Long chapter today, so I'll get right down to it. First of all, disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars. Secondly, I am so sorry it has taken me so long to update. I spent my entire winter break working on university applications, and then for the next few months I played the female lead in a musical, which filled the time that I normally would have used to write. However, I had good outcomes in both the musical (luckily, our run was scheduled to end immediately before social distancing for COVID-19 began) and university, so now I am back with the next chapter!

I will answer reviews in the end, as usual. Please know that I sincerely appreciate all of your support. I had a few people write me to encourage me not to give up on my story, and it meant a lot to me that they took the time out of their day to let me know that my work matters to them. Because it has been so long since I last posted, I decided to include a brief summary of the past few chapters below. If need be, you can always flip through the past few chapters on your own time or send me a PM if you have any questions and/or would like a longer recap. As always, reviews are very much appreciated, as are favourites and follows! Thank you again for all of your support. :)

Summary: On Naboo, Padmé, Bail, Kaeden, and the clones allied with Princess Isé Sapphira of Theed, who agreed to help them rescue Ahsoka, Padmé's children, and Bail's daughter from the Imperial Palace on Coruscant. Simultaneously, Ahsoka contacted Nadila, and they devised a separate plan to kill Emperor Vader. (Padmé and Ahsoka have not been in contact and are currently unaware of the other's plan, though they have more or less the same motives.) In the last chapter, Vader held a garden ball to celebrate Ahsoka leaving for Crulius with her new fiancé and Erosik's older brother: Crulius's crown prince, Vivio. However, Padmé snuck into the garden party disguised as Sabé (who in turn had been posing as Empress Amidala up until Padmé's arrival) and held Vader at gunpoint, revealing her true identity. Vader escaped, however, only to corner Padmé in a disused ballroom while she and the real Sabé were searching for Luke and Leia. In the meantime, Saché, one of Padmé's handmaidens, snuck onto Prince Vivio's ship, where he and the Grand Inquisitor had taken Ahsoka. Saché shot Vivio, killing him, and she and Ahsoka made a break for the escape pods. However, they realized that the escape pods had been manually disabled and were therefore unable to launch, right as the Grand Inquisitor appeared, cornering them and rendering an escape nearly impossible...


Ahsoka pressed her back to the viewport as emergency lights snapped to life, bathing Prince Vivio's ship in a dangerous blood red. The Grand Inquisitor, still framed by the opening he had carved into the escape pod door, let his eyes go numb with shock—and so Ahsoka gasped, caught off guard by his act, as unseen ropes tightened into a helix around her body. Beside her, Saché gave a grunt of resistance, thrashing against her invisible restraints. Ahsoka knew better at the sight of the Inquisitor's outstretched hand. She couldn't free herself from a prison fabricated with the Dark Side, at least not without her own connection to the Force.

She caught the Grand Inquisitor's gaze, challenge blazing in her eyes. "Stay there, Princess," he chuckled—as if she had a choice—and stood, swiftly dissolving into the darkness.

"Great," Ahsoka muttered under her breath. How long would it be until her own Force sensitivity returned? The effects of the Force-suppressant lasted about twelve hours, and Vader had most recently administered the shot after this morning's breakfast. The floor of the escape pod shuddered frantically, evoking a gasp from Saché. Down the hall, the snap-hiss of a lightsaber shattered the silence and was instantly followed by a bombardment of blaster fire.

"I get the sense that we've been boarded," Saché observed flatly.

"But"—speaking irritated Ahsoka's suddenly dry throat—"by whom?"

Saché gave a long-suffering sigh. "That always seems to be the question, doesn't it?"

Before Ahsoka could vocalize her agreement, a gentle hum warmed her fingertips. Her focus sharpened to a pinpoint; light burned at the corners of her eyes. Power, she thought numbly. It was power that surged through her veins, in a mighty rush that left her head pounding.

