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Chapter Text

The throne room of Theed glowed with morning light, golden beams cutting across marble polished so brightly the Jedi could see their own reflections in it. Courtiers lined the walls in perfect stillness, waiting for the child-princess who was said to be Naboo’s eternal jewel.

She did not look like a child.

Princess Deysi sat at the center of the chamber, crown perfectly straight, posture immaculate. Every movement was measured — the subtle lift of her chin, the stillness of her hands folded in her lap, the steady calm of her gaze. Only fourteen, yet she bore herself as if sculpted from the same marble as her throne.

Padmé Amidala, her elder sister, stood at her side. Padmé’s warmth softened the room; Deysi’s steel commanded it.

The doors opened. The Jedi entered. Obi-Wan Kenobi, composed, unshakable. At his side, the Padawan, Anakin Skywalker, his youth barely concealed beneath the weight of his cloak.

Both bowed low.

“Your Highness,” Obi-Wan intoned.

“Princess,” Anakin echoed.

Deysi’s eyes lingered on them, cool and assessing, before her voice carried across the chamber like a blade.

“So. The Jedi. Servants of the galaxy who give without cost, who serve without ambition. Tell me—do you truly believe such words? Or do you merely recite them because they sound noble in crowded halls?”

Obi-Wan’s composure flickered. Anakin’s brows drew together.

“We give because it is right,” the boy answered, too quick, too blunt. “Not because it profits us.”

A faint curve touched Deysi’s lips, not quite a smile.

“And yet you bow to the Republic. To laws written by men far from Naboo. You call yourselves free, but you obey. That is not service freely given. That is obedience dressed as virtue.”

Murmurs stirred. The courtiers shifted. Padmé’s lips pressed together, but her eyes glimmered with the faintest pride. Deysi had spoken as though she were already queen.

The audience wound to its polite conclusion, Obi-Wan smoothing words where his apprentice bristled. Deysi dismissed them with nothing more than the dip of her chin.

When the doors closed behind the Jedi, silence followed her into the princess’s private chamber. She removed her crown and set it down with careful precision, as though even here she were being watched. Her spine remained straight, her shoulders square. The throne’s shape was etched into her body.

Padmé let out a sigh, leaning against the carved doorway. “Deysi, you can’t speak to Jedi like that. They aren’t senators. They aren’t nobles. They’re allies.”

Deysi turned, her face unreadable. “Allies who claim to give without price. That is not an ally. That is a story for children.”

“You were cold. Cutting,” Padmé pressed, stepping forward. “You looked as if you despised them.”

For a heartbeat, something fragile flickered across Deysi’s face — then vanished behind perfect composure. She walked to the tall window overlooking Theed, her reflection staring back at her: a girl wrapped in silk, bound in gold, too young and yet never allowed to be young.

“If I smile at everyone, if I soften, then everyone will believe they can take what they wish from me,” she said quietly. “I cannot allow that. Not here. Not anywhere.”

Padmé’s frown softened, though her voice was gentle. “Not everyone wants to take from you. Some would give.”

Deysi’s lips curved faintly, almost mocking. “And what is freely given can just as freely be taken away.”

She stepped aside when her sister reached for her, not unkindly — simply firmly. She would never let Padmé bear the full weight of her thoughts, not when it could make her a target. Padmé could never know how sharp her sister’s mistrust ran.

“You’re too young to carry all of this,” Padmé whispered.

Deysi kept her gaze on the city below. “I was never given the choice.”

And though she looked unshakable, her reflection betrayed her — the face of a girl balancing a crown too heavy, building walls even her sister could not climb.

Far below, in the corridors of the palace, the Jedi walked in silence until Anakin muttered at last, sharp with irritation: “She’s nothing like Senator Amidala. Padmé is kind. Generous. That princess… she’s spoiled. Arrogant. Cold.”

Obi-Wan’s mouth curved faintly, though his tone was level. “A girl who has been given everything since birth will never understand sacrifice, Anakin. Remember that.”

Later, in the throne room once more, the court gathered for matters of state. Nobles bowed low, their silks rustling. One voice rose above the rest — polished, deferential, but edged with ambition.

“Your Highness,” said Lord Vane, inclining his head. “We wish to revisit the matter of shipping lanes through the Mid Rim. Our houses have long handled these arrangements. It would be most efficient if you permitted us to continue overseeing the tariffs. After all, experience teaches us best how to serve Naboo’s prosperity.”

Respectful words. Respectful tone. But underneath, an attempt to sideline the crown in the name of “efficiency.”

Deysi’s gaze was steady. When she spoke, her voice carried like tempered steel.

“Experience, yes. I recall when your houses oversaw the plasma tariffs fifteen years ago. The result was a shortfall that nearly collapsed Naboo’s treasury, leaving us dependent on off-world subsidies for two seasons. When you controlled the agricultural trade routes, the price of grain doubled in three provinces, and half the harvests rotted before reaching port. You speak of experience, Lord Vane, but what you describe is mismanagement disguised as tradition.”

The noble’s practiced smile faltered.

Deysi did not let him recover.

“I do not doubt your intention to serve Naboo. But I will not allow history to repeat itself for the sake of convenience. This matter will remain under the crown’s direct authority. And if any noble feels capable of greater service, let them bring me a record as long as mine.”

Silence blanketed the chamber. The noble bowed lower, words caught in his throat. None dared speak further.

Padmé’s pride was visible in the faint curve of her lips.

And in the shadows, the Jedi observed. Obi-Wan’s eyes gleamed with approval. Anakin scowled faintly, unsettled. Padmé would have soothed, invited compromise, left her opponents with dignity intact. Deysi had ended the matter coldly, decisively, with no room for it to ever be raised again.

“She didn’t win him,” Anakin muttered to his master afterward. “She buried him.”

Obi-Wan’s reply was calm. “And ensured the question will not return.”

Anakin said nothing more, but the memory of the girl on the throne lingered, sharper than he wished to admit. 

Chapter Text

The second day in court was no different from the first: the same marble echo, the same gold light falling in long ribbons, the same girl seated on the throne like she had been carved into it.

Princess Deysi Naberrie.

Her black hair gleamed like polished obsidian beneath her crown, not a strand out of place. Her eyes were diamond-clear, sharp and cold, and they did not soften even when she listened. Her face was flawless — untouched, perfect. No shadows beneath her eyes. No weariness. No imperfection. She looked like someone who had never known hardship, never been asked to bleed for anything.

Padmé had tired eyes from nights of work. Padmé’s hair was soft brown, warm where the sun caught it. Padmé’s smile still belonged to the people. But her sister — this marble doll on the throne — did not smile at all.

She’s spoiled, Anakin thought with distaste. Untouchable. Arrogant. Cold. She doesn’t care.

The morning session moved through petitions: a levy scheme dismissed in a handful of cutting words; a relocation of a hospital rejected because “the sick need doctors, not prestige.” Each time Deysi’s tone was precise, her words factual, her mercy nonexistent.

Everyone looked impressed. Anakin only frowned harder. Padmé would have soothed. Padmé would have left men with dignity. Deysi ended matters like they were entries on a slate.

When the recess was called, courtiers began to scatter into small groups of murmuring silk and low conversation. Deysi stayed on the throne, back straight, conferring quietly with her handmaidens, never once letting her crown tilt.

Anakin left with Obi-Wan, following Padmé into the sunlight of the garden beyond the chamber. Still, even with distance, he could replay every word she had spoken. He didn’t want to, but they clung to him anyway — sharp, exact, inescapable.

“She shuts them down like they’re problems to be solved,” he muttered. “Cold. Like she’s never known hardship a day in her life.”

Padmé turned on him so quickly he flinched.

“Don’t you dare judge her.”

Her voice shook once with fury before it sharpened into steel. “You have no right to call her cold when you have never truly known sacrifice. You think you understand hardship, Anakin, but you don’t know what it means to carry an entire planet on your shoulders before you’re old enough to choose your own life. She was crowned at six. While other children played, she memorized decrees. Every day since, men twice her age have waited for her to slip, to stumble, to give them what they wanted. So she learned not to bend. She learned not to soften. Because if she did, they would devour her.”

Anakin’s jaw tightened, but Padmé’s words pressed on like fire.

“You ask if I act like she would die on that throne? She will. Because she believes it is her duty. She believes it is her birthright. She was bred and raised for that throne — and she will not abandon it until it kills her. And you cannot condemn the sister I have loved more than anything in my heart for surviving the only way she knows how.”

Her eyes glistened, but she turned away before he could answer.

The afternoon session began. Deysi returned to the throne — black hair shining, diamond eyes cutting, face unreadable.

Lord Ascor rose, voice smooth. “Your Highness, Naboo’s security patrols are admirable, but costly. If we were to scale them back — say, redeploy one-third of our soldiers to escort trade convoys through the Mid Rim — the coffers would swell. With the surplus, the palace could expand its ceremonial budget. More splendor reassures the galaxy that Naboo is prosperous and strong.”

Anakin leaned against his pillar, arms crossed, but his eyes tracked every twitch of her face. He memorized the narrowing of her eyes, the stillness of her hands, the way her voice cut like tempered glass.

Deysi said:

“You speak of splendor. But I recall the year 47 B.B.Y., when Naboo reduced its city patrols to fund the Festival of Crowns. That summer, the Outer Lake district suffered three pirate raids. Thirty-seven citizens were killed before reinforcements arrived. Do you remember their names? Because I do. Lira Pell, twelve years old. Tyren Vol, a fisherman’s son. Doro Sen, a midwife who had delivered more children than you have spoken to in your life. That was the cost of your splendor.”

The court stilled. Anakin caught every syllable, whether he wanted to or not.

Deysi leaned forward slightly, her voice sharpening.

“And now you would ask for more. The husbands of Naboo have already bled for this world — many never returned. Their widows still grieve. And you would send their sons, their daughters, to die in their fathers’ place. Not to defend Naboo. Not to keep her safe. But because you want to fill your bellies with richer food and call it prosperity.”

The chamber was silent, suffocating.

She finished:

“Tell me, Lord Ascor, how will your feasts help the people whose blood has already bought this peace? How will your pageantry comfort the women who have lost everything, when the only thing you ask of them now is the rest of their children?”

Lord Ascor bowed low, unable to answer. “As you command, Your Highness.”

Deysi inclined her head, cold and flawless. “As Naboo remembers.”

The court breathed again.

From the shadows, Obi-Wan exhaled quietly, approval in his eyes.

Anakin’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He hated that he could recite her words in his head already. Hated that he had memorized the way her jaw tightened when she spoke them, the way her voice never rose but still silenced the chamber. He hated that, without meaning to, he was watching her like a hawk.

