In the dark halls of a once great temple—now a palace of its ancient enemies—the current Master of the Sith sat on his throne.
Emperor Palpatine. Master to Lord Vader. Ruler of the Galaxy. His lips twisted into a sharp grin at the self-praise. It was he who orchestrated his victory—he who single-handedly shifted the balance of the Force towards the Dark Side.
However, it seemed that the Darkness did not take kindly to those who misinterpreted its tolerance for its favor and divine choice.
A sharp, quiet presence quickly cut off the Sith's thoughts. The throne room dimmed, though the lighting had not changed.
A tremor passed through the air — soft at first, like a ripple on breaking glass. Palpatine felt it before he heard the doors open. A pressure. A sourceless whisper coiling behind his thoughts, threading between syllables of ancient Sith dialects long buried in his mind.
He maintained an indifferent expression; the only thing revealing the great ruler's emotions being the firm line of his lips.
The guards at the threshold did not move to announce her. They didn't need to.
She stepped through the doorway like a shadow spills into shape — every movement unhurried, deliberate, as if the very architecture bent inward to make space for her passage.
Her cloak trailed behind her like a living veil. Moisture clung to her — saltwater, mildew, stone — the scent of something exhumed. Raven-black hair clung to her cheeks slightly, still damp from wherever the Dark had been keeping her.
And her smile — that was the worst of it.
Crooked. Confident. Patiently cruel.
Like she knew something even he didn't.
"Your Excellency," she said, voice like silk drawn across a rusted blade. "You've done well in my absence. The galaxy still burns, I see."
Palpatine said nothing. He did not rise. He wouldn't offer her that indulgence — but neither would he dismiss her.
He watched her descend the walkway as if the floor itself submitted to her weight. She didn't bother to kneel. Of course not. The Prime Inquisitor had no use for ceremony. The very force of her arrival was homage enough.
When she reached the base of the steps, she paused. Her eyes met his — gold and molten, burning with something borrowed. Something endless.
"It stirs," she said.
No name. No title. But he knew what she meant.
The Dark Side. The true one. The ancient will that predated Jedi and Sith alike — and which had chosen her, at least for now, as its instrument.
He leaned forward slightly, folding skeletal hands beneath his chin. "And what does it want this time?" he asked, tone dry.
Her smile widened.
"Correction."
The word sat between them like a knife — polished, clean, and very, very sharp.
She tilted her head, listening to something not present. Then:
"Something has risen that it did not permit. It moves against it."
Palpatine's expression never faltered, but inside, he frowned. The Force had shifted of late — he had felt it, too. A ripple. A reaching of the Living Force. Whispers in its currents of a chosen one, which he had, apparently, naively assumed to be of his apprentice.
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Consequence of Oversight
FanfictionAttachment has always been forbidden to the Jedi. It had always been a risk - one that had led many to the Dark Side. Hence why he was never told the truth, even after the fall of the Order. Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi is shattered after his former...