Ahsoka drew on the Force—it came a bit sluggishly, like the viscous crawl of lava, but nonetheless it came—and severed the invisible ropes that bound both her and Saché. The suppressant. Had worn off. The suppressant had worn off. Already her midi-chlorians were reawakening, grasping for the Force like a budding plant straining toward the sun…

"…Princess?" Saché said tentatively.

Ahsoka whipped toward her, more abruptly than she meant to. "We should go."

"But why did—how did you—"

"Don't worry. I'll explain later." Ahsoka manoeuvred herself out of the escape pod with remarkably little grace, tangling repeatedly in the dense satin skirts of her gown. She bent to offer Saché her good hand, but the other woman didn't need it. She was dressed in a velvet tunic and loose trousers—which, as it turned out, were much more suitable battle wear.

Ahsoka and Saché followed the flashes of light down the hall, where they found the Inquisitor facing off against a lineup of helmeted soldiers. One woman, positioned not far from where Ahsoka and Saché stood, was using one of the Corinthian columns as a shield. As she darted outward to fire in the Inquisitor's direction, he deftly deflected her blaster bolt, and it struck her in the heart. As soon as the Inquisitor had turned his back on the newly dead soldier, Saché skidded toward her and examined her helmet. Chandrilan, she mouthed at Ahsoka.

Chandrilan? In an official capacity, Chandrila's forces were aligned with the Empire, at least as long as Laric Caarino sat on the throne. But Caarino's daughter had promised to aid in Ahsoka's escape—was it possible that Princess Nadila had convinced a portion of her father's army to defect? Or were these survivors of the Empire's assault on the Chandrilan rebel base?

In any case, they were clearly on Ahsoka's side—or at least not on the Inquisitor's—and if this fight lasted any longer, he would slaughter them all. "Hey, Inquisitor!" Ahsoka shouted, marching around the corner and planting her feet against the floor. "How about a fair fight?"

At the sound of her voice, the blaster fire died out, and several of the combatants—including the Inquisitor himself—performed a double take. Ahsoka was aware that to anyone who wasn't familiar with her and her abilities, challenging the Inquisitor to a fight at the moment might make it seem like she had a death wish. The full-skirted ballgown would significantly hinder her movement, not to mention the gauzy overlay that could snag on any number of objects, and she was weaponless. Well—that last part was no longer true, now that she had the Force.

"Princess," the Inquisitor articulated with a sneer. "I thought I told you to stay put."

Out of the corner of her eye, Ahsoka saw Saché bolt to her feet, but she motioned for her newfound ally to stand down. "I got bored," came her flat reply. The Inquisitor's narrowed eyes gleamed in his lightsaber's blood red glow. Just as Ahsoka had suspected from the shape of the hilt, it was double-bladed. She wondered if she could trick him into disconnecting the weapon and producing two swords—then she could turn at least one of them against him—

Her posture stiffened as she sensed the trajectory of the blaster bolt, but unfortunately, so had the Inquisitor. With impossible speed, he whipped around and deflected it toward one of the Chandrilans, who just barely lunged out of the way. "Stop!" Ahsoka ordered desperately. "Stop firing! Don't you see? He has a lightsaber, he'll use your own shots against you—"

"Such a clever observation, Your Highness! We would be remiss not to listen to the little princess—after all, she knows best." The Inquisitor clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, eyes frothing with cruel mirth. Ahsoka felt rage like a ball of fire at her core.

"How dare you," she growled. "How dare you speak to me as a child!"

She realized vaguely that this was probably the reaction he had been hoping for, but at the moment, fury overpowered all sense of reason. She was itching for a fight now—it was time to engage him. But how? Hand-to-hand combat would be near impossible in this dress, and obviously swordplay was out of the question. Her only option was to use the Force.

Ahsoka shoved her good hand forward, angling her open palm toward the Inquisitor's lightsaber hilt. He slid into a defensive position—"You are a child," he insisted with a chuckle—and his two blades whirled around the hilt with almost blinding speed, searing the air with a circle of crimson light. Ahsoka bit down on her bottom lip, trying not to lose sight of the hilt's central point, but it was nearly impossible to distinguish anything beyond the phosphorescent red blur.