She’s still cold, he told himself. Still spoiled. Still a girl pretending to be stone.

And yet when her eyes flicked across the chamber, finding his for just a breath, he looked away first.

Chapter Text

The day had been long. The throne room, vast and echoing with marble and gold, had filled with the drone of voices — endless petitions, disputes over tariffs, harvest numbers, border tensions. Sunlight had filtered down through high stained-glass windows, shifting as the hours passed, casting colors across the polished floor like fractured jewels.

From the dais, Princess Deysi sat straight-backed, her crown catching each flicker of light, her gown falling in flawless folds of pale silk. She listened without visible fatigue, her gaze steady, her hands folded with composure that was almost unnerving. She corrected when records were misquoted, cut down when flattery strayed into manipulation, and wove her decisions with the precision of someone twice her age.

The courtiers whispered of her like a girl too young to be a sovereign, and yet in that hall she carried the weight of centuries.

At last, the court adjourned. The sea of silk and velvet swept out through the great doors, nobles murmuring to one another in tones both reverent and resentful. Their voices faded until the chamber was still again, the air heavy with the echo of all that had been said.

Only the Jedi remained.

Obi-Wan Kenobi stood with dignified patience, hands folded neatly within his sleeves, a silent sentinel at the edge of the hall. His apprentice lingered near him, arms folded across his chest, eyes half-lidded with boredom. Anakin Skywalker had been made to watch her sit there for hours — poised, untouchable, never faltering. To him, it looked like performance.

When the final door clicked shut, silence pressed down. And then, sharp as a spark off flint, his voice slipped out. Low. Irritated. Not meant to be heard.

“She acts like she’s already an old queen, not a girl. No wonder everyone’s afraid to breathe in front of her.”

Obi-Wan’s head snapped toward him, horror flashing in his eyes. “Padawan,” he hissed, the word a warning and a prayer.

But it was too late.

Deysi rose. The motion was slow, deliberate — her crown tilting just enough to catch the last stroke of sunlight as it fell through the tall windows. Her gaze slid toward Anakin, steady, unreadable, like a blade sheathed in velvet. When she spoke, her voice was calm, measured — but each word carried the precision of glass shattering.

“And yet you breathed just fine, Padawan Skywalker. Loud enough for me to hear every word.”

Anakin stiffened. Heat rose to his face in an instant, his heartbeat hammering in his ears.

She descended the steps of the dais without hurry, her gown whispering against the marble, her every motion weighted with authority. Her presence filled the space until even the Jedi felt small.

“You think me cold because I will not smile and soothe?” she asked, her tone never lifting above even composure. Each syllable landed with surgical force. “You think me spoiled because I wear a crown I never asked for?”

Anakin tried to stand straighter, as if posture might shield him from her words. It did not.

“Tell me, Padawan — what would you have me do?” Her chin tilted slightly, eyes never leaving his. “Run the palace gardens barefoot? Play at games while my people starve? Shall I invite Lord Teren and his allies to sell Naboo piece by piece, so I might seem kind to your eyes?”

Her voice did not break into anger. It was sharper than anger — controlled, merciless, leaving no space to retreat.

Anakin swallowed hard, shame burning through his chest like fire. He had thought her aloof. Now, faced with her unflinching gaze, he realized she was something far more dangerous: undeniable.

Obi-Wan remained silent, though his expression softened into something like relief. She had spoken what he himself would have said — and with greater precision.

At last, she stopped just short of Anakin. Her chin lifted, her presence pressing down like a weight he could not shrug off. “A princess who forgets she is a sovereign is no princess at all. Remember that before you speak of me again.”

The words fell into silence like stones into water, the ripples lingering long after.

Then she turned. Her gown swept across the polished marble as she walked past them, out through the high doors, her figure dissolving into shadow and sunlight.

The chamber seemed colder once she was gone.

Anakin stood frozen, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles ached. His face burned red, his pride stinging in a way that felt deeper than embarrassment.

Obi-Wan let out a slow breath — part sigh, part amusement. His lips curved faintly, though he kept his tone mild when he said:

“You see, Anakin. Words have weight. And hers… carry more than yours do.”

Anakin glared at the door she had vanished through, the echo of her presence still pressing down on him.

He had called her spoiled. Cold. Arrogant.

But as her words rang in his head, he wondered if what he had just witnessed was not cruelty — but strength.

Strength he had not expected. Strength that had cut him down without a single raised voice.

And he hated — truly hated — that it had embarrassed him.

Chapter Text

Theed’s plazas bloomed with color that afternoon, banners drifting overhead as children darted between stalls of fruit and cloth. The air smelled of roasted nuts and sweet melons, and the light from Naboo’s twin suns glowed soft across marble colonnades.

Deysi moved among the crowd not as a distant sovereign, but as though she belonged to them. Her crown was absent, her gown simpler than the court’s endless silks, yet still unmistakably regal.

She knelt to meet a widow’s eye, taking the woman’s hand in both of hers.

“Your husband gave his life for Naboo. Do not think his sacrifice forgotten. His son will be schooled at the crown’s expense, and his daughter’s dowry provided when her day comes.”

The woman’s lips trembled as she tried to answer, but Deysi only pressed her hand more firmly, offering a warmth that silenced grief for a heartbeat.

Later, she sat cross-legged on the plaza steps with children, letting them braid ribbons into her hair. She laughed when one tied a knot too tight, listened to their stories with patience courtiers never earned, her smile softer than any she ever wore in the throne room.

At the edge of the crowd, Anakin frowned. This wasn’t the cold girl who sliced nobles apart with words. Here she looked almost… human. Almost kind. He told himself it was nothing, yet he found he could not look away, memorizing the angle of her smile, the way her hair fell loose where the children had knotted it wrong.

Padmé approached at his side, her smile faint but knowing.

“Now you see it,” she said.

Anakin shook his head. “She hides this in court.”

“She must,” Padmé answered simply. “A princess can be loved by her people. But a sovereign must be feared by her nobles. My sister understands both.”

⸻

That evening, when the crowds had faded, the palace rang with a different sound: the clash of steel on steel.

The practice yard gleamed with torchlight as Deysi faced her general, wooden blade in hand, sweat dampening her brow. She struck, blocked, parried. Her movements were not graceful like Padmé’s dances, but sharp and deliberate, each step honed by repetition.

Anakin and Obi-Wan stood in the shadows of the colonnade, summoned by courtesy but not invited closer.

“Again,” the general barked.

Deysi lunged. The blade whistled, the strike met with force. She stumbled, recovered, grit her teeth, pressed again until the man gave a grunt of approval.

“You’re too young for this,” Anakin muttered, though less scornful than before.

“She asked for it,” Padmé said from behind them, her eyes following her sister’s movements with both pride and sorrow. “No one forced her. She demanded it. She told the generals that if she was to send soldiers to die, she would at least know what it meant to hold a blade in her hand.”

Anakin turned, startled. “Why would she—”

Padmé’s lips tightened, her expression cooling into something Deysi-like. “Because my sister does not believe she has the right to rule if she cannot bleed with her people.”

On the practice ground, Deysi landed a strike that knocked the general back a pace. She didn’t gloat. She only reset her stance, eyes cold and waiting for the next round.

For a moment, Anakin forgot she was only fourteen. He tried to dismiss the thought, but his eyes followed every shift in her footing, every measured breath, as if storing them away against his will.

When the practice ended, the general dismissed himself with a bow. Deysi stood in the torchlight, sweat glinting along her brow, her chest rising steady as if the exertion had meant nothing. She lowered the training blade and turned toward the colonnade.

Her eyes passed over Obi-Wan with a nod of courtesy. But when they landed on Anakin, they lingered — long enough to make his stomach tighten.

“You watch as though you expect me to stumble,” she said coolly, her voice carrying across the courtyard. “You forget, Padawan, that a crown is not armor. I do not have the luxury of being careless.”

Anakin flushed, jaw tight, words of defense already on his tongue — but Obi-Wan’s warning glance silenced him.

Deysi tilted her head, studying him like a chess piece. “You are the Republic’s Chosen One, yes? The boy they believe will save them. A child raised up as something greater. Tell me, then — what would you know of sacrifice? Of being bound before you could walk, of being owned before you could speak?”

Her gaze was steady, unblinking. “You think me spoiled. I think you selfish. You swing a weapon you hardly understand, and call yourself powerful for it. But power without control is nothing. Just a child with a sword.”

The words cut deeper than her practice strikes. Anakin’s mind echoed them back at him even as he seethed, each syllable carved into memory against his will.

He stiffened, pride stung raw. He wanted to argue, to spit something back — but nothing came.

Deysi turned away, handing the training blade to a waiting guard. Her voice was final as stone.

“Your opinion of me matters as little as mine of you. You are not Naboo. You are not my people. And I will not waste breath pretending otherwise.”

She swept from the yard, flanked by her knights, leaving silence in her wake.

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. Anakin stood rigid, heat burning through him, humiliated again — but more than that, seen.

For the first time, he realized the princess hadn’t simply dismissed him. She had measured him, weighed him, and found him wanting.

And he hated her for it. Yet still, he carried every word she had spoken with him, as if branded into his memory.

Chapter Text

The council chamber thrummed with whispers, heavier than usual. Not about taxes, or patrols, or shipments — but about who stood beside the throne.

Senator Padmé Amidala.

Her presence was undeniable, her poise steady at her sister’s side. But she was a Republic senator, not a royal advisor. And that distinction, the court whispered, was dangerous.

At last, one noble broke the silence with a bow, his voice smooth but edged with judgment.

“Your Highness, we mean no disrespect, but the presence of a Republic senator so close to Naboo’s throne confuses the image of our sovereignty. The people must see their princess unshadowed. Perhaps… a little distance would ease concerns.”

The words were polished. The murmurs of agreement that followed were not.

Deysi’s jaw tightened, her knuckles pale against the throne’s arms. She wanted to strike the words down, to remind them that Padmé was Naboo’s senator first and foremost, chosen by its people, her people. But she knew the weight of appearances. And the nobles were technically right.

So she gave. Just a little.

Her chin lifted, her tone cool.

“If it eases the court, Senator Amidala will stand among my advisors, rather than at my side. But let there be no confusion — she speaks for Naboo, and therefore for me.”

Padmé’s eyes flicked toward her sister — soft with pride, heavy with sorrow. She stepped back without protest.

The murmurs hushed, but not for long. Because the court had smelled blood.

Lord Ascor stepped forward, bowing deeply. His voice was velvet, but ambition glinted sharp beneath it.

“Your Highness, since you show such wisdom in tempering appearances, perhaps you will consider tempering policy as well. Naboo’s fleets are strong. The Coreward lanes are rich. If we dispatch our soldiers to secure them, tariffs will flow. Our coffers will swell. Prosperity awaits.”

