back.”

“Sometimes,” she says, folding her arms tightly against her chest, “you have to trust a little, if only to give them the chance to prove you wrong.”

He doesn’t respond. Just stares at her through the Holo, breathing unevenly. She can see it—the conflict behind his eyes, the way concern twists with pride and helplessness. But he says nothing more. Doesn’t forbid her. Doesn’t bless it either.

She ends the call, knowing exactly where they stand—it’s where they always stood.

It all comes undone days later.

A Separatist attack cripples the capital’s power grid just hours before the Senate vote. In an instant, the city descends into chaos—sirens wailing in the distance, airways cast in eerie shadow, comms flickering with static. Padmé stands still amid it all, the darkness disorienting, pressing in like a suffocating fog.

It’s a harsh, undeniable reminder of their fragility. She tells herself that fear is the wrong response—that it clouds judgment—but still, it rises within her. She knows it rises in others, too, and with it, something darker. The urge for retaliation.

The door to her office slides open without warning.

Orson is there—his eyes wild, blue-gray, and searching. No words, no preamble. He closes the distance in two strides and pulls her into a tight embrace, his breath shaky against her hair as he kisses her hard, desperate, relieved. His arms tighten around her, as though holding her close is the only way to confirm she’s truly there.

“The comms went dark,” he breathes, voice breaking. “No one knew what was happening. There were rumors—rumors that the Senate was hit. I couldn’t reach you. I thought—” His voice catches, and he shakes his head, jaw tight.

She rests her hand gently on the side of his face, grounding him. “I’m fine,” she says softly, her voice steady. “Nothing happened.”

But the flicker of rage-laced fear in his eyes says everything. Something did happen, and there will be consequences.

When the Senate reconvenes, there is no room for peace talks. The chamber roars for security, for order. Emergency powers are extended. Military funding triples overnight. Everything she and Mina accomplished collapses in a single session.

Padmé sits in the gallery, watching the vote pass with a quiet devastation that steals her breath. She doesn’t look at Orson—she doesn’t have to. His gaze finds her across the chamber, silent and heavy with vindication. She can feel it like a pressure against her skin.

To him, it’s confirmation. Proof that diplomacy is an illusion, that democracy falters when it matters most. That only power holds. And after tonight, she’s lost one more argument to prove him wrong.

Padmé doesn’t plan it.

She has always wanted children. And when she watches Orson with her nieces—gentle, patient, full of pride—she knows he’d be a good father. But bringing a child into a galaxy at war feels cruel. Selfish. Worse, they are both so busy, so often off-world…

That’s why she wants to tell him in person, to make it a moment worth remembering. So, she waits, telling herself there is time.

Then the night comes when everything changes, and she wishes she had acted, if only to prevent herself from acting now.

Padmé wakes to the soft chime of a comlink. Just one. His.

The bed shifts beside her as Orson moves. “Go back to sleep,” he murmurs when she raises her head, voice husky. His body is rigid as he swings his legs off the mattress, movements too careful, like a soldier bracing for impact.

She watches him in the dim light. He doesn't glance back.

Minutes later, the silence is shattered—literally. A loud crash, the unmistakable sound of glass exploding, followed by something heavy tipping over. Her heart jerks into her throat.

She’s out of bed in an instant, fingers curling instinctively around the blaster hidden in the nightstand. Barefoot, still in one of her night shirts, she pads quickly into the living room, pulse hammering.

The room is chaos.

Shards of crystal glitter across the floor like ice. A chair lies toppled, a small table splintered. Orson stands at the center of it all, chest heaving, one fist still clenched at his side. Two security personnel linger near the doorway, expressions alert, weapons lowered—but barely.

“It’s fine,” Orson barks, voice clipped and commanding. “It was me. You’re dismissed.”

The guards hesitate—just long enough for Padmé to notice how tight their grips are on their blasters—before nodding and retreating.

She half lowers her weapon. Her eyes scan the room, her breath catching as she surveys the mess. She steps closer, her bare feet avoiding the glittering crystal.

“What happened?” Her voice is low, firm. “Is your mother…?”

He shakes his head in quiet dismissal. Then, he snaps: “She’s fine.” His shoulders are hunched, hands flexing at his sides. “It’s not about her.”

She takes another cautious step forward, brows knit. “Then what is it?”

He looks at her now, eyes burning with restrained fury. “Three months of work. Gone. Dozens dead. Poggle—that traitorous insect—blew it all to hell.”

Padmé’s eyes narrow. “Poggle the Lesser? I thought he was locked up on Eriadu.”

“He was,” Orson grinds out. “I pulled him out. I needed his Hive to build… something. He played along. And now he’s vanished. Took everything—everything—and ran to Dooku.”

His hand lashes out suddenly, knocking a vase from the console. It shatters. He barely reacts.

Her gaze drops to the largest crystal on the floor—deep blue and shimmering faintly in the dim light. She recognizes it.

“That’s an Arreyell Crystal.” Her voice sharpens. It was a gift. An expensive one. “So, it does matter.”

Orson's jaw clenches. “You don’t have the clearance.”

“I’m your wife,” she says, stepping into his space now, her voice rising. Her hand, still holding the blaster, lowers—but her eyes stay locked on his.

“But you’re not just that, are you?”

Her stomach flips. She stiffens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He looks away, exhaling slowly through his nose, fingers pressing into his temple. The armor of composure is cracking—his spine is straight, but his voice falters when he speaks again.

“I was tasked with building something. Something monumental. A weapon—yes. But more than that. A symbol. I enlisted Poggle and his droids to accelerate the process. But now it’s all done. Tarkin’s going to hear about this and I’ll be finished."

He paces, running both hands through his hair, breathing harder. The panic in his voice mixed with something akin to excitement. “The project… it is everything.”

Padmé watches him, the pieces she gathered over the years form his occasional slips starting to fall into place.

“What exactly are you building?” she asks quietly.

He doesn’t answer right away. The silence is thick—alive. The room feels like it’s holding its breath. Shadows stretch long across the floor as the dim lights above the kitchen counter flicker inexplicably.

Finally, Orson turns. The glass crunches as he takes a step back from her.

“I can’t tell you,” he says, wincing as he looks at his foot.

Padmé’s eyes sharpen. “You already told me half of it. You don’t get to stop there.”

He studies her. She knows how she must look, barefoot, blaster at her side, hair tousled from sleep, standing tall in the middle of a shattered room—defiance incarnate. And yet, she’s calm. In control. She won’t back down.

“It’s a station,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “An orbital one. Enormous. Armed. Capable of targeting a planetary surface.”

Her mouth opens slightly, as if the air’s been knocked from her lungs. “You’re building a station that kills from orbit?”

He nods slowly. His eyes are lit—no longer with anger, but with awe. “Yes. That’s the scale. One shot. One world. The Death Star, that’s what they’re calling it now.”

Padmé reels. Her stomach clenches with a cold dread. “And you think that’s how peace is made?”

His eyes flash. “It’s the only language they understand. These separatists, they’ll never stop. They bleed us dry and hide behind treaties and false promises.”

“And when it’s the Republic who disagrees with your masters? When it’s Naboo?”

He doesn’t answer. Just turns away sharply, as if the idea itself stings.

“It won’t come to that,” he mutters. “It’s a deterrent. Nothing more.”

Padmé lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. “You don’t believe that.”

He says nothing.

“How far along is it?” she asks, voice taut.

He hesitates. “I can’t—”

“Oh, for stars’ sake, Orson.” She gestures around the room—the crystal fragments, the wreckage, him. “You already told me. You expect me to pretend you didn’t?”

He looks at her, his jaw tight. “Yes, and I expect you to pretend well. This doesn’t leave this room.”

Padmé doesn’t flinch, but something behind her eyes shifts.

“Orson, whatever this is, whatever this becomes—it’s being done behind the Senate’s back. That’s treason. Where is the funding even coming from?”

He turns sharply, pacing. His bare feet crunch over the shattered remains of the vase but he doesn’t flinch. Not this time. “The Senate?” he scoffs. “The Senate is ceremonial at best. They approve what we let them see. The real work happens in the shadows. You know that.”

She follows him with her eyes. “So what I do doesn’t matter. Is that it?”

He rakes a hand through his hair, his voice rising. “That’s not what I said.”

“But it’s what you meant.”

Orson stops. For a moment, the tension in his posture breaks. His shoulders sag, hands falling to his sides. “Why did you ask me?” he asks quietly. “I wanted to protect you. I tried. But you kept asking and I—I wanted to tell you. Force, Padmé, I’ve been dying to share this with you. Every breakthrough, every setback.”

He turns to her again, eyes pleading now. “I know you don’t approve of weapons in general. But this—this is history. This station, it will change everything. It’ll end the war. Force peace. It will be the single greatest achievement in a thousand years, and it will have my name on it. But no one can know—not yet. Padmé, if you tell the senate, I’m finished. You said it yourself, according to the law, this is treason. I’ll be executed.”

There’s a long silence. The lights of a passing speeder flicker across the windows, casting shifting shadows on the walls. Finally, she walks to the kitchen counter and sets the blaster down with a soft clack and resists the urge to touch her abdomen.

“I won’t tell anyone,” she says.

Relief crashes across his face but she is not done yet.  

“I won’t tell anyone, but I hope they shut it down. I hope whatever Poggle did ruins this entire project beyond repair. I hope the Senate finds the hidden credits and buries the whole thing under audits and investigations. Because weapons don’t stay unused, Orson. Every time something like this is built, someone eventually decides to fire it.”

He stiffens. “You don’t understand—”

“No,” she snaps, stepping closer. “I don’t. How far are you willing to climb just to be remembered? You think you’ll be saluted? Revered? When this thing fires—when it wipes out a city, a planet—what legacy will be left then? Just ash and your name in a footnote.”

He turns away, his jaw quivering. “You have no idea what it’s like.”

Her voice lowers. “Enlighten me.”

He turns on her, eyes burning. “You were born into privilege. Admiration. You were a prodigy, Padmé—people recognized your brilliance before you could even spell your name. They lifted you up. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be overlooked? Mocked? To be told, over and over, that you’ll never measure up? And now, for the first time, someone sees what I’m capable of—and I won’t waste that.”

She recoils, the words landing hard. “The first time?” Her breath stumbles in her throat. “What about me? I saw you,” she says with urgency. “I still do!”

His gaze drops, voice low and frayed. “I used to believe that.” A beat of silence. “Now I’m not so sure.”

“I love you, Orson,” she says, steady despite the ache in her voice. “But I won’t betray everything I stand for just so you can take a bow.”

He lets out a short, bitter laugh. “So that’s love? Only when it’s convenient?”

“They’ll never let you command it! I hope you know that.”

He steps toward her, hand half-raised—then freezes.

She stares at him, but doesn’t flinch away, doesn’t move.

For a split second, something flashes in his eyes: anger, instinct, the ghost of a reflex he swore he’d never inherit. Then the moment breaks. His hand falls. He recoils, as if burned, shaking his head hard like he can shake it loose.

“I—” The word stumbles out, hoarse, barely there. “I need air,” he says, already turning away. His voice is clipped, final.

Moments later, the whine of the speeder cuts through the silence, rising as it lifts off and disappears into the blur of the city night.

Padmé stands there, breath shallow, arms crossed against the sudden cold.

The door hisses again. Security appears, two officers exchanging glances, waiting for orders.

She doesn't speak. Just nods toward the open sky.

Let them follow him.

What else is there to do?

Padmé doesn’t go back to sleep.

She orders the droids to clean up the mess. They move around her with mechanical efficiency, but she barely notices. She stays on the couch, a blanket draped over her shoulders, though she isn’t cold, and stares out into the night.

At some point, her stomach turns. She presses her hands against it, unsure if it’s from exhaustion, the weight of dread—or something else.

How could I have been so naïve?

She knows Orson. Knows him well. He wants to be admired. Seen. He walks into a room and wonders who’s whispering about him, who’s dismissing him, who’s doubting his worth. He wants to silence them. All of them.

And he’ll do almost anything to make that happen.

He’s not blind, though. He knows—he has to know—this won’t end well.

Still, she knows that part of him loves the challenge. He thrives on the impossible. He’s not really a scientist, no, but he shares their obsession, their need to solve the unsolvable. To build the unthinkable. Just to prove he can. Just to be the best, beyond any doubt.

And that’s the problem.

Some things should never be built. Some lines should never be crossed. And this—this weapon—is one of them.

Then again, even if he wanted to stop—could he? He’s not the one pulling the strings. The military is. The higher-ups, the ones who care more about outcomes than consequences. Or maybe, without realizing it, he’s become one of them.

Either way, if he walks, they’ll replace him. Someone else will step in. Maybe not as sharp. Maybe even more brutal. But the project won’t stop. The plans are already in their hands. He doesn’t own any of it now. Not in a machine like this.

She turns it over in her mind, again and again, but every path ends in the same place.

Unless—unless he falters. Unless he stalls. There’s no clean solution. Only the hope that he hesitates long enough to matter.

And there’s only one thing that might make him do that.

She hates this. Hates even thinking it.

But there’s no other way.

She’s going to tell him.

Today.

And she’ll let him draw his own conclusions. Let him feel the weight of what he’s risking. Of who he’s becoming.

And maybe—just maybe—it will be enough.

He returns just as the sky begins to soften, dawn bleeding gold across the horizon. The door hisses open with a quiet sigh. Padmé hears his boots pause on the threshold, the faint rustle of fabric. She doesn’t turn.

She doesn’t know if he sees her sitting there on the couch, or if he simply chooses not to acknowledge her. Either way, she keeps her gaze fixed on the skyline, eyes glassy, unmoving.

“I’m pregnant.”

She hears his footsteps falter behind her, the shuffle of disbelief.

“What?”

“I’m pregnant,” she says again, louder this time, eyes still locked on the distant buildings as if they might offer clarity. Her fingers twist the hem of the blanket now, knuckles pale.

There’s a long pause, then he crosses the room toward her.

She finally looks up.

He’s a mess. His coat is thrown over what he wore to bed, the collar crooked, one sleeve half-pulled. His hair is ruffled, eyes ringed with exhaustion and something else—something raw, wide with emotion.

“I had no idea,” he breathes. Then his face shifts—brightens. “I—that’s wonderful! I—I’m so happy!”

Padmé stares at him, forcing her expression into something still and unreadable. Every instinct in her screams to run into his arms, to collapse against his chest and let the weight of it all go. Because the truth is—she’s happy too. Terrified, yes. But thrilled and she wants them to do this together. Only, she can’t.

She stands slowly, holding the blanket at her chest. When she speaks, her voice is like ice.

“I’m glad,” she says. “I hope you’ll think about what kind of galaxy they’re going to grow up in.”

He doesn’t speak, but the change in him is immediate.

His expression falters as if she’s slapped him. His brows knit in confusion first, then lift, searching her face for something—anything—that softens the blow. His thin lips part, but no sound comes.

The joy drains from him. His eyes flicker, as if trying to piece her words together, to understand, but she is already walking away.

Her vision blurs as tears rise in her eyes, but she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let herself look back.

This isn’t how she wanted it to be, but she meant every word she told Lyra on their wedding day.

She knows the man she married.

And now, he knows what’s at stake.

Chapter Text

Orson Krennic disappears without warning. No calls. No goodbyes. Just a single holo-message left flickering pale-blue on the console in the kitchen—still glowing when she walks in again later that morning, blinking like an apology that it isn’t.

I’ll be back.

That’s all.

Be safe—That’s what she wants to write.

She doesn’t.

She doesn’t respond at all. Doesn’t trace his location.

Let him sit in my silence, she thinks. Let him carry the weight.

And he does and doesn’t reach out to her. Not once.

Three weeks pass.

When he finally returns, she doesn’t expect him. That’s why she stays at the Senate chatting with Mon longer than usual.

Meanwhile, Orson Krennic is in their kitchen.

Cooking.

The scent hits her first—garlic, crisped too dark in synth-oil, something warm and tangy simmering in a pan. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, crisp white shirt somehow pristine despite whatever mess he’s made of the stovetop. The light from the evening sun filters all around him, casting long, deep red and orange streaks across the countertop.

She freezes in the middle of the room, muscles taut, heart a thrum of disbelief.

Three weeks without a word and now…?

He glances over his shoulder, his ice-blue eyes dropping to her stomach briefly before returning to the pan in front of him.

“You’re home.”

She wants to be angry. Wants to demand answers, but all that comes out is, “What are you doing?”

He turns, slowly. Shrugs a shoulder.

“Dinner.”

She stares at him, still fighting her disbelief.

“Smells like it’s burning.”

He smiles a faint smile—the kind he wears in front of other senators.

“I have it under control.”

She sets her data pad down gently, as though any sharp movement might disturb the fragile unreality of this scene. She watches the angle of his shoulders, the measured rhythm of his hands as he cuts some indiscernible vegetable.

This is not a man broken by failure. This is a man playing a part. What part exactly, she can’t quite tell.

“What are you doing, Orson?” she asks again, her voice measured.

“I came home.”

Her expression doesn’t change. She has seen him do this in Sativran City. Cover the hurt and uneasy conversation with small talk. She won’t stand for it.

“You didn’t think to let me know?”

“I did, but as I’ve never received a reply to my previous message, I did not think you cared.”

Padmé flinches slightly.

I care, she thinks. I care too much.

She steps further into the room. “The project?”

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“It’s over.”

She freezes. “Over?”

He nods, placing the vibroblade on the countertop as he turns. “They shut it down two weeks ago. That insect’s sabotage was extensive—his hive dismantled everything they’ve built, and despite the insignificant size of their brains, they even managed to corrupt blueprints… The High Command could no longer justify the cost. So, they scrapped it. Transferred me out.”

“To where?”

He gives a faint, bitter smile. “Energy Bureau. Mostly civilian infrastructure. It’s a joke—really.”

He shrugs then, as if it’s beneath him, but there’s no visible grief. No fire. No bitterness. Just weariness and something akin to acceptance.

“You don’t sound angry.”

“I’ve had time to process.”

He turns back to the stove, stirring the bubbling sauce once more before turning his attention to the redglass noodles.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he adds, his tone light. “You don’t believe me.”

Padmé says nothing. Just watches him with sharp eyes, reading the subtext in the flex of his jaw, the tightness in his voice, the slight pause before every detail. He’s too calm. Too smooth.

She isn’t sure if he’s lying, or if he just believes he has to hide his disappointment from her. And maybe he’s right. Last time, she hurt him—deliberately.

But that’s done now. Whatever comes next, they have to move forward.

She draws a quiet breath and steps closer, her hand finding his arm. A gentle touch, steady, asking—look at me.

“I do believe you,” she says, her voice firm. “And I’m sorry.”

He lets out a short, hollow laugh and starts to pull away. “You don’t have to pretend.”

Padmé stops him—her fingers tightening around his bicep, digging in with quiet urgency.

“I’m not pretending,” she says. “I meant what I said last time we spoke. I am relieved that that thing won’t be built. But I know how much this meant to you.”

He hesitates, just a fraction of a second too long.

“I’ve made my peace with it.”

She doesn’t believe him—how could she? But maybe if he says it enough, he’ll start to believe it himself.

She lifts her face to his, voice soft. “I missed you.”

He inhales sharply, looking at his feet. “I honestly wasn’t sure if you’d still be here.”

“I will always be here.”

The silence that follows is not quite peaceful, but it is quiet.

She leans into him, resting her head lightly against his shoulder. He allows it—tentative at first—then slowly wraps an arm around her, his touch careful. Measured. Like he’s holding something delicate, he’s not sure he deserves to touch.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs against her hair, voice low and raw. “I almost did something I swore I never would, and you just stood there. You did not even flinch.”

She doesn’t move.

She remembers the look in his eyes—wide with horror, the instant it happened. Or nearly happened. She can’t even recall the motion itself, only the aftermath: how quickly he recoiled, like he’d touched something burning inside himself.

That’s why she didn’t flinch. She didn’t need to. He had already stopped himself.

“I know you, Orson,” she says softly. “You’re not your father.”

He exhales—shaky, uneven—but it isn’t relief. It’s something heavier. Shame, maybe.

She reaches up, her fingers brushing gently along the line of his light brown hair. His face is taut, the angles sharper, the lines around his mouth pronounced.

He looks worn.

Too tired for thirty-two.

Too tense for a man who says he’s let go of everything.

“How are you feeling?” he asks suddenly, voice husky.

“Nauseous in the mornings. Better in the evenings. It’s manageable.”

He nods. His gaze drifts down to her abdomen, and for once, he doesn’t hide what he’s feeling. A quiet smile tugs at his mouth—gentle, unguarded—as he reaches out, fingers brushing lightly over the soft curve stretching her dress. The touch is tentative, reverent, like he’s only now coming to believe it’s real.

“I should’ve been here,” he says, not quite looking at her.

“You’re here now.”

They stand in silence, the sweet-ish scent of the spiced pasta hanging in the air between them.

“I meant what I said,” she murmurs. “I missed you. Don’t leave us again. Not like this.”

He watches her for a long moment, his eyes tracing her face bathed in the warm glow of the blood-like sunset in quiet awe. He looks at her like she’s something rare, something beautiful—and she can’t look away. Slowly, he lifts a steady hand to her cheek, his thumb brushing her lower lip in a soft, deliberate arc. His magnetic blue eyes catch the fading light and burn with intensity.

“How could I ever leave you?”

Suddenly, he is kissing her—forceful, insistent. Her breath hitches, still she answers without hesitation, hands finding his chest and sliding to his shoulders.

He tastes of regret, relief and hunger and she gives in because when she said she missed him, she meant all of him. She missed the smell of the cologne that clings to his skin, a blend of warm woods and musk. She missed his touch, sometimes soft, sometimes demanding, always satisfying. And she has missed the feel of his body, warm and firm and pressed against hers. Shielding her with its weight.

So, when he lifts her onto the counter, his fingers sliding along her thigh, pushing the fabric of her dress upward with clear intent she lets him.

A timer starts beeping in the background. He ignores it, and so does she—but one can only ignore the high-pitched sound for so long.

“Do you still have it under control?” she teases in a shaky breath as his fingers find the clasp of her dress.

He turns without a word, and with one touch, he cuts off the induction burner.

Suddenly, the beeping dies.

Then he’s back in front of her, slipping the ornate folds of her purple senatorial garb from her shoulders.

“I fear my priorities have shifted.”

“Did they now?” she chuckles, her fingers moving to undo the buttons of his shirt, one by one.

If she thinks the Energy Project will keep Orson anchored to Coruscant, she’s wrong. Whatever this initiative is, he treats it with the same relentless dedication as his last assignment.

Somehow, the task has changed, but his attitude hasn’t.

Still, he’s around more than before. Not just at home but at Coruscant more generally. She’s quietly relieved when Galen Erso gets pulled into the project. She likes Galen—sharp, principled, steady and wholly uninterested in politics. He brings out something calmer in Orson. Less performative and more protective.

Lyra notices, too. Only she doesn’t like it.

She hides it better now—warm smiles, polite questions—but Padmé sees the tension in her shoulders and the way her eyes narrow just slightly when Orson talks with a little too much swagger.

At home, he hovers. Brings her Tarine tea she doesn’t ask for and frets over her standing too long.

“I’m pregnant, Orson. Not sick.”

He backs off, but never for long.

Later, when he shows her a holo-sketch of the nursery—clearly anxious she’ll reject the over-the-top setup he’s envisioned—she gently places a hand over his.

“You’ll make a good father,” she says softly.

He huffs through his nose. Then his signature grin surfaces—crooked, cocky, the flash of ego slipping through his doubt.

“I will be an excellent father!”

Padmé doesn’t bother hiding her smile. She knows he needs to see it.

She keeps working. The Senate isn’t slowing down, and neither is she. The war drags on. Casualties rise. And Palpatine’s grip tightens. He was her ambassador once. Not a mentor, but someone she trusted. Now, he extends his emergency powers without hesitation, reshaping the constitution like it’s a personal document. It’s not subtle anymore. First, he puts himself above the Jedi Council, a previously independent entity functioning without governmental oversight. Then he starts to appoint governors to oversee all star systems. It’s like the Senate ceased to matter at all.

Mon and Bail echo her concerns. The three of them begin to meet in secret and gather forces. Soon, they call it the Delegation of 2,000. Not rebellion. An aspiration. A warning.

They meet at Bail’s Cantham House. Neutral ground. Safer than her apartment. Less visible than Mon’s.

She has little doubt that Perrin would join in. He distrusts Palpatine, but not with focus. Too cynical and loose-tongued with wine. He cannot be trusted.

