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Professor Skywalker

Summary:

Anakin is alone. No friends to rely on, no home to return to, and nothing but a few memories to guide him in this world called Remnant. So when a mysterious man offers him an opportunity to teach the students in the infamous Beacon Academy...

How could he possibly say no?

Notes:

This is gonna be a big one. I've had this idea brewing in my head for months, and now I'm finally able to share this passion project with you guys. I love Star Wars and I love RWBY, and I hope you guys will enjoy reading this as I enjoy writing it with my friends. Kudos to Neppy and Muk for helping me write this, this wouldn't be possible without you guys!

With that... Enjoy the show, and make sure to review! This is where the fun begins.

Chapter Text

The first thing Anakin Skywalker felt was pain—sharp, throbbing, radiating from all over his body. His vision blurred as his eyes fluttered open, the sterile white lights above immediately stinging his sensitive vision and forcing him to squint. Out of instinct he brought his gloved mechanical hand up to block the light.

Quickly, Anakin noticed that he was lacking quite a lot of things. Like his robes, for one. The only thing he still had on himself was a pair of black trousers. He didn't even have his lightsaber on him when he reached for it.

"What..."

Had he been captured? Anakin's eyes quickly scanned the room he was in. It looked like a typical hospital room, but nothing about it screamed Separatist. His hands weren't bound, there wasn't even a single droid in sight. If this had been a capture, it was a poor one at best.

Though, nothing about it said Republic, either. There wasn't a single medical droid in sight, no sight of anyone he knew either, like…

A dull, throbbing pain in his head caused him to groan. He brought his organic hand up to nurse it for a few seconds before it died down. Not only was he feeling incredibly disoriented, but it seemed like… he was missing something.

Memories. He was missing memories.

Joy.

Anakin tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in his side stopped him before he could even make it halfway. His body wanted him to stay down and rest, but…

Well, he was always poor at listening.

Bearing through the pain, soon enough Anakin was upright. He shifted himself to the side of the bed, his legs hitting the floor as he ran his mechanical hand through his brown hair.

"Where am I...?" Anakin muttered to himself. That was the most concerning thing for him at the moment. Whenever he was, it wasn't Republic or Separatist. Did he crash on some planet?

His lack of memories was also… not good. Not everything, but Anakin knew something was wrong, and trying to remember just gave him another headache.

As Anakin was contemplating his situation, a nearby door opened up. The Jedi Knight glanced up to see a tall woman with blonde hair and glasses step inside. She seemed to be in her late thirties, and her state of dress more suited someone who worked in a school as opposed to a medical center.

"I see you're finally awake," She told him, her tone professional with a hint of relief. "I was worried you would still be comatose, given the condition you were found in."

"Whatever it was, trust me, I've been through a lot worse." Anakin quipped easily with a small, disarming smile. "Though, I would like to know what condition you found me in to begin with."

"A fair inquiry, though I feel you'll get more satisfactory answers from him."

Before Anakin could even ask, the door suddenly opened once again as a… presumably young man stepped inside. Anakin wasn't actually sure how old this man was, his face somehow managed to look both young and old at the same time. What didn't help was the head of neatly done grey hair he had, not to mention the very dark green suit he wore that was on the verge of being black and the cane he used to move. The more Anakin looked at him the more he started to become convinced he somehow was both but neither at the same time.

In one of his hands was holding a coffee mug, his dull yellow eyes roaming over Anakin, taking mental notes one after the other before he took a sip from his coffee, clearing his throat before he finally spoke. "I see our guest has awoken. It isn't everyday we find a complete stranger collapsed on the ground, on the brink of death in spite of there being no visible physical injuries, sickness or anything else wrong with him. Especially not in front of our fine school."

"... Right." Anakin nodded. "And... you are?"

"Hm?" The man raised one his eyebrows right before realization struck him. "Ah! Pardon me, where are my manners? I am Ozpin, Headmaster of Beacon Academy. And this here is my Deputy Headmistress Glynda Goodwitch. It's nice to meet you… mister?" Ozpin trailed off, lightly swishing around his mug of coffee while he waited for Anakin to full in the blank.

"... Skywalker. Anakin Skywalker." He told them, as his blue eyes wandered all over the room. "Where am I?"

"Beacon Academy, our medical room to be precise." Ozpin explained, only to get a look of confusion from Anakin, which was something he couldn't help giving a curious hum to before he took another sip of his brew and continued. "You seem to be unfamiliar with my school, Mister Skywalker. Most curious. While I am not one to brag, this is the finest Academy to train Huntsman and Huntresses in all of Vale." The headmaster elaborated while tapping his finger on his cane, his own curiosity growing by the minute. "Quite strange that it is unfamiliar to you."

"Even if you aren't from Vale, to not even so much as be familiar with the name of Beacon Academy is strange." Ozpin continued where another thought crossed his mind. "Mister Skywalker? What is the last thing that you remember before waking up here?"

Anakin thought for a moment. "I was..." He thought harder, trying to remember what he was doing before he woke up. "I was... on Coruscant, the Jedi Temple, I was to..." The sharp, throbbing pain struck him once again, and Anakin groaned as he gripped his head.

Anakin's eyes widened as he shot back up, though he almost tumbled from how disoriented he was. "I don't remember anything beyond being on Coruscant, which means I need to get back there as soon as possible." He looked towards Ozpin. "I appreciate you guys patching me up, but if you don't mind I need the first ship off this planet. Where's the nearest spaceport?"

"I.. see…" Ozpin gave the Jedi Knight another curious glance that was mixed in with a hint of confusion. "Well that might present a bit of a problem… considering space travel hasn't even been invented yet. More importantly, I have never heard of this...Coruscant you speak of, nor this Jedi Temple."

"What? How, even the Outer Rim territories know about Coruscant." Anakin looked at the two, who just looked even more confused by him. "The capital of the Galactic Republic, home of the Jedi Temple... Come on, you had to have heard of the Jedi, at least?"

Unfortunately for him. all he got was the same look of confusion from them both as Glynda spoke up. "Jedi? I'm afraid I have never heard of that term before."

"The closest I ever heard to the word Jedi was a Yeti, and I highly doubt that's what you're referring to…" Ozpin cracked a small smile. "For starters, you're quite more pleasant than them." He lightly joked, adding in a small chuckle for good measure.

Anakin on the other hand wasn't feeling the humor, he was just stunned as he looked around. They definitely weren't primitive by any means, but never hearing about the Jedi, much less the Republic itself? "What kind of planet did I end up on?" Anakin shook his head. "Well, long story short, we're keepers of the peace. And it's thanks to us that the Separatists probably haven't hit your world yet, but considering you've never even heard of the Republic, I have to wonder how far out I am in the galaxy..."

Or if he was even in the same galaxy, but that wasn't something Anakin wanted to think about.

"Well... Our world is called Remnant, and if you speak the truth there's quite an easy way to figure out if you are… in range of your.. .Republic" Ozpin gestured out the window into the night sky. At first, Anakin didn't get what he wanted out of it… until he saw the shattered moon casting its glow down onto the world. "While I cannot speak for how people of other worlds act, a world with a shattered moon certainly would hold their attention. Wouldn't you agree?"

"A shattered moon, huh?" Anakin glanced up at it for a moment. "Well, that's a first. I don't remember reading about any planets with a broken moon in the Jedi Archives, unless it was erased, like Kamino..." Both Ozpin and Glynda looked at him funny again, to which he sighed in frustration. "Look, I'm not crazy, alright? I need to get back to Coruscant so I can... I can..."

Once again, Anakin tried to remember, but it invited another painful feeling in his head. He stumbled, finding his way back to his bed as he nursed his headache. "Blast it, I can't remember..."

"I would ask if you had recently injured your head, but we found you with no sign of any injuries. I do want to believe you… however, I think you can see how from our perspective this seems… far fetched." Ozpin laid out to him, his yellow eyes closed for a moment in thought before they opened right back up again when something hit him. "Do you perhaps have anything on you that can support your claims?"

"It is hard to take your word when what you are saying sounds absurd. Space Travel, Separatists, nothing of what you said makes any sense at all." Glynda followed up. "I don't mean this as an insult, but you sound nothing short of delusional."

"Thanks." Anakin said sarcastically. "And what about my robes, my lightsaber?"

"Robes are unusual but not uncommon, and your… light… saber?" Ozpin had a raised eyebrow.

"The weapon of a Jedi? Don't tell me you didn't find a lightsaber when you found me?"

"I'm afraid we found no such thing. The only thing you had on you were your clothes and that glove. Which has me wondering…" Ozpin stared at his gloved hand. "Why are you wearing only one glove?"

Anakin responded by showing Ozpin and Glynda his mechanical hand. Their eyes widened as they looked at it. "To hide this. I lost my real one in a duel, because..." The pain came back, and he only got more frustrated. "I don't remember. But this is a result of that duel."

"...Quite fascinating. You remind me of one of my old friends." Ozpin stared at Anakin's mechanical arm with intrigue, squinting at it "Would you allow us to analyze your prosthetic limb? I believe you may have just presented the proof we needed, Mister Skywalker."

"Hmm." Glynda adjusted her glasses as she looked at Anakin's arm. "While there are those with mechanical appendages here in Vale, yours is not something we've seen before. It looks incredibly advanced."

"Uh... Sure, go right ahead." Anakin hesitantly agreed, holding out his mechanical arm for them to inspect.

"It doesn't seem to be made out of any metal I have ever seen before." The headmaster idly commented, walking closer to the injured Jedi to get a more proper look at the limb. Choosing to set aside his cup of coffee, Ozpin gave the arm one last glance over before touching it directly.

"Hmm… yes I see… " Ozpin idly commented, running his fingers along the gold surface of Anakin's mecha arm, the metal somehow managing to feel like any other metal he dealt with, but at the same time felt totally foreign then anything else. The second thing the headmaster took note of was the actual works of the arm itself.

Ozpin was no mechanic by any means, but even he could tell that- much like the metal -it was different then anything else he had seen.

"Far more sophisticated than anything our current technology can achieve. Glynda?"

"We've seen what Atlas is capable of, thanks to James' enthusiasm. This arm is far beyond any prosthetic he's shared." Glynda commented. "Not that I believe most of what Mister Skywalker has said, but this is still fascinating. We may need to inform James later."

"Yes, indeed…" Ozpin hummed, before he turned back to Anakin. "Very well, Mister Skywalker I shall believe you." The headmaster told him, picking back up his cup of coffee. "Even then this begs the question… Just how did you get here?

"Well, unless you found a crashed starfighter near where you found me, I don't have an answer for you." Anakin said curtly. "To be honest with you, I can't remember most of anything…"

"Nothing at all?" Glynda asked.

"I still remember some things, but… it's difficult. It's like I have a puzzle but I'm missing most of the pieces…" Anakin tried to explain. "Not really helping my case, is it?"

"Amnesia is a common symptom of head injuries." Glynda noted. "So is delirium."

Anakin rolled his eyes.

"Most peculiar…" Ozpin commented, softly humming to himself in thought as an idea started to form in his head. "Well as you are currently stranded here, perhaps we can be of assistance to each other."