The chamber hummed again, agreement rippling like a tide.

Deysi’s gaze sharpened. She leaned forward, voice low but cutting.

“And when our soldiers die securing lanes far from Naboo, who will explain to their widows why they bled for tariffs?”

Lord Ascor did not falter. He smiled. “Their sacrifice would be honored. And the wealth gained would ensure their families are provided for.”

The murmurs swelled, greedy and eager. Too much. Too far.

That was when the mask broke.

With a crack that echoed like thunder, Deysi’s fist slammed down against the arm of her throne. The sound rattled through marble and stone, jolting the entire chamber into silence. Even the banners above seemed to shiver with it.

Her voice rose — for the first time, sharp and ringing against the vaulted ceiling.

“Enough!”

The word split the air, slicing through every murmur.

Deysi rose from her throne, eyes blazing, crown gleaming like fire in the light.

“No more empty speeches about noble sacrifice! You stand here, clothed in silks, your bellies full, your tables heavy with food — and you dare tell me Naboo must bleed again for tariffs? You dare tell me to send the sons and daughters of widows to die so you may line your pockets?”

Her voice rolled like thunder, each word striking harder than the last.

“You go. You, Lord Ascor, and every one of you who nods in agreement. You go to the homes of the women who already buried their husbands. You look into their children’s eyes and tell them their lives are worth less than your banquets. Tell them Naboo’s soldiers are nothing but coin for your feasts.”

Her hand trembled where it had struck the throne, but her eyes were unyielding, blazing across the silent court.

“I will not. I will not. Naboo’s armies are for Naboo. And this matter is ended.”

The silence that followed was absolute. No one dared breathe too loudly.

From the back, Anakin’s chest tightened. For the first time, he understood what Padmé had meant when she told him her sister had no choice. Deysi gave an inch — and they lunged for her throat. And she struck back with the only weapon she had: truth that shamed them into silence.

It unsettled him. It burned into him. And it forced him to admit something he hated — he respected her.

Obi-Wan’s voice murmured low at his Padawan’s ear.

“A sovereign who strikes once is heard forever.”

Anakin said nothing. But he knew he would never forget the sound of her fist slamming marble, or the way her voice had silenced a hall of grown men.

Chapter Text

The whispers would not stop.

Anakin rolled his eyes whenever he heard them — assassination attempts, plots, poison in goblets. “She’s adored. She’s fourteen. Who would even bother?”

Obi-Wan said little, but the general of her guard answered for him:

“The last time we left her alone, we saw the consequences. We will not make that mistake again.”

The order was iron: the Jedi were to remain at Princess Deysi’s side. Always.

⸻

That evening, the assignment turned awkward.

The bath chamber steamed with warmth, torches reflecting off marble tile. Deysi sank waist-deep in the water, a folded towel wrapped snugly around her torso, another draped loosely about her neck. Her crown rested on a carved table, hair spreading in dark ribbons across the surface. Even here, she carried herself like she was on display.

But Obi-Wan and Anakin weren’t even inside at first. They stood stiffly at the chamber doors, arms folded, expressions set.

Obi-Wan’s voice was clipped, almost scandalized. “We are not going in there. It is improper for a man to watch a young woman bathe.”

Anakin, unusually in agreement with his master, muttered, “Exactly. She’s not holding council. We’ll guard from here.”

Padmé’s temper flared. She stepped forward, blocking the threshold. “Privacy doesn’t stop assassins. If someone slips a blade through those windows, what then? Will you tell me you stayed out here because you were embarrassed?”

Obi-Wan’s brow creased. “This is not embarrassment, Senator. It is respect.”

But Padmé’s voice cut like steel. “Then respect my order. You’ll go in. You’ll stand guard. She’s a child — you’re not looking at anything. And I will not have her left vulnerable because you two are squeamish.”

The Jedi exchanged a look. Obi-Wan sighed, resigned, and Anakin grumbled, “This is ridiculous.” Still, they obeyed — stepping into the heat, turning their backs firmly to the pool, eyes fixed on the doors instead of the girl they guarded.

⸻

Padmé knelt beside the water’s edge, silk skirts pooled around her. “You’re so quiet, Deysi. Are you planning another speech to terrify the nobles?”

Deysi puffed her cheeks a little, a childish sound that didn’t quite fit her regal composure. “No. And you shouldn’t sit there staring. There are gentlemen here. A lady is not allowed to show her body — it’s embarrassing.” She tugged the towel higher around her collar, cheeks faintly flushed.

Padmé smiled gently, reaching to trail her fingers through Deysi’s floating hair. “If you’re embarrassed, I’ll make them turn around while I bathe you myself. Let me wash your hair. Let me fuss over you — please. You’ve always been too proud to let anyone care for you.”

Deysi ducked her head. “I can do it. You’ll only scold me for tangles.”

Padmé laughed softly, motherly. “Then let me scold you. It’s my right as your elder sister.” She leaned close, lowering her voice as though conspiring. “You’re still my little girl, no matter what crown they place on your head.”

Deysi’s lips quirked faintly, though her eyes flicked toward the door, wary. “Go on, Padmé. Fetch my silks. Or gossip with the handmaidens. Don’t sit there fussing.”

Padmé sighed, reluctant, but rose at last. “Very well, little sister. Try not to drown.”

⸻

In the corridor, one of the handmaidens approached, arms full of folded silks. “For Her Highness,” she said softly, offering them to Padmé. The attendants all adored the bond between the sisters; whenever possible, they contrived to give them stolen minutes together, weaving duty into gestures that felt like gifts.

Padmé accepted with a small smile, warmed by the thought. Then she stepped quietly back inside.

⸻

Inside, Deysi waited until the door thudded closed. Only then did her shoulders ease, a faint shiver running through her frame as though she had been holding her breath the entire time. She rose carefully from the water, streams slipping down her skin, the towel around her torso clinging heavy and damp, another draped loosely about her neck.

Her foot met the marble step, and she stilled — a flicker of tension cutting across her face as her hand instinctively pressed her side. A quick wince, sharp and fleeting, before she straightened again with perfect poise.

On the wall near the chamber’s entrance hung a tall bronze mirror. Deysi’s eyes flicked toward it — and then away at once, refusing to look. Her lips pressed thin. She tugged the towel higher and fixed her gaze only forward, as though her own reflection was something she could not bear.

Anakin, watching with his back half-turned near the doorway, caught it: the wince, the recoil from the mirror, the way she clutched the towel as if it held back more than modesty. He didn’t know what it meant. Only that it was a lie.

Unaware of his silent scrutiny, Deysi reached for the robe a handmaiden held out, her motions precise, almost too careful.

That was when Padmé returned — silks clutched in her arms, her footsteps quick and unannounced.

The timing was cruel.

Deysi was fastening the robe, but the sodden towel slipped free beneath the folds, falling away in a heavy drop. For the first time, Padmé saw her sister not half-hidden beneath water or swathed in silks, but fully revealed in the open light of flame.

From the back of her neck, across the delicate rise of her collarbone, ran a thick, jagged scar — pale against her skin, raised and angry even after time had passed. It was unmistakable, undeniable, and Padmé recognized it instantly. This was why Deysi always wrapped herself in high collars, even when the heat of Naboo made her faint. This was why she scolded her for silks in summer, and Deysi only smiled and bore it. She had not been hiding modesty. She had been hiding this.

And lower, across her ribs, a darker ruin marked her flesh — a wide, puckered circle seared deep into her side. An old blaster bolt. Cruel. Permanent. A shot meant to kill.

Padmé froze, the silks slipping from her hands to the floor. Her breath hitched, her voice cracked raw: “Deysi…”

From the doorway, both Jedi stiffened.

Anakin’s breath caught in his throat. Heat flared behind his eyes, hot and choking, his fists curling before he realized it. He had seen that wound before — in the field, on soldiers who never rose again. But this… this was carved into a girl of fourteen.

And that was what undid him.

He didn’t even like her — not really. To him she had been spoiled, pampered, too proud for her years. Yet everyone around her loved her, respected her, revered her as if she were something untouchable. In his young mind, it had never made sense that anyone would try to harm her. Why would they? She was the crown jewel of Naboo.

But now, staring at the scar, he understood.

This was no accident. This was the mark of an execution. And it was the first time in his life he had ever seen a child bear one.

Everything she did, everything she was, had been forged in sacrifice. Her elegance, her patience, her control — all of it was tragedy wrapped in the body of a fourteen-year-old girl. She hadn’t been sheltered. She had survived.

Fury clawed through him, wild and wordless: Who did this to her? Who dared? It didn’t matter that it had happened long ago. The fact that it had happened at all burned like fire in his chest. His fists trembled, tight at his sides, knuckles whitening.

Obi-Wan saw it. His own reaction was quieter but no less heavy — his jaw clenched, eyes narrowing as he studied the scar’s size, its angle, the place it struck. He had seen men die from less. His mind catalogued it with the cold precision of a commander: this was no glancing shot, no accident. This had been an execution attempt. And Deysi had carried it in silence, without a word to those who might have protected her. The weight of that realization pressed on him, grave and immovable.

Between them, silence thickened like smoke. Anakin’s rage smoldered; Obi-Wan’s grim acceptance hardened. Both knew what Padmé was only just beginning to grasp: Deysi had been marked for death once, and by all reason she should not have survived.

And yet here she stood.

And though he didn’t realize it yet, Anakin would never stop watching her after that night. Not because he liked her. Not because he trusted her. But because for the first time in his life, he had seen a child carry the mark of execution — and he could not look away.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan found the general that night in the barracks courtyard.

The man sat sharpening a blade, the steel rasping against stone in the quiet, though his eyes were far away.

“You knew,” Obi-Wan said, his voice calm but edged. “You knew she had already been attacked. And yet you told us nothing.”

The general did not look up. His jaw tightened. “Because it is not your burden to carry. It is mine.”

Obi-Wan’s brows lowered.

“I failed her once,” the man went on, his voice steady with shame. “I left her unguarded, and she nearly died for it. I see it every time I look at her — not because she reminds me, but because she refuses to. She never blamed me. She never dismissed me. She bore it herself. And instead of stripping me of command, instead of demanding my blood for her pride, she ordered me to train her. To put a sword in her hand. To make her strong enough that if death came again, she would not be helpless.”

He set the blade aside with deliberate care, his shoulders rigid.

“Do you understand, Jedi? Any other monarch would have executed me. She kept me. She carries my shame as well as her own. She hides those scars not because she is proud of them — but because she hates them. She is a child, and she believes them ugly. She believes she must be perfect, untouchable, to be believed in. And still she spares her sister the truth, because she will not let Padmé see her broken.”