Orson is the real risk.

Not because he defends the Chancellor—but because he personally believes in him. He’s convinced, even now, that if Palpatine had known about what he was building, he would’ve supported it. Protected it.

“He would’ve seen the potential,” Orson says once, low and bitter.

She tries to talk him out of it, but she can’t. Not completely. Because part of her knows it’s true.

And that’s the problem.

Palpatine would have built the Death Star.

Which is exactly why he must be stopped.

She watches Orson in the evenings, when he’s quietly working beside her, and wonders if he knows. If he suspects what she is doing and when the moment comes—if it comes—whether he’ll stand with her.

The presence of war above their heads catches her off guard.

She’s seen battles before—planets burning, skies lit with fire—but this feels different. The scale. The audacity. It reeks of desperation. An invasion so close to Coruscant is more than an attack—it’s a message. And when the rumors begin to swirl through Senate halls that the Chancellor has been kidnapped, her first reaction is disbelief.

How? How does someone take the most heavily guarded man in the galaxy, in the heart of the capital?

It doesn’t make sense.

She’s still processing it when Orson appears in the doorway of her office, white uniform cutting through the sea of her confused aids.

“Come with me,” he says. No greeting, no explanation—just urgency.

She blinks at him. “Where?”

“To safety!”

Dormé, appearing next to him, notes: “The Senate has its own protections, Commander.”

He glares at the woman briefly before stepping further in, jaw tight. “The Senate has been compromised the moment they kidnapped the Chancellor. There’s no time to argue.”

He takes her arm—not roughly, but with a force that becks no refusal—and leads her away from the evacuating Senate wing into a waiting speeder. Before she knows it, they’re heading across the city, deeper into the administrative district, away from the familiar.

She is puzzled when he steers them to the only patch of greenery left on the planet. When they arrive, it’s not at a government facility or shelter, but at a sleek, half-constructed building pressed into the hillside of the B’ankor Refuge. He types a code into a concealed panel, and the wall opens to reveal a bunker—clean, wide, sterile, far too advanced for a temporary refuge.

Inside are Galen, Lyra, and little Jyn. The moment Lyra sees her, her eyes narrow.

Padmé turns to Orson. “What is this place?”

“It’s a secure facility under Project Celestial Power,” he replies, already working at a terminal, fingers flying.

She freezes. “Your energy project?”

“Yes. It will serve as headquarters once it’s fully operational.”

Her eyes flick to the high ceilings, the seamless walls, the biometric locks embedded in the doors. “What about the B’ankora people? This is their land.”

Orson doesn’t look up. “That remains to be seen.”

Her voice sharpens. “What?!”

“I don’t give a damn about the land,” he barks, barring his teeth. “I’m in charge of research!”

She says nothing. Just stares at him. Her heart thuds in her chest, slow and heavy.

“I thought you’d be pleased it’s on Coruscant,” he exhales, slowly, deliberately, his sharp blue eyes meeting hers for a brief moment before returning to the console.

She sinks onto the ground at the far wall, hands pressed flat against her thighs to keep them from shaking.

It’s not the place, not the time, but the feeling is unmistakable.

He’s lying to her.

Or if not lying, hiding something—which feels the same.

Lyra slides beside her, calm but watchful. She doesn’t speak for a moment, just studies Orson’s movements across the room with quiet intensity.

“Remember what I told you in Varykino?”

Padmé looks at her, silent. Of course, she remembers.

He’s the kind of man who’ll walk over corpses if it gets him the view from the top.

Lyra leans closer, voice low and urgent. “The B’ankora are just the beginning.”

Padmé swallows hard, looking around the bunker again after Lyra leaves her side. This place isn’t a shelter—it’s a stronghold. A monument to control. She feels it in the clean lines, in the quiet hum of systems already running beneath her feet.

She clasps her hands together in her lap to steady herself.

The war will end. It has to. Peace talks will follow, and when they do, she’ll turn her attention to these stolen lands, to the people displaced by this gleaming facility buried in their hills, because he can conduct research anywhere. So why here?

She won’t allow it.

Not without assurances. Not without due process.

This is a discussion for another time, though, another place.

The facility seals itself with a final hiss—locks sliding into place like a cage—and everything falls silent. Somewhere above, ships fall from the sky. Somewhere, the atmosphere bleeds fire and smoke, but here, there is only silence.  

Then—darkness.

The lights cut out, leaving only the dim red glow of emergency strips along the floor and a quiet pulse of the shields. Artificial heartbeat. Orson must have killed the main power—to minimize risk in case of impact. No fire, no sparks. Just shadow and steel.

He finds her in the half-light.

Wordless, he drops to the floor beside her, chest still heaving from exertion, white coat dusted with the ash of the silica dust of the construction. He says nothing, only leans back against the wall and exhales, trying to slow his breathing. Their shoulders don’t touch, but the space between them feels impossibly small.

She glances sideways at him, and for a heartbeat, memory overtakes her.

A different wall, years ago. Cold, rough stone. A morning drenched in white mist. He sat beside her then, younger, out of uniform, too proud to show the pain of his past but too exhausted to hide it. She’d wanted to reach for his hand, to pull him into her warmth, to kiss the bitterness off his mouth if only to make him feel something different, something soft.

She realized she was falling for him there. Despite his sharp edges, despite his ambition, and sometimes in the weeks after, she finally let herself feel it.

And she doesn’t regret it. Not even now, when she suspects there is more to this than he says.

That’s what frightens her most.

Not the war. Not Palpatine refusing to give up his powers.

Him—and the excuses she will make on his behalf.

His breathing stabilizes. She watches the subtle twitch of his jaw, the way his fingers tap restlessly against his knee.

He’s afraid.

She sees it—not in his ice-blue eyes, which remain pointedly away from her, but in the stillness he’s trying to maintain. The tension beneath his skin. He’s afraid they’ll lose. Afraid someone will find them, that the bunker won’t hold, that he will lose everything he’s fought for and everything he loves all at once.

She places a hand gently over his. The tapping stops. Immediately. He doesn’t look at her. But he doesn’t pull away either.

When she speaks, her words are soft—just above a whisper.

“It’s going to be alright.”

He turns then, eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to determine whether she means it, or whether it’s what she thinks he needs to hear.

He scoffs, squaring his shoulders as his bravado slides back into place. With practiced ease, he drapes an arm around her and pulls her close—a gesture meant to comfort, but somehow falling short.

“Of course,” he says, confidence threading his voice, though his accent wraps too tightly around the words to make them sound fully sincere. “We have the superior military. Always had. Failure is not an option.”

She doesn’t answer. She merely lets the back of her head rest quietly against his shoulder and waits.

Across the room, Padmé feels the prickle of eyes on her. She lifts her gaze just in time to catch Lyra staring.

Not curious—wary.

Their eyes lock for a second, the weight of warnings lingering between them. Then Lyra looks away, murmuring something softly into Jyn’s ear.

Padmé exhales softly, her hand drifting to rest on the heavy swell of her belly.

Beside her, Orson notices. He draws her closer, his breath warm against her hair.

“I’m doing this to protect us,” he murmurs. “All of us.”

She doesn’t answer.

She won’t let herself ask what he means—whether he’s talking about hiding them here, about the bunker he’s building, or whatever will rise above it.

Instead, she exhales again—slow, quiet, but doesn’t pull away.

The battle ends in a Republican victory.

Palpatine returns to Coruscant, unharmed, escorted back in triumph by Obi-Wan Kenobi and Shaak-Ti. Count Dooku is dead. General Grievous vanishes into the Outer Rim, and the war’s final act seems suddenly within reach.

She heads for the speeder before the reports stop coming in. Orson protests, insisting she’s in no condition to be working anymore.

He’s not wrong. She is exhausted. Her back aches, and her legs feel heavier with every step. But there’s no time to linger—not after what he just inadvertently revealed.

She doesn’t tell him what’s racing through her mind. Doesn’t say she won’t be able to forget that bunker—how pristine it was, how prepared. A civilian energy project, he’d called it. But no energy initiative needs blast doors that thick. Or surveillance arrays woven into the walls.

She’s seen military command centers with less security.

The lies he told her were elegant, convincing, and apparently too good to be true.

“I’m going to the Senate,” she says over her shoulder, already halfway to the landing platform.

When he follows her into the speeder, silent but fuming, she finally turns to face him.

“I’m a politician, Orson. The war’s nearly over—we’ve won. It’s time we start acting like it. Time to go back to actual governance.”

“Politics,” he mutters, like it’s a bad taste in his mouth.

“Yes, politics! We need to make sure Palpatine gives up his emergency powers and hands control back to the Senate.”

He scoffs, whipping his head toward her. “Now? You think now is the right moment? The war isn’t over.”

“It is,” she says firmly. “The fighting might not be finished, but the outcome is. And if we wait—if we let this moment pass—he’ll never step down.”

He stares at her, his blue eyes hard. “What has he ever done to you?”

 “To me? Nothing. But to the Republic? To the Constitution? He’s hollowed it out. You don’t see it, but under Palpatine, we’ve become what the Separatists accused us of being—a dictatorship.”

His expression hardens. “You sound an awful lot like them.”

Her hands curl into fists in her lap, her blood is boiling. There’s no use pushing further—not when he sees loyalty as binary, and dissent as treason.

So once again, she says nothing.

The silence thickens. The speeder glides through Coruscant’s morning. When they reach the Senate District, she departs without looking back.

That afternoon, whispers begin to circulate—ugly ones. Stories of Jedi betrayal. Of treason. Of a secret coup against the Chancellor. She hears them in corridors, murmured behind data pads, passed from aide to aide like a virus.

She doesn't believe it. She can’t.

But when she tries to reach Obi-Wan, there’s no response.

And then the Holo buzzes to life—Orson’s image flickers into view, his expression filled with reigned-in panic.  

“I’m warning you,” he says without preamble. “That petition you're thinking of circulating. It’s being watched. You are being watched. So is Organa and Monthma, and all your other friends. You must stop this. Right now.”

“How do you know?” she demands.

He rolls his eyes theatrically, jaw tight. “None of you is exactly subtle.”

“But—”

“This is not important right now,” he snaps before hesitating for a second. “The clones have received an order to eliminate all traitors.”

Her blood turns to ice.

“Traitors?”

He meets her eyes through the projection. “The Jedi. They were trying to take over the Senate, overthrow the Republic.”

The word echoes in her ears. “That—”

“Listen to me,” he says, gesturing wildly. “Do not do anything. I beg you!”

“I can’t—”

“Yes! You can! Promise me! Just this once. Promise me you will sit on your hands and keep your mouth shut!”

He is agitated; his intense eyes frantic with fear even over the Holo.

Padmé has never seen him like this.

They raise their voices at each other sometimes during a heated argument. But he has never told her what to do. Never. So, she clenches her jaw and decides to trust him because he seems to know more than she does right now.

“Very well.”

Later that night, when the Jedi Temple burns like a bad omen in the distance, her legs almost give out.

She thinks of Obi-Wan, of Ahsoka. Hopes they are safe.

She thinks of Orson, the hysterical look on his face when he called her, and the fact that he hasn’t come home even though he has told her he won’t. Not tonight.

When the special session of the Galactic Congress is convened the next morning, she moves on instinct, pulling her dark cloak tight, walking the long marble corridor toward the Senate Chamber. Maybe someone will explain. Maybe she’ll find the truth.

And she does.

She steps into the chamber just as Palpatine takes the central platform. His face obscured by a cape as his voice booms through the hall, steady and resolute. He speaks of Jedi treason, of the elemental betrayal of democracy, of his survival despite all odds, of his unwavering resolve.

Then, with solemn pride, he declares the war finished, the Republic dead and the birth of a new Galactic Empire.

The chamber erupts. Thunderous applause swells like a wave, shaking the very walls of the Chamber. Padmé stands frozen in her pod, her heart hollow.

“So,” she whispers, almost to herself. “This is how liberty dies… with thunderous applause.”

Bail turns to her, stricken, but her eyes are already searching.

She finds Orson across the chamber, a few tiers down. He stands tall, his hands moving in a slow, measured rhythm.

Clapping.

Her stomach sinks. A cold, heavy weight settles in her chest.

He doesn’t look surprised.

He looks pleased.

Then he meets her gaze, and his eyes pin her in place—two cold flames burning beneath an icy surface.

And she cannot help but feels sick to her stomach.

Padmé Amidala doesn’t wait for her husband at the Senate that morning.

She can’t. Not after what she saw. Not after the applause.

She leaves before the sun clears the skylines of Coruscant’s towers, slipping away from the building without a word and returning to their apartment. It's quiet. Somehow too quiet for what just occurred.

The stillness presses on her chest like a weight. She doesn’t turn on the Holo. Doesn’t touch her comm. Just walks to the drink cabinet, opens it with mechanical grace, and stares down at the untouched bottle of green liquor inside.

She runs her fingers over the glass, then shuts the cabinet again. She can’t drink—not now, not with the baby. Not with everything spiraling like this.

Instead, she sits. And waits.

Waits for the Empire to knock on her door.

She hasn’t spoken publicly. Hasn’t defended the petition. But she signed it. Everyone knows she did. And that’s enough.

Enough to be marked.

Her heart skips when a speeder approaches the open-air veranda. Her hand flies to her round stomach. For a moment, she thinks this is it—they’ve come.

But the speeder’s too small. Too plain. There is no insignia on it of any kind.

Then the door opens and Obi-Wan Kenobi steps out, robes dusted and torn, his face drawn with grief and exhaustion.

She gasps, standing so fast the seetee moves behind her. “You’re alive!”

He nods once, solemn. “Barely. I escaped, but very few did. The clones… they turned on us. Men, we fought beside for years.” His voice cracks, just slightly. “They didn’t even hesitate.”

“Ahsoka?” Padmé’s voice is a whisper.

“She was on Mandalore. Came to help despite her leaving the Order. I don’t know what happened.” His eyes meet hers. “I haven’t felt her vanish into the force but it’s hard to tell. I choose to have hope.”

Padmé presses a hand to her mouth, her thoughts spiraling.

Ahsoka.

The girl Tarkin all but hunted down. The girl the military machine tried to break. She’d defended her then—despite Orson’s warnings not to get involved.

Another strike against her in Imperial eyes, no doubt.

“She lost faith in all of it,” she murmurs. “In the Order. In the Senate. In us. And right so. Yet she came when you called only to get betrayed by her friends once more?”

Obi-Wan doesn’t answer. He just looks tired.

“No one’s come for me,” she says then, her voice softly.

“I hope it stays that way,” he says. “But I wouldn’t count on it.”

Padmé swallows. “Why are you here, Obi-Wan? Why risk it?”

He exhales and glances toward the door, as if expecting someone to come through it at any moment. “I just came from the Temple. There was a beacon calling the Jedi home. A trap. We disabled it… but it was too late. Everyone in the Temple was massacred and not just by blasters.”

Her stomach turns. “What are you saying?”

 “It was Anakin, Padmé.” His eyes darken. “He led the attack.”

She blinks; her chest suddenly heavier than before. “No.”

“I saw the footage,” he says quietly his face tense. “He killed them all. Even the younglings.”

She staggers back and sinks into the nearest seat. Her breath catches in her throat—too shallow, too fast. Her hand flies to her belly again.

Not Anakin. Not the boy who was supposed to save the Republic!

“Was he here?” Obi-Wan asks, voice gentle.

“No,” she whispers. Her eyes are wide, empty. “No, he wasn’t.”

“Padmé…” He steps closer. “I need—”

She’s not listening. She can’t hear anything past the pounding in her ears. The walls of her home feel like they’re closing in, like the Empire has already arrived.

Suddenly, an agitated voice cuts through the room.

“Step away from her!”

She turns.

Orson Krennic stands in the room, blaster drawn, his face flushed, his jaw tight with fury, and his eyes the color of a storm surge, brutal and barely contained.

Padmé instinctively steps in front of Obi-Wan, shielding him without thinking. Her pulse is a drumbeat in her throat.

“Orson,” she says carefully, “put it down.”

He doesn’t even blink.

“I said, step away from her!” he shouts again, voice high-pitched and cracking.

Obi-Wan raises his hands, calm but watchful. “Commander—”

“Are you not hearing me?!” He sounds raw now, like something breaking from the inside. “STEP. AWAY. FROM. HER!”

“Orson, please!” Padmé’s voice trembles, but she doesn’t move. “Put the blaster down. Let’s talk.”

“Talk? Talk about what? That he’s a traitor? That your friend here led a rebellion, and now you’re harboring him in our home?”

“He’s a traitor to the Empire, not to the Republic!”

“There is no Republic anymore!” Orson snarls, stepping forward. “There is only the Empire!”

“In that case I’m a traitor too. What are you going to do—shoot me? Arrest me?”

That stops him. For a moment. His chest heaves. His hand trembles, knuckles white against the grip of his weapon. His gaze darts to her belly—just a flicker—and she sees it: the war inside him. Fear. Rage. Loyalty. Love. All clawing for dominance.

Behind her, Obi-Wan speaks, quieter now. “I came because I was worried. I thought Anakin might have come here.”

Orson blinks, the fight knocked out of him for half a breath. “What?”

“He came back,” Obi-Wan says, stepping forward slightly. “I thought he might come here. I thought Padmé might know something. But… she doesn’t.”

“Why—” Orson begins, but Padmé cuts in, her voice tight with dread.

“Tell us what you know, Obi-Wan.”

The Jedi’s eyes are hollow. He sighs. “Palpatine… he’s the Sith Lord. The one we’ve been searching for. He’s behind everything. The entire Clone Wars was his invention to amass power. We believe he’s been training Anakin in secret for years. It was Palpatine who helped him escape before his trial. After Dooku’s death, he made Anakin his official apprentice.”

Padmé shakes her head, her legs weakening beneath her.

“He led the attack on the Temple,” Obi-Wan says, looking at Orson. “He massacred them all. Even the children.”

Silence. Thick, suffocating.

Padmé stumbles backward into seetee, her hand pressing instinctively to the curve of her stomach. She looks to Orson for anything that will anchor her.

But he just stares at Obi-Wan, dumbstruck.

“That’s insane,” Orson mutters, almost to himself. “That’s just utterly insane…”

Obi-Wan nods grimly. “I agree and yet, it’s true.”

He turns back to Padmé. “I have to find him before he causes more harm. He’s not the boy you once knew.”

She shakes her head, her voice a whisper. “He hasn’t been that boy for a long time.”

There’s another pause—then the quiet creak of boots against the floor.

Orson lowers his blaster, jaw still clenched, the heat of his earlier rage cooling into something even more dangerous: calculation.

“If he’s working for Palpatine now,” Orson says slowly, “then I know where he’ll be. Mustafar.”

Obi-Wan’s gaze sharpens. “That’s where the Separatist leadership was sent.”

Orson gives him a measured nod. “If what you are saying is true, Palpatine will need to wipe them out to tie up loose ends. Why not send his secret assassin?”

Obi-Wan nods. “I think you might be right.”

He turns to leave, but not before meeting Padmé’s eyes—then Orson’s.

“Protect her,” he says quietly.

Orson’s lips twitch, something bitter flashing across his face. “What do you think I’ve been doing?”

Obi-Wan gives him a long, unreadable look, then walks briskly to the speeder.

Padmé forces herself to stand up, following him to the threshold. Her voice is soft but clear. “May the Force be with you.”

Obi-Wan pauses. “And with you, Senator.”

Then he’s gone, vanishing into the light.

Padmé stands there, hands trembling, heart pounding in her ears.

When she turns to Orson, he’s standing there with one hand braced on the edge of the seetee. He looks frayed. Trying to make sense of the situation.

“I think they might come for me,” she mutters, barely audible.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” he says, meeting her eyes. His voice is steadier now, mechanical. “No one will come for you.”

She watches him closely, unsure whether to believe him.

“I erased your signature from the petition,” he adds, eyes darting away. “You never signed it.”

She tilts her head slightly, alarm flaring in her chest. “How?”

He just shrugs, as if altering official records were as simple as brushing lint from his sleeve.

“What about Mon? Bail?”

“I can’t help all of your treasonous friends,” he says flatly. “Tell them to withdraw theirs if they haven’t already. It’s the only thing they can do now.”

Padmé turns, looking over the skyline. The sun is once again bleeding orange, its rays cutting sharp lines across the durasteel buildings. On the horizon, the remnants of smoke still rise from the Jedi Temple.

“You clapped,” she whispers, her voice brittle. “You clapped while everything right in this galaxy has died.”

Orson huffs behind her.

“The war is over,” he says. “There will be peace. Order.”

“And oppression and totalitarianism,” she snaps, turning to face him. “Are you expecting a promotion again?”

He doesn’t say anything for a while, just tilts his head, mouth twitching. “Is that really so bad?”

She stares at him, incredulous. “Which part, Orson? Losing freedom—or getting promoted?”

He lifts his chin. “We won’t lose anything. I’ll make sure of it.”

She lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You truly believe that, don’t you? You think you can bend this system to your will. That you can work inside tyranny and not be consumed by it!”

“Trust me, I’ll survive,” he says with conviction. “No, actually, I’ll thrive. We’ll thrive!”

She shakes her head in disbelief. When she speaks again, her voice is thick. “Why did you help Obi-Wan then? Why give him anything?”

His blue gaze hardens. “Because Anakin Skywalker is a threat.”

“To what?”

“To you,” he says, voice suddenly rising. “To me. To both of us.”

But she sees it now—the calculation, the cold logic behind his concern. The man she loves is in there somewhere, buried beneath layers of ambition and fear, but she’s not sure she knows how to reach him.

“You don’t even care what he did at the Temple, do you?” she asks quietly. “You don’t care about the younglings. You don’t even believe Obi-Wan.”

His jaw tightens.

“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” he snaps, barring his white teeth. “Or what’s true. What matters is that you’re safe—and the only way I can keep you safe is by staying above suspicion. If Obi-Wan kills the lunatic, problem solved. If he doesn’t… well, the galaxy will be one traitor shorter, and we’ll deal with Skywalker later.”

She stares at him, her stomach twisting. “How can you say that?”

 “Because I don’t have the luxury of your lofty morality. I never had.”

The air feels heavy. Her breath shallows.

“What is Project Celestial Power, Orson?”

He frowns at the change in subjects but responds anyway.

“You know what it is. You voted for its funding before I was even transferred to it.”

“I know what we were told. But that bunker? That facility—on Coruscant? That level of security? Shielding? It’s built over sacred ground. The treaties—”

He cuts her off, voice low and sharp. “Do not ask me.”

Her chest tightens. “You lied to me.”

“I told you what you needed to hear,” he says flatly, eyes meeting hers with the full weight of the truth.

It all makes sense now. It’s the Death Star rebranded. It never went away.

Tears sting at the corners of her eyes, but she refuses to let them fall. Her voice cracks.

“Then let’s leave. Please, Orson. Let’s run. Find somewhere quiet, somewhere safe. Raise this child away from all of this.”

His laugh is short and without humor. “Don’t be ridiculous! You want me to walk away from everything I’ve built? Everything I’ve worked for my whole life for? No, Senator. We don’t run. We endure.”

She takes a step back as if struck. “Orson—listen to yourself. This is madness.”

“Yes, the world is mad. I’m just adapting to survive it, and I’d recommend you do the same!”

He checks his comlink, his expression already shifting back into something more controlled, impersonal. When he looks up again, his blue eyes are aflame with determination.

“I know you hate me right now,” he says. “But I love you, and I know we can be happy if you let us.”

Before she can answer, he turns and walks out the door.

She stands there long after he’s gone, one hand pressed protectively to her stomach, the other curled around the entasis of the collum as the sun finally dips beneath the horizon.

And for the first time in years, she’s has no idea what to do next.

Chapter Text

They don’t come for her.

No summons. No stormtroopers at the door. No quiet disappearance in the night.

They don’t come for Mon or Bail either, both of whom have quietly withdrawn their signatures.

Padmé doesn’t know whether Orson had a hand in shielding them. She hopes he did. She hopes it means there’s still something in him worth holding onto.

The three of them gather by the reflecting pools outside the Senate, speaking in hushed tones and fragments. There are ears everywhere now—even the walls seem to listen. All they can do is move with the current, using the Senate’s platform while it lasts, fragile though it is. A slow, deliberate dissent. Measured. Waiting for something stronger to emerge from the shadows.

The official news from Mustafar is that the Separatist leadership was apprehended and neutralized there. In carefully coded words, Bail tells her their friend succeeded—his rival consumed by the planet’s merciless fire.