"What do you mean?"

"Headmaster, are you considering what I believe you are considering?" Glynda questioned with a raised brow at Ozpin, visibly wishing he wasn't.

"I am indeed, Glynda." Ozpin smiled knowingly at his colleague and turned his attention back to Anakin. "You see, despite how good my school is… I find myself being a bit understaffed. From what you talked about, it seems you have experience with warfare? So I believe the best thing to do would be for you to teach at this school, while we find a way to get you back to the Republic."

"Whoa whoa." Anakin raised his arms up, chuckling nervously as he did so. "Look, I'm honored and all, but I don't think I'd be a good fit for your school. I doubt I'd be a good fit for your school."

"Headmaster, I'm inclined to agree with Mister Skywalker." Glynda added. "I simply find it… difficult to just take his word. We may not have picked up any injuries, but he could still be suffering from a mental illness, or perhaps a deeper injury we didn't pick up."

"Way to believe in me, Glynda." Anakin quipped, and Glynda rolled her eyes.

"Hmmm… I do understand your concerns, Glynda, but something in me feels that he can be trusted." Ozpin turned his attention back to Anakin. "And it also tells me you're wrong about that, Mister Skywalker. Fact of the matter is you have no place to go, no money, no nothing. While here you can learn about our world, and perhaps pass on some wisdom to the young minds entering our academy. Maybe a simple teaching assistant to start out? If you truly are not suited for the position we can find other work for you." Ozpin trailed off, a small barely noticeable smirk of deviousness creeping onto his face where he took another sip of his coffee before finally finishing the rest of his sentence. "...we are always in need of a new janitor after all."

Anakin furrowed his brows, giving it some thought. He didn't fully understand his own situation, and every time he tried to remember something it rarely worked. He could remember his Jedi training, some parts of the Clone Wars, Tatooine, his mother, but...

It was as if most of his life was just out of his reach, and it infuriated him to no end. He couldn't recall most things beyond those scraps, and that blasted headache insisted on bothering him every time he tried.

Ozpin was right. He was lost and had nowhere else to go, perhaps no way off this planet at all. He was essentially stranded.

"... Alright, alright." Anakin conceded. "This isn't going to be permanent, but... since you've been so kind to me, I'll accept your offer, at least until I can find a way back to Coruscant."

"Excellent!" Ozpin said with the biggest smile he'd shown since they first met. "Now I'm sure you have some questions about our school, like its purposes and the like. However, we shall save those for a later date, for the time being focus on resting." Ozpin told the Jedi, who nodded in return.

"Can we please send him to Professor Peach, preferably before we show him the entirety of Beacon?" Glynda asked, almost sound pleading. "I want to be sure he's at least mentally fit to teach. Surely you can agree to that?"

Ozpin just glanced back at Anakin, an eyebrow raised.

"Whatever gets you to trust me, I won't put up a fight." Anakin said.

Ozpin nodded. "Very well, we'll have him undergo a psyche eval with Peach. I'm sure she'll be more than happy to poke at him a little more."

Glynda sighed in relief. "Thank you…"

"But with all of that said, there's just one more thing to be added." Ozpin remarked, as he gave Anakin a warm, welcoming smile.

"... Welcome to Beacon Academy, Professor Skywalker."

Chapter Text

Anakin exhaled slowly, seated on the edge of the medical bed, his bare chest exposed under the cold, sterile light of the examination room. The whitewashed walls of Beacon Academy's infirmary weren't quite as oppressive as a Republic medbay, but the endless poking and prodding didn't help. After all, mandatory psych evaluations and physical checkups weren't exactly his idea of a warm welcome—but if it meant being accepted into Beacon, he'd tolerate it. Barely.

The woman conducting his evaluation moved with brisk, practiced precision. Peach-pink hair curled out from under her goggles, which she pushed back slightly to study his eyes with a handheld light. Her voice was clinical, clipped, but not unfriendly.

"Since you've woken up, have you experienced any visual or auditory hallucinations?" she asked, peering closely at his pupils.

"No," Anakin replied, tone flat. He kept his eyes forward, resisting the urge to fidget.

She hummed thoughtfully, then scribbled a note on her clipboard.

"Any other issues? Flashbacks? Phantom pains?"

Anakin's lips thinned, his gaze turning inward for a moment. "No flashbacks. I… don't remember much before waking up. My body's sore, but there's no injury I can find."

Peach nodded. "I see." She jotted something else down just as the door to the room slid open.

Glynda Goodwitch stepped inside.

Her presence commanded the room instantly—long, powerful strides, confident posture, and those piercing eyes locked onto Anakin the moment she entered. And for a fleeting second, she froze.

Anakin met her gaze, lips twitching into a smirk. He didn't miss the way her eyes raked over his bare torso before flicking up, composed as ever. But it was there.

"Professor Peach, how is he?" Glynda asked, regaining her professional tone.

Peach didn't miss a beat. "Physically, he's recovered. Mentally, he's… stable. Capable enough to teach, as Ozpin requested."

Anakin arched his brow, but didn't comment.

"You're free to dress, Skywalker," Peach said, gesturing toward his folded robes.

"Gladly," he muttered. Sliding off the table, he strode toward the chair where his black robes and armor waited. The weight of the familiar fabric was grounding, the cool flexsteel plating over his collarbone and shoulders snug and worn from use. He buckled the belt with practiced hands, draped the black cape across his shoulders, and exhaled.

"Never thought I'd miss wearing this much black," he muttered. "Hope it fits the dress code."

"It'll suffice for now," Glynda said, her voice even, though her eyes flicked to him again—lingering just a little too long on the curve of his shoulders and the slope of his back as he adjusted his cape.

Peach, meanwhile, had pulled Glynda aside. Her voice dropped, her expression more serious as she whispered to her colleague.

"While he appears functional, I believe he may be suffering from PTSD. The memory loss could be a psychological defense mechanism."

"Will that pose an issue?" Glynda asked quietly.

"Not immediately. But it would be wise to monitor him closely for any changes. Sudden aggression. Mood shifts. Anything abnormal."

"I understand. Thank you for the evaluation."

By the time the conversation ended, Anakin had finished dressing. Standing tall, robed and armored, he looked every inch the Jedi Knight again—though here, far from the Republic, that title meant little.

"Alright," he said. "Lead the way. I suppose it's time to meet the rest of the faculty."

Glynda led him out of the infirmary and into the winding corridors of Beacon Academy. Her heels clicked confidently against the polished floor, echoing through the empty halls, and Anakin—try as he might—couldn't help but watch her.

The sway of her hips was hypnotic, her skirt hugging her curves perfectly. And every time she took a step, her calves flexed with the grace of someone who could snap a man in half with one kick and not spill her coffee. The slight curve of her lower back above the fitted waistband made his palms itch.

'You're in public, Skywalker. Behave.'

But it didn't help. The blouse she wore, high-cut but tight, hinted enough to draw his gaze. The way the fabric stretched across her chest with each movement made it incredibly difficult to keep his attention forward. And the longer they walked, the more his eyes wandered—lower, slower. Admiring the sharp line of her jaw from the side, the arch of her spine, how her breasts swayed subtly with each step.

"Enjoying the tour?" she asked suddenly, her voice dry and knowing.

Anakin coughed lightly, eyes flicking up—too late.

"I've seen less intense stares from teenage boys, Mr. Skywalker." she noted.

"Force of habit," he said smoothly, smiling sidelong at her. "When a gorgeous woman walks in front of me, it'd be criminal not to appreciate the view."

Glynda gave a long, slow look over her shoulder. Her expression wasn't exactly disapproving—but it wasn't pleased either.

"I sincerely hope that's not the kind of commentary you offer your students."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Miss Goodwitch." Anakin answered earnestly. "But my peers are fair game, right?"

That earned him a sharp glance and a flush just barely visible at the tips of her ears.

"I suggest keeping such remarks to yourself once classes begin," she replied curtly. "Rumors spread quickly in this academy. Please try not to add to it."

Anakin chuckled, raising both hands in mock surrender. "Wouldn't dream of starting trouble. Jedi's honor."

"Mm."

"But I can't promise the students won't start talking once they see you walking down the hall," he added with a smirk. "You have a natural way of turning heads."

She sighed—half exasperated, half resigned. "Yes, well… They'll learn quickly that looking is easier than surviving my course."

She gave her riding crop a light tap against her palm, which gave Anakin all the information he needed to know.

The pair fell in silence after that for a short time, though it wasn't long before Anakin started speaking again, his tone more appropriate and less shameless.

"So," he said smoothly, voice casual but charming, "what class do you teach around here, Professor Goodwitch?"

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "Combat instruction. I ensure our students have the discipline and strength required to survive as Huntsmen." She said, sounding proud all the while.

Anakin raised an eyebrow, lips quirking. "Discipline, huh? That tracks. You've got that whole 'stern but secretly sweet' thing going."

Glynda didn't respond immediately. She kept walking, but her eyebrow rose.

"Oh?" she asked, glancing at him. "And what makes you say that?"

"You remind me of the instructors at the Jedi Temple," he said with a smirk. "Tough as durasteel, eyes that could stop a riot… but underneath it all, there's heart. Passion. Fire."

She looked away, lips tightening—but her pace faltered for just a step.

"And I have to say," he added, tone dropping a little, "none of them pulled off heels like you do. "Or the skirt."

Glynda didn't respond to that, but Anakin could see the faint blushing gracing her ears all the same. Perhaps she wasn't used to someone flirting with her that much.

They turned a corner—and were greeted by a man who looked like he'd marched straight out of a storybook: portly, regal in his outdated red uniform, and sporting a mustache that could sweep a chimney.

"Ah! Madame Goodwitch!" the man bellowed. "A pleasure as always! And this must be our intrepid new hire!"

Anakin blinked as his hand was seized and shaken vigorously.

"Port's the name! Professor Peter Port! Master of Beast Studies—and storyteller extraordinaire!"

"Uh—thanks," Anakin muttered, subtly trying to reclaim his hand. "Pleasure to meet you, sir."

"Ah, a firm grip! The mark of a true warrior! You remind me of myself, in my prime! Let me tell you—!"

And then he did.

For the next hour, Anakin stood trapped in a verbal barrage, trying valiantly to stay conscious as Port recounted slaying some monstrous Grimm with nothing but his mustache and a boot. Anakin's eyes glazed over around minute fifteen. By minute thirty, he was asleep standing up.

A sharp tap from Glynda's crop woke him just as the man finished his story. "And so with my last breath I slayed the beast and returned victorious to my team! Happy that once more a foul beast has been slain and the people of the valley were safe! The moral of the story? A true Huntsman must be determined! Strong of will! And witty on his feet!"

"Wha—? Yes! Totally agree," Anakin blurted, giving Port a thumbs-up.

"HA! A kindred spirit indeed!" Port bellowed. "You remind me of someone… ah yes, myself! Hahahaha!"

Glynda, for her part, was clearly amused. "As informative and passionate as ever Port, I'm sure this semester many students will appreciate your stories."

"Y-Yeah, I bet..." Anakin nodded along.