"Come here, Princess!" he taunted, pitching his voice high above its natural register. "Come and show me how afraid I should be! Come and strike me down, unarmed as you are—"

Shards of metal exploded into silvery starbursts, an arm locked around her waist and heaved her backward, the Force crackled through her veins like fire—Ahsoka's voice went raw with a prolonged scream, and her hands trembled with the echoes of power. She tasted salt. The Inquisitor's body lay sprawled across the ground, limbs twisted at awkward angles.

Another tear slipped from her eye. She couldn't see his face, not from here, but she was afraid of what she might find if she could. "Easy, Princess," said a voice close behind her.

Ahsoka jerked around, her nerves still thrumming in anticipation of a phantom danger. A human girl around her age stared back at her, blonde hair bunched into a sloppy bun at the nape of her neck. "Nadila?" Ahsoka gasped. She still relaxed only slightly. "You—you came?"

Nadila chuckled under her breath and released Ahsoka's waist. She must have been the one who had pulled her out of reach of the explosion. "I believe that was the plan, yes."

"Right." Ahsoka lifted a shaking hand to her temple. "I'm sorry, I think I'm in shock…"

"I would be more concerned if you weren't."

"I—I—I didn't mean to kill him!"

"I know you didn't."

"I was trying to defend myself."

"Of course you were."

Ahsoka studied Nadila through her eyelashes. The other girl seemed sincere.

"And I—I've killed people before," Ahsoka muttered. "In self-defence. It's no different." But that wasn't the complete truth, was it? She could have incapacitated the Grand Inquisitor and just as easily fled Vivio's ship, even with Nadila, Saché, and the Chandrilan soldiers in tow. She had ended his life not out of necessity, but out of rage, and the implications of that were—

"Hey," Nadila cut in. "Stay focused. We're setting this whole place ablaze, remember?"

Ahsoka nodded and allowed Nadila to guide her back to her feet—but startled as a new voice drifted from the shadows, a melodic counterpart to Nadila's brisk, almost commanding tone. "Surely we can spare a moment to process the last few minutes, Princess Nadila?"

Queen Breha Organa of Alderaan was gliding toward them, her hands folded over the silk of her practical yet delicately embroidered royal blue tunic. Her black hair had been piled into a tall crown of braids, a traditional Alderaanian hairstyle, and satin ribbons of varying shades of blue cascaded down her back. After the queen came a beautiful young noblewoman with dark hair—most of which was styled in an intricate plait, save for a few curls that fell to frame her face—and golden brown skin. As Countess Emalina of Chandrila approached, so too did her bodyguard, a tall, familiar-looking man with a wide, pale forehead and brown hair…

"Tonra?" Saché gasped, and Ahsoka remembered with a start where she had seen him before. He had been Sabé's contact from within the Chandrilan Rebellion—and perhaps even a bit more. As if to confirm Ahsoka's suspicions, Saché propped her right hand on her hip—her left arm was still limp at her side—and winked. "I'm sure Sabé will be happy to see you!"

"I'm not here for Sabé," Tonra grunted, but Ahsoka could have sworn that a faint blush coloured his cheeks. "Someone had to protect the princess and countess of Chandrila—"

"I don't need protecting," Nadila snapped. "In case you didn't notice, I just pulled Her Imperial Highness out of a kriffing explosion. You can admit that you love your girlfriend."

"She's not my—"

"For the love of the Force, would you both stop behaving like my eleven-year-old brother?" Emalina waved off Tonra's proffered arm and strode toward Nadila and Ahsoka. Her elaborate braid wound over her shoulder, swaying just above her waist as she walked. "Honestly, Nadila, you said it yourself only a few minutes ago: we have a Galactic Empire to destroy."