They question her carefully, circling like loth-wolves, probing for cracks. They want to know what she knows—what her husband might have let slip.

Padmé considers it. She thinks of the superweapon, of the facility buried deep beneath Coruscant like a secret wound. The truth sits heavy on her tongue.

But she doesn’t speak it.

She can’t give them Orson.

She isn’t entirely sure why.

Maybe it’s because, despite all the lies, the silences, the sharp edges of his ambition—some part of her still sees a man ashamed of his heritage hiding behind a mask of power and charm. She understands that all of it—the hunger for control, the relentless drive—is just him trying to matter. Trying to prove his worth to a father who never saw him, to justify a brother’s sacrifice he never asked for, to be accepted by a Coruscanti elite that will always hear the working-class grit in his voice and never quite let him forget it.

Or maybe it’s shame. Shame that she ever believed in him, ever let herself trust a man like that.

So, she deflects. Smiles. Keeps her voice steady, her eyes calm. And then she goes home—back to her own private war.

He works constantly now, obsessed. Late nights. Classified briefings. Silent comms. He moves like a man trying to outrun something, always in motion, always buried in systems and numbers and strategy she knows better than to ask about.

He doesn’t get a promotion, although she knows he expects it, and part of her is pleased by how much it unsettles him. He fancied himself as Director of the Imperial Military Department of Advanced Weapons Research, but his biggest supporter, the former Vice Chair of the Senate, now Grand Vizier of the Empire, Mas Amedda, has yet to fulfill his promise.

They speak only in fragments now. He asks if she’s eaten. If she’s resting. If she needs anything. She answers with curt nods, one-word replies.

She’s moved his belongings into the guest bedroom. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t comment—though she can see it in the clench of his jaw, in the way his eyes linger too long on the doorway before he turns away. He’s biting down on something hard, swallowing his instincts.

It costs him, but this is all she can manage.

He urges her to attend the celebrations, the galas, to be seen. He wants her presence to signal loyalty, to stand beside him as she once did at military fundraisers, lending silent approval to his ambitions. But those days are over.

“I have no intention of offering tacit support to this system,” she says coolly.

“People are starting to ask questions!”

“Then tell them I’m tired,” she replies. “It won’t be a lie.”

Her body has become foreign to her. Her ankles ache, her spine feels fused, her skin is tight with tension. Sitting hurts. Standing hurts. Lying down feels like drowning in her breath. And through all of it, the galaxy crumbles—piece by piece—just beyond her windows into a new normal she doesn’t recognize.

So she does the only thing that makes sense.

She tells him she wants to go home.

To Naboo.

She has always wanted to have the baby there, after all.

His reaction catches her off guard.

“Of course,” he says quickly, as if he’s been waiting for the decision. “I’ll make the arrangements. We can leave first thing tomorrow.”

Padmé looks at him, unable to hide her surprise.

He falters. His face tightens.

“Ah,” he breathes, the recognition landing hard. “You don’t want me there.”

There it is again—that wounded look he tries to hide but never quite manages. The tightening of his jaw, the press of thin lips, the faint flare of his nostrils, and the subtle twitch of his now almost-perpetually gloved hands.

Padmé closes her eyes, exhaling slowly.

“I don’t know what I want,” she says, and it’s the truth. The only one she can give him right now.

“I should be there,” he says softly, but there’s a simmering heat beneath the words. His blue eyes have gone sharp. “I deserve to be there.”

She holds his gaze. It’s the wrong thing to say—wrong words, wrong tone—but she understands what lies beneath it. The fear of exclusion, of being quietly edged out. And despite everything, a part of her still believes he’s trying.

Clumsily.

But trying.

Maybe only for the child. Maybe because he wants to be a better father than his used to be. And he is the father—nothing will ever change that.

“We can leave tomorrow,” she says quietly.

Relief washes over his face. For a moment, it looks like he might thank her—but he doesn’t.

Neither of them speaks.

She turns and retreats to her bedroom, slipping beneath the covers before the tears welling in her eyes give her away.

Naboo is quiet in the way only a grieving world can be. Still lakes, still skies, and still people, all holding their breath as the galaxy shifts beneath their feet, as fall settles in, turning the leaves to flame.

Her family greets them at the spaceport with open arms, warm smiles, and relief.

After all, there’s been a war raging above their heads—ships falling from the sky, the Senate’s security shattered, and Palpatine himself, a man they know personally, attacked.

It’s only natural that they are happy to see them safe, both of them.

There had been doubts at first—deep ones—but Padmé had eased them with grace. With charm, quiet conviction, and an unwavering belief in the man beside her. Over time, they yielded, especially when Ryoo and Pooja began asking after Uncle Orson during every call.

Now, they rarely question him. His sharper views are brushed off as bluster, dramatic rhetoric—words said, but not meant.

And yet, as they embrace him without much hesitation, Padmé feels a flicker of unease.

Because perhaps he doesn’t actually deserve their trust.

Perhaps he never did.

No one mentions the Empire as they head toward Varykino, though the topic hangs in the air, and so once the doors close behind them and lunch is served, her father, Ruwee, forgets to censor himself. Coddled by the supposed safety of home, his voice turns low, reflective, as he slips into a quiet lament about the death of the Republic. About how everything they once believed in is vanishing into shadows.

Orson sits rigid at her side, his wine untouched, jaw clenched in clear disapproval.

Before he can speak, Padmé steps in, her voice sharp, uncompromisingly redirecting the conversation. Her eyes flick to him in warning.

Not here.

Not now.

And, for once, her husband holds his tongue. But she knows the silence is only borrowed.

That afternoon, after they’ve settled into Varykino, they find themselves alone in the bedroom—a space she agreed to share to maintain appearances. The high windows are open, the lake breeze drifting through, stirring the room and the water beyond with quiet ease.

Orson stands on the balcony, his back to her, arms folded over his chest.

“Your father needs to stop saying things.”

Padmé sighs, moving to sit at the edge of the bed, brushing her hair over one shoulder.

“What things?”

He turns, his blue eyes hard. “Don’t play games with me. I'm trying to help you.”

“I will not tell my father what to think,” she replies evenly.

“Then you’re a fool,” he snaps, pointing his finger at her. “The ISB won’t look the other way once they get a grip on things. He keeps talking like that, and they’ll come for him, and neither you nor I will be able to help him.”

Padmé exhales, feeling the heat of frustration rise in her chest, but she is too tired to argue.

“I’ll be at the lake with Sola,” she says, rising slowly as she wraps her scarf over her shoulders. “If you can tear yourself away from the Empire, you’re welcome to join us. If not, don’t bother.”

He scoffs under his breath, gaze shifting back to the amber-colored mountains of the horizon.

She doesn’t wait for an answer. She already knows he won’t come.

The house is still when she returns upstairs after dinner. Her parents are already in bed, and Sola has likewise retreated. The midwife came and went. She will return only in the morning before the medical droid induces her labor.

Padmé stops outside the bedroom, her hand lingering on the carved wooden frame as she takes a moment to steady herself.

The afternoon had been calm, even as Sola pressed her with questions—about the changes on Coruscant, whether she would stay in the Senate, and, inevitably, about Orson—his position, his work, the strange tension between them.

Their mother had supposedly forbidden the topic before their arrival. It hadn’t stopped Sola.

Padmé had kept her answers measured, offering little beyond the line that Orson makes his own choices. But even as she said it, she wasn’t sure if staying silent was wisdom or cowardice.

Now, standing at the door, that same uncertainty grips her. For a moment, she hesitates—then exhales and pushes it open.

Inside, the room is dim, the lamps casting a soft, uneven glow. The air is cold—the windows are open, letting in the scent of wet stone and drifting mist. Orson is slouched on the couch. A bottle of Shesharilian vodka, the kind she once kept tucked away for celebrations, dangles from his fingers. It’s more than half gone. His shirt is undone, his light brown hair unkempt, his boots still on as if he never meant to let it get so far.

He looks up as she enters, eyes bloodshot, expression unreadable.

“You weren’t at dinner,” she says, matter-of-fact.

She had made excuses for him—excuses that earned her a not-so-subtle exchange of glances between her relatives.

“You didn’t want me there,” he says, looking straight ahead, voice raw and frayed. “You don’t want me here either.”

She says nothing at first.

Because it’s not that simple.

“I told you, I don’t know what I want.”

Steadying herself against the edge of a carved cabinet, she adds, “But I do know what I don’t want.”

He lifts the bottle with an unsteady hand, takes a long sip, and smiles at her, cruel, mocking.

“Well? Please, enlighten me…”

“I don’t want to raise our child in fear. I don’t want to trade silence for safety. And I don’t want a husband who looks at the people who raised me and love me like they’re liabilities.”

Orson snorts, but the sound is hollow, his features slack with drink and something deeper—a forceful unrevealing.

“I’m trying,” he says, louder now, harsher. “Gods, I’m trying—every damn day. But these past two weeks? The galaxy’s coming apart, and you—my dear wife—you’re not trying at all! How the hell am I supposed to protect you if you won’t toe the line?”

His hand tightens around the bottle’s neck. It rocks once, dangerously, before he sets it down with a dull, uneven thud against the side table. For a moment, it seems like the effort costs him everything.

She watches him, sadness she can’t quite swallow settling in her chest.

“I’m trying not to lose myself,” she says softly.

He shakes his head, slow and unsteady, and when his gaze drifts back to her, it lingers too long, unfocused, glassy. He’s drunk and exhausted, yes, but it’s more than that. Beneath the flush of alcohol, she sees it, the hollow twitch in his brow, the way his fingers flex against his thigh. It’s fear, brittle and raw, clinging just beneath the surface, unassuaged even by the vodka burning in his veins.

I’m trying not to lose myself, and apparently, I’m not the only one, she thinks.

“You once told me you couldn’t control me,” she says. Her voice is measured. “You said if you tried, you’d lose me. Do you remember?”

Silence stretches, long and painful.

“I do,” he mutters, voice thin and shaking. His gaze finds hers, and it’s haunted—like he's already watching her slip away.

“I remember.”

“Then don’t try to control me,” she says.

“You see, that’s the problem,” he laughs manically. A short, joyless sound that dies as soon as it’s born.

“I lose you either way. Either you hate me… or you’re dead.”

Padmé doesn’t move.

Her heart aches, not with anger, but with a quiet sorrow—for what he’s become, for they’ve become.

“Control isn’t love, Orson,” she says gently.

“I want to be here,” he says suddenly, his voice thick with desperation and drink.

“I want to be someone you can believe in. Someone you can rely on. Both of you. But I don’t know how to stand still—I have to keep…” he trails off before remembering where he stopped. “I have to keep moving to survive. Do you understand?”

His face goes slack, free of its usual sharp calculation. For the first time since she entered, Padmé sees him clearly—brilliant, ruthless, and utterly lost.

She isn’t sure she understands. She isn’t sure it matters.

Against her better judgment, she moves to sit beside him. It’s not logic that guides her now, but something softer, reckless, and aching. Her mind warns her to keep her distance, to hold the line, but something inside her urges her forward.

She lifts a hand and touches his face, fingertips brushing the fevered heat of his cheek. His skin is rough, his jaw tense beneath it. Up close, the fatigue is impossible to ignore. It's carved into every line around his eyes.

“Then be here tomorrow,” she says, her voice low, steady, as her hand settles over the curve of her belly. “For her. For me. And we’ll take it from there.”

His eyes flicker—blue, storm-bright, and suddenly wet. He doesn’t answer. No words come. Instead, he leans into her, inch by inch, as if something inside him has finally broken loose. His forehead finds her shoulder, and for a moment, there’s only the sound of his irregular breathing. Then the sobs come—ragged, shuddering, and raw.

Padmé pulls him close, one hand soothing his back, the other threading through his hair, offering what comfort she can as he unravels.

She has never seen him cry before. She doubts she will ever see him cry again.

This isn’t forgiveness.

She can’t forgive him. Not today.

But she can let him cry. Let him fall apart without any more judgment.

For tonight, the fight is over.

Tomorrow, their daughter will enter a broken world, and it will begin anew.

Padmé chooses an induced, yet natural labor, and she lives to regret it about an hour in.

By hour four, she is beside herself with pain.

By hour six, she grips the side of the birthing bed, knuckles white, sweat clinging to her brow. She breathes through the contractions, jaw tight, eyes shut against the wave of pain as the midwife speaks to her in infuriatingly calm tones.

Sola and her mother are by her side, murmuring encouragement.

The medical droid checks her again and again until finally, she nods at the midwife.

"Almost there, Senator. One more push.”

Orson stands across the room, barefoot, sleeves of his black t-shirt rolled to his elbows. His eyes flicker between the faces around him, sharp with unease.

The hangover still clings to him—obvious in the stiffness in his posture. He hasn’t said much today. No rants, no complaints. Just stayed close, and after offering a single suggestion—promptly and efficiently shot down by her mother—he didn’t argue. Just nodded and stepped back, letting the women take charge without protest ever since.

Now he just looks lost, like a man trying to decipher a language he’s never heard.

“Orson,” Padmé gasps, her breath catching as she reaches out, fingers trembling.

He’s at her side in a heartbeat, dropping to his knees beside the bed, his hand sliding into hers.

She grips him hard—so hard he flinches—but he doesn’t pull away.

“I’m here,” he says, voice unsteady. “I’m right here. And if you want to break my hand, go ahead.”

A sound escapes her—a laugh, maybe, or a sob. She’s not sure. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“It’s a limited-time offer,” he says, his voice serious, but his eyes, locked on hers, are soft, confident. “Now or never.”

She snorts through a breath, the barest hint of relief passing through her body right before the next wave crashes down.

The final push steals the breath from the room.

Then a cry pierces the air—not hers this time, but something new. Fragile. Raw. Alive.

The baby is lifted gently, slick and squirming and pink with life. She wails, and Orson’s breath catches like he’s been struck. The midwife quickly washes wraps the child in soft linen and turns toward them.

“A beautiful, healthy girl.”

Padmé is crying now.

Not just from pain, but from something deeper—relief, joy, and a love so overwhelming it feels like it might split her open. Her chest rises and falls in ragged breaths as the baby is placed gently in her arms.

She stares, stunned, at the tiny, squinting face, at the impossibly soft curve of a cheek, the delicate flutter of lashes. Her fingers tremble as they trace the child’s brow.

“Hello, little star,” she whispers.

Orson doesn’t move at first. He kneels frozen beside her, eyes wide, as if the world has narrowed to this single, flickering moment.

Then, slowly, he leans in—carefully, like approaching something sacred. His blue eyes stay locked on the bundle in Padmé’s arms as he reaches out, almost unsure, and brushes his fingers over his daughter’s tiny hand.

A broken sound escapes him—half laugh, half sob. He bends down, presses a kiss to Padmé’s forehead.

There is no hesitation in his gesture, no second thought.

“She’s perfect,” he says, the words thick, almost inaudible.

Padmé looks at him—at the freckles dusted across his nose, the raw, unguarded awe on his face—and suddenly, she’s back on Lexlur, in one of those crumbling, forgotten buildings, watching him speak with quiet reverence about someone else’s work. The way his eyes lit up, the way his pride gave way to something gentler—wonder, admiration. That was the first time she truly saw him. The moment she began to fall. And now, looking at him beside their daughter, she sees that same expression—untouched by ambition, stripped of ego. Just him.

And in that very moment, Padmé dares to believe they might just survive this.

Not for freedom or democracy.

Not for control or the illusion of security.

But for something smaller—and infinitely greater.

For their daughter.

For Nyra.

Padmé spends the next few days recovering.

The villa is warm and sunlit despite the season, and the lake outside is calm, silver-blue, framed by soft snow-capped hills.

Inside, everything smells of pears, chestnuts and fresh linen. There is no talk of politics. Just quiet words, soft footsteps, and sounds of a newborn’s breathing.

Padmé rests with her daughter cradled against her chest on the balcony, exhausted from waking up at odd hours.

Orson’s next to her. He lingers awkwardly, offering to bring her candied fruits, adjusting pillows, trying too hard, and yet clearly trying.

They talk only of the baby—whose nose she has, whose mouth, whether her eyes will stay that vivid, startling blue.

Padmé hopes they will. That color has lingered in her mind since the day she first met the man sitting beside her. Now, it looks up at her from a much smaller face, wide-eyed and curious.

She mentions it to Orson’s mother during the call, knowing full well it’ll go straight to his head—and it does. But for once, she doesn’t mind.

“She’s going to be trouble,” Orson mutters as Padmé passes the baby into his arms. He holds her carefully, almost reverently.

“She already is,” Padmé says, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

“I think I’m going to spoil her.”

She lets out a quiet laugh. “Of course you will.”

He grins—boyish, unguarded—without taking his eyes off the baby. And despite herself, her heart swells. Against all reason, she finds herself wishing once again they could just stay here, leave the rest of the world behind.

It happens on their last night in Varykino.

The lake lies still, moonlight turning the hills to silver. On the terrace, soft voices rise beneath the warm glow of lampions strung above—family gathered for one final evening before duty pulls them back into Coruscant’s unforgiving orbit.

Padmé cradles Nyra close, her daughter’s tiny form warm and drowsy against her chest. Her mother sits beside her, folding one of the baby’s little blankets. Sola’s daughters dart across the flagstones, their giggles echoing through the night, while Sola watches them with a tired smile, a glass of spiced wine in hand.

Across the terrace, Ruwee and Orson speak in low, measured tones. Their conversation is calm, unreadable—whatever they’re discussing, it fortunately carries no obvious weight. Orson’s gaze keeps drifting back to her, over and over, like a reflex. As if he’s making sure she’s still there. Still whole. As if, no matter the words spoken, she’s the only thing that truly holds his focus.

It’s peaceful—gently, achingly so.

Until it’s not.

The sound comes first: hurried footsteps. Too fast. Too many. Too precise.

Then they appear: stormtroopers flood the terrace from the villa, cutting the night in two.

Ruwee shoots to his feet. Jobal gasps, arms instinctively wrapping around Padmé. Sola grabs her daughters, pulling them close as she steps in front of them, shielding them with her body.

Orson is up in an instant, his chair scraping sharply against the stone. His hand flies to his hip—reflex, habit—but he isn’t armed. Not tonight.

Neither is Padmé.

“What is this?” Ruwee demands, voice hard and full of disbelief.

Padmé is already disengaging herself from her mother, Nyra tight against her chest.

She wonders where their security is. Why didn’t they warn them, or at the very least announce that someone has arrived?

Then comes the sound.

Deep, mechanical breathing. Cold. Unnatural. Rhythmic, like a machine pretending to live.

The troopers part.

And from the shadows steps a figure in obsidian armor, tall and impossibly still. A long black cloak trails behind him like shadow incarnate. His mask reflects the terrace lights—void-black, featureless, inhuman.

Padmé’s stomach tightens. Her heart skips. Every nerve screams in warning.

She’s seen the man before, fleetingly, in Holo images over the past week—always a silent presence at the Emperor’s side. She had wondered who, or what, he might be. She never imagined she’d be standing face-to-face with him here.

“Good evening, Senator,” he intones, voice distorted into a haunting echo.

Padmé forces herself to stand tall, to speak through the rising tide of instinctual dread.

“We weren’t aware we’d be having guests.”

“I came to offer congratulations,” he replies. “On your child.”

Nyra stirs in her arms, whimpering. Padmé presses her lips to her daughter’s head, her heart hammering. That voice—it strikes something inside her. Not memory. Not logic. Something deeper. Older.

She swallows. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

The man tilts his head slightly, mocking. “You don’t recognize me?”

Before she can reply, Orson steps forward.

“Enough,” he thunders. “I don’t care who you are. You’ve invaded a senator’s private residence, drawn weapons on civilians, and threatened my family. I serve the Emperor directly. You’ll answer for—”

He stops. Chokes.

Padmé’s scream tears from her throat the moment she sees it.

The way Orson’s body seizes, suspended above the terrace as if gripped by invisible hands. His mouth opens in a silent gasp. His fingers claw at his throat, eyes wide, legs kicking.

And that’s when she realizes.

Not from his voice. Not from logic.

From the act.

The way the man in black moves. The angle of his gloved hand. The rage in the gesture. The hunger.

Only one man she has ever known has weaponized power like this. Held it like this. Cruel. Certain. Devastating.

Her knees buckle.

The breath leaves her lungs.

The air is thick with the Force, twisted and brutal.

Her voice shatters. “Anakin…?”

Jobal gasps sharply, turning to her in confusion.

But Padmé doesn’t move. She can’t.

The figure freezes.

He lowers his hand.

Orson drops like a stone, hitting the ground with a choking gasp. He curls into himself, coughing, one hand braced on the floor.

No one speaks.

Padmé stares at the armored figure, her eyes wide with shock-laced grief.

“So you do recognize me.”

Her voice is bitter now. “I don’t recognize you.”

“Good,” Vader replies. “Because Anakin is dead. And Darth Vader is infinitely more powerful than Skywalker ever was.”

Padmé’s voice is ragged. “Why are you here?”

Vader takes a step forward.

“I’m here for you.”

Orson, still on the ground, lets out a breathless, incredulous laugh.

Padmé glances down at him—he’s pale, eyes frantic—his voice is hoarse but lucid.

“Darth Vader,” he rasps. “You’re Darth Vader?"

He coughs, eyes narrowing. “This was sanctioned! The Emperor… sanctioned this?!”

He drags himself to his feet, barely steady, eyes blazing with a new, crumbling awareness. He looks straight at Vader—the cords in his neck tense with fury and pain. “I create the ultimate weapon. I give him loyalty. Vision. I do his dirty work for years and still, he lets you to… what? Execute me? Just so you can have your way with a woman who said no?”

Vader says nothing.

Orson glances sideways at Padmé and scoffs: “You were right. I thought I had finally found a way to succeed, but they used me.”

Before anyone can speak, Vader’s voice cuts through the air again.

“You turned against me.”

Padmé drags her eyes away from Orson. “I did no such thing.”

“You are wrong! And then—the Jedi turned against me!” Vader roars.

The words rattle the terrace.

Nyra cries. The girls scream. Jobal sobs.

Ruwee, beside them, uses the moment to grab a blaster from the hand of a startled trooper—aiming with shaking hands.

And then—

A blur drops from the shadows above, landing in a crouch between Ruwee and Vader.

A hooded figure with two montrals crowning her head.

Ahsoka, Padmé realizes.

She has no lightsabers. Just the steel in her spine and a blaster gripped tightly in her hands.

“Step away from them,” she commands, eyes never leaving the black-armored giant before her.

Vader halts, his head tilting in silence.

“The apprentice lives,” he says, as if naming a ghost.

Ahsoka doesn't flinch. “Master.”

Her grip tightens on the blaster, and with the Force swelling invisibly beneath her, she throws her hand forward.

A blast wave of power explodes outward. Vader is slammed into a stone column with such force that the masonry splits. The terrace shakes again.

A second later—blaster fire erupts.

From the tree line, another figure emerges—a clone captain, clad in battered blue-striped armor, helmet gleaming beneath the moonlight.

“Go! Now!” he bellows, blaster raised as he lays down cover fire.

Padmé doesn’t think. Holding Nyra, she grabs Jobal, tugs her upright. Sola takes hold of  Ryio’s hand, her eyes frantically searching for her other daughter.

Orson’s voice rises from the edge of the terrace, hoarse but focused.

“Back path—under the garden stairs. Go!”

“Orson,” Padmé yells, but he is already scooping Pooja in his arms as the clone captain throws him one of his blasters.

They sprint.

Behind them, both Orson and Ruwee fire once. Twice.

Ahsoka joins them at their side, kneeling, blaster steady as she hits down advancing troopers with merciless speed. There’s no hesitation in the use of her power—no room for doubt.

Padmé ducks low through the underbrush, Nyra cradled to her chest, her heart pounding.

Then—

A bolt.

Bright red.

It hits Ruwee square in the chest.

He’s flung backward under the garden stairs, crushing into the sand.

“Papa!” Sola screams.

Padmé stops cold—but Orson is there in an instant, grabbing her arm, voice ragged:

“Run, for Force’s sake!”

She turns and obeys. Holding Nyra against her chest in a desperate grip.

Branches whip at her face. Stones cut her feet. She doesn’t stop.

Ahsoka appears again at the rear, tunic scorched, panting hard as she shoots and runs, covering their retreat.

The woods open suddenly to the lake’s edge.

Moonlight reflects off black water. And there—half-submerged in reeds—a Lambda-class shuttle waits, ramp down, engines humming low.