"But of course! I'm already looking forward to it! Especially our… special student that Ozpin pulled into school early. It will be a delight teaching the daughter of Summer Rose herself! Getting enrolled into our esteemed academy two years ahead is no small feat!"

"Indeed it is not, we shall see what she is like. Now we must resume so I can show Mr Anakin here the rest of our staff. A pleasure speaking with you Port."

Port gleefully waved them off, with Glynda looking slightly amused as Anakin looked completely taken back by Port's... well, everything.

"Is he… always like that?"

"That," she replied, "was him in a restrained mood."

Anakin rubbed his head. "Great."

Before he could recover, the air shifted—and then bam.

A blur of green and white appeared inches from his face.

"GREETINGS!"

Anakin stumbled back as a caffeinated whirlwind of a man materialized, talking so fast Anakin barely caught half the words.

"Professor Oobleck," Glynda said, tone dry. "History instructor."

"So much to learn!" Oobleck gushed. "So many questions! Where do you come from? How did you arrive? What's your physiology—do you breathe nitrogen?!"

Anakin blinked. "Uh… yes?"

"Fascinating!" Oobleck answered. "You simply must inform me of your interstellar history but that I'm afraid will have to wait for another time! I bid you farewell!" Just like that, the man was gone just as quickly as he had arrived.

"…Well, he's a change of pace," Anakin muttered.

"Believe it or not, he's one of our most effective educators," Glynda said with a sigh. "Once you adjust to the… speed."

"…That man's bloodstream must be made entirely of espresso."

"He prefers triple-ground beans," Glynda said, a touch amused.

They reached another room. Glynda paused at the door. "One more professor to meet. She's… new. And unlike the others, she doesn't know your origins. Let's keep it that way—for now."

Anakin frowned, arms crossed. "You really want to keep secrets from a colleague?"

"It's a precaution. We don't enjoy it any more than you do, but until she's more accustomed here and we know where her loyalties lie, we mustn't overshare."

Anakin sighed. "You sound just like the Jedi Council."

"I suppose that's a compliment?"

"No… not really."

Glynda hummed, and before long the door opened, revealing a spacious lecture hall. At the center sat a woman with long raven hair, one golden eye studying them as they entered.

She stood. Her figure was lithe, elegant, draped in black and crimson. Her smile was slow, calculating.

"Professor Cinder Fall," Glynda said. "Meet Anakin Skywalker. Our latest instructor."

Anakin's eyes met hers.

And for a moment, he forgot where he was.

Anakin's gaze locked onto hers the moment she stood, and the rest of the room faded.

Cinder Fall was… stunning.

Tall and lithe, she stood like a blade dressed in black silk. Her dark uniform clung to her figure in all the right ways, tailored sharply to her waist, the twin crimson stripes along her pants drawing his eyes down the long, shapely lines of her legs. A short black cape draped over one shoulder—rich crimson on the inside, like a flash of blood beneath obsidian—just enough to add a theatrical elegance to her every move.

But it wasn't just her clothes. No.

It was the way she carried herself.

Her hips shifted subtly as she walked—graceful, deliberate, the gait of someone who knew eyes would follow her and welcomed it. Her gloved hands moved with a dancer's precision as she clasped them behind her back. Her jet-black hair fell in a sleek curtain past her shoulders, partially veiling the right side of her face, teasing the viewer with what lay beneath. And that eye—the one visible golden eye—glowed like a molten coin in shadow, sharp as glass, smoldering with something between hunger and calculation.

Anakin blinked slowly, unable to look away. It was more than attraction. It was… familiarity. Something about her presence tugged at his senses. He couldn't quite place it, but she felt familiar. Comforting, yet… dangerous at the same time.

"Anakin Skywalker," he said automatically, his voice a half-step behind his thoughts. He stepped forward, his movements slower, more composed, almost as if his body had decided to behave on its own. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Professor Fall."

She tilted her head, that molten eye appraising him with subtle interest, her lips curling at the corners.

"A pleasure, indeed," she purred, her voice low and smooth like honey over steel. "And here I thought I'd be the only new face among the staff this year. Nice to know I'll have company."

Her gaze dipped, ever so briefly, taking in his armor, his posture, his height. Her smirk widened—not with amusement, but with appreciation.

"I see Ozpin's taken quite the initiative."

Anakin couldn't help but smile back, the corner of his mouth twitching into that familiar smirk that had once gotten him scolded in the past. By who, he couldn't remember. "That seems to be his specialty. Dropping me into unfamiliar places and expecting me to adapt on the fly."

Cinder chuckled softly, and the sound felt like a hook in his ribs. He hadn't realized how close they'd stepped until he caught the faint scent of her perfume.

"And what exactly do you teach, Mr. Skywalker?" she asked, her tone coy, eyes never leaving his.

"Nothing yet. Ozpin wants me to observe first, find the right fit. Which, I guess, means I'm everyone's assistant until then."

"Is that so?" Cinder mused, her golden eye gleaming. "You could make an excellent demonstration model for my class. Especially when I'm showing how Fire Dust reacts to certain stimuli." Her voice dripped with amusement as she tilted her head. "You don't catch fire easily, do you?"

Glynda's expression flattened. "Professor Fall, please."

Cinder turned to her with a shrug, her smirk unfazed. "What? Do you have a better idea for showing students the destructive potential of Dust?"

"I would prefer not to be set on fire, thank you very much," Anakin interjected, half-laughing but very serious. He didn't know why, but the joke of being set on fire made him react very, very strongly. "And if I'm being honest, I'm still getting used to this whole 'Dust' thing you all keep talking about. I'm not exactly familiar with it."

That caught Cinder's attention. Her expression shifted from teasing to intrigued.

"Really?" she asked, arching a brow. Then a slow, knowing smile tugged at her lips. "Well… then maybe I'll just have to give you a private lesson. Sound alright to you, Glynda?"

Glynda paused, then gave a thoughtful nod. "I suppose it would be best if he becomes familiar with Dust sooner rather than later."

Anakin offered a sheepish grin. "Yeah. I grew up on a farm, way off the grid. We didn't have much tech, let alone glowing elemental crystals. So, this is all… new."

A half-truth. Maybe a quarter.

"Oh, that explains it," Cinder said lightly, already gliding over to her desk. She opened a drawer and drew out a small, crimson crystal. It shimmered under the overhead light like a flickering ember.

She held it up for Anakin to see. "This is Fire Dust. It's one of the primary energy sources in Remnant. Used in everything from engines to weapons. But in the right hands? It becomes so much more."

Glynda stepped in with her usual stern tone. "Many Huntsmen incorporate Dust into their combat styles. It's a powerful tool—but also extremely dangerous. Which is why we're very strict about how it's taught and used. Recklessness can get someone killed."

"Noted," Anakin said, eyes locked on the crystal. He stepped closer, drawn to it.

Something about the crystal's glow stirred something in him—not the Force exactly, but close. Not alive, not like a Kyber, but it hummed. Echoed. Responded.

Without thinking, he raised a hand.

The crystal lifted from Cinder's palm and hovered gently over his.

Cinder blinked in surprise, her golden eye fixed on the floating Dust. Glynda tensed beside her.

Anakin rotated his wrist slightly, the crystal spinning mid-air in lazy circles. "It looks a lot like Kyber crystals," he murmured, "from Illum… or Jedha."

Cinder's gaze narrowed with sharp curiosity. "Was that your Semblance just now?"

Glynda stiffened. That hadn't been covered in his evaluation.

Anakin glanced at her. She gave a small, silent nod.

Right. The cover story.

"Oh—yeah. My Semblance," he said quickly. "I call it the Force. I can move objects, manipulate the world around me—if I focus."

He raised his arm and sent the crystal orbiting it in a lazy arc.

Glynda sighed in restrained exasperation, but said nothing.

Cinder raised an eyebrow. "The Force?" she echoed. "Bit dramatic for a telekinetic ability, don't you think?"

"Hey," Anakin said with a crooked grin. "Dramatic gets the point across."

"Perhaps," Glynda interrupted, voice tight, "but I'd rather we return to the topic of Dust, if you please."

"Always in such a hurry," Cinder said, rolling her eyes, but turned her attention back to the Dust in Anakin's hand. "As I was saying… Dust, when properly harnessed, can power small weapons, among other things."

"A small weapon…" Anakin echoed, lowering the crystal slowly into his hand again. He turned it over in his palm, thinking—no, calculating. The crystal's shape, the way it resonated with his Force sensitivity. Not Kyber. But maybe it could act like one.

He looked up. "What if you could concentrate this—this Fire Dust—into a blade?"

Both women looked at him.

"A blade?" Cinder repeated, intrigued. "You mean, like a Dust-formed edge?"

Anakin nodded. "Exactly. A focused energy blade. Not made of metal, but controlled, contained. I've… built something like it before. But I lost it."

He glanced away, briefly. The memory of his lightsaber—gone. Disassembled or destroyed when he crossed into this world.

"But if this stuff can channel energy," he continued, "then I can build a new hilt. I just need to design something that can contain and regulate it. I build the shell, you supply the power."

Cinder's smirk returned, now with a more sultry edge. "Are you asking for my help with your little project?"

Anakin met her gaze, that cocksure smile returning. "Only if you're up for the challenge."

He floated the crystal back to her. Cinder caught it gently, her fingers brushing the edge. She turned the crystal slowly in her gloved hand, golden eye flickering between it and Anakin.

"Oh, I'm always up for a challenge," she said. "And I think you and I could make something… very special together."

From the side, Glynda exhaled sharply. "Well, you two are certainly off to a productive start," she said. "Though you failed to mention your technical skills, Anakin."

"I've been building things since I was old enough to hold a hydrospanner," he said casually. "Built my first droid when I was nine. This? Just another puzzle."

"Just make sure this puzzle doesn't blow up half the campus," Glynda warned. "Fire Dust is highly unstable."

"No need to worry," Cinder said sweetly. "I am the Dust expert, remember? I'll keep it under control."

Anakin was already half-lost in thought, sketching ideas in his mind—frame layouts, containment cores, energy modulation—but he still heard the way her voice lingered.

Cinder turned her back briefly, letting her cape swish behind her as she inspected the Dust crystal once more.

Her lips curled into a subtle smirk.

'He's different. Bolder than the others. Handsome, confident… powerful.' Her golden eye gleamed.

\No one's claimed him yet.  But he'll be mine. Eventually. I'll make sure of it.'

She smiled wider.

'If this little weapon of his works… it'll be the perfect way to keep him close.'

Chapter Text

The sterile white lights of Beacon's Dust Research Lab hummed overhead, casting sharp shadows across the cluttered workbench as Anakin Skywalker laid out a series of intricate schematics. Blueprints lined the table, each page depicting detailed cross-sections of hilt mechanisms, emitter designs, and energy converters. Notes in his messy but efficient hand surrounded diagrams of circuitry and energy modulation—every part leading toward a single goal: a new kind of weapon.

"This chamber right here," Anakin began, pointing to the center of the hilt sketch with a gloved finger, "is where the Fire Crystal will be placed. Once it's properly purified, the hilt should convert it into a focused blade of plasma. Hot enough to burn through metal like paper." He gave a sideways glance to the woman beside him. "Assuming everything doesn't blow up in the process, of course."