At last the general raised his eyes. They were fierce with conviction.

“So yes, I failed her once. But because she spared me, because she let me remain, I am bound to her until my last breath. Not by duty. Not by law. By love. I would die before I fail her again.”

Obi-Wan’s breath caught. He thought of rulers who demanded executions for less. But Deysi had done the opposite: she had taken the shame herself. And in doing so, she had won a devotion stronger than fear.

And that unsettled him more than anything.

A girl of fourteen who could command loyalty like this… who in the galaxy would dare to try and tear her from her throne?

The question gnawed at him long into the night.

⸻

Anakin had no such patience.

He stormed through the palace halls, boots striking marble with sharp echo. His frustration burned hot, words pressing at his throat before he’d even reached her door.

The handmaidens rose instantly, a tide of silk and steel.

“Where do you think you’re going?” one hissed, stepping into his path. Another seized his arm, trying to turn him back. Their faces, usually soft with courtesy, were iron now.

“She’s resting,” one said flatly. “You will not disturb her.”

Anakin yanked free, anger boiling. “She’s my concern too!”

“You are nothing to her,” another snapped, low and fierce, gripping his sleeve as though she might drag him back bodily.

Steel gleamed as a blade slipped half from its sheath.

“Enough,” Obi-Wan’s voice cut through, firm but quiet. His hand lifted, palm open — not toward the handmaidens, but toward Anakin. “Padawan. Stand down.”

The boy froze, chest heaving, caught between the guards’ fury and his master’s calm.

Obi-Wan’s gaze swept the women — their poise, their readiness to spill blood for their princess. He understood then why Naboo trusted them. They were not attendants. They were lions. And in their eyes, Deysi was the sun.

It was Deysi’s own voice that broke the standoff, cool and sharp from within her chamber.

“Enough.”

The handmaidens faltered. One still gripped Anakin’s sleeve until Deysi appeared in the doorway, robe trailing like shadow, her hand lifted in imperious command.

“Leave us.”

The women’s jaws clenched, eyes flicking toward the Padawan.

“Leave,” she repeated, iron in her tone.

They obeyed — not because they trusted Anakin, but because she commanded it.

Only then did Anakin cross the threshold, Obi-Wan stepping in quietly behind him, his presence steadier than the boy’s fury.

⸻

“You lied to her,” Anakin blurted, chest tight. “To Padmé. You let her stand by you every day, never telling her what happened. She’s your sister. She deserved to know.”

Deysi’s gaze sharpened, cool and unflinching. “No.”

Anakin stiffened. “No? That’s all you have to say?”

She rose slowly, deliberately. Her presence filled the chamber like a storm, her voice even, but every word cut clean.

“If I had told her, she would have come home. And if they were willing to kill me, do you think they would not kill her? She walks among enemies more dangerous than mine every day on Coruscant. I kept it from her to keep her safe. Because if they wanted me dead, they would want her too.”

Anakin faltered, the heat in his chest stuttering.

Deysi stepped closer, her eyes burning into his, merciless.

“I thought you loved her. I thought she was your friend. I thought you cared about her. Then why wouldn’t you risk everything to protect her the way I do?”

The silence was suffocating.

Anakin’s fists clenched, shame boiling, but no answer came.

Obi-Wan spoke into the heavy air, his tone grave. “She is right, Anakin. Mercy, sacrifice — these are things we’ve only learned in pieces. She lives them. Every day.”

Anakin’s shoulders hunched, face burning.

Deysi turned away, tying her sash with deliberate calm. “Some of us,” she said coolly, “don’t have the luxury of honesty.”

It was dismissal.

⸻

Anakin stormed back out into the corridor, shoulders rigid.

The handmaidens were still there.

They hadn’t moved far. They stood like sentinels in the torchlight, gazes sharp as blades, pinning him in place. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Their faces said everything: You are not her shield. You are not her trust. You are not her world. We are. She is our sun, and we will burn before we let you take her from us.

Anakin bristled, heat rising in his chest, but he forced his jaw tight and stalked down the hall.

Only when he was gone did the handmaidens move again, slipping back to their posts beside her chamber door. Their faces softened only when they turned inward — toward the girl they would bleed for, the jewel they would guard until death.

Chapter Text

The city spread below her balcony, golden in the late sun. The domes of Theed gleamed like burnished coins scattered across velvet hills, and the river shone as though someone had unspooled silver thread through the valley. From her height, the world looked immaculate — a painting without smudge or flaw, framed in light.

Children darted through courtyards, their laughter rising like flocks of birds startled into flight. Mothers called after them, voices carrying faintly on the breeze, softened by distance until they sounded almost like song.

Deysi watched.

She watched the way an orphan watches a family through a window.

It wasn’t the children she envied — not their games, not their laughter. It was the freedom stitched into their every gesture. The way their knees could scrape, their hands could fumble, their mistakes could be forgiven as part of growing. They could trip and be gathered up. They could fall without consequence.

She had never had that. At their age, her errors were already tallied against her like debts in a ledger. At fourteen, she was already marble, sculpted and displayed, expected never to crack.

The envy did not consume her. It lived quieter, steadier — like a bruise hidden beneath the ribs, forgotten until the wrong movement pressed against it. A shadow-pain that reminded her she was different, and would always be.

But the bruise was not only envy.

Beneath her silks, beneath the embroidery and jewels that gleamed like chains in disguise, old wounds sometimes stirred when the air turned cold. They did not burn sharply anymore — instead, they pulsed with the dull, ceaseless ache of something that had knit back wrong, like a bone set poorly and left crooked. They were the ugliness beneath the surface of a river, silt and jagged stone lying dormant until the current shifted.

She could have asked for healing. Could have demanded it, even — nobles vanished for months into clinics until no mark dared remain upon their skin. Yet she had returned to her throne within days, her body still throbbing, her frame stiff beneath the weight of pain she would not admit. She had not permitted herself the luxury of stillness, of recovery. And now, she would not permit herself pity.

Because some part of her — the part molded from birth to believe her life belonged to Naboo, not herself — whispered that she did not deserve to be whole.

Her people adored her. She adored them, too, fiercely, wholly. But adoration did not bridge the glass wall that divided them. They lived, spilling laughter and tears freely across the days. She endured, hands folded neatly upon the rail, the mask of perfection unbroken.

And sometimes, when silence pressed too close, she feared that bruise of envy might ripen into something darker.

Her gaze drifted, as it always did, to Padmé. To the sister who laughed with warmth, who moved lightly where Deysi moved gravely. Padmé, who could slip through crowded halls with ease, her smile accepted as sincere because she was not bound to marble. She was senator, not sovereign. Flame, not stone.

Deysi loved her — fiercely, protectively, enough to bury scars and swallow truths whole to keep her safe. But she also knew, with a guilt that burned like salt in an open wound, that she resented her too.

Not for leaving. Not for being chosen differently. But for being allowed to walk away, for being weighed by their people and found not enough to carry the eternal crown.

And what she hated most was that small, ugly shard of herself that resented it. She knew it wasn’t Padmé’s fault — none of it was her fault. Padmé had not asked for freedom any more than Deysi had asked for chains.

But the truth sat leaden in her chest: she will always be the one who stayed, and I will always be the one who resented her for it.

Her hand curled around the balcony’s marble rail, nails biting crescent moons into the stone. She drew a long breath, pulling the mask of serenity back over herself piece by piece. Below, the city glowed, the children’s laughter still scattered the air like chimes, and life went on.

And she watched — like an orphan staring through glass at a family she could never join.

⸻

Across the courtyard, unseen by her, Anakin Skywalker lingered.

At first, his purpose had been simple: shadow her steps, keep his distance, observe as duty demanded. But his eyes had fastened to her against his will, caught by the small betrayals in her posture. The way her shoulders tightened beneath the fall of her gown. The way her hand pressed, almost absently, against her side — a gesture so brief, yet so practiced, as if soothing a pain no one else was meant to notice.

His breath stalled.

It was not absent-minded. It was not nothing. It was the language of a wound that had never properly closed, of an ache she carried not because she must, but because she chose to.

And in that silence, he understood. The scar was no badge she bore with pride. It was an old bruise, a fracture beneath the surface that throbbed still — and she carried it not because she could not be healed, but because she would not allow herself to be. Because somewhere deep inside, she did not believe she deserved to be free of it.

Anakin looked away, his throat tightening with something sharp and unfamiliar. He had called her spoiled, arrogant, cold. He had believed she was marble because she wanted to be.

But in that moment, he saw her strength for what it was: not beauty, not perfection, but sheer endurance.

And it unsettled him more than he could admit — because endurance was not the absence of weakness. It was the presence of it, carried like a hidden storm beneath glass.

Chapter Text

They spoke of Lady Aris Venn often in the palace — not as a politician, but as a memory. She had been one of Deysi’s childhood companions, a girl who ran the gardens with her before the crown was fastened too tightly. Where Deysi learned the posture of a queen, Aris laughed, stumbled, reminded her that she was still a child. Their bond had been visible even in council: the Venn family’s loyalty to the throne was not only political, but personal.

So when the messenger entered the council hall that morning, no one mistook the news as ordinary.

He bowed until his spine shook, whispered to the steward, and every voice fell to dust.

“Your Highness,” the steward intoned. “Lady Aris Venn. Her ship was overtaken in the Mid Rim. None survived. The funeral rites are arranged for tomorrow.”

The words struck like an arrow loosed into the chamber.

Anakin’s gaze went straight to the throne. He expected shock, grief — anything. This had been her childhood friend, after all.

But Deysi only inclined her head, exact and perfect, like marble carved to move in just that gesture. Her voice did not waver.

“Then we shall attend. Naboo honors her.”

No flicker of emotion. No stumble. Not even the catch of breath.

Anakin’s brows tightened. Even if it was duty, even if it was tradition, how could she not react? He thought of how easily Padmé wore her heart on her sleeve, how natural it was for her to grieve with others. Deysi was different — colder, not in the way of malice but in the way of something hollowed out.

I knew there was something wrong with her, he thought, unease crawling low in his gut. Not selfish, not spoiled — not anymore. Something else. Something that made her able to discard people once they were gone, as if she could fold grief away like silk.

The chamber emptied around him, but the thought lingered like ash on his tongue.

—

The funeral came under a sky too beautiful for mourning, blue and endless above the basilica domes. Bells tolled, iron-heavy, over streets brimming with mourners. Incense clung to the air until each breath tasted of ash and lilies.

The Venn family stood closest to the bier — mother, father, brothers — their grief raw and unpolished, faces wet, shoulders bowed. Their sobs cracked the silence like glass, each one a wound laid bare.