Rex is already at the base of the ramp, still firing behind them.

“Move! We’re out of time!”

Padmé stumbles up the ramp, nearly dropping to her knees. Jobal is pulled in behind her. Sola lifts one daughter. Orson the other before slamming the emergency panel, and the ramp begins to rise.

Ahsoka scrambles in last, flipping a switch on the bulkhead just as a final round scorches the shuttle’s hull. The door seals with a hiss.

Suddenly, everything is still.

Just the low hum of the engines and the children’s sharp sobs mixed with Jobal’s quiet weeping.

Padmé sits on the cold floor of the shuttle, Nyra in her arms, her own breath shallow and shaking.

Orson drops to one knee beside her, his eyes moving quickly over her, searching for injury.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, as his hand comes to cup her cheek, voice rough with adrenaline.

She shakes her head, mute. She couldn’t speak even if she tried.

Outside, something thuds against the hull—laser fire that came too late. The shuttle bucks once as it climbs hard, engines whining.

Orson pulls her into his arms, holding her tight against his chest, as if he could shield her from everything. And Padmé, against all reason, breathes him in—familiar, grounding.

Then the sky gives way.

A flicker of starlight.

A long stretch into hyperspace.

Quiet.

“That was too close,” the clone captain’s echoes from the cockpit.

A pause.

“He’s stronger than I expected,” Ahsoka replies. “Stronger than Maul. More precise. Next time, he won’t be caught off guard.”

Then she appears in the shuttle’s hold, exhaustion etched into every line of her posture.

Her eyes sweep the small group huddled there, before her gaze settles on Padmé.

“I’m so sorry about your father,” she says, her voice low. Honest. “I wish I could’ve stopped it.”

Padmé doesn’t answer.

The grief is too fresh, too raw. It clings to her like frost. She can’t even cry yet. Her body refuses. She just holds Nyra tighter and nods, once, staring down at the baby’s pale lashes.

Orson shifts beside her. Padmé looks up—just in time to notice the deep crimson spreading down his sleeve.

“You’re hit,” she breathes.

“It’s nothing,” he mutters, but the flicker of pain across his face says otherwise. His jaw clenches. He tries to straighten, but the movement makes him stagger.

He pushes himself upright, shoulders tight with stubborn pride, and turns his gaze on Ahsoka.

There’s uncertainty in his eyes—and suspicion, but standing tall, he looks in command.

“Where are we going?” he asks, voice edged.

Before she can speak, the clone steps forward from the shadows of the cockpit. Helmet tucked beneath one arm, blue-striped armor dulled with age and battle scars. His hair is still that striking blond, though—cut shorter now, but unmistakable.

Padmé recognizes him instantly.

The silent guardian who once trailed Ahsoka through the halls of the Republic, especially when Anakin abandoned them both, and who cleared her name when she was put on trial.

Captain Rex.

Ahsoka doesn’t glance at him—her eyes stay on Orson, unwavering.

“We don’t have a destination,” she says quietly. “We wanted to extract Padmé. Disappear. Somewhere safe. Hidden. We weren’t expecting the entire family,” the Togruta’s gaze flicks to the children, then to Orson again. “Or an Imperial Officer from the Special Weapons Group…”

Orson expression hardens, his eyes turning to steel.

“You were planning to kidnap my wife?!”

The words are sharp with barely contained fury.

“We were planning to ask if she’d like a way out,” Ahsoka explains, turning back to Padmé. “Once I realized who Vader was, I knew he’d be coming for you. I wanted to give you an option to leave, but contacting you on Coruscant was too dangerous.”

“A way out?!” Orson bellows. The effort of shouting makes him wince—his hand instinctively flying to his shoulder. “A way out from what exactly?!”

Her sister’s children wail louder as they stare at Orson wide-eyed with terror.

Both Ahsoka and Orson look at them in awkwardly.

Padmé rises, her movements careful, deliberate. Her body aches. Her heart feels bruised. But her voice stays steady.

“Enough.”

Placing herself between them, she draws a calming breath.

“Orson needs medical attention,” she says, firm now. “And then the four of us—” she glances at Rex, then Ahsoka— “need to speak. Privately.”

There’s a pause.

Rex’s eyes flick to Orson, measuring him carefully. “Understood.” He turns toward a side hatch, pulls out a battered medkit, and approaches Orson without hesitation—quiet, focused, professional.

Silence settles over the shuttle, dense and unspoken, interrupted only by the slowly subsiding cries.

Padmé takes it all in—

Ahsoka’s quiet restraint.

Orson’s rigid, watchful tension.

The clone captain’s composed efficiency.

Her mother and sister, only now beginning to grasp the full weight of what’s been lost.

And her in the middle of it all, realizing this is just the beginning.

Chapter Text

The cockpit of the shuttle is small, dim, and thrumming softly with the pulse of hyperspace. Outside the viewport, streaks of starlight stretch endlessly forward like a river of light in a galaxy gone dark.

Padmé enters, arms wrapped tightly around herself.

For the first time since her daughter’s birth, she has stepped away from her, leaving her with her mother, sister, and her two nieces nestled in the rear cabin and the small, warm weight of Nyra no longer pressed against her chest feels like a missing piece—and beneath that, a deeper void. The space where her father’s steady presence should be but isn’t.

She doesn’t let it show.

The door hisses shut behind her. There are only four of them now, all soldiers in their own right.

She doesn’t look at Orson, slouched in one of the auxiliary seats with a sour expression, though she can feel his eyes on her. Instead of sitting, she leans against a swivel chair at the center of the bridge, her gaze locked on Ahsoka.

“Tell us everything,” she says.

For a moment, the former Jedi hesitates. She and Rex trade a glance. It’s cautious, uncertain.

Then something shifts, and Ahsoka begins.

They tell her of Mandalore. Of the siege. Of the globe night sky lit with fire. Of Maul—his madness, his claims that Anakin Skywalker had become Darth Sidious’s apprentice. Of Ahsoka’s disbelief.

"Then came Order 66," the girl says, her voice hollow with defeat.

She and Rex survived by the thinnest thread of fate. They explain the control chips—implants hidden deep in every clone's mind, planted years earlier by Sith design. A silent trap, waiting. No warning. Just a sudden, brutal betrayal. Soldiers they’d trusted turning on them without hesitation.

Padmé glances at Orson, a silent question in her eyes. But the shock—and something like awe—on his face tells her he hadn’t known either.

“I left my sabers in the wreckage. Rex wanted to fight but I thought I could disappear,” Ahsoka says quietly. “I thought I had no place in the fight anymore. Then…”

She falters.

Padmé watches her carefully.

“Then I turned on the HoloNet and saw him,” the Togruta continues, her voice even lower now, even more fragile. “On the HoloNews. Standing behind the Emperor. I knew the moment I he appeared. I felt it. I knew.”

Her hands curl into fists.

“Anakin came looking for me not long after I left. I still don’t know how he found me…”

She pauses, her voice quieter now.

“He called me his sister. Said I didn’t understand what we could become. That he’d found a master—someone who could teach us to reshape the galaxy, to make it better.”

She shakes her head, memory and regret flickering in her eyes.

“He talked about writing our own rules. About forcing peace into existence. I thought he was unraveling—lost, delusional. I dismissed him. But when I saw him again…”

Her voice drops.

“I realized it wasn’t just madness. It was real.”

Padmé swallows hard. Her voice is barely above a whisper. “You came for me.”

“I had to,” Ahsoka replies softly. “Aside from Rex, you were the only one who ever stood up for me. When the Council turned its back, you didn’t. You believed me.”

Her eyes flick briefly to Orson. He stares at his hands, pretending he’s invisible. She turns back to Padmé.

“I couldn’t let you face him alone. But Coruscant’s a fortress now—we couldn’t get near. Enemies everywhere. So we waited. And then… we heard you were on Naboo.”

She exhales.

“We moved. It was almost too late.”

Padmé shakes her head.

“You came just in time,” she says softly.

She draws a steadying breath, grounding herself, then begins to speak—quietly, but with purpose.

She tells them her side.

About Palpatine. The true nature of the Clone Wars. Obi-Wan’s visit. Mustafar. The duel. And the devastating news that Anakin had been burned, left for dead.

“Obi-Wan believed he was gone,” she says, her voice trembling at the edges. “And even if he wasn’t… I never imagined he’d come back. Not for me.”

Her eyes find Ahsoka’s.

“Have you spoken to Bail? Or Obi-Wan?”

“No,” the girl says. “Too dangerous. Too easy to draw attention. We’re few. Scattered. And the galaxy…”

Her voice trails. Her eyes lower.

“The galaxy is celebrating. They think peace has finally come. It’ll be a while before they understand what the Empire truly is. For now, all we can do is disappear.”

A heavy silence settles over the cockpit. The controls cast shifting bands of pale light across their faces. Outside, hyperspace hums—steady, endless.

Then—

“No.”

Orson’s voice slices through the tension, sharp, absolute, somehow both high-pitched and thundering, as if he’s surprised even himself.

Padmé turns as he steps from the shadows. He’s upright, one hand braced against the chair, blood seeping steadily through the gauze at his shoulder. His tunic is rumpled, his jaw clenched tight, and his blue eyes burn—ice and fire flickering beneath the sheen of pain.

“We cannot hide,” he says, low and dark. “Not when now is the best chance we’ll ever get.”

Ahsoka’s brow tightens. Arms crossed, she leans forward in her co-pilot’s seat. 

“You think this is the time to strike? With what? The four of us against an Imperial Fleet? A Sith Lord and his apprentice? You don’t feel what I do,” she continues, her voice laced with both fear and hard-earned realism. “The anger, the pain, the focus. I can’t fight that. Not on my own.”

Orson steps forward, slow but deliberate, until he stands beside Padmé. There’s a slight stagger in his gait, but his posture stays unbroken—spine straight, jaw tight.

“Do you think I don’t know what we’re up against?” he growls. “I’ve served in it. I’ve built it.”

“You built their weapons,” Ahsoka snaps. “What good is that now?”

“Plenty,” he barks, without flinching. “I confirmed the systems for their orbital defenses. I reviewed schematics for their prototype battle walkers. I know the access codes buried in the now-forming ISB registry. I know where the vulnerabilities are—because the people working for me designed the damn walls they think will protect them!”

He turns, his eyes locking on Padmé, who’s been watching him in a stunned silence.

Just yesterday, he would’ve spilled blood for the Emperor—without hesitation, without question. And now? He’s shifted course entirely, as if loyalty was something he could unfasten like a uniform.

“The Emperor is protected by an ordinal system my own engineers drafted,” Orson continues. “I can find the holes in it. We can hit them before they complete the transition—before the chain of command is fully locked, before they realize what kind of a security risk I truly am—we can strike. But we have to do it now. While there are still cracks.”

“You want to stage an assassination?” Ahsoka asks, her eyes wide.

“Decapitation,” he shoots back resolutely. “Remove the Emperor, and the structure collapses before it cements. Vader is dangerous, yes, but Anakin Skywalker was no political genius. He can’t hold the Empire alone, not even with Tarkin’s help, and the military leadership is exhausted, malleable. I’ll convince them.”

Ahsoka’s expression hardens. “You underestimate the Dark Side.”

“I underestimate nothing. I’m offering the only real solution that doesn’t end in generations of tyranny.”

“Orson,” Padmé interrupts.

He turns to her. His mouth is half-open with retort—but her eyes stop him cold.

She puts a hand on his arm, but the edge of her voice turns to steel.

“I understand your logic, but you’re not thinking clearly.”

“I am thinking clearly,” he thunders, his accent drowning the last word. 

And in that moment, she sees that he truly believed it—that the Empire needed him, that it couldn’t function without his mind, his loyalty, his precision. That he was indispensable, untouchable.

But she doesn’t have time for his disillusionment, just as she doesn’t have time for her grief.

Resolutely, she turns toward Ahsoka and Rex, her voice shifting once more.

“Even if we could reach the Emperor, what then? We have no structure. No chain of command. No succession plan. No united front. We don’t know whom to trust. Some Senators will side with us. Others won’t. And there is no way we can communicate with anyone within the military structure securely right now. We need time.”

The silence returns, heavier this time, as though they’re all holding their breath at the edge of something vast and dark.

Orson leans heavily on the chair, scoffing as he shakes his head. He opens his mouth to speak—but Padmé stops him before a word can come out.

“We don’t disappear. We can’t. But we don’t charge in blindly. We build a team. Quietly, carefully. From survivors, sympathizers, anyone who still remembers what a democratic order looks like. And we need a plan—for what happens if we succeed.”

Her gaze meets his, her voice softening.

“We move fast, but not rushed.”

Orson’s shoulders drop, the weight of tension easing, though his eyes stay sharp—calculating.

“I’ll need a secure terminal,” he says. “A place to start pulling data—encrypted Senate rosters, security clearance logs, personal schedules and communication traffic between the offices and imperial forces. I know which files to download. I can also see which officers the ISB now considered less than reliable.”

Rex shares a look with Ahsoka, then turns to Orson.

“I know a place. Deep Outer Rim. A High Republic relay station. Half-dead tech, no comms unless we trigger them. We can regroup there. Quiet. Off-grid.”

Orson nods once. “Good.”

Then, a pause.

“We’ll need Galen Erso.”

Rex frowns. “Who’s Galen Erso?”

Orson looks at her—and his face shifts, just slightly. A kind of sorrow passes through his eyes, a guilt he rarely allows to surface.

“The man without whom Palpatine won’t be able to build the Death Star.”

Padmé’s stomach drops. She knew. She knew for weeks, but hearing it aloud is something else entirely. He lied to her and would have kept lying to her if his world hadn’t turned upside down.

“The Death Star?” Ahsoka asks, brows raised.

Orson snorts bitterly. “An orbital battle station. A planet-killer. My greatest design!” His eyes are like glass now. “Don’t worry—it’s barely begun. A skeleton, unarmed. But if we fail—and I hope we won’t—we can’t let them have Galen. The weapon depends on Kyber crystal fusion. That’s Galen’s work.”

“Kybers are sacred,” Ahsoka says, her voice tight with revulsion.

“They were sacred to the Jedi, but the Empire’s solved that problem recently, didn’t they?”

“Orson,” Padmé warns, the acid rising in her throat.

He throws his hands in the air theatrically. “I’m just telling you how they think.”

Then, he turns back to Rex and Ahsoka.

“Galen doesn’t know what he’s building. If he knew the full truth, he’d walk. He’s a pacifist. His wife, Lyra, is a militant pacifist… if you get my meaning. He could be useful if left in place, but he’s a terrible liar, and Lyra knows something is off. She might be thrown by my absence for a while, but I doubt it will last once she meets Tarkin. I’d rather risk extracting Galen than risk losing him. He is brilliant. I’m sure he’ll be useful.”

Padmé stares at her husband, mesmerized, not knowing if it’s awe or terror.  

I have never seen him like this, she realizes.

She knows the engineer—the precision, the focus. She knows the soldier—the discipline wrapped in polished arrogance.  She knows the lobbyist—the playful wink, the charming smile. And she knows the funny, attentive, brilliant man she fell in love with.

But this? This is new.

This is the tactician—the man who served the Empire before it even existed, and who now, paradoxically, seems intent on dismantling it with ruthless precision. She has always sensed this facet of him: a mind engineered for leverage, outcomes, and probability. He sees the galaxy as a vast chessboard, tracking twenty variables while calculating ten more. A strategist always five moves ahead, ready to sacrifice almost any piece to secure the win.

She has never seen him look surer of himself.

Or more dangerous.

“Isn’t he like your best friend?” Ahsoka asks, frowning as if recalling a buried memory. “And you pulled him into this mess?”

“I’ve been looking out for Galen since I was fourteen, little lady,” he says. “Don’t assume I didn’t consider the risk.”

“Did you, though?”

Grimacing, he scoffs dismissively.

Padmé’s voice rises, sharp, resolute.

“There’s no room for petty fights. We’re all on the same side now. And luckily, between the four of us, we carry a galaxy’s worth of knowledge.”

Orson presses his lips tight, the simmering tension just beneath the surface—but he says nothing.

After a moment, Ahsoka nods, her posture rigid in the co-pilot’s seat. “It’s not much,” she admits. “But it’s something.”

Padmé turns back to the viewport, watching the stars stretch. Then she meets Rex’s gaze.

“Captain,” she says quietly, “take us to our base.”

In the rear cabin, Padmé sits with her family—her mother curled in grief, her still sister silent with shock, her nieces clinging to her sides. She offers quiet words, fingers brushing through hair, lips pressed to foreheads. She stays until their breathing slows, until exhaustion overtakes them, and sleep comes at last.

“I always thought we’d grow old together,” her mother whispers, eyes rimmed red. “I thought I’d go first.”

Padmé presses her hand but says nothing. What words could ever be enough?

Then she rises—slowly, quietly—and moves across the room to the man holding their daughter.

The man she should hate.

The man who lied to her.

The man who would have sacrificed millions for a legacy.

And once she in his arms, she falls apart—crying for everything she has lost.

The base is old—forgotten, half-swallowed by the moon’s thick jungle. Vines snake across duracrete walls, and moss clings to the broken edges of metal doors. It doesn’t even look like a base, more like a retrofitted temple of some kind. It’s hidden away on a small, sweltering moon few would think to look for, let alone linger on. The air hangs heavy with humidity, thick as breath, curling into every corner of the structure.

When Padmé asks Rex how he knew about the place, he simply says that every clone was taught to have a contingency plan. He had one for every mission, every battlefield. He can’t quite remember which campaign this one was for anymore—only that he never used it. Until now.

“It feels strange here,” Ahsoka says, glancing around.

“Strange enough to leave?” Padmé asks, but Ahsoka shakes her head.

“No. More like a place that has known suffering—and found a way to heal.”

So they settle in, coaxing the generators back to life. The low hum of returning power is a small comfort.

Her mother, sister, and the two girls waste no time, scouring the base for supplies—rations, water filters, medkits. Practicality, Padmé notes, seems to be a shared family trait.

Meanwhile, the three soldiers—Ahsoka, Rex, and Orson—focus on salvaging what tech they can. It's a tentative rhythm, but they fall into it. They speak little, but there’s a mutual recognition: three people fluent in the language of survival, and for now, that’s enough.

Padmé is in the medbay, organizing what little equipment remains—recalibrating the bacta tank, sorting expired supplies, trying to make the room functional again. Her eyes drift to the small screen, they managed to revive.

The HoloNews covers their disappearance, claiming they were abducted by remnants of the Separatist forces. Her father, they report, died heroically in the ambush. Citizens are urged to come forward with any information—so that the former Queen of Naboo, now a symbol of the Empire’s strength and resilience, can be brought home.

The days are long here. Longer than on Coruscant or Naboo, drawn out by the moon’s slow rotation and the weight pressing on her shoulders. Byt the end of the first day, she is bone-tired. Somewhere past exhaustion, where the body just moves because it has to. Between the chaos of the birth, the destruction of everything she once called home, the abrupt end of her career, her father’s death, and the heavy silence that lingers between her and Orson, she doesn’t know how she’s still upright.

Her mother, her sister, and even her nieces look at her like she’s supposed to have answers. But Padmé doesn’t feel like someone they should look up to.

She barely feels like a person.

The experience of motherhood is raw and new. Beautiful, yes—but relentless. She hadn’t expected how it would split her open, make her feel both more and less than herself. Every cry pulls at her like a thread unraveling. Every touch feels like something she might break.

And Orson—they’ve barely spoken since they arrived. He has work upstairs in the command center, pulling data, and when their paths cross, it’s all updates, logistics, and Nyra.

The only real conversation they had was about contacting his mother.

“The less she knows, the better,” he’d said.

“But—won’t they take her? Torture her?”

“That’s exactly what they want us to think. They want us to go there, to try to save her from whatever we imagine they might do. And we are not doing that.”

“What if it’s true?” she tried to press. “What if she needs us?”

“I’ll do what I can for her—but not at our expense.”

“Orson, she’s your mother!”

“That she is and I suppose I’m her son, because she’s never shown up for me either.”

Padmé had swallowed, starting to speak again, but he’d cut her off.

“I want to help her, darling. But the truth is, going there is a risk we can’t afford—and you know that as well as I do. So don’t make this harder than it already is.”

And then he’d walked away, leaving the conversation they still needed to have hanging between them.

She wonders how he’s managing. How he hasn’t unraveled. Because she knows him. Knows his temperament. He’s always been good at locking things down, but she knows enough to realize that his world had just collapsed, and yet somehow, he just keeps moving.

Part of her wants to go to him, to coax him out of his shell and yet, she avoids him.

Even though he held her the first night, cradled her and their daughter while she cried herself into sleep—she can’t look at him without feeling the weight of all the lies he told her. All the decisions he made without her. All the things he was willing to justify.

She hasn’t forgiven him.

She doesn’t know if she can.

On the first night, they reconvene in the old hangar bay at zero-nine-hundred hours just as the sun begins to slowly descend behind the plush trees. Rain has come and gone, and the air is thick, heavy with the scent of wet metal and jungle rot.

Jobal sits on an old cargo container, Nyra in her arms, her shoulders hunched, her face pale. The gray in her hair seems more pronounced than it was yesterday—as if the past forty-eight hours have aged her years. Sola leans against a bulkhead, arms crossed, streaks of soot and dirt on her cheek where she tried and failed to scrub them off.

Ahsoka appears a moment later, her montrals streaked with grease, her tunic stained with engine oil and sweat. She wipes her hands on a rag, her jaw tight, eyes sharper than usual. Rex is beside her, silent as ever, his armor stripped down to just the essentials. There’s a new tear in his undershirt and dried blood along his collarbone, half-hidden under a field dressing. He’s been patrolling the perimeter almost nonstop.

Then Orson walks in with Ryoo at his side.

The nine-year-old keeps close, her small hand brushing the edge of his jacket as if anchoring herself to something stable. Her wide brown eyes flick around the room, but she stays quiet. She must have attached herself to him at some point during the afternoon, and he must have let her. Now, he rests a broad hand gently on her head, giving her a small wink.

Padmé tries not to look at him.

She fails.

Somehow, he looks more composed than the rest. He’s shed the bloodied shirt for plain black—clean and simple—topped with a faded dark green pilot’s jacket, scavenged and ill-fitting. Yet he wears it as if it were tailored just for him, as if he’s never known anything else.

Still, the lines around his eyes are deep, and the shadows beneath them are dark.

He has found a new part to play, but he’s drained, and he is looking at her now.

They’re all looking at her.

It hits her suddenly. Somewhere in the chaos, without a word spoken, they’ve all decided—she’s the one in charge now. Not just her family. The soldiers, too. Even him.

Her breath catches. For a moment, the weight of it presses down on her—heavy, relentless. Her body protests; her ribs ache with every movement, and fatigue clings to her like a second skin. But she straightens anyway, spine locking into place.

If this is what they need me to be... then I’ll be it.

When she speaks, her voice is steady.

“Status?”

One by one, they report.

Ahsoka gestures toward the hold upstairs.

“I’ve stabilized the comm array. It's still temperamental, but it’s usable. I’ve patched together enough of the transmitter to send a burst relay to download files.”

Her eyes move to Orson, who nods.

“I started breaking into the security databases. The data’s fragmented, but I have no doubt I’ll be able to reconstruct most of the core directories.”

He pauses, as if for an effect, then scoffs, lips curling in a grimace as he gestures dismissively with one hand.

“Just as I expected, no one bothered to change the access codes. We’ll have most of the high-level security protocols. Surveillance logs. Rotational schedules for patrols on Coruscant. Backup emergency response routes.”

“How long will it take?” Padmé asks.

“With the museum exhibit I get to work with upstairs?” he snorts. “Days.”

Sola offers the supply count. “We’ve got rations, water filters, emergency blankets. Enough for two weeks if we stretch.”

Rex scans the room before he speaks. “The jungle’s clear of people. But there are creatures out there—hungry ones. We can’t get too comfortable.”

“I’m trying to repair the speeders in the back now,” Ahsoka chimes in. “They should help.”

Padmé nods slowly, exhaling a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding before recapitulating what she found in the med-bay.

“We need to reach out to Bail,” she says, finally. “Let him know we’re alive. Coordinate a rendezvous.”

Ahsoka inclines her head. “We could send it to Alderaan. To Breha.”

“No.” Orson cuts in, shaking his head. “The palace is under surveillance. Any signal we send there could compromise us… and them.”

Ahsoka looks at him. “How do you know?”

He meets her eyes, his expression almost bored. “I know.”