Cinder Fall stood with arms crossed, her golden eyes darting between the schematics and the man who drew them. She smirked. "Such little faith in me, Skywalker. This is much more than just a weapon—it's something entirely new. I can't wait to see it in action."

"Assuming it'll be done without error," came the clipped, unmistakably disapproving voice of Glynda Goodwitch from across the room.

Cinder turned her head slowly, her smile fading. "Remind me again why you're even in here if you're not helping?"

"I'm here," Glynda answered, crossing her arms and glaring back, "because you two are new instructors with a tendency toward... eccentricity. My presence ensures no one burns down the building."

"How lucky for us," Cinder muttered, disappointed that their time alone was interrupted. She turned her attention back to the workbench and picked up a bright red Dust crystal, holding it up to the overhead light. "Purifying this will be easy. All I need to do is apply a little heat."

"I figured as much," Anakin said, tossing a wrench from one hand to the other. He set down his pack of components—wiring, focusing lenses, emitter coils—and pulled a pair of welding goggles down over his eyes. "Still, I'm curious. How exactly do you plan to 'purify' volatile Dust without detonating half the campus?"

In answer, Cinder held the crystal delicately between her fingertips. Her eyes locked with his. Then the air shimmered around her hand.

A wave of heat pulsed outward, and the crystal began to glow.

"My Semblance," she explained, lips curling, "allows me to generate heat far beyond what typical Dust work requires. With this kind of control, refining a Fire Crystal is child's play."

Anakin's eyes widened behind the lenses. "Now that... that's impressive."

He turned back to his own bench, a rare and genuine grin crossing his face. "Alright then. Time to get to work."

"This is where the fun begins," he added under his breath.

Cinder chuckled softly, finding the way he said that endearing. She focused on the crystal, steadily increasing the temperature until the air in the room thickened with heat. The lab's vents groaned in protest.

"Tell me again why this has to be done?" Glynda asked, stepping closer, beads of sweat already forming on her brow. "Wouldn't ordinary Fire Dust suffice?"

"Ordinary Dust is volatile and hard to control," Cinder answered, not taking her eyes off the crystal. "What we're creating here needs to be stable. It has to hold its form as a plasma blade—and burn hotter than anything Aura can reliably resist."

"Assuming it can bypass Aura," Glynda muttered, tugging at the collar of her outfit, sweat trickling down her neck.

Anakin leaned over his workbench, wiping his brow. "That's what we'll find out. If it works, this blade won't just cut—it'll melt its way through most known defenses. Including traditional weapons."

Cinder stood tall, still holding the rapidly glowing crystal. "If this works, it'll be a game-changer."

Glynda glared. "You're not testing it on students."

"Pity," Cinder said, teasing. "Some of them could use a little excitement."

The heat in the lab crept up steadily—unrelenting, heavy, almost alive. The hum of the vents overhead now sounded less like environmental control and more like mechanical wheezing, as though the room itself were suffocating.

Glynda had abandoned her professional posture, arms now awkwardly spread from her sides in a vain attempt to cool herself. Her face, usually composed to the point of severe, had taken on a pink flush from the steadily rising temperature that clung to her like a second skin. With a huff of frustration, she tugged at the collar of her blouse again, her fingers sliding damply against her own neck. Her normally crisp hair clung at the edges to her jawline and temple, the gentle sheen of sweat now trailing along her cheekbones.

"This is... absurd," she muttered, reaching for a clipboard only to drop it with a surprised grunt when the plastic felt half-melted against her palm.

Anakin, hunched over his workbench with a micro-welder in hand, felt the sweat bead along his brow and trickle into the corner of his eye. He winced, swiping at it with the back of a glove, but it didn't help. His robes clung to him like wet leather, the heat magnified by the gear and equipment around him.

"Is it always like this when you work?" he asked, his voice a mix of incredulity and resignation as he squinted through the heat-haze. The torch flickered out in his hand. "Or is this just you trying to kill us slowly?"

Cinder, across from him, didn't even flinch. Compared to them, she looked completely at ease, unbothered by the sweltering atmosphere she herself had created.

"Don't be dramatic," she said with a lazy smirk. "You're just not used to this kind of pressure. You'll adapt just fine."

Glynda made a strangled noise from the corner. "This isn't pressure, it's an oven."

Cinder only shrugged, her golden eyes shifting to Anakin as he shifted again, visibly irritated, yanking at the tunic clinging to his chest.

"I can't take it anymore," he grumbled.

And with that, he hooked his thumbs beneath the edge of his robes and pulled them upward in one motion. The heavy brown fabric peeled away from his skin with a wet sound and dropped to the floor in a heap. His tunic followed a second later, tugged over his head with a huff of impatience.

The air hit him like a slap—hot, but at least no longer trapped under layers. He stood tall now, bare from the waist up, his broad chest heaving slightly with the heat. Muscles defined by years of Jedi training and war rippled under the gleam of sweat. A long scar traced down his right side, another crossing diagonally over his shoulder. He reached back, brushing wet brunette hair away from his forehead as if it were nothing.

Both women froze.

Glynda's eyes dropped instinctively—betraying her far more than she'd ever admit. She caught herself almost instantly, snapping her gaze back to a far wall, but the heat on her face only intensified. She adjusted her glasses, unnecessarily, more than once. Pretending that she wasn't ogling a man half her age.

Cinder, by contrast, let her eyes linger.

She didn't even try to hide it.

She leaned one hip against the bench, tilting her head slightly as her gaze traced from Anakin's collarbones down the sculpted slope of his abs to the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers. Her grin widened, slow and shameless.

"Well now," she purred. "A surprise to be sure, but a welcome one~."

"I'm just trying not to pass out," Anakin said, not even noticing the way Cinder was eyeing him up, as his attention was focused solely on building his weapon.

Cinder leaned closer to the crystal, but her voice was aimed at him. "You know, you could have warned us. Given a girl time to prepare."

Anakin gave her a side-eye. "What, should I have taken you both to dinner first?"

"Skywalker. Fall. Focus." Glynda sternly reminded them.

Cinder let the glow of the Fire Crystal flicker across her face as she rolled it delicately between her fingers. The pulsing light danced along the curves of her smile, catching on the glossy heat-slick of her lower lip as she watched Anakin work. "So. You're good with your hands."

Anakin didn't look up right away. The emitter matrix in his grip was delicate, its inner lattice a weave of alloys and micro-lenses that had to be slotted just so. But her tone earned a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"You could say that," he muttered, sliding the component into the crystal housing with a practiced twist. "Started building before I could even read. Droids, speeders, power converters—my mom used to say I was tearing things apart before I could crawl."

Cinder raised an eyebrow, intrigued. She pushed away from the bench, slowly circling to his side like a cat drawn to heat, the clack of her heels muffled by the rubber flooring beneath them. "Tearing things apart," she repeated, her voice velvet. "Sounds destructive."

"I learned how to put them back together," he said, glancing sideways at her. "Better than before."

She paused beside him, close enough to feel the residual warmth rising off his skin. Her gaze flicked over the exposed lines of his back, the way every muscle twitched and shifted beneath his skin as he adjusted a calibration dial on the hilt. Her fingers itched to touch—not to distract him, just to see. She leaned in just enough for the smell of scorched metal and sweat and Dust to mingle with the perfume clinging to her collarbones.

"And this—" she nodded toward the half-finished weapon cradled in the foam grip on the bench "—this is your masterpiece?"

He exhaled a short breath, lips parting, brow furrowed like he had to think about it. "Not yet. But it will be."

"Mm." Her arm brushed his, lightly, just grazing down the ridge of his bicep. "Then you'd better finish it. I want to see what those hands are really capable of."

From behind them, Glynda made an audible sound of exasperation. Not quite a sigh—more of a snap of disbelief. Her voice came laced with enough sarcasm to cut through molten steel.

"Is anyone in this room still focused on the actual assignment?"

Anakin didn't miss a beat. "I am focused."

"I can see that," Glynda said dryly. "Though it appears 'focused' now includes shirtless flirting?"

Cinder didn't turn around. She tilted her head, resting her chin in her hand, golden eyes fixed on the tool in Anakin's grip like it was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. "He's fascinating, Glynda. Don't you think?"

Glynda stiffened. "I think we'd all be better served if you both remembered we're working with unstable energy sources in a highly pressurized academic facility."

"Oh come on," Cinder purred, "don't tell me you haven't noticed. All those muscles? The way he handles machinery?"

Anakin gave a breath of laughter under his breath, shaking his head as he reattached the power cell and twisted it into place with a soft click. "Cinder, stop it. You're going to make her explode."

"I might," Cinder said, a wicked grin curling across her mouth. "But not with Dust."

Behind them, Glynda took a step away from the workbench, clearly trying to pretend her face hadn't just gone a deep and very specific shade of red as she tried to distance herself from this. "I'll... check the ventilation system," she muttered, marching toward the panel at the far end of the lab.

Cinder watched her retreat, then turned back to Anakin and lowered her voice. "I don't think she likes me."

"I don't think she likes anyone," Anakin replied, lips twitching.

"You like me," Cinder said, stepping in front of him now, close enough that he had to stop working or else risk his forehead bumping against hers. Her fingers tapped against the edge of the table, casual, suggestive. "So tell me, Anakin Skywalker—what's the most complicated thing you've ever built?"

He looked at her. Really looked. He had to consider his words, careful not to say anything that would make her suspicious.

He hated it.

"I rebuilt engines from scrap when I was ten," he said finally. "Built my first weapon at fourteen. Modified my own arm when the tech they gave me didn't feel right. But…" he looked down at the half-finished weapon between them. "This? This might top them all. It's not just circuitry and crystal alignment. It's something more."

Cinder raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "More?"

"It's a weapon that thinks," he said, voice soft but charged. "The way it harmonizes with the wielder's energy signature—it'll feel like it was born for you. Not just a sword. A living extension of yourself."

Her lips parted, just slightly.

"You make it sound romantic."
"I wouldn't go that far." Anakin said. "But… the process is definitely intense."

Cinder's gaze lingered on the diagonal line slashing across Anakin's chest—skin pulled taut over the ridge of a long-healed wound, the pale path of it a vivid contrast against his sweat-slick torso. His back hadn't been spared either, it was adorned with a faded lightning-shaped scar that went from his lower abdomen up to his right shoulder. It was as if he had been burned, and just imagining it made Cinder shiver.

Her eyes trailed further, following the curve of muscle along his ribs to the place where a matte-black prosthetic met flesh just above his right elbow. She tilted her head, gold eyes narrowing slightly as the weld marks caught the overhead light in fractured gleams. The integration was seamless, but not clean. It had the unmistakable feel of something self-forged, not delicately installed by anyone from Atlas.

Her voice came soft, disarmingly casual. "So tell me, Skywalker... how'd you lose the arm?"

Anakin didn't flinch. But there was a pause—trying to come up with a convincing enough story.

He didn't look up.

"Farming accident," he said.

Cinder's brows twitched slightly upward.