Ahsoka furrowed her brow and crossed to Queen Breha. "I take it you're here for the same reason, Your Majesty?" she inquired softly, gesturing toward Nadila and Emalina.

"Nearly. My primary motivations are my husband and daughter," Queen Breha admitted. Ahsoka nodded as she remembered that little Princess Demia was still a prisoner of the emperor. But Bail Organa? By means of explanation, Breha added, "Bail came to Coruscant with Padmé to assist in your rescue. He contacted me from Theed Palace on Naboo before he left."

"Contacted you? From Naboo? Why wasn't he on Alderaan?"

Queen Breha's eyes fluttered closed. "My husband disappeared during the Battle of Ilum. So did Padmé. I sent my best pilots to search for them, but they turned up empty-handed, and by that point the Empire had raided my planet and kidnapped my daughter. I had no choice but to return to Alderaan and do what I could to protect my people, though I sent the rest of the Rebellion into hiding on Birren. Its governor, Lord Mellowyn, is a distant relative of my husband's, and I had hoped he would do what he could to keep their presence a secret from the Empire."

"Did he?"

"Well, they were never found, so I would assume yes."

"And the others—Nadila, Emalina, all of these soldiers?"

"Most of the soldiers here are Chandrilan refugees, veterans of their planet's resistance against the Empire. They were originally welcome on Alderaan, but after the siege and the Battle of Ilum, they fled to Birren along with the rest of the Rebellion. I didn't dare contact them until a few days ago, on behest of Princess Nadila and Countess Emalina. They had reached out to me to tell me of their plan to infiltrate the Imperial Palace—to rescue you. Since their people on Birren were technically under my protection at the time, they were hoping I could convince them to help. Most of the Chandrilans agreed, and shortly afterward I heard from Bail." Breha allowed a small, almost wistful smile to cross her face. "I knew then that I had to come in person."

Ahsoka bit her lip. "But Senator Organa and Padmé were never part of our plan…"

She trailed off as Breha arched an eyebrow in concern. "I'm sorry, Princess?"

Ahsoka looked down at her hands, a hint of anxiety already flickering within her. After a moment of hesitation, she said, "This entire operation? Nadila and I organized it together. The plan was to intoxicate my fiancé, flee from his ship in an escape pod, and wait for Nadila to pick me up and bring me back to Coruscant's surface. There I would…I would kill the emperor."

"So what is your point?" Queen Breha prompted, when Ahsoka did not continue.

"I…I just didn't realize that Padmé and Senator Organa were involved in our plan," Ahsoka finished tentatively. "And I don't see any reason why Nadila wouldn't have told me."

Queen Breha's lips parted and instantly closed again. She looked past Ahsoka to where Nadila was conferring with Emalina. "Princess, Countess, were you working with my husband?"

Nadila glanced over her shoulder, her brow already furrowed. "Your…husband?"

Queen Breha's golden skin turned pale, and she took a hesitant step backward. Tonra rushed to her side to steady her. "You're telling me that Bail is…is not in league with you," she said shakily. Nadila shook her head no, and Breha turned to Ahsoka with panic flashing in her eyes. "I should have confirmed, but he called me so soon after Princess Nadila—I just assumed—"

"It's all right, Your Majesty," Ahsoka quickly assured the queen, though her own heart had already wedged itself in her throat. If she and Padmé weren't on the same page, after all, it could place both of them in danger. "Just…please, tell us anything you may know."

Queen Breha eyed her almost warily before turning away to set a hand on her forehead. "He claimed that he and Padmé were working alongside Princess Isé Sapphira of Theed."

Ahsoka gasped before she could help it. Princess Isé? If she was involved, this was definitely more than a desperate bid on Padmé's part to stave off Ahsoka's betrothal. Padmé had made a powerful ally, and together they had fabricated an entirely separate plot to strike against the Empire. But Padmé simply didn't know what Ahsoka was planning—how could Ahsoka be sure that some component of Padmé's plan wouldn't inadvertently interfere with her own?