Padmé cuts the exchange before it begins. “Could the codes you pulled help?”

“The moment we use them to upset their rhythm, they’ll realize their mistake and change everything. We’ll be locked out. It’s not worth it—not for this.”

Across from her, Jobal take a deep breath, her voice trembling. “What about Ruwee’s funeral? If they’re saying he died defending us… the Empire will want to make a spectacle of it. A martyr’s funeral.”

Padmé swallows, throat tight, but nods. Her mother is right.

“Bail will be there,” she says softly, already picturing it—robes of state, forced smiles, the air thick with pretense. “So will Mon.”

“Theed will be crawling with Imperials,” Rex warns, arms crossed.

Padmé is quiet for a moment, weighing danger against necessity. Grief presses in, but she pushes it down, focusing on the chance—however slim—that this could be the opening they need.

“It might be our best chance,” she says at last, her voice firmer now.

Ahsoka looks at Rex. “We’ll go. I can hide, and Rex can move freely if we get our hands on some sanitized armor.”

“Very well.” Padmé nods, then turns to Orson. “Can you get us the security measures for the event?”

Orson doesn’t answer right away. He leans against the edge of a crate with deliberate ease, arms crossing slowly over his chest. His gaze locks onto hers, watching her with strange intensity. 

“Yes,” he says, voice smooth. “I can get them.”

Padmé doesn’t blink. Instead, she lifts her chin just a fraction—as if answering a silent challenge she doesn’t quite understand.

The discussion continues— logistics, timing, contingency plans for their current base and the initial preparations ahead. They have a few days, no more. Enough to prepare, enough to choose a secure location for the meeting with Bail and, hopefully, Obi-Wan.

Padmé listens, contributes, calculates—but beneath the surface, a quiet dread hums.

There won’t be another chance like this. For all his obvious thirst for revenge, Orson had been right. Waiting means surrendering to hope, to the illusion that the Empire will one day crumble under its weight—its cruelty, its overreach. But empires don’t fall on their own. Not before people grow used to them. Not before confusion turns to dependence, and fear becomes loyalty.

Her gaze drifts to their daughter, cradled safely in her mother’s arms.

The time to act is now, she thinks. No matter the cost.

Padmé lies awake, eyes fixed on the cracked ceiling above. The soft, rhythmic breathing of the children beside her is the only sound in the room. Nyra sleeps in a makeshift cradle—an old supply crate, scrubbed clean and padded with blankets stitched together from torn uniforms and spare medkits. It’s crude, but it’s what they have.

They’ve set up camp in what was once the officers’ quarters, long abandoned and reclaimed by time. The walls are streaked with damp, and the faint scent of mold lingers beneath the cleaner her mother found in the storage room.

Ahsoka and Sola are on first watch, somewhere at the hangar door. They choose to put a person who knows how to handle a blaster with one who doesn’t. At the time, it seemed like the best option, but now, in the depths of the night, Padmé wonders.

She shifts, careful not to wake the others. She knows she has maybe an hour before Nyra stirs and needs her again. One hour. She could spend it staring into the dark, running over everything she can’t control. Or… she could face the man she’s been avoiding since they arrived.

The dim glow from the command center bleeds into the edge of the hangar—faint but steady. Drawn by it, she moves silently, wrapping the Ghorman twill shawl she had on as they fled her home, tighter around her shoulders.

The command room is a skeleton of what it must have once been. Dust clings to old consoles, and exposed wires curl from ceiling panels like dead vines. Terminals blink sporadically. The hum of aging machines drones in the background—too loud to ignore, not loud enough to drown the weight in the air.

Orson stands alone at the main console. His back is rigid, shoulder muscles taunt and visible through his slim t-shirt, one hand braced against the edge as he clicks through the relays. His other hand flexes over the screen, tense and twitching, a small betrayal of the injury he has incurred.

Then, suddenly, he spins, a blaster appearing in his hand out of nowhere.

“It’s just me,” she says, unmoved by the weapon pointed at her.

“Force!” He exhales through his nose and lowers the blaster. “Say something next time!”

“I didn’t mean to startle you.”

He turns back to the console, throwing the blaster on the console next to him without care.

“The system’s crashing,” he rumbles. “The data load’s too large, and these kriffing antiques can’t handle it. This base is probably two hundred years old—everything in here is junk!”

“Then take a break,” she says, stepping closer.

“There isn’t enough time. They can lock me out at any point.”

“Take one anyway. We need to talk.”

He exhales sharply, eyes still on the screen. “Talking to you right now hardly qualifies as a break.”

The words hit harder than they should. She flinches; he notices and grits his teeth.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” he adds, softer now.

“You did,” she says matter-of-factly. “I feel the same. We still need to talk, and I won’t accept any more lies—not now, not ever. Are we clear?”

He shrugs noncommittally; his arms crossed over his chest. “I have nothing more to hide.”

She looks at the battered chairs strewn near the wall, testing the frame before settling down. The chair creaks beneath her.

Orson stays where he is, staring out the window at the dark jungle beyond, shoulders rigid.

“How much did you know?”

“Not enough, apparently.”

Padmé waits, silent. A tilt of the head, nothing more.

He exhales, turning his head slightly to reveal his clenched jaw.  

“I knew the war was a smokescreen to push through regime change. What I didn’t know was that Palpatine was behind the whole damn thing. That he was playing both sides. I had no idea he was a Sith Lord...”

He turns fully then, his eyes meeting hers, bloodshot but clear.

“I talked to him privately only twice. That’s it. Mas Amedda gave the orders. He might’ve known more. I’m not sure. Tarkin? Maybe. He’s the type who worships structure, but he wants to believe he is right. If he found out, he’d probably try to oust the Palpatine just to install himself instead as a military dictator. I had no idea about the chips either. That bastard really played the long game with that one…”

“And the project?” she asks, ignoring the hint of fascination in his voice.

Orson takes a slow turn around the room, then stops.

“It started with the Clone Wars. A word came that the Separatists were building a planet-killer. We had to keep up. Everyone in that briefing room—they were all scared shitless. I was the only one who said anything. The only one with a plan.”

Padmé tightens her jaw.

Of course.

That’s what they wanted—someone insane enough to seize the moment, and they found him while all the other officers sat there in silence.

“But the Separatists weren’t building anything,” she says quietly.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to the floor. A faint, almost wistful smile flickers across the curve of his lips. “But by the time intelligence confirmed that, it didn’t matter. The momentum had already taken hold. Those few months…” he pauses, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “Everything in my life changed.”

Padmé’s stomach knots.

She remembers those months, clearer than she wants to. She had never been in love before, not like that. Despite the chaos of her schedule, she’d steal moments just to send him short messages. She’d hurry home in the evenings, brushing off the droids so they could cook together, his throaty laughter warm against the clatter of dishes. And later, in the quiet hush of night, she would trace the freckles on his shoulders, mapping them like stars in the soft light.

But now, she wonders what he was really doing during those days—what shadows he stepped into when she wasn’t looking. And worse, how her presence, her name, her place beside him in the spotlight... might have made it easier.

I knew, she thinks bitterly. Even then, I knew he was doing things I’d never agree with. And I didn’t stop him. I didn’t even ask.

Because she hadn’t really wanted to know.

Her voice is quiet, but it lands like a blade.

“Why did you lie to me?”

“You didn’t have the clearance.”

“I don’t mean staying silent—I mean lying. After you let it slip. After you came back.”

Orson hesitates. Teeth clenched, he doesn’t meet her eyes.

“I knew you wouldn’t accept it. Any of it. So, I gave you the cover story. The one we’d rehearsed for the Senate, and it worked.”

“Until it didn’t.”

He nods, slowly. There’s a weariness in him now, something worn thin and fraying at the edges.

“I knew bringing you to the B’ankor Refuge was a risk. I knew you’d piece it together. But it was the safest option. I genuinely believed the Separatists had infiltrated the Senate. I wasn’t willing to gamble with your safety.”

She studies him—how tightly he’s holding himself.

“How did you know I wouldn’t expose you?”

“I didn’t,” he says solemnly. “I assumed. You value family too much.”

She fixes her lightly trembling jaw, looking away from him for a moment.

“I almost told Bail and Mon.”

“But you didn’t.”

She swallows hard, her breath catching. The calm, analytical way he says it—like it was always a variable in an equation—it settles over her like a thin layer of ice.

“No, I didn’t,” she says, voice quiet.  

She’s so angry now. Angry, hurt, and confused.

“What about me? Was getting involved with an influential Senator always part of the plan?”

Padmé hears the sharpness in her voice, the raw edge of betrayal she hadn't meant to let show so plainly. But now that it’s out, she doesn’t take it back. She needs to hear his answer—really hear it.

No evasions. No charm. No love declarations. Just the truth.

Orson tilts his head, blinking. His brow furrows.  “You—you can’t be serious…! You think this was some scheme?”

“It sure seems to be your style,” she bites out. “After all, didn’t this whole thing start as a deal?”

“A deal you proposed!” he fires back.

“And one you jumped at without hesitation!”

“Who wouldn’t?!”

There it is—the flicker. Panic in his eyes. The mask is slipping. Good, she thinks, but it doesn't feel good.

She sits still in the chair, but her heart won’t stop hammering.

“That deal you proposed…,” he says, voice cracking slightly.

He’s unraveling, and not just for effect.

“That’s not how it started. Not for me. Did I want to be in your orbit? Of course I did! You are a living legend! When I heard you’d be attending that meeting in person, I prepared like it was a campaign. I read everything—every vote, every speech, every cause you threw your name behind. I was supposed to convince the former Queen of Naboo, of a military refit—a military refit, I misguidedly thought you might see the point of considering how defenseless Naboo was during the crisis. I wanted to be your savior. Then you walked in, more than fashionably late, with that innocent smile of yours, and everything I planned just... collapsed.”

She remembers. That first meeting—she hadn’t been impressed, not at first. She was irritated, actually, and quietly resentful that someone so insufferable had the audacity to be distractingly handsome. She enjoyed the way he recoiled. The way his posture tightened when she questioned his numbers, the way his smile faltered, ever so slightly, when he realized she wasn’t going to be dazzled by his confidence or charmed by flattery. That she’d done her homework too. That she had no intention of rubber-stamping a battle station.

Orson continues, voice lower now.  

“I told you this before—but you don’t understand. I looked for ways to see you again. I stalked the Senate galleries. I sat through hours of utterly mind-numbing sessions just to maybe catch a glimpse of you.”

Her chest tightens.

Was he really there?

She hadn’t noticed him once.

“I felt like a fool, wasting my time like that,” he laughs bitterly. “But I couldn’t help it. Then suddenly—there you were. Standing in Galen’s office. Proposing your little quid pro quo. It was too good to be true. Not because of the offer. Because it was you. And I’ve had entanglements before—plenty—but none of them made me feel anything like this. Whenever I saw you, I felt like I was drowning, and the moment you left, it was like a thirst I couldn’t quench. It was utterly ridiculous!”

He’s rushing now—his words tumbling over each other, his voice taut with anger and something rougher, more exposed. Desperation gathers at the corners of his mouth, in the way his hands move—sharp, erratic, like he’s trying to shape the truth out of the damp air.

“So don’t you dare reduce us to some scheme I cooked up! Yes, I used the connections. The social capital. Suddenly, everyone wanted to know me, thanks to you. But I never chased you for that. I’ve been in love with you since the first day I met you.”

He pauses, jaw clenched. Then, quieter:

“That’s why I had someone continuously sabotaging the microphones in Cantham House. Why I warned you not to act that day. Why I erased your name from that silly petition.”

Padmé blinks. Once. She didn’t know he did that… didn’t realize the intelligence was listening, or wanted to.

She isn’t sure whether to be grateful or furious.

He turns away, shoulders tight, head bowed for a moment before lifting again with a hollow laugh—ashamed, but also proud. Defiant.

“You want the truth? Well, protecting you—and Nyra—was always my priority. I hoped I would be able to convince you to stop your crusade, but deep down, I knew this wouldn’t happen. So, I knew I’d be doomed eventually. We both would be unless I’d climb so high, nothing could touch me… But I thought, if and when the time came, it would be your politics that undid me, not some maniac ex-boyfriend with a grudge.”

Padmé stares at him.

This, she thinks.

This is the problem.

There’s a pressure building in her chest she doesn’t know how to release—grief, guilt, rage. All the emotions she suppressed or softened with love. It’s all there, pressing against her ribs, trying to make sense of the man standing in front of her.

“I’m sorry.”

She breathes in through her nose, the ache mounting.

 “I’m sorry you fell in love with someone who got in your way. I’m sorry your ambition—your ego—had to take a back seat to doing the right thing.”

His head jerks up, eyes locking onto hers. The corner of his mouth twitches.

“That’s what you took from all of that?” he asks, incredulous.

“No,” she replies, forcing her voice to grow steady.

She considers stopping there—letting the silence speak for her—but then thinks, if she can’t say it here, in this broken-down command center at the edge of the galaxy, when everything they had has already fallen apart, then she never will.

Part of her wants to forget the manipulation, the damage, the cold calculations masked as devotion. But she can’t. She knows too well how ambition dresses itself up as sacrifice. How easily love can be used as leverage. She knows he doesn’t see it. She knows that in his mind, it all adds up—justified, rational, inevitable, and she doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse.

So, when she speaks, she chooses her words carefully despite the turmoil within her.

“What I got is that in the end, all you ever really cared about is yourself. That everything you did, all the lies you told, all the choices you’ve made, it was because they served you. And me? Our life together?” She meets his gaze, unwavering. “It’s just a variable in your equitation that stopped adding up at some point, but your pride—your selfishness—couldn’t let it go.”

Orson takes a step toward her. She doesn’t move in her seat, doesn’t flinch, just stares at him. He halts, hands lifted halfway—somewhere between a plea and a warning.

“All I did was try to save you from what was coming.”

“Yet, at the same time, you were the one ushering it in.”

He presses his lips into a thin line, grimacing.

“I know.”

Padmé blinks. She hadn’t expected him to admit it—not that easily.

“I miscalculated,” he says, voice tightening as he throws his hands up, a gesture too sharp to be casual. “I thought it would be different. I thought we were building something better. A society where merit outranked bloodlines—where you rose by merit, not by name. I believed in that. I gave everything I had. Everything I was.”

He exhales, and it leaves him like something breaking.

“I thought I was one of them. I thought I belonged. But I didn’t. And it would have still worked, but somewhere in all that… I made the tactical mistake of falling in love with you.”

A mistake.

The word hits like a stone.

Padmé’s throat tightens. Her gaze drifts to the window, to the night pressing in beyond the glass. The sky filled with stars, looks so still. So quiet. A lie, like everything else.

“You chose this,” she says quietly, not with anger, but with sorrow so deep it threatens to hollow her out. “Not Palpatine. Not Mas Amedda. You. You chose every part of it.”

Orson meets her eyes. And for a second, he looks like a man drowning.

“I did,” he says. “But I chose you, too.”

“No,” she raises her chin with a sudden surge of defiance. “If you’d chosen me, you would’ve walked away when I asked.”

“If I had walked,” he barks, “they would’ve hunted us. I knew too much!”

Maybe, she thinks.

Or maybe you just needed to believe you mattered enough to be a threat.

“How convenient,” she murmurs. “That choosing yourself always seemed to double as the shrewdest move.”

It’s almost laughable. For all his obsession with control, in the end, he didn’t have any.

He didn’t choose between love and ambition.

They did it for him.

And whatever he might have chosen—truly, freely—she’ll never know.

He holds her gaze, his eyes hollow gray of ash after flame.

She watches him, expecting him to shatter under the weight of it all—ruined legacy, shattered pride, words said that he should have kept to himself.

But there are no cracks, only a quiet, eerie stillness.

That’s the part she doesn’t understand—and right now she’s too tired to try.

So she rises, slowly, the weight of the moment heavy across her spine. Her feet move of their own accord, carrying her toward the door.

Then—his hand.

A sudden, desperate movement—he reaches for her wrist, fingers brushing against her skin like a ghost trying to take form.

She flinches, steps back.

His hand falls as though burned. He recoils with a sharp inhale, pain flickering across his face like something physical. Raw. Exposed.

“Don’t,” he breathes, voice barely holding. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t walk away.”

Padmé closes her eyes for half a heartbeat.

“I can’t, Orson,” she whispers. Her voice is soft, but final.

She hates the look on his face—the helplessness, the hurt. He seems both impossibly young and painfully old, and for the first time since that shadowy figure appeared on their terrace in Varykino, he looks like a man unmoored, as if he no longer knows where he belongs in the world.

But she needs space. She needs time and, most of all, she needs clarity.

So she turns. And walks.

Behind her, he calls her name—once, then again, voice cracking around the edges.

She doesn’t turn back.

A crash erupts behind her—something thrown, maybe a glass, maybe worse.

Then another. The sharp sound of destruction echoes in the hallway.

Padmé presses her eyes shut.

But she keeps walking.

The days drag.

Padmé moves through them, half-awake, half-conscious. Sleep is a flickering memory, though she’s no longer sure if it’s because of Nyra’s cries or the storm inside her mind. Time stretches and folds in on itself.

She spends most of her time in the abandoned storage wing, sorting through crates of long-forgotten supplies. The work is dull, aimless—maybe even meaningless—but it keeps her hands busy. It spares her from dwelling too long on what she’s already lost… or what she still stands to lose.

She doesn't talk to Orson. Not once.

And yet, she still feels his eyes on her—especially when she's holding Nyra. He lingers in doorways, silent, watching. When their eyes meet, he always waits for her to look away first, waits for her to retreat. Just like he did on Coruscant, after she moved him out of their bedroom. Still proud, even in his pain.

But his knuckles tell a different story—raw, split, silently screaming with the rage he won’t voice. She never saw what he destroyed after their argument, but Sola and Ahsoka heard it—heard enough to come running, only for Padmé to wave them off. She called it a “marriage fight,” though the words felt hollow. Diminishing. Because this isn’t about them. Not really.

Since then, Sola’s curious gaze has settled into quiet judgment. How bad could it really be, her eyes seem to ask, when her daughters still race to the Command Center to see what Uncle Orson is up to, every time she lets them?

Their mother watches her, too—something caught between worry and disappointment in her eyes.

But they know only fragments of the truth. They don’t know what he said to her—how he called her a mistake, a flaw in his calculated rise to power. And he hadn’t said it in anger, but with the cold precision of a man recalculating a deviation from his plan. They don’t know that part of him blames her for his ruined future, for being here, in this crumbling base, preparing for an ambush so reckless it borders on madness.

They think she’s being unfair. Overly harsh. Unrealistic, maybe. But she doesn’t correct them.

Because, deep down, she doesn’t want them to understand.

Because her mother warned her—and she didn’t listen.

Because maybe he’s not the only one who wonders if all of this was a terrible mistake.

On the third day, Orson calls them into the makeshift war room. He has prepared their plan for Naboo. His usual swagger has returned, but there is an edge to it, tempered and cold.

“They’ll tighten Theed’s perimeter—checkpoints, facial scans, increased patrols in the royal quarter. But most of the high-level security data is still funneled through regional subnets I had access to. If I move carefully, I can intercept the protocols without triggering a cascade.”

He glances at Ahsoka, then Rex.

“You’ll have a window. Small. Probably no more than thirty minutes of blind spots—maybe less. But I can engineer the gaps. If you want to get in and out without drawing fire, you’ll need to follow my timing exactly.”

His blue eyes narrow.

“And just so we’re clear—this only works with precision. No improvisation. No last-minute heroics.”

A beat of silence.

Then, deliberately, his gaze shifts to Padmé.

She straightens under the weight of it, understanding what he expects. Turning to Ahsoka and Rex, her voice is calm, her expression steeled.

“We can’t risk being discovered.”

Ahsoka presses her lips together. “I know. I don’t plan on getting us caught.”

She faces Orson, chin lifted. “We’ll follow your plan. But if something goes wrong…”

He nods, already ahead of her.

“If something goes wrong, you run. And if you can’t, take as many of them with you as you can.”

Ahsoka glances back at Padmé, and she knows the girl is searching for some sign of hesitation, for temperance.

But Padmé only nods—calm, resolute.

Because this plan cannot fail, and if it does, they can’t afford lose ends.

The evening before Ahsoka and Rex depart, they gather at the edge of the jungle, where the trees thin and the last rays of light filter through the leaves. The air is thick with humidity and quiet, fragrant with the scent of wet earth and exotic blossoms. There, at the jungle’s fringe, they hold a memorial for Ruwee.

Nabooian mourning rites are restrained things. No eulogies, no weeping songs, no loud declarations of grief—only ritual.

Dark blue clothing—or in this case, a simple sash tied around the upper arm, scavenged from one of the forgotten storage crates Padmé uncovered. A body of water, traditionally a lake, but here a wide ceramic basin, its surface still, catching the warm flicker of handmade lanterns the children crafted them from salvaged folders and rusted wire.

One by one, the mourners step forward. Each places a smooth white stone into the water. A symbol of loss. Of grief. Of something left unsaid. The basin stirs with each offering, ripples moving like breath across its mirrored surface. No one speaks.

Padmé comes last, Nyra quiet in her arms, unusually still—as if the child senses the weight of the moment.

She kneels and lowers a final stone into the basin. Then, softly, she whispers something. Too quiet for anyone to hear.

A promise. A plea. A farewell.

When she rises, she does not return to her family, but walks instead to where Orson stands slightly apart, half in shadow. She takes her place beside him—the place where she now belongs, even if they fight.

He doesn’t move, not really, but she feels the shift in him. Alert. Present. His blue eyes turn to her, unreadable but aware, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle without touching the pieces.

“I never got the chance to say I was sorry,” he murmurs, voice low, almost swept away by the warm breeze. “He was a good man.”

The words catch her off guard. She hadn’t expected him to speak. She thought they'd come to a quiet understanding that silence was safer—at least for now.

She looks up at him, his profile calm.

“Thank you,” she says, just as softly.

They wait there in silence, mourning as the rite demands. Ahsoka and Rex go first, standing the farthest apart, as demanded for those without blood ties to the victim. Jobal follows, her steps hesitant, worried perhaps that her tears might turn into sobs and break the sacredness of silence. Sola and the girls go next.

Only Padmé and Orson remain.

Padmé doesn’t cry. Not here. She has cried, and she will cry again—but not tonight. Still, the ache builds behind her eyes, dull and insistent, and the knot in her throat sits heavy, unmoving. Like the last stone left unplaced.

She thinks of moving then—of stepping away, of freeing him from the weight of her silent grief—but something catches in her. Unfinished. Unspoken. A question she’d meant to ask for days.

“What did you talk about?” she asks softly. “Right before…” Her voice fades, barely a breath.

He looks at her, his eyebrow raised slightly.

“He gave me parenting advice.”

Padmé frowns, smiling despite herself. That was the last answer she expected—especially knowing by then her father had learned better than to assume Orson ever took advice from anyone.

“He told me being present mattered more than getting it right. That I couldn’t protect Nyra from pain or failure, but I could always be there to catch her and make sure she never feels alone.”

His voice is even, but his hands twitch slightly at his sides—just enough for her to notice.

He looks at her then—truly looks—and for the briefest moment, she catches a glimpse of the man she once fell in love with. The man beneath the polished armor of ambition that splintered everything between them.

When he speaks again, a sudden glint of playfulness flickers in his striking blue eyes.

“He also said you were impossible as a baby. Said you howled through every night and drove the whole house mad.”

A sound escapes her then—half-laugh, half-sob. It slips out before she can stop it.

“Nyra must take after you.”

“She does,” he says, voice low, almost fond. His gaze drifts to the baby nestled in Padmé’s arms. He leans in, reaches out, fingertips brushing Nyra’s cheek with a gentleness that doesn’t match the man she thinks he’s become. “I was a model infant. Quiet. Dignified.”

Padmé closes her eyes. A faint smile tugs at her lips, unbidden. Unwanted. But it stays there anyway—like muscle memory.

And then she sees his hands.

Knuckles split open again, skin raw and angry. Old wounds, newly torn. The tenderness she feels vanishes in an instant, replaced by a sharp, sinking weight in her chest.

Padmé exhales, slow and quiet, and speaks before she can stop herself.

“You need bacta on your hands.”

“I thought we were low on supplies,” he replies, withdrawing his hand, but his voice remains soft.

“We are,” she says, already turning away.

She walks back toward the others—toward her mother, her sister, her nieces—where comfort is still needed, still expected. But as she goes, she wonders, not for the first time:

Is that all it takes for me to forgive him?

And she doesn’t let herself answer.