"Farming," she repeated.

"Mmhmm." He kept his tone even as he tightened a micro-conductor coupling. "Back when I was a kid. Long story short—old harvester malfunctioned, snapped a stabilizer blade during a storm. Took the arm before I even knew it was gone."

Cinder let the lie hang in the air like steam. Her smile stayed soft, but her eyes turned sharp as blades behind it. Farming accident? No way. Not with scars like that. Not with the way he moved. He didn't flinch when working with plasma currents or unstable Dust. He didn't so much wear his body as command it, like a man used to pain, used to consequences.

She gave a quiet hum, tilting her head, pretending to accept it. "Must've been brutal."

Anakin just nodded, his expression unreadable. "Didn't feel like much. Shock hit first."

"And the scars?" she asked, her voice featherlight, trailing after the words like fingertips across bare skin. "Also farming?"

He hesitated again. Just for a heartbeat. Then: "Yeah. Same storm. Debris, wiring. Stuff gets unpredictable when the power lines go down."

"Mm. Unpredictable," Cinder murmured, nodding slowly.

She didn't believe a damn word of it.

The scar on his shoulder wasn't a tear from errant cable—it was a cauterized line, angled high and fast, just missing his collarbone. And the one on his side? That had the unmistakable depth of a blade—shallow at the entry, then plunging deeper as it raked downward. A farming accident didn't make marks like that. Neither did they create burn scars that fierce. Faulty machinery wouldn't make a pattern like that. It looked as if it were done on purpose.

But she said nothing. She just let her eyes drift slowly back to that arm, to the subtle mechanical whir it gave off when he rotated his wrist to slot another component into the hilt. Smooth, but not silent. Precise, but brutalist in design.

She felt heat crawl up her spine. Not from her own Semblance, not from the simmering air still thick in the lab. This was something deeper. A curling, tight coil low in her abdomen, sparked by the sheer presence of the man in front of her. The mixture of control and restraint. The tension wound behind his voice. The obvious lie—and the even more obvious scars.

It was clear to Cinder Fall that Anakin Skywalker was a dangerous man. That alone should have been enough to deter most with common sense.

Unfortunately for Skywalker, Cinder Fall loved dangerous men.

Her eyes swept down again, letting herself appreciate it. The sharp cut of his abs, the lines tapering into his waistband. The way every breath expanded his chest like he'd been sculpted from tension. All that muscle, all that power just beneath the surface—and still, he was calm. Reserved. Like the storm was held just behind his eyes, waiting for a chance to strike.

Nothing about him screamed the life of a farmer. What Cinder saw was a soldier, a warrior. The curiosity was driving her mad. She wanted to know more, but Anakin seemed intent on keeping it a secret.

"You don't talk about your past much," she said, her voice dipping lower. "Why is that?"

Anakin's fingers stilled.

He glanced at her now and there was something unreadable behind his expression. A flicker of something haunted. But it passed quickly. The mask slid back into place like a shutter, and he forced a small, practiced smile.

"It's not that interesting."

Cinder smiled back. "Liar."

Anakin didn't respond immediately, and Cinder took advantage of it.

"You know," she murmured, "if I didn't know any better... I'd say you were trying very hard not to tell me something."

Anakin looked at her sidelong. "Maybe I am."

"And maybe," Cinder said, smiling wider now, "that just makes me want to know more."

Cinder's fingers ghosted toward Anakin's prosthetic hand—not to touch it, not yet, but to hover just close enough to feel the residual hum of energy bleeding through its sleek frame. Her lips parted, breath soft, eyes locked on his like she was about to ask—

"Enough."

The word cracked across the lab like a snapped cable. Glynda Goodwitch stood halfway across the room, one hand braced against the open ventilation panel, the other holding a clipboard so warped with heat it looked like it had been chewed by fire. Her glasses sat crooked on her nose, fogged and slipping, her entire expression one of irritation barely held in check by years of practiced restraint.

"I have tolerated," she said, walking toward them with clipped steps, "flirtation, innuendo, and enough heat to melt steel. But if the next thing out of either of your mouths isn't directly related to the function or safety of this device—"

"It's done," Anakin cut in, lifting the hilt from the cradle with both hands.

The lab went quiet. Even the vents seemed to pause in their futile wheeze.

The weapon sat heavy in his grip, the casing matte black with inlaid energy channels veining along its surface. Its emitter guard sloped inward like the crossguard of an ancient sword, but forged in obsidian and reinforced with Dust insulation. Small interface switches blinked softly on the side, alive with warm light. The focusing crystal—still glowing with residual heat from Cinder's Semblance—was locked inside, stabilized by the array of prismatic lenses and micro-conductors he'd spent hours threading into place.

Cinder stepped back instinctively. Not out of fear. Anticipation.

Anakin didn't look up. His thumb hovered over the activation plate, breathing slow and measured. His torso glistened under the light—sweat catching on his collarbones, on the scar across his chest—but he was calm. His eyes half-lidded. Focused.

He pressed the switch.

With a high-pitched humph, the blade erupted from the hilt.

But it wasn't fire-red.

It was a deep, crackling purple. Plasma channeled through a narrow edge, edged with serrated heat distortion that made the weapon look alive. The blade itself was flat, angular, more like a blade than a traditional lightsaber—its core brighter than starlight, but flickering with void-dark veins down the middle. Just like the image projected into the schematics. Just like the thing they'd been trying to build, unsure it would ever truly come together.

The plasma hissed in the air, spitting faint arcs of static at the tip. Along the inner edge, fractal tendrils of energy licked and danced like fire made sentient.

Glynda's words died in her throat.

Cinder exhaled slowly, golden eyes drinking in the weapon's glow, the way its aura painted Anakin's face in violet and silver.

"Now that is beautiful," she whispered.

Anakin turned the blade slightly in his grip, and the hum rose, sounding more like screeching than anything. He held it at an angle to test the balance—despite the irregular blade shape, the weight was perfect. His muscles remembered how to move with something like this in hand. It wasn't just a weapon.

It was his.

Chapter Text

Ozpin turned the weapon over in his hands with careful precision, his fingers brushing along the polished metal before he flicked the activation switch. A crackling hum filled the room as the violet blade surged to life, casting a soft purple glow over his face. His eyes widened—just slightly—but enough to betray genuine surprise.

"Impressive. Most impressive," he said at last, nodding slowly. "I didn't expect you'd be able to construct such a remarkable weapon in so short a time. From what James has told me, the Atlesian Military has been attempting to create Dust Blades for decades with no success. And yet you managed it in an afternoon. Hm…"

He powered the blade down and returned it to Anakin, placing it back in his hand with solemn approval as his gaze shifted towards Cinder.

"I'm glad to see my decision in hiring you was correct, Miss Fall."

Cinder beamed at the compliment, lifting her chin in smug pride.

"Why, of course it was. Who else could purify Dust in such a way that it becomes weaponized like this? It may be Anakin's weapon, but it was only because of my expertise that we were able to make it fully realized."

Beside Ozpin, Glynda Goodwitch rolled her eyes, arms folded across her chest. Ever since the incident during the weapon's construction, she'd had to endure Cinder's endless boasting—and it was starting to wear thin.

"I'm just happy to have a weapon again," Anakin said with a small smirk as he tucked the Dust Blade away. "I was starting to miss my ligh—old weapon." He caught himself mid-sentence when Glynda shot him a pointed look.

Ozpin nodded, his expression remaining calm behind the rim of his ever-present coffee mug. "Understandable. Every Huntsman constructs their own weapon. It's only natural to form a bond with it. Now that we've resolved this matter, I'm afraid there's another issue that requires addressing."

Anakin arched an eyebrow. "What sort of issue?"

Ozpin cleared his throat. "When our previous Dust Professor conducted his final on-campus experiment, things got... damaged."

"'Damaged'?" Anakin echoed, already wary.

"…He blew a giant hole in the building."

There was a beat of silence.

"…I can see why he was fired," Anakin muttered.

Ozpin nodded. "Indeed. As a result, many of the staff quarters are still under reconstruction. I'm rather ashamed to admit this, but we don't currently have a room available for you."

Anakin blinked. "What do you mean, you don't have a room?"

"If the repairs were finished before the students returned, I'd simply assign you a dorm temporarily. Unfortunately, the projected restoration time is about two more months. As such, the only option we have is for you to temporarily reside with someone else."

"Oh really? Well, do you have someone in mind?" Cinder stepped forward quickly, smiling with eager delight. "If not, I'll gladly volunteer."

Glynda's eyes narrowed. "As much as we appreciate your enthusiasm, Miss Fall, I believe Mister Skywalker should stay with me. He's had little time to adjust to Beacon, and if I supervise him personally, I can ensure he becomes more manageable."

"Oh? But you already do so much," Cinder said sweetly, though her glare was razor-sharp. "Why burden yourself with yet another task?"

"It would be no trouble. I'm more than capable of handling it."

"From what I've seen, I have to think otherwise."

From the sidelines, Anakin stood awkwardly as the two women stared each other down like predators. He looked to Ozpin, who merely sipped his coffee and raised his brows slightly—as if to say your move.

Anakin's hand rested lightly on the hilt of his newly-forged blade, thumb brushing along the polished curve of its emitter as he watched Glynda and Cinder trade barbed smiles. Though they stood a full pace apart, the tension between them crackled harder than the Dust core that powered his weapon. He knew this wasn't just about accommodations—no, this was a battle of dominance cloaked in civility, and unfortunately he was the battlefield they were waging war on.

Glynda spoke first, her voice cool and professional. "Mr. Skywalker will benefit from structure. Discipline. I'll ensure he receives both."

She didn't look at him when she said it—her eyes were locked squarely on Cinder—but her tone carried that teacher's firmness he'd come to recognize. Glynda Goodwitch was precise, commanding, immaculately poised even when half a breath away from launching someone through a stone wall. And he couldn't deny it—there was a part of him drawn to that. She embodied control. Not just her own, but others'. She could tame chaos with a flick of her riding crop and one sharp word.

Logically, it made sense. She was experienced, level-headed. She could help him navigate this strange new world with the kind of measured guidance he'd once had from…

The headache came back. Anakin resisted the urge to nurse his head, a faint scowl across his lips from irritation.

Then, there was Cinder.

His gaze shifted, almost involuntarily, and there she stood. Smiling like the cat who'd swallowed not just the canary but the entire cage, her amber eyes glinting with dangerous delight.

She was everything Glynda wasn't.

Heat instead of cold. Fire instead of frost. Where Glynda was disciplined, Cinder was temptation. She didn't just demand attention—she commanded it, drew it to her like gravity itself bent for her whims. And gods help him, Anakin could feel it. That pull. That quiet but overwhelming sense that she was more than she seemed—more than she let anyone else believe.

She had power. Real power. Not just in her elemental affinity or her clever manipulation of Dust—but something deeper. A kind of confidence he recognized because he'd worn it himself. She didn't ask permission. She didn't obey. She didn't yield.

And that smile—gods, that smug smile. She knew what she was doing. Not just to Glynda, but to him as well. She knew, and she relished it.