She could already imagine one negative scenario, in fact. If their holo call was anything to go by, Isé might try to stop Ahsoka from killing the emperor. The Princess of Theed despised resorting to violence, and while that mindset would have been admirable under other circumstances, it had prevented Ahsoka and Nadila from sharing their new plan with Isé in the first place.

Now there was an extra variable, one she hadn't foreseen, but Ahsoka still had to incorporate it into the equation. She fortified herself with a deep breath and straightened her posture. "We must get back to Coruscant's surface, now. We have to warn Padmé and her allies about our intentions. And then," she declared, her tone darkening, "I am going to kill Vader."

The words brokered no argument, and Ahsoka realized that she sounded more like an actual princess—an empress, even—than she ever had before. "Well," Saché decided, appearing at Ahsoka's side, "you can't march into battle wearing that." She rubbed a layer of pale grey silk chiffon between her fingertips, studying it with a close eye. "Who designed this gown?"

Ahsoka pursed her lips in thought. "Um…I would assume Eirtaé."

"It does have Eirtaé's touch, doesn't it?" Saché gestured for Ahsoka to spin around, then coursed her good hand over the lacing at the bodice's back. "Okay, let's try this…"

In one clean swoop, layers of silvery fabric collapsed to the floor at Ahsoka's feet. She choked on her surprise and glanced down at herself in a near panic—only to see that instead of the gown, she was now dressed in athletic attire. The bodice of the dress had been high-necked with beaded cap sleeves, yet in its place she wore a tank top—still high-necked but sleeveless, sewn of a darker grey fabric that would lend her utmost agility and flexibility. The leggings, too, were infinitely more practical—and comfortable—than the usual bell-shaped curvature of skirts. "I knew it!" Saché cried. "Eirtaé likes to hide the escape hatch behind the lacing…"

Tonra had raised an eyebrow as if impressed by Saché—assuming that was even possible for him—but everyone else appeared just as confused as Ahsoka. "It's one of the Naboo handmaidens' best-kept secrets," Saché said by way of explanation. "We build escape hatches into the queen's gowns so that she can discard the outer layers in case of a fight."

Ahsoka looked back down at her new outfit and gave a small smile. It was much like what her Jedi counterpart had worn as she duelled Anakin Skywalker on Mandalore—at least according to the holo Padmé had once shown her, in hopes of unveiling Ahsoka's true identity.

Her hands found two empty loops at her hips—for weapons, she realized. Lightsabers. She feared that Vader may have destroyed the ones she had found in the treasury, but of course there was still the slight chance that he had kept them. After all, he'd kept her around, even once she had become more trouble than she was probably worth. Ahsoka glanced at the Inquisitor's mangled body, courtesy of his lightsaber exploding—which had only happened because she had used the Force to sever the sabre's power connection. Trouble. Before she could dwell too heavily on it, Saché spun her toward the rest of their newfound allies.

"Here," said Countess Emalina after a moment, drawing a filigreed dagger from her hip. As she passed it to Ahsoka, light refracted off of the emeralds that embossed the hilt, scattering rainbows across Ahsoka's vision. "I know that you're a Jedi, and you would probably prefer lightsabers in combat, but you'll need some way to defend yourself in the meantime."

Ahsoka returned the offer with a solemn nod and sheathed the dagger at her hip. "Now there she is," Nadila decided, folding her arms across her chest. One corner of her mouth even slanted upward into her cheek. "A woman who's ready to take back the galaxy."


A young handmaiden hovered beside an archway, her ears sharp as the guards on the opposite side of the wall muttered to one another. They were speaking in Huttese, but she had always had a talent for language acquisition—most of Naboo's handmaidens did—and her knowledge of Huttese was sufficient in deducing the subject of their concern. An attack—or a riot, perhaps, none of the guards were entirely sure—had destroyed Emperor Vader's garden party.