Yet every few moments, their eyes lifted toward the dais where Deysi stood. Not pleading, not demanding comfort — but measuring. Expecting. Because if they were broken, someone had to stand unbroken for them. Someone had to be strong, untouchable, more than human. And who else but her?

So Deysi did what they required.

She bowed with immaculate posture, crown gleaming in the filtered light, and placed her offering at Aris’s side. She lingered for only the length of a breath before withdrawing again, marble returned to its pedestal.

The kneelers creaked under the weight of grieving bodies. A child in the pews whimpered. The Venn matriarch crumpled against her husband’s shoulder. Through it all, Deysi stood perfect, steady, never wavering.

Anakin’s stomach twisted. Even if it was duty, even if it was tradition — how could she not react? He had expected a crack, some sign of the girl who once ran these gardens with the dead woman they mourned. Instead, there was nothing. Cold, precise nothing. Does she truly discard people once they’re gone? The thought needled him, sharp and bitter.

Beside him, Obi-Wan’s gaze lingered, searching her face for cracks no one else could see.

—

Night wrapped the palace in velvet and echo. The hour was late enough that even the lamps in the great hall had burned down to embers, yet Anakin was summoned to follow.

He frowned as he trailed after Obi-Wan, boots clipping against marble, the corridors strange and unfamiliar. “Where are we going? It’s the middle of the night.”

Obi-Wan’s expression was unreadable in the half-light. “The mourning chamber,” he said simply.

Anakin’s brows knit. “The what?”

“A Naboo tradition,” Obi-Wan answered, his voice pitched low as if the walls themselves were listening. “The sovereign must grieve alone — in a chamber set aside for it. It is ritual, sacred. The people may never see their ruler break, so it is here, and only here, that they are permitted to mourn.”

Anakin frowned deeper. “Then why are we going?”

“Because the court does not trust the world to leave her unguarded. We stand watch — at a distance. Silent. Eyes averted.” Obi-Wan gave him the faintest sidelong glance. “You must not speak, Anakin. Not even if you wish to.”

The explanation sat heavy, strange, in Anakin’s stomach. He couldn’t imagine Padmé being forbidden to weep before her people — couldn’t imagine grief being locked away like some shameful secret. But he said nothing, following his master through the narrow passage, unease mounting with every turn.

And then the chamber doors opened, spilling candlelight across the floor.

—

The mourning chamber glowed faintly with candlelight, shadows trembling against the stone walls. Deysi entered draped in black robes, crown absent, her hair unbound and heavy against her back. The air was thick with incense, suffocating and sweet.

Anakin and Obi-Wan stood at the far wall, their backs turned, as tradition dictated. They were not supposed to watch — only guard.

At first, there was silence. The shuffle of her steps. The soft sound of fabric brushing stone. The faint clink as she laid her hand against the memorial altar.

Then — a sound. Small. Broken.

A sharp inhale, shaky, as though her lungs had forgotten how to breathe. Another followed, jagged, raw.

And then it came.

A cry ripped out of her chest — so guttural, so agonized, that Anakin’s heart lurched violently in his ribs. It wasn’t the weeping of a girl. It was the howl of something primal, like grief had crawled inside her body and was clawing its way out.

The sound echoed against the chamber walls, bouncing, twisting, amplifying. A scream muffled into sobs, then rising again into choking gasps — like her body was trying to reject the pain but failing, forcing it back down her throat, over and over until it tore her voice ragged.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes. His fists tightened within his sleeves. This was not meant for them. This was not meant for anyone.

Anakin’s skin crawled, his stomach twisting. He had thought her cold, unfeeling, detached. But listening now — listening to the raw, suffocating sound of her soul breaking — he realized she had been forbidden to feel anywhere but here, in this dark chamber, with only stone to absorb her grief.

It was unbearable to hear. It was worse to know she had carried it alone.

And still it went on. Her voice cracked, broke, dissolved into hoarse wails that sounded like they belonged to someone twice her age, someone who had already buried every friend she’d ever known. She clutched at the altar like it was the only thing tethering her to the world, her sobs spilling into the silence with such violence that even Anakin — rash, arrogant, unthinking — had to look away.

This wasn’t marble. This wasn’t a mask. This was a child, destroyed by loss, forced to scream into shadows because daylight would not allow it.

And in that moment, the sound of her grief pressed into them like a physical weight, choking and suffocating, impossible to escape.

Anakin’s breath trembled. For the first time, he did not think of her as spoiled. He thought of her as doomed.

—

The sound finally ebbed, not as though it had healed, but like a body collapsing from exhaustion, too wrung out to keep screaming. The chamber’s silence afterward was not peace — it was the silence of a battlefield after slaughter, thick, scorched, the air still vibrating with what had just torn through it.

Anakin stood rigid, his palms damp, every tendon in his body pulled tight as wire. His throat felt raw though he hadn’t spoken, as if he had swallowed glass. He almost expected to taste iron in his mouth.

Obi-Wan exhaled softly, the sound almost lost under the flickering candles. They did not turn. They did not speak. When the handmaiden came at last to signal the ritual’s end, the Jedi left wordlessly, carrying the weight of her grief with them.

The night air outside was cool, almost sharp against the skin. For a long while, they walked in silence down the palace corridor, their shadows stretching long in the lamplight.

It was Obi-Wan who finally spoke. His voice was quiet, grave, as if afraid the stones themselves might overhear.

“Now you understand why they whisper.”

Anakin looked at him, frowning, still shaken.

Obi-Wan’s eyes were dark. “Her court, her people, even her soldiers — they love her. Not for kindness, not for gentleness, but because she carries pain they will never see, and she carries it without flinching. They know it. They feel it. That is why she is their sun.” He paused, his gaze drifting toward the high towers of the palace. “But if she were ever to mourn like that in daylight, before all of Naboo — if she ever showed them her grief as nakedly as she just did…”

He shook his head, voice low, heavy.

“The court would not know what to do with her. They would fear her. Because truth that raw, that human, is more dangerous than any crown.”

Anakin’s fists clenched at his sides, his jaw working. He thought of her scream, the sound of her breaking, and it reverberated through his chest still.

He wanted to hate her again, to call her spoiled, arrogant, cold — but the words felt hollow now.

For years, he had believed Padmé the better of the sisters. Not the court, not Naboo — they had always known who their true sovereign was. It was only him. He had grown up hearing of the Eternal Jewel of Naboo, the perfect princess who never faltered, who sat on a throne higher than any common life could reach. He had not thought of her as “Deysi” — he hadn’t even known her name. She was an idea, a polished statue, a symbol too distant to touch.

And in contrast, Padmé had always felt real to him. Padmé was the one who smiled openly, who wept when others wept, who carried compassion like a banner. He thought that made her stronger. He thought that made her the sister more deserving of the crown.

But now, the contrast burned clear. Padmé could never have survived what he had just witnessed. She was too open, too fragile, too human in the way people loved her for. A queen could not be that. A queen had to bury the scream in daylight, had to smile when her ribs ached, had to carry silence so that others might survive their noise.

And the Eternal Jewel — the girl he had only just begun to know as Deysi — carried it.

It terrified him, the way she bore it. Terrified him more than the idea of her being cold, or spoiled, or selfish ever had.

All he could think, as her sobs still echoed in his bones, was that she was utterly alone.

And that, somehow, was the most terrifying truth of all.

Chapter Text

The throne room gleamed as though nothing had happened. Courtiers whispered, nobles bowed, petitions droned in smooth, empty voices. And at the heart of it all sat Princess Deysi, crown gleaming, back straight, marble once more.

To anyone else, she was untouchable again.

But Anakin saw what they could not.

The faint discoloration beneath her eyes, half-hidden beneath careful strokes of powder. The way her throat worked every so often, swallowing against dryness that must have burned after the sounds she had unleashed in the mourning chamber. The stillness of her hands on the throne’s arms — too still, too deliberate, as if she were holding herself together piece by piece.

He had once told himself she was cold because she chose to be. That she was sharp-tongued because she liked it. That she was marble because she wanted to be adored.

But he no longer believed that.

Now he could see it for what it was: duty grinding her down, carving her into something less and less alive with every day she endured it. And it infuriated him.

Because she was younger than him, and yet she bore a weight meant for someone who should have lived three lifetimes first. Because her poise was not pride but prison. Because her silence was not dismissal but survival.

It was killing her.

And it was killing him to watch.

He wanted to believe she had stolen something — that she had chosen her crown, chosen her cage, chosen to trade freedom for marble glory. He wanted it desperately, because the truth was worse: she had never been given the choice at all.

And if he admitted that, then every crack in her mask would be unbearable.

The ache sat in his chest like a stone. He hated her marble, her coldness, her sharp tongue. He hated how she dismissed him. He hated that she didn’t need him.

But more than that, he hated the cage.

Because no matter what he told himself, he kept looking through the bars.

⸻

That night, the palace quieted with dusk. Yet Anakin followed her steps, as he always did. Through corridors, down marble stairs, into the palace gardens that opened toward the wide blue lake.

The twin suns hung low, their reflection bleeding across the water. Deysi stood at the edge, her silhouette sharp against the fading light.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“And yet I am,” he answered.

She didn’t look back. For a long while there was only the hush of wind through reeds. Then her voice cut across the quiet, steady and cold:

“Padawan. Swear me one thing.”

He straightened. “Your Highness?”

Her gaze flicked to him — assessing, sharp, weighing him like any other piece in her court.

“Swear you will protect Padmé. Not for a week. Not for a mission. For the rest of her life.”

His breath caught. He thought of Padmé — warm, kind, radiant in ways her sister was not. He thought of Deysi’s scream in the mourning chamber, the sound that still clawed at his chest.

And he nodded. “I swear it.”

Her shoulders eased, though her expression did not. The silence stretched, broken only by the evening wind.

Then, softer — though no less firm: “Another oath, Padawan. Will you swear me this as well?”

Anakin’s chest tightened. “Yes.”

Her voice lowered, quieter, younger somehow. “Build me schools. Not for soldiers. Not for crowns. For children. Two will be enough. One here, one far away. Places where they can be as they are meant to be.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than the evening itself.

Anakin smirked faintly, trying to cut through the weight. “And with what money?”

Her head turned just enough for him to see the sharpness in her eyes, gold caught in the last of the sun.

“This crown leaves nothing behind. Except, perhaps, enough for you.”

For the first time, her lips curved faintly — not a smile of warmth, but of resignation, almost as though she hardly believed he would ever keep the promise. A fleeting softness, gone as quickly as it came.

And yet, for reasons he couldn’t name, he nodded anyway.

“I swear.”

She turned back to the lake, her silhouette hardening once more against the fading suns. The moment was closed.

Anakin lingered behind, the words circling in his chest like a brand.