He comes after sunset, when the base has gone quiet, when he and Jobal finish their watch and Ahsoka and Sola emerge to take their turn, still half-asleep.

The med-bay is bathed in cold fluorescent light—too bright, too harsh. It casts shadows beneath Orson’s eyes and leeches the warmth from his skin. She thinks she sees gray on his temples—gray that hasn’t been there before a week ago. Perhaps she imagines it. Perhaps she doesn’t. Still, he looks pale, worn. Haunted. She imagines she looks no different. Two ghosts, passing each other in the wreckage of their lives.

Padmé doesn’t greet him. She gestures silently to the chair beside the cot, already laid out with gauze, bacta, and antiseptic. He sits without a word, his breathing calm and even. She takes his hands, inspecting the torn knuckles, trying not to notice how warm they are in hers—how familiar.

“How’s your shoulder?” she asks, reaching for neutral ground.

“Better,” he says. “The clone’s bedside manner is nonexistent, but he knows how to patch a blaster wound.”

“He has a name.”

“I’m sure he does. He never offered it.”

She looks up, catching his gaze. “Did you offer him yours?”

He rolls his eyes, and the silence that follows is answer enough.

That’s a no, then, she thinks. Still clinging to rank. Still pretending the uniform means something—pretending the army that cast them both aside hasn’t already moved on.

“These aren’t too bad,” she changes the subject, as she gently applies the bacta to the raw skin. “They’d be healing if you stopped reopening them.”

“I need to move my fingers,” he mutters. “The intelligence reports don’t download themselves.”

She arches a brow without looking up.

“If only you stuck to breaking through firewalls.”

The words slip out easily—an echo of worn banter from another life. They don’t quite belong here, yet they linger, suspended in the quiet hum of power lines and distant ventilation fans.

Then his hand moves, closing around her wrist—steady, not rough, but undeniably firm. Unyielding. He pulls her in, close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath against her skin, close enough to catch the faint scent of old army soap and see the freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose, the sharp azure of his penetrating eyes.

“You walked away,” he says, low and tight. “You asked for honesty. I gave it to you. And you walked away.”

Her breath catches. Like his grip, the words aren’t harsh—but they hold her fast, anchoring her in place as her heart sinks beneath their weight.

“I didn’t walk away because you were honest,” she says quietly. “I walked away because your honesty confirmed everything I was afraid of.”

His brow furrows, but he doesn't speak. So she keeps going, unsure why she’s saying it, only that she can’t keep holding it in.

“You called me a mistake, Orson! How was I supposed to react to that?”

He releases her wrist slowly. His hands fall to his lap, fingers curling. Padmé doesn’t step back, doesn’t run. Not this time.

Silence stretches between them, taut and fragile.

“You were never a mistake,” he says at last, voice lower now, rougher with regret. “But the plan was flawed. With or without Vader, it was never designed to include you. And still, I told myself I could make it work—that I could have both. You... and the future the Empire promised me.”

He pauses, breath uneven. “I didn’t realize—”

“That those two things couldn’t coexist,” she finishes for him.

His gaze drops to his hands—red, raw, cracked from strain and neglect. He flexes them slowly, as if searching the damage for answers.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “I was so fixated on the Death Star... so consumed with building it for those in power—so desperate to be one of them—that I stopped seeing what else was possible. I lost sight of the larger picture.”

A beat.

“But I see it now.”

Padmé leans back slightly, the tacky residue of drying bacta still clinging to her fingers. A knot of tension coils in her chest.

There’s something too calm in his voice—too precise. As if he’s already made a decision she hasn’t been allowed to understand.

“What do you see?”

He turns to her fully, spine straight, the air between them shifting—dense, electric. And in the scorched wreckage of his ashen eyes, she sees it. Not fear. Not guilt. Not the broken remnants of a man chasing redemption.

But something far more dangerous.

Clarity.

Conviction.

Purpose.

And when he speaks, his voice is quiet—almost reverent—but it lands like a declaration, heavy with inevitability.

“The New Republic.”

Chapter Text

Padmé sits outside the compound, breathing deeply as the sun rises behind the temple at her back. Around her, the trees wake—birds cry, insects hum, leaves rustle with unseen life. The noise is constant, almost deafening, but to her ears, it sounds almost peaceful—perhaps because it’s predictable. Unlike everything else.

Nyra sleeps curled against her chest, one tiny hand clutching the fabric of Padmé’s tunic, her breath a soft, steady warmth. Padmé’s body still aches from the birth—dull, persistent soreness lingering in her muscles. The afterbirth cramps have thankfully eased, but her breasts are tender and growing worse. And yet, as she feels her daughter’s calm, steady heartbeat, the pain fades until she barely registers it.

 She came outside hours ago. Pretending to keep watch, because she couldn’t sleep.

Again.

First, she tried to throw herself into work—analyze some of the intelligence they have managed to gather—but she couldn’t focus. Not after what Orson said in the med-bay last night. Not after the way he said it.

Calculated, certain, charged.

The New Republic.

She shouldn’t have been surprised. He has always wanted more, and he has always looked for ways to get it. Her, the Death Star, and now, chaos.

He’s imagining a new order.

A clean slate.

A world rebuilt according to his vision, with all the power and recognition he’s ever craved.

Everything Lyra warned her about rushes back at once.

He has no scruples—never did. He moves toward whatever serves him—always has.

Padmé thought the lies were bad enough. But the purpose—the unwavering conviction—that feels worse. Because it means he believes in this cause just as fiercely as he believed in the last.

The one that opposed everything this one stands for.

Or did it?

Maybe it was never about the cause. Maybe it was always about him.

The thought leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

She used to think she should hate him.

Now she wonders if she should fear him.

But she feels neither. Not really. She’s angry at him, at the galaxy, at the sheer ruin of it all. But beneath the fury, she feels a desperate, aching need to reach for him, just as she feels the need to reach for the world as it breaks apart. Because, despite everything he’s said and done, she knows he meant it when he said he loved her—meant it in that stubborn, selfish way of his. And though she needed to hear the words, she has never really doubted him. Not in the sincerity of his love for her, at least.  

Now, all they have is each other, Nyra, and this fragile, makeshift family they’ve pieced together on a hidden base. And she’s terrified to imagine what the future holds. Both if they succeed and if they don’t.

So Padmé sits outside despite her better judgment, her back against the cold durasteel. Breathing. Waiting. As if time would bring her clarity.

She expects her sister to come looking for her, or maybe her mother, pestering her shouldn’t be out alone, exposed, but it’s Ahsoka who appears instead. Her steps are sure but silent, gliding over the uneven stones without a sound.

“Is it time?” Padmé asks, but the Togruta shakes her head before dropping beside her and handing her a ration bar.

“Republic’s finest,” she says with a small smirk.

Padmé raises an eyebrow. “It expired seventy-four years ago.”

Ahsoka shrugs. “These things are ageless, or so Rex tells me.”

“I hope he’s right,” Padmé murmurs, and a ghost of a smile touches her lips.

For a while, they say nothing. The jungle hums low and persistent, carrying the conversation for them.

Padmé uses the quiet to study the woman beside her. She hasn’t had a moment to reflect—not since Ahsoka dropped from the sky onto her terrace at Varykino and saved them all.

Now, putting her own problems aside for a moment, she sees the difference.

Ahsoka’s cheeks are sharper, her montrals longer, her striped lekku stronger, more defined. The traces of the girl Padmé once knew—the eager, fire-eyed child at the start of the war—are all but gone.

And for a moment, she has trouble finding her in the woman who remains.

“When did you grow up?” Padmé murmurs.  

Ahsoka doesn’t move, her blue eyes pinned ahead as she bites into the ration bar. “Three and a half weeks ago?”

Padmé flinches. Of course.

Three and a half weeks ago—when she had to bury everyone she ever fought beside. Everyone but Rex.

And if not then, then months before that—when the Jedi turned on her, when all of Coruscant wanted her in chains.

“Why did you come back? Why did you help Mandalore?”

“Because the Jedi Council wouldn’t,” Ahsoka replies simply. “I just… I couldn’t stand on the sidelines and watch them make another mistake again because of their rigid rules.”

She leans over, peeking at Nyra, who stirs and lets out a soft coo but doesn’t wake. Ahsoka’s gaze lingers with quiet affection.

“She gives me hope,” she says.

“We need that right now,” Padmé replies.

Another silence. This one is heavier.

“Krennic pulled some impressive data,” Ahsoka says, matter of fact. “It’s terrifying how much access he had…”

Padmé’s jaw tightens. She doesn’t respond.

Ahsoka studies her, then says, “What happened last night? I heard you talking for the first time since…”

Padmé exhales slowly, her gaze drifting to the jungle—to the colors that are growing more vibrant now as darkness fades out at the edges of the world.

“He was honest.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“I did… but—” Her voice falters, catching on the weight of what she can’t quite say.

You asked for honesty. I gave it to you. And you walked away.

“He wanted to be one of them, Ahsoka. So badly that he was willing to cross every line, do the unthinkable. I thought what happened at Varykino would break him, but it didn’t. And I couldn’t understand why… not until last night.”

She pauses, searching for the right words.

“There’s that fire in his eyes again. That same ambition only recalibrated for the current situation, and I don’t know if it’s the best coping mechanism one can have or utter madness.”

Padmé presses her eyes closed, shaking her head.

“And yet, part of me is willing to forgive him everything, even though I know I shouldn’t.”

There’s a moment of silence.

Then, Ahsoka smiles faintly, a glimmer of mischief in her blue eyes that seems misplaced.

“Remember that time years ago when I showed up at your apartment and he was in the middle of subjecting you to that over-the-top Mon Calamari opera playlist? Called it ‘the pinnacle of civilized taste’ and blasted it like it was some kind of endurance trial.”

Padmé lets out a soft laugh, unbidden. “I remember. And those ridiculous canapés he had flown in from Dac.”

“I asked if he’d made them himself, and he looked so kriffing insulted, I thought he’d throw me out.”

“Naturally.”

“They were awful,” Ahsoka grins. “But he kept insisting my palate was ‘tragically underexposed to refinement.’ He was trying so hard.”

Padmé shakes her head, the memory washing over her like a bittersweet breeze. They had fun that night—him included, though he complained through every minute of it if only to remain the center of attention.

“He really was…” The warmth fades from her smile. “That doesn’t make him a good man.”

“No,” Ahsoka agrees softly. “It makes him… him.”

Padmé turns, eyes narrowing. “Are you defending him?”

“No,” Ahsoka replies, calm and unwavering. “But people can be flawed, even terrible—and still be worthy of love.”

The former Jedi pauses, smoothing the ration bar wrapper between her fingers with absent care.

“I think about Anakin. About the last time I saw him. I thought I was protecting myself by not indulging him. But sometimes I wonder... if I had reached for him instead—if I hadn’t let pride or fear get in the way—maybe things would be different. Maybe he wouldn’t be the monster he is now. Maybe we wouldn’t be here.”

Padmé’s voice is barely a whisper. “Anakin made his choices. You didn’t force his hand.”

“I know,” Ahsoka says. “But I still wonder...”

Her gaze drops to Nyra, still fast asleep, small and unknowing.

“You don’t owe Krennic anything, Padmé. But if there’s still a part of you that believes in him... You don’t want to wake up one day wondering what might’ve happened if you hadn’t turned away.”

Padmé clenches her jaw, her gaze drifting toward the tree line.

“I don’t know if he deserves another chance,” she murmurs, barely audible. “I don’t even know if I have the strength for it.”

Ahsoka nods, solemn. When she speaks again, her voice is low, quiet.

“Real strength isn’t about giving someone a second chance. It’s about refusing to let what they did turn you into someone you aren’t.”

Padmé looks at her, eyes lingering, searching.

She didn’t just grow up, she thinks. She grew wise. The way a Jedi is meant to.

Ahsoka offers a small, closed-lip smile and leans gently against Padmé’s shoulder, as if to soften her words, as if to quietly remind her she is not alone.

A soft rustle from the hangar draws both their attention. Instinctively, the Togruta’s hand drifts toward her hip, hovering near her blaster—until the sound resolves into slow, steady footsteps.

They wait.

A figure emerges into the pale glow of dawn—tall, broad-shouldered, unmistakable even in the half-light.

Rex.

“We should head out,” he says, his warm, steady gaze shifting from Ahsoka to Padmé.

Ahsoka nods. But just as she begins to rise, Padmé reaches out, her hand closing around the young woman’s forearm.

“Come back,” she says firmly. “Do you understand? Both of you. We need you.”

Rex and Ahsoka exchange a glance. Then Ahsoka gives her a soft, reassuring smile.

“We’ll do our best.”

The day passes beneath a heavy, unrelenting silence. There’s nothing left to do but wait. Wait for Rex and Ahsoka to slip through imperial nets and make it to Naboo. Wait for an encrypted message, carried on an outdated commlink, to find Bail Organa’s hand. And then, wait some more—for a reply that may never come.

The sun blazes overhead, scorching the earth despite the perspiration clinging to the air. Padmé stands at the edge of the hangar, arms loosely crossed. She’s meant to be keeping watch while her sister tends to Nyra, still fast asleep in the crate. But instead, her gaze drifts to Orson. He is showing Ryoo how to shoot—a skill the girl insisted on learning after he no doubt put the idea into her head. From what her husband apparently thinks is a safe distance, Pooja watches with wide, fascinated brown eyes.

It's something Padmé wasn’t consulted about and probably would have questioned if she had, even if right now, she must admit that not giving the child a gun might be more dangerous than giving her one.

The blaster catches the midday light as Orson demonstrates a shot—clean, precise, center hit. The sound cracks across the yard, echoing into the tree line.

Padmé narrows her eyes, a faint frown tugging at her lips.

He moves like someone who’s done this more than a few times—not just competent, but fluid, natural. Since when do architects from the Engineering Corps handle blasters like seasoned soldiers, she wonders, but then she remembers the way he dances—each step precise, every movement deliberate.

Her husband has mastered everything he thought he needed to, shooting included, and, as always, he’s done it perfectly.

He stoops beside Ryoo now, guiding the girl’s hands to align the sight. His voice is low and even, patient and never condescending, gentle with her small, eager fingers.

“Like this,” he says, adjusting her grip. “Relax your shoulders. You’re not forcing the weapon—it’s guiding you, and you’re responding. Feel that?”

Ryoo nods, determined. The blaster wobbles in her grip, but she centers it again, eyes narrowing as she looks toward the makeshift target he’s set on the tree.

“Breath,” Orson adds. “Press the trigger upon exhale...”

Ryoo fires. The bolt hits just shy of the tree. She gasps, then frowns.

“I missed,” she says, turning toward Orson. Off to the side, Pooja laughs impishly.

“Everyone does the first couple of times,” he says, although Padmé doesn’t miss the way his eyes momentarily shift to the smaller girl with amusement.  “Now try again. This time, adjust your stance. Left foot slightly forward. Own your ground.”

She does. Again, and again until she grows frustrated.

“I can’t do it,” Ryoo snaps, the blaster drooping in her hands. Sweat beads along her brow, catching in the dark hair at her temple. Her cheeks are flushed, more from frustration than heat.

Padmé takes a breath, then steps forward. The sound of her boots on the dry ground draws both their eyes.

Orson straightens, glancing at her with a raised brow, but says nothing.

Padmé stops beside Ryoo and kneels slowly to her level. “Let me see,” she says, gently extending a hand toward the weapon. Ryoo hesitates, then hands it over.

She turns the blaster over in her hands, assessing its weight, the balance of it. She wasn’t much older than Ryoo the first time she held it, but it was only Captain Panaka who really taught her how to use it upon her own insistence.

When she rises, she steps into the spot Ryoo had been standing in, lifting the weapon with practiced ease. Her voice is even, quiet. “The trick is not to look at the target but your front sight.”

She takes aim. A heartbeat passes. Then she exhales, slow and steady, and fires. The bolt lands dead center, right where Orson’s shot had burned through bark.

Pooja squeals. Ryoo’s mouth parts in surprise. Orson says nothing, but tilts his head, obviously impressed.

Padmé lowers the blaster and hands it back to Ryoo. “Again,” she says softly. “And remember, you’re not learning how to win a competition. You’re learning how to hit a target before it hits you.”

Ryoo swallows and nods. She adjusts her grip, this time without needing to be told. Padmé walks off to the side and stops next to Orson.

As the blaster hums again, bolt striking somewhere deep in the forest, Padmé doesn’t smile. Her voice remains low.

“Good. Now again.”

The next shot lands a breath off the tree. Ryoo exhales, half a triumphant huff, half a release of pent-up frustration.

Padmé nods approvingly, but her gaze shifts, drawn to Orson next to her.

He hasn’t moved much. One hand rests against the side of his face, its elbow propped up by the other arm. His shirt clings to him in damp patches, sweat darkening the already-black fabric despite the shade. A fresh tan warms his skin—unexpected, almost jarring. It doesn't belong on him, not the way his uniformed precision usually does. It's the mark of hours spent beneath an unfamiliar sun, but Padmé cannot help but notice the way it brings out his eyes—clear, sharp, and startlingly blue. Almost too much to look at and to look away at the same time.

When he meets her eyes, it’s with that quietly amused stillness—the same expression he used to wear whenever she would eviscerate a rival senator whose politics he found irrelevant to his schemes.

“You’re an excellent shot,” he says at last, voice low and smooth, almost lazy.

Padmé turns to him, brow arched, head tilted. “Are you surprised?”

“Not at all.” He shifts just slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Just surprised you were willing to share your expertise.”

Her arms fold without thought, a subtle tightening of her frame. “If you think I don’t like you teaching her, you’re correct.”

Orson doesn’t flinch. He merely studies her, something sharp flickering behind his smirk. “She has every right to want to feel safe.”

Padmé’s chin lifts. “Safety doesn’t come from a weapon.”

He breathes a short laugh—almost a sigh—and glances at her sideways. “I disagree.” A pause. His gaze lingers on her profile. “And in this day and age, so do you. That’s why you came. Why you helped.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Her mouth tenses, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance. Then: “Perhaps.” Her voice lowers. “I don’t like it.”

“No,” he says, gently this time. “You don’t. But you know what’s necessary.”

Their eyes meet. Blue and brown. She opens her mouth, a breath on the edge of forming words—but suddenly the bark flies off the tree.

“Did you see?!” Ryoo exclaims, bouncing on her heels, beaming at them with wide, delighted eyes. Further away, Pooja screams and claps.

The moment fractures. Padmé forces a smile. Orson’s comes easier—broad, proud, like he’s won something.

“Whoo-hoo! Very good!” he calls out, clapping his hands enthusiastically before gesticulating more than necessary. “Now again. This time—adjust your stance. Left foot forward. Own your ground!”

Padmé watches him as Ryoo lines up her next shot. Watches how effortlessly he slips into the role—his voice steady, calm, assured. As if nothing is wrong. As if the world isn’t breaking. As if it hasn’t already fallen apart.

Because all she feels is adrift.

The flickering light of the holo-projector casts shifting shadows over their solemn gathering. The funeral feed plays in silence at first—state-run, pristine, streaming straight from Theed. Stormtroopers line the avenues beneath a heavy, overcast sky. Padmé’s father lies in an open coffin, gliding slowly through the Royal Plaza. Naboo’s most iconic space is cloaked in mourning, stage-managed beneath the weight of imperial pageantry.

They show the dignitaries in attendance. The current Queen of Naboo, Apailana, Bail, Mon, Jar Jar, and many others, whose lives her father has touched.  

Padmé stands at the far end of the room, arms crossed tightly, eyes fixed on the image of her city. The others—Jobal, Sola, the children—sit nearby, silent, before her mother rises to her feet in an abrupt motion.

“Someone should keep watch,” she says.

It’s an excuse, but Padmé understands.

None of them wants to watch this—the Empire’s manufactured version of grief, polished and paraded to project an illusion of order and compassion. The staged solemnity. The quiet, calculated lie of state loyalty. A betrayal dressed as tribute. A hollow mockery of everything her father believed in.

If she could, Padmé would walk away as well. But she can’t.

She owes it to both Ahsoka and Rex.

Orson lingers by the console, hands folded in front of him. He’s been like that for almost an hour.

“They should’ve reached the rendezvous point by now,” Padmé says, voice tight.

“They have,” Orson replies, without looking back. “If the signal plan held, they should already be inside the perimeter.”

“Hidden?” Sola asks.

““Completely,” he says, almost casually. “I mapped every surveillance feed along the procession route.”

Padmé glances over at him. Part of her resents that unshakable confidence; another part can’t help but envy it. Part of her sees it for what it is—a carefully constructed mask betrayed by the tight pull of tension along his neck.

“Let’s hope you’re as clever as you think,” she says, making no effort to soften the bite in her voice.

He turns to her, lips curling in the faintest hint of a cold smile—a silent warning not to question this, not to question him.

“I am.”

On the screen, the funeral stretches on. The camera sweeps wide across the crowd, capturing rows of mourners, white-armored troopers standing watch under imperial banners.

There are no disruptions, no unexpected movement, just the show.

A voice drones through the speakers—some functionary reciting hollow words about legacy, service, and duty. They speak of her father. Of her. Even of Orson.

“A promising young architect, a Lexrul native,” the speaker intones.

Orson scoffs behind her. “I’d bet credits Tarkin wrote that.”

Padmé doesn’t look at him. She doesn’t have to. If it wasn’t her father’s funeral they were watching, she’d roll her eyes.

The ceremony ends. The crowd begins to thin, solemn and orderly under Imperial watch.

Ryoo breaks the silence, her voice quiet but urgent. “What’s happening now?”

Orson’s gaze stays fixed on the screen. “If the timing holds… they’ll make contact in five minutes. Assuming Organa stays on the projected path.”

“He will,” Padmé murmurs, barely audible.

She feels more than sees Orson look at her. When she finally turns, he gives her a small nod.

They wait.

The feed shifts to a post-event segment—state-approved analysts reciting rehearsed praise, dissecting the symbolism of the spectacle. All carefully managed and utterly meaningless.

The minutes drag.

“They should be making contact now,” Orson says almost to himself.

“Are we sure he’s alone?” Sola asks, sudden tension in her voice.

Orson purses his lips before he speaks.

“His escort is ceremonial. Nothing more. And I’m certain the good Captain knows how to distract a bunch of his brothers when it counts.”

The screen flickers—just for a heartbeat. The camera shifts to another sweeping view of the plaza.

There is still no sign of anything out of place.

No movement.

No flashing lights.

No sign of any disruption.

Padmé’s arms tighten across her chest.

“They’ve either made the handoff,” she says, “or they didn’t make it at all.”

A heavy silence settles over the room.

Then Orson speaks, his voice quieter but no less determined.

“They made it. The corridor I mapped skirts every patrol node—no cams, no line of sight. If they hit their marks, they’ll be off-grid and clear of Theed in ten minutes.”

“And if they’re late?” Jobal asks gently from the door, having returned.

“They know the fallback route,” Padmé says before Orson can answer. “They won’t be.”

Sola glances at her. “You sound certain.”

Padmé doesn’t respond right away. She stares at the screen a moment longer, then looks down at nothing in particular.

“I’m not,” she admits. “But I have to choose to believe in something. Might as well start with them.”

The room falls quiet again. Outside, the warm evening wind whistles faintly against the structure.

Padmé closes her eyes, just for a moment. Out there in the city she once called home, two people are risking everything—for a message, for a chance, for all of them.

When she opens her eyes, she finds Orson watching her. Not with cynicism. Not even with that usual flicker of smugness. Just with quiet, focused interest. And she’s not sure if she wants to ask what, exactly, he thinks he’s seeing.

Padmé falls asleep, though she’s not sure how. Sleep has eluded her for days, broken into restless fragments, her mind never fully still, and yet she fell asleep now on the cold floor of a hangar bay, even when everything hangs by a thread.

She and Orson had stayed behind waiting for Bail’s signal, while the others—her mother, Sola, the girls—retreated for the night.

They both promised to keep watch, though the hangar is sealed and well-lit; the only threats out here are wary animals that steer clear of light. It wasn’t about necessity. It was about giving the others peace of mind.

So they sat in silence beneath the arching metal beams, alert and watchful, with Nyra asleep in a crate nestled between them.

At some point, Padmé leaned back against a supply case, arms crossed, eyes open one moment, closed the next. Sleep came hard and deep, like water pulling her under. No dreams. Just a weighted stillness.

She doesn’t know how long it took before the chime rose her. An insistent note, sharp and clean.