His mind whispered that this was foolish. That going with Cinder would be reckless, that she was volatile, unpredictable, a walking wildfire who might burn him to ash the moment she grew bored. Glynda offered safety, structure. A predictable environment. Cinder offered none of that.

But his soul—it didn't care about logic.

His soul was already walking toward her.

"I'll move in with Cinder."

Both women froze.

Glynda's eyes didn't so much as flicker at first. Her jaw set—not clenched in anger, but sealed like a vault, as if the muscles of her face had turned to granite. Her arms remained folded, though her fingers dug just slightly into the fabric of her sleeves. There was no dramatic gasp. No outburst. Only a small breath drawn in through her nose, tight and restrained.

"I see," she said, and for a moment, Anakin almost wished she'd shouted instead. "Very well. I hope, for your sake, you find the arrangement… productive."

Then she turned on her heel, her boots clicking as she strode from the office without another word. The door didn't slam, but Anakin certainly flinched when the door shut regardless.

Oh, she definitely hated him now, didn't she?

Cinder watched her leave with the kind of casual amusement usually reserved for hunting dogs watching their prey stumble.

Then her gaze slid to Anakin.

"You're full of surprises," she murmured, stepping close enough that the scent of her hit him again—heat and dust, ash and something faintly sweet, like burning berries.

"You've been dying to say 'I told you so,'" he muttered, folding his arms.

"Oh, I don't need to say it." She grinned, flicking a single strand of her dark hair from her shoulder. "It's written all over your face."

"It's not."

"It is."

Behind them, Ozpin let out a low sigh that might've been amusement—or long-suffering resignation. He rose from behind his desk, coffee mug in hand, and circled to stand beside the massive window that overlooked Beacon's main courtyard.

"Well," Ozpin said at last, "let's all hope that this proves to be a mutually beneficial living situation. For both your sake... and Beacon's."

Anakin tilted his head. "You sound like you're expecting something to blow up again."

"I'm not expecting anything," Ozpin replied smoothly. "But you'll forgive me if I prepare a contingency or two, won't you?"

Cinder smirked. "You don't trust me?"

"Miss Fall," Ozpin said with the ghost of a smile, "I trust you precisely as far as I can see you. Which, at the moment, is... still within this room. I consider that a blessing."

"Flatterer."

Cinder turned and reached for Anakin's wrist, her nails painted a deep crimson that shimmered faintly like molten glass. She didn't drag him—she didn't have to. Her touch was light, almost ceremonial. But it claimed him.

"Shall we?" she said, her voice warm.

Anakin hesitated only a heartbeat, then nodded, letting her lead him toward the elevator.


Cinder's apartment was perched on the corner of Beacon's uppermost staff wing—a space built more for seclusion than comfort, though somehow she'd made it both.

The door opened and she stepped in first, slipping off her gloves with a fluid twist of the wrist before flicking them onto a hook near the entrance.

Anakin followed, his eyes roaming the space with the measured alertness of someone who'd spent a lifetime expecting danger in every corner.

But there was no danger here.

Not an obvious danger, anyway.

The living area was compact but beautifully arranged—deep crimson tones softening the rough stone walls, with gold accents glinting in the trim of furniture and drapery. A pair of plush chairs, black velvet stitched with Dust-threaded embroidery, framed a low, circular table at the center. The table was carved from smooth obsidian, and scattered across its surface were half-melted candles, a few books, and a glass vial of Dust that shimmered with fiery red light when the door closed behind him.

Beyond that, an open-plan kitchen glinted under copper lighting. It was small, yes—but elegant in a way that made him pause. Sleek black counters, burnished steel fixtures, and shelves stocked not with dry rations, but labeled canisters, fresh spices, and—was that a bottle of Mistrali brandy nestled on the corner rack?

To the right, a wide arched doorway led straight into her bedroom—no door, no curtain, just space. And through it, he glimpsed a sprawling bed layered in dark silk and heavy blankets, already turned down like it expected someone soon. The far wall of the room was dominated by a wide-paned window, draped now in velvet the color of pomegranate wine.

And in the corner, nestled between the sitting area and the outer wall, sat a stone fireplace. Cold, for now, but clearly well-used—ashes gathered in the pit, firewood stacked beside it in neat, ritualistic order. A single iron poker leaned against the side like a weapon waiting for its cue.

Anakin stood just inside the threshold, cloak hanging from one shoulder. His eyes flicked from point to point. "You really don't do anything halfway, do you?"

Cinder chuckled, soft and pleased. She stepped past him, boots thudding lightly against the woven rug as she made her way to the hearth.

"Halfway," she echoed, kneeling down, "is for people who think they can afford second chances."

Cinder seated herself across from him. She flicked her fingers toward the fireplace, and a warm flame sparked to life with a quiet whoosh, casting golden light across the room. "Ozpin was kind enough to give me everything I requested. Makes life here quite wonderful."

Anakin glanced around again, taking in the plush interior with a mixture of wariness and reluctant admiration. The whole apartment was crafted like a snare—luxurious, seductive, finely woven, and impossible to ignore. It suited her.

Still standing, he unlatched his cloak and draped it over the nearest chair, letting his shoulders settle as the fire's warmth began to stretch across the room. He glanced toward the open bedroom doorway again, gaze lingering on the massive bed swathed in shadows and silk.

Then he turned to Cinder, brow faintly arched.

"So," he said slowly, the edge of a dry smile tugging at his mouth, "where exactly am I supposed to sleep?"

Cinder didn't answer immediately. She took her time, rising from her chair with a deliberate roll of her shoulders, the dim firelight catching along the lines of her fitted outfit as she stepped toward him. She stopped just a pace in front of him, eyes aglow and lips curved in that same dangerous smile she'd worn in Ozpin's office.

"My bed," she said simply.

Anakin blinked.

Just once.

He didn't back up, but there was a faint tension in his jaw, a subtle shift in his shoulders that suggested battle instincts warming beneath the surface. His gaze sharpened, locked on hers with wary precision. "Your bed."

Cinder's grin widened, and she tilted her head. "Mm. It's large enough. And warm. You might even call it... welcoming."

He stared at her. "You're not serious."

She let the moment stretch—just long enough for him to start believing she was.

Then she laughed. A rich, amused sound that bubbled out like a perfectly poured glass of wine. She spun away with theatrical flair, her hair whipping behind her as she moved back toward the kitchenette.

"Oh, relax," she said over her shoulder, waving a hand with lazy amusement. "I'm joking."

Anakin exhaled sharply through his nose, posture easing as he turned to track her movement. "You really enjoy doing that, don't you?"

Cinder glanced back, her eyes glinting. "What, teasing you?"

"Yes."

"Good." She opened a cupboard and pulled down a glass. "Then we're off to a promising start."

He shook his head slightly, lips twitching. "So if not the bed, then where?"

Cinder filled the glass from a decanter of something dark and amber, then set it aside before moving to the far corner of the apartment. She tapped a subtle latch near the base of one of the bookcases—an elegant mechanism clicked open, revealing a pull-out frame.

With a sweep of her hand, she unfurled a surprisingly sleek, charcoal-gray cot. The mattress was lean, but not threadbare. A blanket lay folded at the foot, and a small pillow rested at the head.

"You'll take this," she said, gesturing with a slight smirk. "Unless, of course, you change your mind."

He said nothing at first, letting the firelight warm his skin as he slowly moved toward it, crouching down to test the mattress with a press of his hand. The material gave slightly beneath his organic fingers—not rock-hard, but not soft either. Just enough to sleep on. Just enough to function.

It was perfectly serviceable.

He could already feel the corners of the pillow through the sheet. Exactly the kind of thing the Jedi Temple would have stocked. Spartan. Designed to remind the occupant that comfort was earned, not given.

His expression didn't change. But the flicker of old memory rose and died in his eyes, fast as the crackle of firewood behind him.

Cinder had wandered back to the kitchenette by now, refilling her glass. She leaned against the marble countertop, swirling the amber liquid with a lazy roll of her wrist, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

"You look like someone who's either going to lie down or punch a wall," she said idly.

Anakin stood, rolling his shoulders as though trying to shrug off more than just tension. "Neither."

"Oh?" she asked, cocking her head.

"I'm taking a shower," he said simply, tugging at the clasp on his belt. "I've been elbow-deep in Dust cores and welding plasma all afternoon. I need to wash the forge off me."

"Mm. Practical." Cinder sipped her drink, the crystal rim brushing against her lower lip with a soft clink. "Bathroom's through the bedroom. First door on the left."

He paused, glancing toward the open archway that led into the master chamber. "Of course it is."

"Don't worry," she said with mock sweetness. "I won't peek. Probably."

He gave her a flat look, then turned toward the bedroom without another word. His boots made minimal sound across the thick carpeting as he passed the bed, the silken sheets gleaming faintly in the low light like ink poured over velvet.

The door to the bathroom was just where she'd said—left wall, slightly ajar. He pushed it open fully and stepped inside.

It was just as refined as the rest of the apartment.

The walls were tiled in dark slate, the sink carved from a single piece of black marble with gold piping. A wide mirror stretched across the wall above it, framed with dim Dust-infused lights that cast a soft amber hue across the room. A rainfall showerhead hung above a sunken stall, the glass door already lightly fogged from earlier use.

Anakin stripped down methodically, folding his shirt and placing it on the narrow bench beside the sink. His belt and blade rested atop it, placed with deliberate care, the violet emitter gleaming in the low light.

Once he was fully in the bare, Anakin stepped into the shower.

The water struck Anakin's back in steady sheets—hot, almost blisteringly so. It rolled down over his shoulders, across the curve of his spine, pooling briefly before streaming down his legs and vanishing into the dark marble drain. Steam filled the shower stall, curling around his face and clinging to his skin like a second, heavier air.

He closed his eyes, tilted his head forward, and let the heat seep into every sore muscle and tight joint. But even as the ache of the day began to ease, the tightness behind his eyes didn't go away.

It wasn't pain. Not really.

It was her.

Cinder Fall.

She wasn't in the shower, wasn't in the room, but she may as well have been. Her presence, her scent, her smile—it lingered like smoke. Like something impossible to scrub off. His fingers flexed against the tiled wall as he took a breath.

Why her?

Why did she pull at him this way? It wasn't just her looks—though gods knew that was part of it. It wasn't even the way she moved, the way she wielded power like it belonged to her.

It was deeper than that.

And stranger.

Anakin exhaled through his nose and leaned forward, forehead resting against the cool tile. The contrast between the stone and the burning water grounded him, but it didn't clear the fog in his chest.

Why did it feel like he knew her?

He tried to follow the thread—like gripping smoke in his palm. The more he focused, the more it slipped, and the greater his headache became. He grit his teeth, forcing himself to abandon the thread before he'd end up collapsing in the shower.

None of it made sense to him, and answers were eluding the man. It was driving him crazy and Anakin didn't have the slightest idea how to solve it without blowing his cover.

The hot water tapered off with a twist of the brass handle, its final rivulets sliding down Anakin's skin and dripping onto the black stone beneath him. Silence followed—a thick, wet silence broken only by the soft hiss of steam swirling upward, blurring the glass door and fogging the mirror beyond. He stood there a moment longer, letting the air cool around him, willing his thoughts to follow suit.