Chapter Text

The palace gardens breathed in color that morning, dew glinting like crystal threads across blades of grass. For once, the gates of marble were not barriers but open arms, swinging wide to let in those who had never dreamed of stepping foot inside: the children of Naboo. Sons of farmers with soil still under their nails, daughters of widows whose faces had been lined by war, orphans whose laughter rarely found space in the streets.

Today, they were allowed to run free.

It had been her decree. Her council had shaken their heads, her generals had whispered of danger, but Deysi silenced them all with one sentence:

“If the gods have marked me for a blade, a hundred gates won’t save me. Let the children have the grass.”

And so the courtyards bloomed with life.

She was the center of it. Not as a sovereign seated high on a throne, but as a girl barefoot in the grass, silk robes loosened, crown abandoned. Her hair shone in the sun as she spun, skirts flaring when a child caught her hand, the laughter spilling from her lips not polite nor staged, but raw — like bells breaking through clouds.

The sound startled Anakin. He had never heard her laugh like that before. It wasn’t courtly or restrained. It was bright, reckless, bursting like she had forgotten the weight on her shoulders.

A boy tripped at her feet, scraping his knee against the stone path. Before anyone else could move, Deysi bent low, gathering him up with practiced ease. She brushed away the dirt with the hem of her sleeve, pressed her lips softly to the bruise, and whispered:

“There now. Naboo raises strong sons. You’ll be running again in no time.”

The boy sniffled, then clung to her neck as though she had given him the world. She did not simply hold him — she sheltered him, one hand bracing his back, the other cupping the base of his head as if her palms alone could shield him from grief, from hunger, from every wound the galaxy might bring.

More children swarmed her, tugging at her sleeves, pressing tiny fingers into her palms. One little girl sat cross-legged in front of her and leaned shyly into her lap. Deysi’s hands moved without hesitation — delicate and sure — parting the girl’s dark hair into careful strands. She began to weave them into an intricate plait: three strands folding into five, five winding into seven, threaded with a small ribbon from her own sash. The design was Nabooan — centuries old, worn by village daughters on the eve of their naming day. Anakin didn’t recognize it, didn’t care to know the tradition. But the children knew. And for the girl in Deysi’s lap, it was salvation.

“There,” Deysi murmured as she tied the last knot, her fingers brushing the child’s temple. “Naboo’s daughters rise again.”

The girl’s smile was wide enough to light the gardens.

Another boy rushed forward, clutching her waist with muddy hands. Instead of scolding him, Deysi only laughed, bending to lift him high into the air. He squealed, his arms spread wide like wings, and she steadied him with strong, sure hands. This time her words were different, softer, almost reverent:

“And Naboo’s sons carry our future.”

The boy shouted with joy, repeating it aloud — and soon others echoed him. “Naboo’s sons carry our future! Naboo’s daughters rise again!” The chant rolled through the gardens like a hymn, the children’s voices rising in ragged harmony, half play, half prayer.

Even the smallest — a baby too young to run, too young to speak — nestled easily against her shoulder, soothed by the rhythm of her breathing, her cheek pressed tenderly against his fine hair. She rocked him as if he had always been hers.

And through it all, she smiled.

Not marble. Not steel. Just a girl of fourteen, sipping tea from a porcelain cup as though it were the most natural thing in the world, then setting it aside to run barefoot through the courtyards with children chasing her.

Her handmaidens watched from the edges, their eyes glimmering with something like devotion. To them, this was not a breach of dignity. It was the fulfillment of it. Their princess was not only their sovereign. She was their mother.

Anakin’s throat felt dry. He had thought of her as a cage, a clipped bird, too cold to love. But now, seeing her like this, he understood something he had never been able to before.

It wasn’t that she lacked love. It was that she gave it all away — so completely, so selflessly — that there was nothing left for herself.

And perhaps that was why Naboo adored her so fiercely. Not because she ruled them. But because she mothered them.

Anakin’s breath caught, lost in the music of children’s laughter and the shimmer of sunlight in her hair. Watching her among them felt dangerous, consuming — like witnessing worship. The world bent toward her. Even he bent toward her.

It was not politics. It was not sovereignty.

It was something higher.

Almost holy.

Chapter Text

The summons came in the middle of the day’s petitions. Courtiers bent low before the throne, voices weaving through matters of grain stores and patrol assignments, when Obi-Wan shifted at Anakin’s side. A messenger in the colors of the Republic approached, bowing before the princess before turning toward the Jedi.

“Masters Kenobi and Skywalker,” the steward intoned, “the Council recalls you to Coruscant. Your presence is required at once.”

Murmurs swept the hall. Even the courtiers, always careful with their expressions, could not quite conceal their surprise. Deysi’s back remained perfectly straight against her throne.

Anakin stiffened. “Now?”

The steward inclined his head. “Immediately.”

The chamber stirred uneasily, as though some unseen draft had blown through. Deysi’s eyes flicked to the Jedi, her expression unreadable.

“Then Naboo thanks you for your service,” she said, voice carrying like tempered glass across the room. “You are dismissed.”

No protest. No hesitation. No falter.

⸻

But later, in the quiet of the palace courtyard, Obi-Wan let his unease surface.

“They will wait,” he said, his tone low, his gaze set on the marble walkways that gleamed in fading light.

Anakin frowned. “What do you mean?”

“If someone truly wants her dead, they will not waste themselves against us. They’ll wait until we’re gone. That’s the simplest truth.”

Anakin bristled. “Then why leave at all?”

“Because the war pulls us elsewhere,” Obi-Wan answered. “Because the Council weighs costs we cannot see. Because…” His voice softened, grim. “Because the galaxy cannot protect every crown, no matter how beloved.”

He was right, and Anakin hated him for it. They had been on Naboo for weeks, watching, waiting, guarding — and nothing had happened. Every hour spent here was another hour the Republic bled. Still, the truth burned in his chest: he didn’t want to leave her.

Even the smallest time apart, even when he walked the palace corridors alone, he had found himself thinking the same thing: I hope she’s safe. I hope she’s strong. Not because she should have to be… but because she deserves to rest without fear.

⸻

That evening, when they came to take their leave, Deysi received them in the great hall, her crown set firmly upon her brow, her robes gleaming in the torchlight. Padmé stood just behind her, her eyes bright with worry, but Deysi betrayed nothing.

Obi-Wan bowed deeply. Anakin lingered, his chest tight with unspoken words.

At last, Deysi’s gaze fixed on him. Cold. Commanding.

“Remember the oath, Padawan.”

Her words struck like an iron chain. She did not clarify which oath — she didn’t need to. She expected him to know.

Anakin bowed his head, throat tight. “I haven’t forgotten.”

For the briefest instant, her eyes softened, something unreadable flickering beneath the marble mask. Then it was gone.

“You may go,” she said, and turned from him, her robes whispering across the marble as she walked away.

Anakin stood frozen in the doorway, the sound of her words echoing in his chest long after he and Obi-Wan had departed Naboo’s skies.

⸻

The war did not wait for them.

Battles blurred into weeks, weeks into months. Metal screamed, worlds burned, and comrades fell with names he could not even remember. The galaxy was merciless, and it hardened him more with every day.

Yet in the midst of it all, her image lingered. A girl crowned at fourteen who stood against knives in the dark without trembling.

Anakin thought of her often — not because she needed his pity, but because she shamed it from him. If she could endure, then what excuse did he have?

If a child could bear a crown of glass and blood, then surely a man could bear the weight of war.

Chapter Text

War had a way of changing the way Anakin thought about people. He didn’t mean for it to — it just did. Faces blurred together, names became statistics, even whole worlds became numbers in reports. He carried them like chalk marks on a soldier’s wall — tallies that faded with each sunrise, until only the weight of them remained.

But some names refused to fade.

Padmé. Always Padmé.

And before her — her sister.

Because it had been Deysi first. Before the Council sent him across stars, before Naboo became memory, before he even understood what he was becoming. She was the one impression he could not shake — the crown jewel seated on porcelain, the fire that cut through every oath he tried to cling to.

He told himself more than once that he didn’t care for Princess Deysi. That she was spoiled. Cold. Impossible.

But even as the words echoed in his head, he knew they were a shield, not the truth. He didn’t believe them anymore — not after war, not after the way her image had stayed with him when every other face blurred into numbers. He wanted to believe them, because it was safer, because it gave him distance. But the truth was simpler, more dangerous: he could not think of her in any way that wasn’t reverent.

He had sworn his oaths, fulfilled his duty, and when the Council recalled him, he had promised himself he would leave her behind like another planet in their endless orbit of assignments.

But he hadn’t.

When word reached Coruscant that a Naboo ship had been struck — pirates, they said, though the whispers sounded darker — one name on the casualty list clawed into him. Elyra Venn, one of Deysi’s handmaidens. Loyal. Young. Known, even to him, as the one who rarely left the princess’s side.

It should have been just another line in a report. One among thousands.

But it wasn’t.

Because the first thought that cut through him was not Naboo’s loss, not the Republic’s outrage, not the soldiers who bled unseen in space.

It was terror.

What if it had been her?

For Padmé’s sister.

For the crown he had once guarded.

For the girl who was porcelain and fire and, despite everything he told himself, was too important to fall.

And from that moment on, the thought would not leave him.

—

His birthday had passed unnoticed on some distant battlefield, marked only by another wound, another count of the dead. No one had remembered, not even himself until the day was gone. And then he thought of her — of Deysi, who had turned fifteen in his absence, likely with no candles, no laughter, no one but her throne for company. Padmé had once whispered with guilt, “I missed her birthday again.” She had meant it tenderly, but to Anakin it stung like betrayal. Because Padmé could stop. Padmé could take a day, a breath, a journey home. She could give her sister a moment of less loneliness. And she hadn’t. That knowledge cut into him more sharply than any blade, because it left Deysi — like him — uncelebrated. Forgotten. Alone.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew Naboo would have celebrated her anyway. The streets would be alive with lanterns and music, her name praised, her image carried high as children laughed barefoot in the fountains. They would have cherished their princess — just not in the way she wanted. Because while her people danced, she would have spent the day bent over decrees, her face tilted down beneath the weight of a crown, the hours bleeding into night as duty devoured what should have been hers. She had worked while others lived, joy bound to obligation, wings clipped by the very throne that exalted her.

And it made his chest ache, because coming back to Naboo was returning to life — but for her, it had only ever been another prison.

—

So when he stepped off the cruiser into Naboo’s orbit, he saw the planet before he saw her. Green and gold and impossibly whole, it glowed like a memory that had never dulled. Naboo was home. More than the Temple, more than Coruscant, more than any battlefield that had carved itself into his bones. It was Naboo.