She startles upright. A blanket slips from her shoulders—a blanket she doesn’t remember having.

Orson is leaning over the cradle, his face soft, eyes gleaming with tenderness as Nyra grips onto his finger.

Padmé’s chest tightens.

A thought flickers—sharp, uninvited:

I’ve been keeping her from him.

And then: Why?

To protect her?

To punish him?

Orson looks at her then, the lines around his eyes deepening.

“I think you should be the one to answer,” he says.

She blinks. Of course.

She’s not fully awake, but her feet move before her mind catches up. She nods.

No words needed.

The holoprojector flares to life under Padmé’s touch, bathing her face in blue light. Static clears, and Bail Organa’s image stabilizes. He looks exhausted, older than he did just a week ago. His eyes carry a flicker of urgency.

“Padmé,” he says, his voice higher than usual. “Thank the stars!”

She nods, still shaking the weight of sleep from her shoulders. “We’re safe for now. I wasn’t sure if Ahsoka would reach you.”

“She did. And I believe they made it out.” He glances behind him, though the background reveals nothing but shadows. “Are you… alone?”

“No,” she says, glancing at Orson, who steps into the reach of the camera.  

Bail’s face tightens visibly.

“Don’t worry, Senator,” her husband says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m on your side now.”

Bail swallows, his gaze flicking briefly to Padmé—measuring and uncertain. She doesn’t blame him. He remembers, surely, how little she trusted Orson in the past couple of months. How she never wanted him informed, let alone involved.

Which is why she hopes he will believe her now when she says Orson can be trusted.

Because he can.

Of that, she has no doubt.

“I’m… pleased,” Organa says finally, and Padmé breathes in through her nose, her relief visible only in the slight drop of her shoulders.

“Obi-Wan isn’t on Naboo,” the man continues. “But I know how to reach him.”

“Good. We all must meet.”

“He’ll be… reluctant. But he trusts you, and he trusts Ahsoka.”

Padmé nods slowly, then calls up the star map. Her fingers glide across the controls, marking a quiet system.

“This moon—Pelion Three. It’s conveniently located in the Mid-Rim. No inhabitants, no surveillance, just atmosphere and stone.”

“You’re certain?”

“I’m not,” she says evenly. “But it's the best we have. We can’t wait for the Empire to close its grip even tighter. Bring me a senatorial robe and Orson a republic-era uniform. We’ll need it if our plan is to work.”

“What’s the timeline?”

“Three days.”

Bail nods slowly, eyes narrowing in thought. “And after?”

She looks at him directly and without hesitation.

“We strike.”

There’s a pause.

“How?”

“With one, precise stroke,” she says in a voice that does not allow for questioning.

Behind her, Orson straightens, raising his chin.

Bail’s expression tightens, his brow furrowing visibly even through the downsized holoprojection. “I can’t say I like this… but I’ll be there. May the Force be with you both.”

“And also with you, Bail. And also with you…”

The image flickers once and fades.

Padmé stares at the empty space for a beat longer, her hands still resting on the controls.

The map fades. Silence settles over the hangar once more, broken only by the soft hum of distant energy generators.

“So…,” Orson says behind her. “We are doing it?”

Padmé closes her eyes, bracing herself against the crates.

“Yes,” she murmurs. “This fear. This uncertainty. I can’t live like that. And our daughter shouldn’t have to.”

Orson’s mouth curves into a sharp, knowing smile, blue eyes flashing with something electric. When he speaks, it’s with resolve.

“We have what we need to get in. Even if they lock me out—and they might—I know their systems. I know who they don’t trust. The ones who’ll step aside and let us take control.”

“It might work,” Padmé says quietly. “But even if it does, then what? Your New Republic won’t just swoop in to claim the victory…”

His frowns, his smile faltering just a little.

“Not my New Republic. Yours.”

Padmé blinks, her brow tightening. “You think this is mine to build?” she asks. ““The same senators who stood and applauded as Palpatine took control—do you really believe they’ll listen to me now? After everything?”

“No one person rebuilds a government,” he says, voice low but burning, hands gesticulating. “But someone has to lead. And they will listen. Because you’re a symbol. Because they remember who you were—and that frightens them. Not because you seized power. Because you never bowed to it. Because you never broke.”

Padmé exhales—half a laugh, half a weary breath.

There’s that spark again in his eyes, equal parts conviction and calculation. It unnerves her just as much as it draws her in.

She always thought he saw himself at the center of it all. The hero. The leader.

But she was wrong.

He sees her at the center. And himself beside her.

“Orson,” she says quietly, “I bent so many times, I’m not sure where I end, and compromise begins.”

He exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose before letting his hand fall. Then he steps forward. She doesn't flinch, doesn't pull back—and so he lifts his large hands, gently cupping her face. His touch is warm, familiar. And only then does she realize how much she’s missed it—how desperate she has become for the comfort of it.

“But you never broke,” he murmurs, voice low and intimate. “Not truly. Not like the rest of them.”

Padmé exhales, the words escaping before she can stop them. “I’m so tired, though.”

She meets those piercing blue eyes and lets herself drown in their depths—if only for a moment.

She knows there’s no anger left in her gaze now. No suspicion. Only grief—a heavy, unyielding grief that clings to her like a second skin.

“I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

He snorts softly, then licks his upper lip. His thumb traces the line of her cheekbone with disarming gentleness. When he speaks, there’s a quiet reverence in it.

“You, my dear wife, are a terrible liar. You know exactly who you are. That’s what makes you perfect for what comes next.”

She wants to flinch at the word perfect. She doesn’t.

“We can do this,” he says, his voice sharper now. “We can burn out the rot. Tear down everything broken and build something better. Something beyond the Republic of the old stuffy elites, beyond the Empire of bullies and bureaucrats. Something new.”

Padmé swallows hard.

“And if I say yes?” she whispers. “If I believe you again?”

This time, he doesn’t smile, doesn’t give a speech. He leans in instead, forehead pressing gently to hers, like a vow.

“Then I’ll spend the rest of my life proving you were right to.”

A silence stretches between them.

She thinks of what Ahsoka has told her that very morning.

She doesn’t move, but she decides, and in that moment something deep within her shifts—something tight and braced loosens, just a little.

She doesn’t want this. Not really. She never wanted this.

Not after the throne of Naboo, where she learned too early what power cost. Not after her work in the Senate, where ideals were traded like currency.

She doesn’t want to lead a broken galaxy that didn’t lift a finger while democracy strangled itself. Doesn’t want to be the one left trying to piece it back together while half the population watches, jaded and disillusioned, and the other half tries to kill them.

She sees it already—fractures between systems, distrust festering like rot, imperials regrouping in the shadows. She knows the chaos that’s coming.

But she also knows Bail can’t do this alone. Mon won’t be enough.

And she knows—no matter how much she resents it—that if they have any chance of winning, of lasting beyond the war... It has to be her. Because once again, Orson is right. There are many in the galaxy who still remember her name, who still believe in it.

Even if she’s not sure she does.

Slowly, she places her hands on the lapel of his jacket, her fingers brushing against the quiet tension in the fabric. Then, she leans back just enough to lift her eyes to his, meeting his gaze with resolve, she hopes at least approaches his own.  

“You’ll stand with me this time—not against me?”

He flashes her a lazy grin, teeth bright against the shadow of his smirk.

“I’m not letting you walk into peacemaking without backup. I’ll challenge you. Argue. Maybe even yell.”

Then he pauses, the smile softening into something steadier, more real. “But I’ll be there. Every step of the way.”

He tilts his head slightly, his hands shifting to her shoulders. A beat passes before he adds, voice low, “On one condition.”

Her eyes narrow, part-curious, part-braced, part-amused. “I’m listening.”

“Make me a Grand Marshal or something else ostentatiously impressive. If Tarkin somehow slithers back from whatever pit he’s going to hide in, I want to outrank him.”

She lets out a dry laugh, tilting her head. “First Gentleman of the Republic doesn’t cut it?”

“I’m afraid not,” he says smoothly. “Not unless we’re remaking the Republic into a monarchy, and I get to be King Consort.”

Padmé smirks, one hand rising to adjust the imaginary rank on his collar. “Grand Marshal Krennic. Force help us all.”

He leans in, his voice warm against her ear. “That’s the spirit.”

She smiles a closed-lipped smile, but despite the banter he’s so elegantly coaxed them into, she’s still turning over in her mind what they could be if they weren’t just united in marriage, but in purpose.

If they survive what’s coming, she could temper his ambition, and he could help her bear the weight of the hard choices.

The road ahead will be brutal. Unforgiving. Rebuilding won’t be noble—it’ll be messy, compromised, full of sacrifice. And she can’t do it alone. Not with her inhibitions.

But maybe—just maybe—this marriage could be more than two people who fell in love despite everything. Maybe it could be political. It could be a personification of an alliance strong enough to hold the fractured sides together.

But for that, they have to hold together. Without conditions. Always.

“If we do this,” she says quietly, “you need to understand something.”

His eyes sharpen. “Go on.”

“If you lie to me again, it’s over.” She pauses, searching his face. “And I’ll take Nyra with me. Not because I’ll want to. But because I won’t have a choice. Do you understand?”

His jaw tightens. He glances toward the crate where their daughter sleeps, then back to her.

“I won’t disappoint you.”

She studies him a moment longer, weighing the promise in his voice, the flicker of fear behind his resolve. Then, finally, she steps into his arms.

The remaining tension unravels. Their embrace comes easily, instinctively, like it’s something they’ve both been reaching for in the dark.

And in that moment, it feels like they might have a future again—only this time, they’ll step into it side by side.

Chapter Text

The weather on Pelion Three is brutal. The landscape is barren, swept by icy winds that cut through layers of clothes while the sun blazes with a sharp, unforgiving intensity. It’s the kind of place where your skin burns while your body freezes.

Padmé walks out of the ship with Ahsoka. Not to enjoy the elements but to avoid any suspicion of a trap.

They’re all here—even the children. They brought everyone to avoid any surprises. Padmé’s mother is a decent shot, but she wouldn’t stand a chance against imperial patrol or even a group of pirates or smugglers, and they couldn’t afford to leave anyone who should play a role in what lies ahead behind. So, they all boarded the shuttle again and left, hoping that once they returned, the base would be as they left it.

Bail’s ship arrives first, descending in a whirl of dust. Not long after, another ship cuts through the sky. Padmé glances at Ahsoka, who gives her a small, knowing nod.

Obi-Wan.

As the second ship lands and its ramp lowers, the Jedi steps out, robes billowing in the dry wind. There’s a flicker of emotion in his face: cautious relief tampered with paternal worry.

“Ahsoka,” he whispers, his words almost swallowed by the wind.

“Master,” she smiles warmly, but neither of them crosses the distance.

Padmé knows the young woman has never really forgiven the Jedi for not believing in her when the Council put her on trial. He has abandoned her when she needed him the most, and that, Padmé thinks, has broken the relationship beyond repair.

 “What a lovely place for a meeting,” Bail remarks with a small smile as he squints into the sun.

The corners of Padmé’s lips curl—just a little.  

“Should we use our ship?”

Bail and Obi-Wan nod almost in unison.

Inside, the reunion is brief but genuine. Obi-Wan is pleased to see Rex, and Bail knows her family well. Besides, both men gravitate toward the newest member. At just ten days old, Nyra is far too small to understand the fuss, but that doesn’t stop them.

“She’s a beautiful child, Padmé,” Obi-Wan says, his voice soft.

Padmé smiles, weariness tugging at the corners of her mouth. “She’s a lot of work.”

Beside her, Orson lets out a quiet groan and leans down to murmur, “No one ever gives me credit.”

She lifts an eyebrow, looking up at him. “Do you want me to explain why?”

For a second, he looks like he might argue, then thinks better of it.

There is little time for pleasantries, though. Bail left Alderaan in secret, and time presses on them all.

They gather in the cockpit, and Padmé settles into one of the seats, eyes briefly sweeping the space. The last time she was here, it was chaos—frayed tempers, heightened emotions, doubts. Back then, she and Orson were trying to catch their breath. They were trying to make sense of what happened. Now, things are different. They’re not scrambling anymore. They’re organizing.

“Bail said you have a plan?” Obi-Wan asks, breaking the tense silence.

Padmé nods.

“We do. It’s not perfect, but it’s the best and only shot we might get.”

Since Ahsoka and Rex returned from Naboo, safe and sound, they’ve worked without pause—cross-referencing Orson’s stolen schematics and security protocols with everything she remembers about the Senate building. Every corridor, every access point, every blind spot.

Padmé places the holographic display on the ground between them, and a detailed model of the Galactic Senate complex flickers to life.

“We move in five standard days.” She looks across the cockpit at Bail. “It starts with you. We’ll need you to create a distraction—a false alarm in the east wing. It needs to be serious but contained. We are thinking of a breach in one of the shield generator rooms. An alert like that pulls security fast but doesn’t trigger a full evacuation, not that there will be too many people early in the morning. We want to draw them away, not to create chaos.”

Bail frowns, weighing the risk. Then nods. “I can make that happen.”

“Good,” Rex says, leaning forward as he points to a maintenance tunnel on the sub-level beneath the complex. “That’s our way in. The clearance codes Krennic gave us should get us past the lower-level security without issues.”

 “We’ll split up here,” Ahsoka adds. “Rex and I will take this access tunnel. It leads to a hangar adjacent to the executive landing platform. Once we’re in, we’ll sneak into Sidious’ ship and deal with him once he clears the atmosphere.”

“And…,” she glances toward Obi-Wan, “we’d welcome your help, Master.”

Obi-Wan holds her gaze. He says nothing, but the tension in his shoulders speaks volumes.

Padmé brings up another hologram—one of the schedules Orson recovered.

“The ship is set to depart for Mustafar just before dawn. The evening before, Palpatine’s due to address the Senate and announce another legislative intervention. He still needs the illusion of legitimacy that the government is still functioning.”

Obi-Wan’s voice is quiet, careful. “What about Vader?”

Padmé shakes her head. “He’s on Mustafar. He’s been there almost constantly since the Empire was declared. Except for the few appearances with the Emperor and his brief trip to Naboo. Orson’s intel doesn’t say why, but whatever it is, it’s keeping him there.”

“When you were there,” Ahsoka asks Obi-Wan, “did you see anything that might explain what he's doing?”

“No,” Obi-Wan replies. “The facility looked barely operational. Then again, I was more focused on Anakin.”

Padmé purses her lips. He’s not Anakin anymore, she thinks, but doesn’t say it. Instead, she leans forward, her voice steady. “Whatever he’s doing, Palpatine clearly wants to inspect it himself. That gives us a unique opportunity as he barely leaves the fortresses of his personal quarters within the Senate.”

Bail exhales. “That’s assuming the intel’s right—that he’ll actually be on that shuttle.”

“It’s a gamble,” Padmé agrees, locking eyes with him. “But it’s the only chance we have.”

Obi-Wan’s gaze shifts to Ahsoka. “Mace faced Sidious and failed. Yoda did too…”

“They were alone,” Ahsoka replies firmly. “We won’t be.”

Obi-Wan’s jaw tightens, his expression darkening.

“Mace wasn’t alone. And this is all just... wishful thinking. You don’t even have your lightsabers. And even if—if—we do manage to defeat him, then what? We take him prisoner?”

“Take him prisoner? Are you mad?!” Orson cuts in at last, throwing his arms in the air. “You either kill him, or he kills you.”

Obi-Wan’s nose wrinkles in abhorrence. His eyes flick back to Ahsoka.

“It’s the only way, Master,” she says quietly.

“It’s against the Jedi Code.”

“I’m no Jedi.”

The Togruta says the words with her head held high.

Obi-Wan recoils, shaken, as if the admission scorched him.

There’s a long pause, the sun pouring into the cockpit with blinding intensity.

Then Rex, calm and steady, asks, “Should we contact Master Yoda?”

“I don’t know where he is,” Obi-Wan says after a beat, recovering although his voice is quiet now, worn thin. He glances at Ahsoka again. “And even if I did… I doubt he’d agree with this plan. We were desperate when the Empire rose, yes—but he didn’t go to kill Palpatine. Not outright. He fought him, yes, but not with the intention to kill him.”

Orson scoffs quietly and Padmé cannot help but agree with the sentiment almost despite herself.

How noble. How naïve.

“Would capturing Sidious be possible?”

Obi-Wan purses his lips, then shakes his head.

“Perhaps if we had an army of Jedi at our disposal. Perhaps if all the security forces cooperated, but even then. He might be a somewhat rusty swordsman, but he is the most powerful Force user the galaxy has seen in centuries…”

“I told you,” Ahsoka shrugs, looking at Padmé.

“Yes,” Orson says in agreement. “We are just wasting time debating this.”

Padmé sighs, gazing at her husband.

“I don’t want this new beginning to be built on lies.”

“Regime changes rarely happen without blood,” he says evenly. “And never without deceit.”

Bail blinks. “What do you mean?”

When they don’t say anything, Ahsoka explains: “Once Sidious’ ship clears the atmosphere, we jam their communication. When the man is dealt with, we send a staged, wide-scale emergency alert. First, asking for back-up, then announcing his death. These won’t be encrypted. We want them to be overheard and leaked. His death needs to be publicized way before the Senate’s afternoon session.”

“And who takes the blame? Obi-Wan asks, weary. “Not us, I assume.”

Orson shrugs. “His boy Vader, of course. Isn’t betrayal the Sith’s favorite pastime? Two problems, one solution.”

Obi-Wan opens his mouth, but Bail cuts him off.  “What about you two?” he asks looking at Padmé and Orson. “What are you going to do?”

“We’ll prepare for the aftermath,” Padmé says.

“We wait until the Senate convenes in the afternoon or whenever the news breaks. They will be confused, scrambling. We won’t be. As soon as we get access to a secure terminal, Orson will override the Senate’s media hub to make sure they broadcast even the things they don’t want people to hear, and then we’ll go live. I’ll address the Senate and the galaxy at large. I’ll officially announce the Emperor’s death, expose the use of inhibitor chips, the orchestration of the Clone Wars, everything. Then I’ll call for peace talks between the former Separatist and Republic factions and demand a readjustment of the constitution through consensus and democratic means. Having Orson with me should lend me some credibility with some from the other camp, but I’ll need your voice, and Mon’s and anyone else’s you can rally. We’ll need legitimacy in that moment.”

Bail nods solemnly. “You’ll have it.”

“You were just a Commander,” Obi-Wan says with a frown, eyeing Krennic. “Do you really think you can sway the military brass?”

Orson scoffs again, wrinkling his nose. “My rank was a formality. I led the Republic’s Special Weapons Group—those who mattered knew exactly who I was. But…” he pauses theatrically, tilting his neck, “you're right—relying on titles alone is too risky. I’ll send encrypted messages to every Republic-loyal officer I can reach. If even a handful hesitate, it might be enough to fracture the chain of command.”

“And the Imperial hardliners?” Obi-Wan asks. “The ones loyal to the new regime?”

 “That’s where it gets interesting,” her husband says with a grin—one Padmé wishes looked a little less pleased. “Some of the ISB files I pulled… contain very persuasive leverage. Bribes, affairs, war crimes—whole careers built on secrets. The kind of material that makes even diehards rethink their loyalty when the alternative is public disgrace.”

Bail’s brow furrows. “So your plan is to blackmail half the military?”

“Blackmail is such an ugly word,” Orson replies with a sardonic smile. “I prefer strategic persuasion.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “This could fall apart in a dozen different ways.”

“It could,” Padmé says simply. “But it’s a risk worth taking. If the news doesn’t break, if the strike… fails, then we at least make a crack in his narrative. A crack he will have to deal with in one way or another. He will have to execute us. That won’t go over well…”

“No,” Bail asks. “But he has the whole media machinery under his thumb. He will silence the dissent. It will take time, but he will do it, and then people will forget you, Padmé, and what good will that bring?”

“I won’t live in fear, Bail,” Padmé says resolutely.

Bail’s eyes soften. “And your family?”

“My mother will come with us—she’ll go to Erso’s apartment. If we fail, at least Galen is beyond Sidious’s reach and the man can’t build his planet-killer.”

Bail blinks, suddenly staring at Orson. “Is that what you were working on?! A planet-killer?!”

Orson nods once. “We called it the Death Star.”

Bail just exhales and mutters, “Force help us.”

Padmé continues, “I was hoping Sola, and the children could relocate to Chandrila. If we fail, Mon will keep her safe as she won’t be directly implicated.”

Bail nods. “I’ll tell her. I’m sure she’ll accept.”

Rex clears his throat, eyes sharp, silently steering the group back to the mission.

“We’ll need to move quickly. Once we’re inside, we can jam internal sensors and block tracking—but it won’t hold for long. We’ll have twenty, maybe thirty minutes at best to infiltrate the ship.”

Padmé looks at Obi-Wan, calm but resolute. “It’ll be enough—if you’re precise. And after it’s done, you hide. At least until the dust settles.”

“If it settles,” Bai murmurs.

She clenches her jaw but doesn’t dispute it.  

“And you?” Obi-Wan asked, looking at Padmé and Orson. “How do you get out?”

“There is no escape for us,” she says. “We walk out as free citizens of the New Galactic Republic, or we don’t walk out at all.”

Another hush falls over them, heavy with the weight of what they’re about to attempt.

Then Bail draws a slow breath. “We’ll do it. We end this—before he tightens the noose any further.”

One by one, they nod. Even Obi-Wan.

It’s madness, but what clandestine military operation was she ever part of that wasn’t?

They have two days after they return to the base before they have to pack and leave.

Their departure feels both too soon and impossibly far away. But the time they have is just enough to finalize the plan, to position every piece on the board as carefully as possible. And yet, the more they talk, the deeper they dig into the logistics, the more fragile it all begins to feel.

Every angle they examine reveals another crack.

Obi-Wan, though now committed to the mission, repeatedly questions the plan—especially his ability to conceal their presence in the Force. He warns that exposure is a real risk, and they could be hunted down and captured long before reaching Palpatine’s shuttle.

Rex likewise voices concerns. He questions the loyalty of the clones still stationed on Coruscant and across the galaxy. No one fully understands how the inhibitor chips work. He believes the programming was straightforward—engineered to target Jedi, not the Republic itself. But the truth is, they don’t really know. Not for sure, and if all of his brothers follow Palpatine, they’ll shoot her the moment they take the stand and call the man a traitor.

Padmé doesn’t argue. Doesn’t offer hollow assurances or empty hope—because she can’t. She doesn’t know that it will be fine. That it will work. Besides, her mind spirals elsewhere.

It’s not the ambush that frightens her most. It’s what comes after—if they succeed.

What happens when the transmission ends? When the Emperor’s body lies cooling on the floor of his imperial shuttle, and the galaxy stares in stunned, breathless disbelief for the second time in almost as many weeks?

Will anyone even listen?

She fears that too many still don’t understand the regime they’re now living in. That her message—spoken into the gutted chamber of the Senate—will be ignored, misinterpreted, or worse, weaponized against them. That decent, weary people, frightened by the unknown, will cling to Palpatine’s memory, choosing the illusion of order over the frequent sluggishness of just governance.

And even if everything goes perfectly—even if the timing is exact and the strike is clean—the story could shift in an instant. One poorly chosen word. One missed cue. Her ties to the Jedi. Orson’s breach of protocol. Without control of the media. Without a wave of immediate, coordinated support… their actions could be cast as radical, violent. A terrorist coup, rather than a restoration.

She worries about Vader, too.

Worries about what happens if he appears at exactly the wrong moment.

She forces herself to believe that Ahsoka can defeat Palpatine—that with Rex and Obi-Wan at her side, they might just succeed. But even Padmé isn’t naïve enough to think they could survive both of them. There’s no contingency in the plan for Vader. No strategy, no backup.

And later—even if some officers defect, if cracks begin to form in the regime, if the impossible becomes possible—it still might not be enough. Not if Vader chooses to consolidate imperial power and succeeds.

He’ll come for them. If only out of vengeance.

She knows it. And she suspects Orson knows it, too.

Even if they win the battle… they might still lose the war.

On their final night before departure, Padmé gathers her blanket, a pillow, and the small crate holding Nyra, then quietly crosses the dimly lit hangar toward the softly humming Command Center.

Orson has been sleeping there since they arrived—technically against her orders, and certainly against her better judgment. They hadn’t known if the planet was secure. One stray transmission, one flicker on the wrong frequency, and their presence could’ve been exposed. Letting him stay in a high-access room was reckless.

But she allowed it anyway.

Not because it was the right thing to do, but because it was easier emotionally.