They didn't.

With a quiet exhale through his nose, Anakin stepped out of the shower stall and reached for the plush black towel folded on the bench. He dragged it across his shoulders first, then down his chest and back, absorbing the droplets that clung stubbornly to muscle and scar alike. Once dry, he wrapped it around his waist—tight, secure—and retrieved the towel for his hair, rubbing it briskly as he stepped toward the door.

He didn't expect anything.

That was his mistake.

The moment he stepped back into the bedroom, he froze on the spot.

Cinder stood across the room, just beside the foot of the bed, her back half-turned toward him, the deep red firelight from the hearth casting lazy flickers of gold across her skin. She hadn't heard him—or pretended not to. Either was believable.

She wore black lace. Only black lace.

The lingerie clung to her curves like oil and shadow, the pattern delicate as spider's silk, threaded with subtle glints of Dust that shimmered faintly with each breath she took. The bra was intricate—more decorative than functional—designed to draw the eye and keep it. And it did. Every inch of it. The panties rode high against her hips, cut low in the back. Slim straps of lace hugged her thighs like binding spells. She moved one hand up her side, fingers brushing her ribs, before sliding up to the clasp of the bra.

Her thumb and forefinger began to unhook it.

Then she glanced over her shoulder.

Their eyes locked.

Her lips curled—just faintly. A smile without teeth. Calm. Dangerous.

"Enjoying the view?" she asked without shame, fingers still resting at the halfway point of the clasp.

Anakin didn't answer immediately. His gaze had dipped—once, maybe twice—and his expression showed it. Barely a crease in his brow, but the tension in his jaw, the way his chest expanded with a longer breath—he wasn't hiding it.

"I wasn't expecting company," she added, voice silken and light, as though commenting on the weather.

He cleared his throat. "Why…?"

Cinder's brow lifted with that same infuriating grace. "Why what?"

"You. That," he said, gesturing vaguely toward the lingerie. "Right now."

She let out a soft, amused hum, and let her fingers slip from the bra clasp, choosing not to finish the motion—for now. Instead, she turned fully to face him, bare-legged, the gentle arc of her hips drawing the firelight into every curve.

"I was thinking," she said, stepping closer, one slow pace at a time, "that a shower sounded good too."

Her gaze lingered on him—his bare chest, the water still trailing down the lines of his abdomen, the towel knotted low on his hips.

Anakin exhaled, steady but clipped. He didn't move from the doorway. "Did you?"

"Mhm." She ran a hand through her hair, slow and luxurious. "All that fire, the forge, the Dust reaction—got me feeling a little sticky. Thought I'd freshen up."

"Right after me," he said dryly, arms crossing over his chest. "Convenient."

She smiled now—truly smiled. Not coy. Not sarcastic.

Predatory.

"Don't tell me you think I'm doing this on purpose."

Anakin raised a brow. "Aren't you?"

Cinder shrugged with maddening nonchalance, stepping just close enough that the fire behind her flared against the sheer panels of her lingerie, outlining the suggestion of what lay beneath. "If I were—" she said, walking her fingers up along the strap of her bra, "—would that be a problem?"

His jaw clenched. His fingers twitched against his arms. Heat flickered in his spine, wholly unrelated to the fireplace.

Anakin didn't flinch.

Instead, he let out a slow, measured breath and caught her wrist gently with one hand—not forceful, not commanding. Just enough to pause her.

"You're being a nuisance," he said, his voice flat, even.

Cinder's eyes sparked. "Am I?" she asked, tone feather-light, full of amusement.

"Yes," he said, steady. "Thoroughly."

She tilted her head, as though considering his words seriously for the first time. Her hair fell over one shoulder like a sheet of shadow. Then, with deliberate slowness, she leaned in until the heat of her breath stirred the droplets clinging to his skin.

"You could've moved in with Glynda," she murmured, her voice a breath against his jaw. "You had the chance. Structure. Discipline. The better half of the faculty practically begged you for it."

She smiled, watching him through her lashes as she withdrew her hand from his grip—not pulling away, just slipping free with sinuous ease. Her fingers traced lower again, feathering across his abdomen in lazy circles that were too light to be anything but calculated.

"But instead," she whispered, "you're here."

Anakin's throat bobbed once in a quiet swallow.

"She would've given you a schedule, a bedtime, some rules to follow." Cinder's nails grazed the line just above the towel. "But instead… you chose me."

"I chose the lesser evil," he replied, and even he didn't sound convinced anymore.

She laughed. "You're such a bad liar."

His gaze dropped to hers again, unreadable—hard but uncertain.

"There's another reason," she said, tapping two fingers lightly against his chest. "You know it. I know it. It's not logic. It's not strategy. It's certainly not because I'm the safer option."

Her hand flattened, splayed across his pectoral, and she leaned in until their bodies nearly brushed.

"So what is it, Skywalker?" she purred, eyes half-lidded. "Why me?"

Anakin's breath caught halfway between his lungs and her lips.

Something shifted.

Not in her expression. Not in her body. Not even in the room.

But in the air.

A ripple.

A crackle.

The unmistakable thrum of tension where there should've been none.

He didn't hesitate.

One moment Cinder's fingers were grazing his chest, teasing the fine hairs over his heart—and in the next, Anakin's body tensed like a coiled spring, his right hand snapping upward, fingers curled.

The Force obeyed.

With a violent crack of displaced air, two bodies erupted from the shadows.

Emerald fell first—her slight frame yanked from behind the thick velvet drape beside the bedroom window, thrown forward into the firelit chamber with all the grace of a ragdoll. She hit the carpeted floor hard, tumbling with a cry of surprise that was smothered beneath the weight of a shimmering violet blade suddenly ignited and pressed against her throat.

Cinder barely blinked.

The second—Mercury—was dragged from behind the kitchen island, booted. metal feet skidding across the obsidian floor until he slammed into the wall beside the hearth with enough force to knock a picture frame loose. He grunted but recovered fast, already crouching, ready to spring.

Too slow.

Anakin stood between them and Cinder now, body a wall of muscle and precision, blade glowing with that fierce amethyst hue, its hum slicing the silence in half.

Emerald froze—one hand raised, the other flat against the ground, eyes wide and unblinking as the point of the Dust Blade hovered barely a centimeter from the hollow of her neck.

"I'm only going to ask once," Anakin said, voice low and lethal, more growl than speech. "Who are you, and why were you spying on us?"

Emerald's pupils darted to Cinder in the space of a heartbeat, her breath shallow, lips slightly parted. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came.

"Easy there, trigger finger," Cinder said calmly, stepping in beside Anakin. "I'm sure you're eager to test that weapon of yours, but it's best not to use it on students."

"Students?" Anakin asked, confused.

"They're students," Cinder said, enunciating each word with a sharpness that cut cleaner than any blade. "Emerald Sustrai and Mercury Black. Technically first-years, though they were accepted on my recommendation. They arrived early. I'm housing them until the term starts."

Anakin's gaze didn't waver, but his jaw worked silently—calculating, feeling out the edge between truth and manipulation.

"Spying is part of the curriculum now?" he asked, voice cold.

"It's part of their training." Cinder answered smoothly. "They're supposed to sneak up on me and attack. Though of course, they didn't realize you were here."

Anakin's grip didn't loosen.

Not yet.

Cinder sighed, stepping closer. "I should've warned you. That's on me."

The words were smooth, practiced—meant to disarm without sounding like surrender. Her hand reached out, just barely brushing his forearm. Not enough to command. Enough to remind him she was there.

"They're mine," she said. "My responsibility. I know them. They wouldn't hurt you."

Anakin's lips pressed together in a tight line, the furrow in his brow deep and sharp. The Force still buzzed around him, thrumming with coiled tension.

But slowly—reluctantly—he drew the blade back.

The violet glow flickered once, then vanished with a hiss as the saber powered down. He turned the hilt over in his hand, not looking at Emerald, not looking at Mercury—just breathing, jaw tight, eyes distant.

Emerald slumped slightly in relief. She didn't stand still, didn't speak.

Cinder, for her part, offered Anakin the faintest nod. It wasn't gratitude. It was an acknowledgment. The difference was subtle, but it mattered.

He took a slow breath.

Then another.

"…I didn't know," he said at last, voice quieter now, threaded with a rare, sheepish undertone. "I thought—"

"You thought someone followed you," Cinder finished gently. "You're used to enemies in every corner, aren't you?"

His mouth twitched, almost bitterly. "That obvious?"

Anakin looked down at Emerald—still half-curled on the carpet, breath shallow, sweat gleaming at her temple—and finally let himself feel the guilt clawing up his spine. The heat from the weapon had not yet faded from the air, and the fear in her eyes, however fleeting, had branded itself into his memory.

He opened his mouth, paused, then exhaled hard.

"I overreacted," he said, his voice rough but sincere. "I'm sorry."

Emerald blinked up at him, as if unsure how to process that—an apology from the man who'd just held a weapon to her throat.

"…I mean, yeah," she muttered, sitting up slowly, brushing her green bangs back with a trembling hand. "You think?"

Mercury let out a snort from across the room, rising from his crouch with practiced ease. "Guess Cinder wasn't kidding when she said you were twitchy." He cracked his neck and leaned back against the wall like nothing had happened. "Didn't realize I was signing up for live combat drills before orientation."

"I didn't know you were there," Anakin said stiffly. "If I had—"

"Yeah, yeah," Mercury waved a hand, grinning. "You'd have only hit me with the wall a little bit. I get it. Welcome to Beacon, by the way."

Anakin rubbed the back of his neck with a sigh, then glanced over at Cinder. "I need to get dressed."

Cinder's lips curled ever so slightly—not smug this time, "There's a spare room, just down the hall from ours. You can change in there without being seen."

"Thanks," he muttered, already stepping away from the group, as he exited the firelit chamber. He didn't look back.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Emerald stood fully, brushing off her legs and shooting Cinder a dry, pointed look.

"Spare room?" she asked.

Cinder tilted her head, feigning innocence with an elegance born of pure venom. "Mm-hmm."

"Cinder," Emerald said flatly, "that's Glynda Goodwitch's room."

Mercury snorted.

"Oh, I know," Cinder replied. "I'm sure she'll appreciate the surprise."

Emerald shook her head, her fingers still twitching from the memory of the blade's violet hum. She glanced toward the closed door Anakin had vanished through and muttered, "I've been in and out of shadows since I was nine. I've robbed Dust caravans, slipped past Atlas scanners, even picked Roman's pockets for fun—and I've never been caught."

Her voice was hushed, low, reverent in that breathless way that only real fear inspires. "How the hell did he see either of us?"

Cinder was quiet for a moment. The fire behind her crackled, low and soft, as she swirled the remains of her drink. The amber liquid caught the glow like molten sun.

"Because he's not like the others," she said, voice velvet-smooth, but with a distinct edge. "Amd he's clearly hiding far more about himself than I thought."

Emerald's eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you saying he's not human?"

"No," Cinder said with a slow smile. "I'm saying he's more than that."