And when the ramp lowered and the first rush of clean air struck him, it was like coming back to a life he had lost — like a man returning to his wife after years at war. Every blade of grass, every gleam of porcelain whispered that this was where he belonged.

The walk through the palace halls hollowed him. Familiar stone, sacred echoes, but every step pressed heavier than the last. He felt the nervousness coil sharp and low — the wondering if she would bother to look at him, or if she would dismiss him as she had once before. Was he still the boy beneath her crown, unworthy of her gaze? The question followed him with every footfall, until the throne doors opened and there she was.

Deysi, crowned and poised as ever, regarded him for a long, silent moment. Her stillness was the kind that silenced a room — porcelain carved by centuries, untouchable, eternal. But behind that mask, something flickered, a light only he seemed cursed to notice. Then her lips curved faintly, almost imperceptibly — and she said,

“You’re growing into a fine young man, Anakin.”

Her tone was regal, cool, practiced. But the way her gaze lingered, the way the words wrapped around him — it felt motherly.

And he hated it.

Not because it was cruel. But because something in him twisted at the warmth in her voice, at the softness no one else ever saw. It left a mark that stayed with him longer than he wanted, longer than he understood.

It made him feel like a boy again. It made him feel seen.

It was the kind of remark a mother might give her son at the threshold of manhood — pride mixed with distance, an affection wrapped in restraint. And Anakin, who had so little of that in his life, found it struck deeper than any blade could.

And that unsettled him more than any battle he had fought.

So he told himself he was only upset. Irritated. Insulted that she still saw him as a child. He refused to acknowledge the sharper truth — that he thought of her more than he should, that her words burned in him like an ember he could not put out.

Because if he admitted what it truly was, he feared it would consume him.

—

Later that same day, in the quieter halls of the palace, she paused when he fell into step beside her. He hadn’t meant to — his stride simply matched hers, his presence filling the silence.

“Do you always shadow me now, Knight Skywalker?” she asked without looking at him.

His lips tugged in the faintest smirk. “Someone has to.”

She almost smiled at that — almost. “I thought you had a war to fight.”

“I do.” He glanced at her profile, the way the light gilded her crown. “But not today.”

The words hung between them, softer than they should have been. Not forced. Not duty. Just truth.

—

The next day, he stood again in Naboo’s throne room.

He had thought he remembered it well, but memory had softened it — the vast windows spilling light, the gleam of porcelain underfoot, the courtiers’ whispers like rustling silk. And there, at the center of it all, Deysi sat crowned, back straight, voice cutting through the chamber like glass.

She hadn’t changed.

Not really.

But to him, she looked different.

Not taller, not sharper — smaller. Her frame was still poised, her shoulders square, but there was a fineness to her now that hadn’t struck him before. A fragility, as though the throne itself pressed down heavier than it had when he was younger.

War had hardened him. And through his new eyes, she looked like something that might break.

Not marble — never marble again. To everyone else she was still carved stone, eternal, untouchable. But in his eyes she was porcelain now. A doll, fragile and fine, her strength only making the breakage sharper in his imagination. And worse still were the words that slipped in without permission, reverent and ruinous: my princess. My girl. He could never speak them — not when she would wall herself away, not when he was supposed to be only her guard. So he let them rot in silence, unspoken prayers clutched like sins.

When he shifted, the light caught on the glove of his right hand. She noticed — only for an instant. The leather sat wrong, the shape too rigid, unnatural. Her gaze flickered, her lips pressed thinner, and then she buried it. Her face smoothed into porcelain again before anyone else could see. But he had seen the twitch, the fracture, and it followed him long after the court dispersed.

The metal fingers of his right hand flexed once at his side, the new weight still foreign. He hated that she would see it.

He hated the thought. And yet he couldn’t shake it.

Every time her voice cut down a noble’s ploy, he heard how thin it was, how carefully controlled. Every time her hands rested still against the throne, he noticed the tension in her fingers, as though she were holding herself together. She looked less like strength now and more like porcelain — polished, perfect, but brittle under the weight of all she carried.

And for reasons he couldn’t explain, his chest tightened with something that felt almost like protectiveness.

It made no sense.

She didn’t need protecting. She was Naboo’s jewel, adored, untouchable. He had watched her silence whole rooms with a single word. She was stronger than most generals he had met on the front lines.

And yet.

To him, she looked more vulnerable than ever.

And it wasn’t just the war that made him see her this way — it was what she had left in him. Her impression had not faded with time or distance; it had deepened, pressed into him like a seal. When battlefields blurred and soldiers became numbers, it was her image that steadied him, her memory that whispered through the haze: endure. If Padmé was the vow he made to himself, then Deysi was the ember that kept it burning.

And he was beginning to understand something else: that his desperate need to save Padmé was not only for Padmé’s sake. It was because Deysi loved her, because she had so little left, and he could not stand to see her lose more. Protecting Padmé meant protecting Deysi — protecting what little she still had to cling to.

It made him restless, uneasy. It made him watch her. Not as a duty, not as an assignment — but as something else. Something closer to an attachment he wasn’t supposed to feel, something he refused to name.

The Council would call it dangerous. Obi-Wan would call it weakness.

But Anakin didn’t call it anything at all. He just felt it, sharp and constant, every time her eyes swept across the chamber, every time her crown caught the light, every time she looked so untouchable and yet, to him, so breakable.

And he didn’t even realize he was already growing attached.

She caught his eye once between petitions, her fingers curling loosely against the armrest. It was a fleeting glance, but it steadied him more than the Force ever had. He straightened unconsciously, jaw tightening — and when her attention shifted back to the court, he realized his hands had fisted at his sides as though bracing for battle.

—

And when one of the nobles dared to mention Elyra’s death as part of his argument — a prelude to demanding stronger patrols, heavier taxes, more power for his house — Anakin’s jaw locked.

Deysi only inclined her head, her voice calm, her reply cutting and precise. But he saw it — the smallest falter in her gaze, the flicker of pain beneath the crown.

No one else noticed.

But Anakin did.

And it lit something sharp in him, something dangerous.

A Jedi should have let it pass.

Anakin Skywalker could not.

—

That night, when the palace had gone quiet, she stepped outside. The gardens were silver with moonlight, the air cool, and there he was — waiting. Not leaning, not slouched, not with his cloak askew as he once would have been. He stood tall, shoulders squared, the stance of a knight who wanted to be seen as older than he was.

The silence between them was almost holy. After years of absence, years of battlefields and distance, it felt like standing at an altar — as though every breath, every glance carried the weight of ritual. He didn’t move when she approached. He couldn’t. His posture was reverent, near worshipful, as though she were not flesh and blood but something higher, something untouchable. A peasant before his god.

But then her eyes went to his hand. The glove was loose, ill-fitted, and in the wash of moonlight she saw what lay beneath — the glint of metal, the stiff edge where skin should have been.

He realized it too late. His fist closed, cloak tugging to cover it, but the movement was sharp, clumsy. Sloppy. On Naboo, of all places, he had let himself be seen.

Her lips twitched. Her gaze faltered. The same fracture he had caught in the throne room — only here, it broke wider.

“Does it hurt?” she asked softly, almost as though she hadn’t meant to speak.

He froze. He hadn’t expected her to notice — not when so many others pretended not to see. His throat tightened, and for a moment he thought of lying. But her eyes held him steady, patient and unyielding.

“Sometimes,” he admitted.

Her mouth trembled again, as if she wanted to cry but wouldn’t let herself. And it broke him.

Because to her, it wasn’t just metal and loss she was seeing. It was the absence of the boy she remembered — the silent Padawan with too much bark, whose rough edges had once been hers to soften. Now he stood taller, sharper, hardened by battles she hadn’t fought, by hate she hadn’t shared. It was like watching a child grow without her, and returning not as a son but as a soldier she could no longer reach. That was why she looked sad. Why her lips trembled but held firm.

And for him — her sadness only carved the wanting deeper. He had carried her face into every campaign, remembered every flicker of her smile, every stillness of her crown. And when she twitched like that — when her composure cracked — the word came unbidden, reverent and ruinous, a sin pressed against his teeth: my princess.

Not Padmé’s, not theirs, not Naboo’s. His. He would never say it, never let it breathe, because it would drive her from him. So he kept it where it belonged — buried, silent, eating at him like hunger.

Chapter Text

The days blurred together.

But that was a lie. The days hadn’t blurred — not for him. He remembered every moment. He remembered the times she trained with the general in the courtyards, how even then he had been watching her, cataloguing everything: the way her muscles tensed and released when she struck, the way her stance steadied year after year.

Her training outfit told him more than it should have. He remembered how it had hung loose on her before, fabric falling straight, unshaped. Now it clung differently — the cut of the tunic drawn tighter across her chest where once it slipped, the neckline pressing softly against her as though trying to hold onto the last traces of girlhood. She didn’t see it, but he did.

The faint softness at her chest, the beginnings of a woman’s form where once there had only been a child’s. His eyes lingered too long, memorizing the difference, shame prickling as he forced them away. He told himself it was the war that sharpened his sight, that made him catalog every detail. But the truth was simpler. He couldn’t stop watching her.

—

Every morning, Deysi took her throne. Nobles spoke, and she cut them down with the same precision as always. The chamber was dressed in its usual finery — velvet banners hanging heavy from the vaulted ceiling, the faint scent of polished stone and candle wax thick in the air. Courtiers rustled in layers of silk and brocade, their jeweled fingers twitching as they held scrolls and petitions, the faint clink of rings and chains punctuating their whispers.

Anakin and Obi-Wan stood near the back, silent shadows, listening to the endless tide of words. From where they stood, the air was cooler, faintly drafty — and yet always perfumed with incense burned in shallow brass bowls, meant to disguise the sweat of so many bodies gathered in one place.

Every evening, she withdrew to her chambers. Every night, they lingered close at hand. The palace corridors hummed with the faint echo of water flowing in the aqueducts beneath, the lanterns throwing soft amber light against marble floors. Guards stood at intervals, stiff and solemn, their polished armor gleaming but unused.

Nothing happened.

No assassins struck. No shadows crept too close. The palace buzzed with whispers of danger, but the days slipped by like beads on a string, each one identical to the last.

—

To Anakin, it began to feel less like a mission and more like ceremony. They weren’t protecting her. They were displayed beside her throne — living symbols that the Jedi cared, that Naboo’s jewel was watched over. Nothing more.

And what stung was this: Deysi would never have done this to them. She would never have tethered them to her side out of vanity, never forced them to waste their blades guarding her every breath. If it had been her choice, she would have released them long ago. She had no use for guards who stood idle. But the Council thought otherwise. They thought her important enough to hold resources here while the war bled the galaxy dry. Because they knew if she fell, everything around her fell too. And so they kept sending Jedi back, again and again, to circle her throne like sentries at a shrine.