Things are better between them now. They talk again—not just of strategy or consequences, but in quiet, familiar ways, like they used to. He comes to spend time with Nyra now, and though nothing is said, she’s grateful he never pushed for it when they were arguing. She appreciates that he waited, that he gave her space to come around on her own. Because every time she sees him with their daughter—sees the unwavering devotion in his eyes—she understands how much it must have cost him to hold back.

Their relationship isn’t the same—maybe it never will be. But she rolls her eyes at his smug jokes, sits close without pulling away, and, maybe most of all, lets herself want him again.

So tonight, she goes to him—because it might very well be their last.

The Command Center is quiet, steeped in low light and the soft thrum of machinery. He’s there, lying on the cot near the main console, one arm folded beneath his head, the other still across his chest like he’s halfway between sleep and strategy. Eyes open. Always watching something—even if it’s just the dark.

She stops in the doorway, suddenly unsure.

Am I welcome here?

Or have I waited too long?

His gaze shifts to her. He doesn’t sit up, doesn’t even sigh. He just looks at her for a moment—measured, unreadable—and taps the mattress beside him with his fingers.

She sets Nyra’s crate gently on the floor. The baby sleeps on, undisturbed, wrapped in a soft blanket. As if the world outside hasn’t been unraveling.

Padmé lies down beside him, tentative at first. Her shoulder brushes his. Her fingers find his chest, barely touching.

And before she can talk herself out of it, she leans into him.

His arm comes around her at once. No hesitation. Not gentle, not delicate—but firm. Steady. Certain. He kisses the crown of her head like he’s staking a claim.

“Glad you came to your senses,” he says, soft but dry.

She almost smiles.

She doesn’t close her eyes. Just stares into the dim light of the control room, watching shadows shift across the ceiling as her breathing synchronizes with his, slow and steady.

The weight in her chest lightens—but it doesn’t leave.

She thinks of that cramped room on Lexlur. The silence. The way she watched him from across the dark, full of feelings she didn’t yet know how to name.

She has them now.

“I’m afraid,” she whispers, the words slipping out like a confession.

He doesn’t validate her. Instead, he says, almost absently, “I keep wondering if they left my clearance intact. Not because they forgot, but because they wanted me to use it. Because they want us to walk straight in.”

She blinks, heart tightening. He’s never voiced doubt before. If anything, he’s been shameless in his certainty—stubborn, arrogant, maddening. She almost confronted him about it once. Then she realized he wasn’t clinging to belief—he was forcing it into existence. Holding everything together with nothing but will.

Since Pelion Three, it’s been him and Ahsoka. Two people who had no business trusting each other, forging ahead like the only way forward was through fire. Padmé didn’t fully grasp their alliance, but she hasn’t allowed herself to question it either.

“Maybe they did,” she murmurs. “Maybe we are walking into it.”

Another long silence settles between them. Only the low hum of the control panels keeps time.

“What if we die?” she asks. “What if it’s meaningless?”

His eyes shift toward the crate where Nyra sleeps, her breath soft and even in the stillness.

“We won’t,” he says. Flat. Certain. “And if we do—it won’t be meaningless. Even if no one else remembers…”

His voice quiets, just slightly.

“…she will. And in twenty years, she’ll burn them all to the ground.”

Padmé is quiet for a long time. She wants to believe it. She wants to believe that trying counts. That dying for something is better than living in fear. But doubt sticks. Not because she’s selfish, though she is, a little. She wants to stay. To see Nyra smile for the first time, hear her first word. But that’s not what holds her back.

It’s the cost.

“Maybe,” she says finally. “But at what price, Orson? She’ll grow up carrying a weight no child should. Hunted. Alone. Why should she pay for what we did?”

“We all pay for our parents’ mistakes,” he says evenly.

Padmé swallows. She thinks of his father—cruel in his blindness to who his son was. Of his mother—too afraid to stand beside him.

“At least this way,” he continues, “we give her more than survival. We give her a legacy. She’ll matter.”

She turns her head, just enough to meet his eyes. His face is stone, sharp lines, tight jaw, every word calculated.

He’s not comforting her.

He’s justifying it to himself.

“I have missed you,” she says quietly, pushing herself up on one elbow. “I know I acted like I hadn’t. I know I walked away. And I still don’t know if I can forgive what you were willing to do—what you justified. But whatever happens tomorrow, or after… I don’t regret what we had. Or what’s still here.”

He reaches for her, his thumb brushing the curve of her lower lip.

“Neither do I.”

A breath catches in her chest.

It’s not an apology. It never will be. He won’t renounce the ambition, the lies, or the cold, sharp choices that brought him this far. He’ll never crave obscurity. Even now, he'd rather die remembered than live safe and forgotten.

But if he doesn’t regret it—not the fall, not the risk, not the ruin—if he’s willing to lose everything just to make this last gamble with her, it’s enough.

It has to be.

That’s why she kisses him—for the first time in over a month. It’s slow and unsure at first, like their lips have never touched before, and he kisses her back. His mouth is warm at first, then deeper, hungrier.  He pulls her in like he’s afraid she’ll vanish, arms wound tight around her. Too tight. Almost desperate. But she doesn’t care.

He rolls her gently beneath him, lips trailing her neck, his hand slipping under her shirt, fingers brushing bare skin. She exhales a soft moan—then he freezes.

Pulls back.

His jaw tightens as he swallows hard, eyes opening—sharp, blue, too clear in the dark.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I got carried away.”

“You didn’t hurt me.”

“But I might,” he says quietly. “I will. It’s only been a week and I—” He stops. “I don’t trust myself to stop.”

Padmé swallows. She wants to say it doesn’t matter. That she doesn’t care. That feeling his body again—his warmth, his weight—was worth anything. But she knows he’s right. It’s too soon. And the truth, however much she hates it, still matters.

So she touches his face. Softly. A quiet offer of understanding.

“Hold me?”

He huffs a small, bitter laugh. “I’m not sure you should trust me with that either.”

“I trust you more than I trust myself.”

“Reckless,” he mutters. “Have you learned nothing?”

She presses one more kiss to his mouth, gentle this time, and curls against him.

Later, when the silence stretches and his breathing falls into rhythm, she lies still beside him, listening.

And for the first time, she lets herself hope—against reason—that maybe, somehow, he’ll get what he’s always chased:

Everything.

The access tunnels beneath the Senate reek of oil and sewage.

Padmé’s heart pounds with every step—not from fear, but from the electric, awful closeness of it all. Days of tension, of recalculations and anxious stares across the crates in their makeshift war room, have distilled into this: slick stone underfoot, hushed movement in the dark, and the fragile hope that the next turn won’t be their last.

When it’s time to split, she pulls Ahsoka into a tight hug. Obi-Wan and Rex stand just behind her, already half in shadow.

“May the Force be with you,” Padmé says, forcing her voice to level as she looks at all three

“And with you,” Ahsoka nods before glancing at Orson. “Don’t screw this up, Krennic.”

Orson gives a faint smile—sharp, humorless. “I was about to say the same.”

The Togruta smirks, and then they are gone, vanishing into the lower levels, bound for the executive landing platform.

Padmé stays until Orson’s hand touches her shoulder—light but firm—and urges her forward. They move silently to a different part of the tunnels, close to the Senate corridors.

“Three minutes until the breach,” Orson mutters, eyes scanning his datapad. “That’s assuming their countermeasures haven’t been upgraded.”

“And if they have?”

“Then the Jedi and the Captain will have to improvise.”

His voice is tight, forceful.

He doesn't look at her, and that’s how she knows. The doubt he's been pushing down is surfacing now.

In the end, the breach happens right on time. Alarms flare briefly, controlled. Guards rush toward the shield generator, leaving the executive quarter exposed.

Less than ten minutes later, the Emperor’s shuttle clears the platform, headed to Mustafar.

Padmé presses her palms together. “Let’s hope they made it.”

Orson licks his lips. “Let’s hope they get the job done.”

They wait in the dark, both busy with faking composure.

Orson is reviewing lines of code as if the whole thing weren’t out of his control. Padmé is pacing in slow circles around the utility alcove, arms crossed over her chest.  

Neither of them speaks. Padmé suspects that if they did, the weight of it all might become unbearable.

Every so often, one of them checks the news.

Nothing.

Time distorts. Minutes blur into hours. Padmé stops pacing eventually, sitting beside Orson with her knees drawn up before getting up again.

The anxiety is loud, sitting with them in the shadows. Drowning all of Padme’s other thoughts outside those of Nyra.

Then—at last—a soft ping.

Orson stiffens and tilts the datapad toward him. A feed loads, glitching through static before stabilizing.

BREAKING.

The word flashes across the screen in bold red.

A news anchor appears—pale, trembling.

“We’re receiving unconfirmed reports from military channels that Emperor Palpatine has been attacked aboard his personal shuttle—”

Padmé gasps. Her hand flies to her mouth, eyes locked on the screen.

The anchor falters, listening to something off-camera. When he speaks again, his voice is thinner, cracking with what he’s been told.

“We’re now getting confirmation… Reports indicate that Emperor Palpatine is dead. Repeat: Palpatine is presumed dead. More details to follow.”

Silence.

Orson lowers the datapad slowly. He stares at her, disbelief dissolves into a stunned, almost giddy grin.

“They did it,” he breathes. “They kriffin’ did it.”

Padmé blinks, then lets out a choked laugh—half shock, half joy.

“They did,” she whispers. “They really did!”

She throws her arms around him, all relief and adrenaline. Orson catches her, lifts her, and kisses her—hard, quick, like he can’t help it.

When he sets her down, his eyes are bright—electric with triumph, and something harder behind it.

“Time to claim the throne.”

Padmé laughs softly, hands settling on his shoulders. “There won’t be a throne left, if I have anything to say about it.”

Orson groans, tipping his head back in mock despair. “Just one moment. One glorious moment of power fantasy—”

She arches an eyebrow, her lips still curled in a smile she just can’t shake. “You’re incorrigible.”

Orson’s grin sharpens. It’s calculating, hungry, and ready.

Padmé straightens, something steel settling into her posture.

“Let’s finish this.”

He nods.

They move.

They slip into the Senate building through a secured emergency exit, bypassing scanners with codes Orson pulled. The concrete corridors stretch ahead, familiar, but hollow.

Padmé has walked these halls countless times, but never like this. Never with her head down.

She doesn’t glance at the reflecting pool. Doesn’t look at the aides or senators she once debated, once trusted.

She says nothing.

The janitor’s uniforms do their job. No one looks twice. All eyes are on the holoscreens—flashing, frantic, full of breaking news. The whole place hums like a hive that just lost its ruler.

Two clone troopers pass, armor polished, helmets turning towards them momentarily, then moving on.

Padmé glances at Orson.

He nods once.

And they keep walking—calm, unnoticed—as the Empire starts to crumble around them.

They barricade the door to Padmé’s Senate booth fast and clean. They don’t need to keep them out forever. Just enough to be heard.

Padmé crosses to the console, hands steady despite the pounding in her chest. One by one, she sends the pre-drafted communiqués—coded messages routed to key officers across the galaxy. Then one more, to her Handmaidens.

If security intercepts them, it won’t matter.

By the time anyone reacts, it’ll be too late.

Across the room, Orson works the media terminal, overriding the Senate’s internal broadcast. His movements are exact, practiced. The screen glitches, then locks into place.

A slow, smug grin pulls at his mouth. His ice-like eyes sparkle.

“I’m in.”

Padmé exhales. Her shoulders drop—just a little.

She watches him for a beat—how sharp he looks in that crisp white uniform. The very same he used to fidget with, back when the collar used to choke him.

Then her gaze turns outward, to the chamber slowly filling with murmurs and tension.

Senators file into their platforms, faces taut. If with confusion, expectation, or with fear, she can’t quite tell.  A few eyes are already fixed on the central pod. The gallery is sparse. In the past few weeks, most undesirable journalists have been silenced, detained, or fled. But the moment is too large to ignore. Palpatine is dead. And the vultures haven’t yet started to circle.

The clock shows thirteen hundred hours.

Orson straightens.

“It’s time.”

Padmé gives him a single, sharp nod. When she speaks, her voice is low.

“This chamber was meant to serve the people. It’s time someone reminded them of that.”

Orson smiles a sharp smile. “Now that’s a line worth broadcasting.”

He inputs the final sequence. The console glows green, the symbols locking into place.

“We’re live,” he says. “Ready?”

The adrenaline surging through him radiates across the small space between them, crackling with both tension and certainty that what they’re about to do can’t be undone.

Padmé draws a long, steadying breath.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

The platform hums beneath them. It rises—smooth and slow—gliding toward the chamber’s center like a blade sliding from its sheath.

The reaction is instant.

Gasps. A shift in the air. Murmurs breaking. Some senators lean forward, blinking in disbelief. Others recoil. A few hands move to comlinks. The room shifts there and back between awe and alarm.

The central cameras pivot toward her. The holofeed catches her profile. Across the stars, millions of eyes are already watching.

Without looking, Padmé reaches back—and finds Orson’s gloved hand. He squeezes once. Steady. Certain.

Then he lets go.

She steps forward alone. The lights hit her face.

And she begins.

“Senators. Citizens of the galaxy,” she begins, voice clear and resoluteThree weeks ago, you were told I was taken by Separatist forces. Some of you watched the state funeral for my father—hailed as a hero of the Empire. That was a lie.”

She pauses. “All of it was a lie.”

“I stand before you not as a Separatist captive, but as a fugitive of the Empire. Not because I rebelled against the Republic, but because I would not kneel to the man who destroyed it—the man you now call Emperor.”

The chamber shifts, uncomfortable. She hears movement. Sees datapads lighting up.

“Palpatine did not save this galaxy. He broke it. He engineered the Clone Wars. Funded both sides. Led both sides. It was not Count Dooku who controlled the Separatists—it was Palpatine. It was not the Jedi who betrayed us—it was he who planted chips in clone brains to force them to turn on their own generals.”

“And that is the fate he met as well. Senators, it is admittedly with little regret that I must inform you that the Emperor has perished under the lightsaber of his own pupil. A man you once knew as General Skywalker. Now, Darth Vader.”

The chamber gasps in horror.

“Palpatine was not a savior. He was a Sith Lord. The architect of death. Of fear. Of control. And even before he gained total control, he had commissioned a weapon—hidden in our energy budgets, in our restructured defense spending—a superweapon capable of annihilating entire worlds.”

Shouts break out.

“That’s a lie!”

“Treason!”

“Where’s your proof?!”

Orson’s voice cuts through the din.

“We have it,” he says, calm and lethal. “And now so do you and everyone else in the galaxy who cares to see it!”

He presses the transmission button. Every news outlet, every public terminal on Coruscant lights up—receiving gigabytes of decrypted files: schematics, directives, transmission logs, classified briefings. Names. Orders. Evidence.

“Senators,” Padmé says, her voice ringing over the chamber. “We have been deceived by a Sith who twisted our flaws into shackles. I tried to resist—and for it, he attempted to kill me.”

Gasps now. Panic in a few pods.

“The Empire he began to build is a place without freedom. We cannot let it stand.”

She breathes in. The chamber has gone nearly silent—only the soft clicks of datapads being scrolled, faces blanching as the truth arrives in cold, brutal lines of text.

“The Republic failed. We know that. Palpatine preyed on its flaws. But that does not justify tyranny.”

She steps forward.

“I ask you to join us—representatives of both the politics and the military—not in rebellion, but in rebirth. Help us rewrite the Constitution. Help us end this war. Help us build something worthy of the people we claim to serve. Something that will protect them without silencing their voices. A New Republic. One built not on fear, but choice.”

Padmé’s words echo in the Senate chamber, even as emergency klaxons start to wail. The feed cuts—brutally—but it's too late. The truth is out.

She takes a deep breath.

“I call upon you to examine the evidence, to probe your conscience, and reconvene in this chamber in one standard rotation for a vote of no-confidence in the current imperial government!”

Bail Organa’s pod moves forward. “I second the motion.”

Chaos engulfs the chamber.

Some senators rise in solidarity, including Mon Mothma, while others already align in quiet dissent. Others yet are rising to argue or scream, demanding her arrest. A few ask for the proof to be vetted, and she is sure that is what’s going to happen. Others are whispering furiously into comms. A few—just a few—sit very still, pale-faced, as if the air itself had turned to poison. The feed is cut, but the data has already been released and is spilling across the HoloNet. On every datapad, on every private feed. The truth is bleeding through.

Bail and Mon, now joined by Riyo Chuchi stand in their pods, speaking, calling for calm, for order, for immediate investigation. But their voices are drowned out by panic.

No one seems to be paying attention to her anymore, and yet, Padmé’s knees feel weak.

Technically, she still has diplomatic immunity. But she knows better than to count on it.

All they have now are her words—and the thin thread of truth, woven with just enough lies to make it hold.

It’ll only matter if the people in this chamber, and the ones watching beyond it, choose to believe.

“They must be on their way now,” she says, almost to herself.

She doesn’t know who they are anymore. Senate Security? Stormtroopers? Loyalists still clinging to Palpatine’s shadow?

“Let them come,” Orson says behind her.

Padmé’s fingers curl around the edge of the console. Waiting. Then the pod’s red perimeter lights begin to pulse—containment mode.

It starts drifting back toward the booth.

Senators notice. Voices rise. Fingers point. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t flinch. Just keeps her head high, refusing to turn, to look.

The pod lands.

She turns.

Three guards in white, nondescript armor step in, blasters raised. One barks a command, but it doesn’t register. She’s already moving—chin high, calm threaded through the fear.

“Senator Amidala. Commander Krennic,” the lead officer snaps, voice crackling through the helmet, “you are under arrest for high treason and sedition against the Empire. Step forward. Hands above your head.”

She does. The stun cuffs close around her wrists—cold, unfamiliar.

Beside her, she hears Orson being restrained. He doesn’t resist.

Then, the Commander leans in. “I’m glad you’re alive, Senator. And…” he pauses awkwardly. “I’m sorry about…”

Padmé blinks, frowning before it dawns on her.

Commander Fox.

“I understand, Commander,” she says. “Just keep in mind that you swore to uphold the rules, not the ruler.” 

The man gives a curt nod.

Padmé turns to Orson, who’s watching her with that insufferable smirk of his—like he knew it would all work out, like he never doubted it for a moment.

As they’re led from the booth, she catches sight of Sabé and Dormé—blasters in hand, eyes sharp. They got the signal. They’ll move now—rally support, protect Orson’s mother, guard Nyra if it comes to that.

The corridor is a storm of voices and flashes. Journalists shout questions she can’t quite hear, blinded by the strobe of HoloCams. She keeps moving.

Behind them, the chamber continues its uproar. Bail put in a motion for an emergency override.

It’s happening. Even through the panic, it’s happening.

Padmé walks beside Orson in silence, eyes forward, her heart pounding—not with fear, not anymore—but with the weight of what they’ve unleashed.

Padmé sits on the narrow bench, back straight despite the ache in her shoulders and breasts. The cell is cold—not cruel, just indifferent. She wonders, briefly, if this was Orson’s doing, or if this sterile efficiency belonged to the Senate long before the Clone Wars.

Across the corridor, through a narrow window, she sees him pacing, jaw clenched, brow furrowed.

Silence presses in. Her thoughts spin.

What happened on the ship? Did Ahsoka and Rex escape? Did Obi-Wan? Did Palpatine really fall prey to their scheme—or vanish, as he always does, into shadow, already plotting his return?

She doesn’t know. And in that vacuum, doubt creeps in.

Did they push too far? Did they ask too much?

Did she?

Was her resolve to pursue this plan ever as clear as she believed? Or was it shaped by fear? A deeper, unspoken fear that if she didn’t act, if she hesitated, her husband would leave her behind.

That Orson—sharp, restless, always reaching—would see her stillness as weakness. That he’d walk away.

Shame prickles at the thought.

She closes her eyes. Breathes.

And remembers.

She has never been still.

She was a fighter long before Orson Krennic ever wore a uniform. A voice in the Senate when he was still learning how to use his. He may have urged her forward, but she would have stood up, with or without him.

She pictures the scene from the Senate chamber—the way silence had fallen, when she spoke, sudden and strange, like the eye of a storm.

Then, Bail rose to his feet. Mon’s voice cut through the chaos. The evidence lay bare, undeniable.

She remembers the flicker in the eyes of a few Senators. Not belief, not yet—but something close.

Doubt.

And doubt, she knows, is the beginning.

The first crack where light gets in.

Her eyes open.

It will work, she convinces herself.

It has to.

Padmé doesn’t know how long they’ve waited before the heavy doors finally hiss open. She estimates it’s been over twelve hours since they were brought in—at least five since she calmly informed a baffled clone guard that her body doesn’t stop caring for her child just because the child isn’t in the room.

Two guards enter. No words. Just curt gestures.

She and Orson are led out, wrists bound behind them. The cuffs bite into her skin, but she doesn’t flinch. He looks the way she feels—exhausted, hollow-eyed, the rush of yesterday long gone. His expression is composed but tight. Jaw locked while a muscle near his left eye twitches.

He doesn’t say a word.

He barely even looks at her.

He’s terrified, she realizes all of a sudden.

He’s terrified because it’s out of his hands now.

Because he isn’t in control anymore.

Because he’s powerless.

And she can’t help but wonder how he stayed so steadfast, only to break now—just as she, at last, feels still.

The corridor opens into a sterile observation deck, overlooking the main rotunda.

Below them, the Senate chamber seethes—noise swelling. Delegates are leaning over their booths. Staffers are rushing between consoles. The weight of something monumental is stirring the air. It’s a full house. Fuller than it has been in years.

At the far end, the largest holoscreen flares to life.

Senator Riyo Chuchi’s image fills the space.

“The Emperor is missing,” she says. Her voice is high, but calm and unmistakably clear. “He has not appeared. He has issued no orders. He has named no successor. He has, by all known accounts, vanished—without a trace or explanation.”

A thunderous wave of noise crashes through the chamber.

Vanished, Padmé swallows, resisting the panic rising in her chest.

The feed splits.

On one side: Chuchi, steady and composed.

On the other: Mas Amedda, pale with rage, lips curled back like a cornered beast.

He missed the session yesterday. Now he is livid.

“This is a coup,” he spits. “A fabrication, orchestrated by traitors. Senator Amidala, alongside her disgraced husband and their Jedi friends, has abducted the Emperor. This is sedition, plain and simple.”

Padmé watches in silence, jaw locked, pulse pounding in her ears. Orson stands beside her, still as steel, eyes fixed on the screens like he’s staring down the final seconds of a detonation.

Chuchi lifts a hand. The noise dips—just barely.

The room dims slightly as her override asserts control.

“Senator Amidala presented verifiable evidence,” she continues. “The government has offered nothing to refute it. Moreover, they have offered no confirmation of the Emperor’s whereabouts. No proof of Darth Vader’s status. Only threats. Only fear.”

She pauses.

The silence this time is full—weighted.

“We are not here for vengeance. We are here for clarity. The motion before us is simple: a public emergency vote of no-confidence in the current Imperial leadership. Let the record show your decision. Let the galaxy see where each of us stood.”

The floor swells with movement—protests, cheers, shouting, the noise of a chamber imploding under its own contradictions.

The vote flashes onto the screen.

YES

YES

NO

YES

NO

Each one hits like a blow. No secrecy. No delays. Every name in public view—lit in defiance or loyalty.

Padmé risks a glance at Orson again.

He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t blinked. He’s watching the tally like a man tracking falling dominoes. Like he is doing the math with every lit-up word.

YES

NO

NO

YES

YES

NO

Padmé’s heart hammers against her ribs. Her bound hands flex, aching with the desire to act, to do something.

Then, after what feels like eternity—

MAJORITY THRESHOLD REACHED

A final phrase fills the screen in bold, unforgiving white:

Motion Sustained: Emergency Vote of No-Confidence in Imperial Leadership

For a moment, she doesn’t breathe.

The chamber erupts again—shouts, clapping, fists slamming onto durasteel. Mas Amedda is screaming into his feed, face twisted with fury, but this time, he’s drowned out.

They did it.

They’re still prisoners. Still cuffed, still at the mercy of a thousand shifting dangers, but the Empire’s foundation has cracked under the weight of the vote. And with it, the machinery of control has stalled just long enough for something else to surface: A choice—the most essential of all political freedoms.

She turns to her husband.

The fear etched into his features is gone, replaced by something electric, brimming with barely contained triumph.

“Congratulations, darling,” he says, his accent threading through each word. “We just toppled the Galactic Empire.”