Mercury raised an eyebrow, arms folded. "You sure he's not just some guy with anger issues and a shiny toy?"

Cinder glanced over her shoulder at him, her smile sharpening. "If I hadn't been here, either one of you could be dead."

She didn't say it as a warning.

She said it like a fact.

The words landed with weight, and neither of them challenged it. Emerald's expression shifted—annoyance giving way to unease. Her arms wrapped around herself as if warding off a chill. "He didn't even blink," she whispered. "Like it was nothing. Like putting a blade to my throat was as natural as breathing."

Cinder turned away from the fire, slow and deliberate, taking one step closer toward the center of the room. Her bare feet padded silently over the thick carpet, her gaze distant now, thoughtful. "He was going to kill you."

Emerald looked up sharply.

"If I hadn't stopped him," Cinder continued, "if I'd taken just one breath longer—he would've ended you. And then Mercury. You wouldn't even have seen it coming."

She said it with a kind of fascination, not fear. Her voice didn't tremble. Her hands didn't shake. In fact, her pulse quickened. The idea of it—of that much power, that much control—thrilled her to no end.

Mercury gave Cinder a long look. "You're excited about this."

"Oh, terrified," Cinder said breezily. "But isn't that what makes it fun?"

"You're insane."

"And yet you follow me," Cinder replied, turning to face him fully now, arms sweeping out in mock grandeur. "So what does that make you?"

Emerald opened her mouth, then closed it, unable—or unwilling—to argue.

Mercury's voice cut in, low and dry. "So what's the deal? Who is he?"

Cinder looked toward the hallway where Anakin had disappeared. For a long moment, she said nothing, just stared after him like someone reading a page no one else could see.

"He's someone I've taken an interest in," she said at last.

Mercury leaned his shoulder lazily against the wall, arms folded across his chest, a smirk curling across his lips. "Well, well," he drawled, eyes tracking the direction Anakin had gone. "That sounded suspiciously like a crush."

Cinder's gaze snapped to him, molten gold gleaming like a forge ready to spill, and the heat in her expression could've melted the paint off the walls.

"A crush?" she repeated slowly. She stepped forward once, then again, "Do you think I'm some blushing schoolgirl scribbling hearts in a notebook?"

Mercury blinked once. "Touchy, coming from someone who was probably gonna shove him right on the bed."

Cinder didn't smile.

"It's not a crush," she said. "It's recognition, and do not presume you know anything of what pleases me."

Mercury just shrugged in response, and Cinder looked back.

"I've read of powerful people in Remnant's history. Tyrants. Politicians. Magisters and generals who commanded power. Salem herself once walked with thieves who thought themselves kings and queens who thought themselves gods. But Anakin Skywalker…" Her breath came slow, her eyes distant again, but burning. "He's not pretending."

Emerald's brow furrowed. "So what is he, then?"

Cinder stepped closer to the fireplace, the flames flickering like they were bowing in her presence. She looked into them.

"He's dangerous. Not just skilled. Not just gifted. Fated. There's a difference."

She turned back to them, her bare arms catching the firelight as she leaned against the edge of the mantle, one leg crossing over the other. Her voice dropped, low and smooth and tinged with something close to awe.

"He's kind. Shockingly so. Polite. Gentle, when he chooses to be. The way he apologized to you…" She nodded once toward Emerald, "...meant it. You felt that, didn't you?"

Emerald nodded once, uneasy.

"He's loyal. Protective. He wants to be good. Wants to do good." Cinder tilted her head, lips curling—not in amusement, but something deeper. "But he's got a soul full of fire. Rage. Pain. Grief so thick it clings to his bones. That forge where most people burn out? He thrives in it."

She leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming.

"And it's calling to me, because I have been where he is. We are one in the same."

Mercury scoffed under his breath. "So what—you want to corrupt him?"

Cinder's gaze flicked to him with something like pity.

"No," she said softly. "I want to unleash him."

That silenced both of them.

She stood up straight again, her hands slowly sliding along the edge of the mantle as she stepped back toward the center of the room.

"There's power in him. The kind that breaks empires, shatters armies. But it's not just raw strength—it's purpose. Direction. If I can guide it… harness it…"

She trailed off, her expression not dreamy, not hopeful—calculated. Confident.

Emerald frowned. "You really think he'd follow you?"

Cinder smiled again—slow, confident, terrifying in its certainty.

"He already is." Cinder said calmly. "And before the Vytal Festival graces us, I will ensure he is one of us."

The fire crackled softly as silence settled over the room. Mercury leaned his weight more heavily against the wall, arms still folded, but his eyes held a spark of caution now. Emerald, seated again on the edge of the velvet-cushioned chair, tugged one of her green braids over her shoulder and twisted it between her fingers, expression dark.

"…I don't trust him," she said at last, her voice low but clear. "Whatever he is, whatever you think he might become—he nearly killed me. What if… What if he tries to do the same to you?"

Cinder didn't respond right away.

She crossed the room with unhurried grace, her bare feet soundless against the thick carpet, the last few sips of brandy still cradled in her glass. She moved with the same easy control that made soldiers nervous and nobles lean in too close—until it was too late. She stopped at Emerald's side, gaze fixed downward, and set her glass on the obsidian table with a muted click.

Then she leaned forward—just slightly—and whispered into her ear.

"You will not interfere."

Emerald swallowed.

"You don't need to trust him," Cinder continued, voice cold and exact, "but you will respect what I've seen, and nothing more."

Emerald didn't argue. Her hands slowly stilled in her lap.

Cinder straightened, her gold eyes flicking to Mercury next. "That goes for you too."

Mercury lifted both hands in mock surrender. "Wasn't planning on it," he said casually. "If anything, I'm hoping you are right. I've never seen a guy do that kind of damage with a flick of his fingers. Be a shame to waste that kind of potential."

Cinder studied him a moment longer. Then she nodded once.

Emerald rose to her feet, and with a breath that carried just enough weight to mean something, bowed her head.

"Understood," she murmured.

Mercury mirrored the motion, a shade less reverent but no less sincere.

Satisfied, Cinder turned away from them and strode back toward her bedroom.

The moment she reached the archway, her fingers unhooked the last clasp of her bra. It slid down her arms and dropped silently to the floor, the black lace folding like shed skin. She didn't pause. Didn't look back. Just peeled away the last of the garments with slow, fluid grace—her hips tilting as she stepped out of them, one leg, then the other, like shedding a second self.

She disappeared through the bathroom door without ceremony, letting it swing gently closed behind her.


The water rushed over her skin like a liquid veil, hot enough to sting and soothing enough to keep her standing still, eyes half-lidded beneath the rainfall stream. Steam curled along the obsidian walls of the bathroom, drifting up into the glow of the dim Dust-lit sconces above the mirror. Cinder leaned forward against the smooth black tile, her arms braced against the wall, shoulders slick with heat and droplets. Her breath came slow, steady, but there was no calm in her body—no stillness in her mind.

It was all him.

Anakin.

Damn him.

She dragged her wet hair back from her face with both hands, tilting her chin upward, letting the water flow down her throat and between her breasts. Her pulse beat behind her teeth. Her thighs shifted once, then again, as if they were trying to betray her thoughts.

Mercury had said it like a joke. "That sounded suspiciously like a crush."

And she'd scorched him with her glare, torn the idea apart with sharp words and sharper teeth—but the little bastard hadn't been wrong, had he?

She clenched her jaw and exhaled hard through her nose. The water steamed more violently as it hit her body, the rising humidity a mirror to what was simmering just beneath her skin.

It wasn't a crush. That word was too small. Too childish. Too mortal.

She didn't crush on people.

But this… this was different. He was different.

She'd seen strength before—plenty of it. Power wielded like a blunt instrument, men puffed up with ego and vanity, Huntsmen and crime lords alike trying to play gods. She'd seduced them, used them, discarded them like weapons past their prime. But Anakin…

Anakin didn't try to be dangerous.

He simply was.

Her mind reeled back to that moment—his hand catching her wrist, heat between them that had nothing to do with the fire. The way he'd looked at her. Not intimidated. Not flustered. Measured. As if he were trying to decide what she was. Not whether she was beautiful—he knew that already—but whether she was worth surviving.

Cinder bit her bottom lip, hard enough to sting.

The thought of him standing there in nothing but a towel, fresh from the shower, water glistening across the muscle-wrought plane of his chest, his shoulders broad enough to darken doorways—it made her thighs press together again, tighter this time.

She didn't let herself make a sound. Not yet. But her breath caught on the inhale.

She could feel where he'd been standing. The air still tasted like him. Dust and steel and something ancient, something that didn't belong to this world. Like forgotten stars and distant war. His eyes had looked through her, into her, in a way no one ever dared.

And it thrilled her.

Her fingers slid down the curve of her hip, ghosted along the edge of her thigh as the thought unspooled in her mind—Anakin gripping her waist, slamming her back against the wall, his mouth hot and claiming, his strength absolute. Not just a man between her legs, but a force of nature breaking her open, cracking every inch of her carefully cultivated control until she was gasping his name like it was a prayer.

"Ah—" The sound slipped past her lips, too quick to catch. It echoed, barely audible over the rush of water, but enough to shame her.

She bit her lip again, harder this time, and cursed herself.

'Focus,' she told herself. 'Get a grip.'

But she couldn't. Not when her body ached like this. Not when the image of him—that impossible mix of grief and fury and restraint—kept replaying in her mind like a forbidden memory.

He was a contradiction wrapped in a weapon. Polite, until he wasn't. Gentle, until the moment demanded violence. And gods, what violence he could summon—she'd seen it. Felt it. The sheer force with which he'd hurled Emerald and Mercury like they weighed nothing at all.

Power like that didn't just tempt her.

It called to her.

She ran both hands down her stomach, watching the water trail between her fingers, down past her navel, lower still. Her thighs pressed closer. Her breath quickened.

Would he be rough? Would he tear at her clothes, pin her down, bare his teeth while claiming her like he meant to leave marks that would never fade?

Or would he be gentle first—fingers tracing every line of her body with a reverence she'd never earned, eyes soft and dark with longing, like he needed her to understand how much he wanted it? Wanted her.

She exhaled, shaky, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with thoughts she couldn't stop.

She growled low in her throat and slammed her palm against the wall, water spraying from the impact, steam curling around her in angry coils.

'This isn't weakness,' she told herself. 'This is strategy.'

If she wanted him, she'd take him. On her terms. On her timing. The world could burn and beg beneath her feet, but she would claim him.

Her obsession wasn't infatuation. It wasn't girlish.

It was hunger. Pure and raw and rooted in something that only her Master would understand, for she had taught it to her so many years ago.

She turned her back to the spray, the water hitting her breasts now, sliding down her sternum, tracing over the curves like fingers. She closed her eyes and let herself imagine his hands instead—bigger, rougher, his breath hot against her neck, the scrape of his mouth along her collarbone.

Cinder moaned, soft and bitten-back, her legs trembling slightly as she imagined how he'd sound—her name, gasped and snarled and torn from his throat in the heat of it all.

This was more than desire.

This was prophecy.

And soon, very soon, he'd realize it too.