He hated it. The war raged across the galaxy, soldiers bled on half a dozen worlds, and he was here — watching courtiers debate tariffs while Deysi sat like porcelain. Her robes were immaculate, her poise unshaken, her crown catching the light of a hundred braziers, and yet — he saw the tremor in her hands when she thought no one was looking.

Sometimes he caught himself staring at her, noticing the faint tremor of her fingers, the way her throat worked when she swallowed. And each time, he forced himself to look away.

She didn’t matter. Not like Padmé. She was a duty, a posting, nothing more.

And yet — he found himself resenting Padmé more than Deysi. Padmé could come here if she wished. She could lay aside her speeches, her senatorial robes, and sit at her sister’s side. She could hold her hand during those endless petitions, laugh with her in the garden, make her less alone. But she didn’t. She chose the Senate. She always chose the Senate.

Anakin imagined what he would do in her place.

If he were free, if he weren’t the Chosen One shackled to the Council, he would never leave Deysi’s side. He would be there in the mornings, not standing behind her throne like an ornament, but sitting at her table, pouring her tea with his own hands. He would place it just the way she liked — sweet, always sweeter than anyone thought proper — because he had noticed, though she tried to hide it. She wanted to be seen as a queen, not a girl with a sweet tooth. So he never said it aloud. But he remembered. He remembered everything.

He would make her laugh — really laugh — not the cool, careful smiles she gave the court. He would tease her until her cheeks flushed, until her voice cracked into something unguarded, alive. And when the day was done, when the last scroll was signed and her hand ached from holding the quill, he would be there to ease her burden, to remind her that she was not alone.

He would place flowers on her nightstand — not the stiff arrangements chosen by servants, but the ones he had picked himself, the ones he knew she favored. Pale blossoms that matched her softer gowns, the ones she never wore to court, tucked away like secrets.

And when she was weary, too weary to lift another pen, too weary even to speak, he imagined helping her then. Quiet. Gentle. Kneeling at her side as if he belonged there, offering whatever small thing might ease her. Not as a lover, not as a man, but as something humbler — a servant, a hound laying an offering at its master’s feet. His devotion soft, wordless, desperate.

But in his mind, the scene shifted without his consent. She was tired after her bath, hair damp against her shoulders, her eyes heavy with sleep. He imagined himself there, steady hands lifting the robe and slipping it across her arms, smoothing the fabric into place. It was still gentle, still service — but no longer animal. No longer servant. His breath caught at the change, the thought turning him from dog to man.

And the moment he realized it, he stopped. Shame and hunger tangled in his chest. She was still porcelain, still his little princess, too fragile for the weight of such thoughts.

My sweet princess. The words curled through his mind like smoke, reverent and ruinous. He would never say them aloud. Not yet. Not ever. But they haunted him, clung to him, until even the smallest glance at her crown or the tremor in her hands dragged him deeper into the spiral.

—

One night she slipped out into the gardens without guards, an act of rebellion so small no one else would notice. But he did.

He found her kneeling in the grass, dew clinging to the hem of her nightgown where it touched the damp earth. Flowers lay scattered across her lap — daisies, buttercups, clover — their stems bending beneath her clumsy fingers.

“I’ve never done this,” she whispered to herself, more intimate than if she’d said it to him. Her hands fumbled, weaving one crown, then another, each falling apart before it was finished.

“Padmé promised she would teach me,” she added softly, lips tightening as the flowers slipped again. “She never did.”

She didn’t know he was there.

He dropped to his knees before her, gathering the broken crown with hands that had known nothing but war. He placed it on his head as though it were gold, bowing as if she had anointed him.

Her laugh — real, unguarded — broke through the night, startled out of her by his sudden presence. And he would have bled for it.

After that, she tried harder. Her small fingers worked again and again, weaving stems with stubborn concentration, tongue caught at the corner of her lip. Each time a crown collapsed, she began anew, refusing to yield. He stood over her all the while, silent and watchful, like a hound keeping guard at its master’s side.

Finally, she lifted one finished, whole — her eyes shining with pride. Still seated in the grass, she held it up toward him, expecting he would simply take it from her hands.

But instead, he sank to his knees before her, bowing his head.

Surprise flickered across her face — a small, startled widening of her eyes, as though she hadn’t expected him to treat her clumsy creation with such reverence.

From where she sat, her small hands reached out, trembling slightly, and set the crown atop his bowed head.

He stayed kneeling. She smiled faintly, then reached up again, plucked the wilted half-crown from his hair, and replaced it with the new one, settling it with care.

It felt less like a game and more like ritual — as though she had crowned him properly this time. A coronation, a promise, silent but binding.

Her eyes lingered on him then, steady, memorizing.

“How old are you now?” she asked softly.

My voice lowered. “Twenty-one,” I said.

The number should have been enough. But it wasn’t. Her eyes stayed on me, and before I could stop myself, the rest came pouring out.

“Two years,” I said. “But they weren’t years. The war doesn’t count time the way Naboo does. Out there, you measure by campaigns, by wounds, by how many brothers you bury before you’ve learned their names. Days vanish. Months collapse into battlefields. You stop remembering your age at all.”

I drew in a breath, but it shook, and still the words tumbled out like stones breaking loose.

“I was nineteen here with you, and then—Geonosis. Dust in the lungs, blood in the sand. I blinked and it was Jabiim, rain that never stopped. Muunilinst, voices screaming. I blinked again and suddenly I was twenty-one, and I don’t know where those years went. I lost them. The war took them. It took me.”

She reached for me then — her hand brushing the scar at my jaw, smoothing it softly as though to erase it.

“And this one?” she whispered.

The words broke from me again, raw. “Geonosis. The air was dust. It filled your lungs until you coughed blood. The ground shook with droids in endless lines. Men cut down before I knew their names. I saw one boy — younger than me — crushed beneath a walker’s foot. I can still hear the sound of his bones breaking.”

Her fingers smoothed the scar, tracing it as though to erase it. Then she bent, her lips brushing the line softly, a kiss light as breath.

Her thumb moved next to the crease between my brows. “And this one?”

“Jabiim.” My voice cracked. “Rain that never ended. Mud that swallowed soldiers whole. I dug until my fingers bled, trying to pull men out, but the earth kept taking them. The smell—” I stopped, swallowing hard. “The smell never left. Weeks of bodies rotting in the rain. I woke choking on it, even in dry air.”

Her thumb kept stroking the crease, patient, soothing, as though she could smooth the memory flat. Then she kissed it too, slow and reverent.

Her hand rose to my brow, to the faint scar above my temple. “And here?”

“Muunilinst.” My voice was low, hoarse. “Close fighting in the streets. Too close. A blade caught me as I pulled a trooper back. He bled out in my arms before I even realized I’d been marked too. He was smiling — smiling — because he thought we’d won.”

Her mouth trembled. She kissed the scar with aching care, her lips lingering against it like a prayer.

At last her hand drifted beneath my eye. Her voice was hushed. “And these… your eyes. They don’t look the same.”

I swallowed hard. “They see differently now. I see death faster. I see betrayal sharper. I see faces of the dead — brothers, strangers, men I failed. They blur into the living until I can’t tell which ones are real. And when it’s silent—” My voice broke, raw, helpless. “—I still hear them. The screaming never stops.”

She didn’t flinch. She leaned closer, lips brushing the corner of my eye, soft as though she could kiss the ghosts away. “Then let me hear them too,” she whispered. “So you don’t carry them alone.”

Her words undid me. I stiffened, because I wanted her to see the man, not the broken boy. But inside, for one fragile heartbeat, it felt like being held to a bosom I hadn’t known since I was small — safe, steady, unyielding.

And that was the cruelty of it. I ached to rest there, to close my eyes against her chest and let her keep me the way she once might have, as if I were still hers to cradle. But the man in me refused. The war had carved me into her shadow, her sword, her sentinel. I could not be both. I could not be the boy longing to be held and the guard sworn to protect.

So I stayed between them — suspended in the space where I wanted everything from her and could take nothing.

—

A few nights later, the palace had gone quiet. The lanterns were out, the halls empty. She left her chambers without a word, her veil left behind, her steps light as though she were slipping into a dream.

I followed. Not because I was ordered to — but because I couldn’t stop myself.

She went to the fountain in the outer courtyard. It was old, the marble cracked, water spilling unevenly into a moss-dark basin. Still, it sang softly in the night air, a hymn no one had heard in years. She stood beside it, her reflection broken by ripples, and waited.

When I stepped from the shadows, her eyes found me. Not startled. Expecting.

“Show me your hand,” she said.

I froze.

Her gaze didn’t waver. So slowly, reluctantly, I tugged the glove free. Metal caught the moonlight — ridges and plates where skin should have been.

For a moment, I felt exposed. Shamed. I almost pulled it back, but then her hands rose — small, steady, unafraid.

She cradled the prosthetic as though it were flesh. Her thumbs smoothed the seams, her fingers tracing each joint with impossible tenderness. She held it as a mother holds a wound her child cannot name.

And then she bent, pressing her lips to the cold metal. Soft. Reverent. A kiss that should have meant nothing, but felt like everything.

Her whisper followed, hushed, almost a prayer. “Let this hand never fail you. Let it still be yours.”

Then, one by one, she kissed each finger. Gentle. Sweet. As though blessing them. And the ache of it struck deep — because I wished I could feel it, the way I had felt her lips against the scars she soothed in the garden. I longed for the warmth, the softness, but all I knew was the cold echo through metal.

I stiffened. My first instinct was to pull away, to stand straighter, to remind her I was her guard, not her broken child. But inside—inside, the boy ached to let her hold it, to let her hold me.

That was the cruelty of it. I could not be both. I could not collapse into her arms and still be the sentinel at her side. So I stood there, caught between them — her knight in the dark, her boy in secret — and let her lips linger against the hand the war had taken from me.

—

When the Council’s recall came, no one was surprised. Not Deysi, who dismissed them with perfect poise. Not Obi-Wan, who accepted the order with his usual calm. Not even Anakin, who clenched his fists but said nothing — because by then, they all knew.

The next time they came back, it would only be for show.

As they bowed their farewells, Deysi’s eyes found Anakin’s. Cold, commanding.

“Remember your oath to me, Padawan.”

The words pressed into his chest like iron, burning there as he turned away.

But when she straightened, when her gaze swept the chamber one last time, something shifted. For the briefest heartbeat, her poise faltered — not in weakness, but in sorrow. The kind a sovereign hides when parting from an ally, the quiet grief of losing a friend she had grown used to seeing at her side.

It was gone in an instant, replaced by the perfect steel of her crown. Yet Anakin carried that flicker with him as he walked away, heavier than any command.