Though Princess Ahsoka had warned of some sort of diversion, it seemed too early in the evening for it to have already taken place. The princess had been scheduled to leave for Crulius around midnight and had warned that she would launch her distraction then. Still, plans could change, and the Imperial Guard—or at least the members who were currently assigned to the palace dungeons—had clearly been thrown into chaos by the events upstairs. A Naboo handmaiden never let a golden opportunity like this one slip between her fingers.

She pushed herself off of the wall and turned the corner into the adjacent room, clearing her throat to catch the guards' attention. The group was made up predominantly of humans and Gamorreans, though there were also a few Twi'leks, Zabraks, and members of other species she didn't recognize. She was disgusted that all of them appeared to be male. Naboo never would have stood for that—and she didn't believe the Republic would have, either.

They had gathered around a table still illuminated by an abandoned holochess game, heads dipped close together, though the majority of them turned at the sound of her voice. Some even grinned at the petite blonde woman dressed in the unassuming handmaiden's uniform. This was a mask she had worn for some time now, that of the stereotypically naïve blonde girl.

No longer.

"I've come to inform you that your services in combat are required in the palace gardens. There has been a ferocious attack on the Imperial Palace—and on the life of Emperor Vader himself." She flicked her artist's eyes along the cluster of guards. She knew from countless chores in the dungeon that normally only two men guarded the prison antechamber, yet she counted at least two dozen here. The attack had drawn many of them from their assigned prison cell posts into one easily targeted clump. She felt one corner of her mouth twitch, a smile threatening.

A large human guard crooked a finger, motioning her toward him. She obliged. His ice blue eyes bore into hers as he clamped a rough hand over her shoulder. "Where's your proo—"

The handmaiden drove her knee into his stomach without even glancing down. The human guard hunched over with a violent expulsion of air, and she swung one leg into a brutal roundhouse kick that hit him across the jaw. He collapsed to his side, his blaster exposed on his hip—and she snatched it, just in time to shoot a Zabrak man who had already aimed at her. She angled her blaster to make a few more well-aimed shots, wishing idly that she were as good as Sabé or even Saché, though she certainly seemed to be skilled enough for this crowd.

She had always hated killing opponents, but in this case she had no choice; it was the only way to cover her bases. Invariably her finger seemed to feel out the trigger. But the haze protected her, blurring her perception of control, and she wondered if maybe an outside force was guiding her hand, no input of her own necessary. Her lips said, "There's the proof." She heard herself form the words, even as she knew she was the only one left who could. All of a sudden, and with an unexpected fervour, she was ludicrously glad to have thought to wear leggings beneath the handmaiden's dress. She bent to the floor, lifted an old-fashioned ring of keys from one of the guards' belts, and set off down the corridor, metal jingling sharply from her hand.

A flash of motion. She felt the trigger press up against her thumb.

By the time that she arrived in front of his cell door, a new weariness had seeped into her bones—the weight of guilt. With a frantic shake of her head, she tried to shove it aside, as if that could dispel the emotion wedged deep inside her mind. No tears built, despite a vague yearning for them to come. Release him, and he would help her save the others, no matter the cost.

With shaking hands, she fit the key into the lock and twisted. The door inched open with an anticlimactic moan, as if it too carried the burden of her exhaustion. Beyond the crack, a male figure. Overgrown locks of auburn hair framed his sunken, wan face. Even as she slipped inside the cell, he hovered, ghost-like, betraying barely a flicker of interest in her presence.

So this was the famed Obi-Wan Kenobi. He looked different from when she had encountered him over a decade ago, during the Trade Federation's occupation of Naboo; time seemed to have chipped away at his youth, his naïveté. But years of war and imprisonment could do that to you: rob the life from your face, the hope from your eyes, the strength from your limbs.

She tiptoed closer and said in a murmur, "Princess Ahsoka sent me."

His head snapped up, and light diffused through his blue eyes. "Ahsoka?" Without warning, wariness stole over him, and his shoulders slumped forward. "What is your name?"

Release him, she reminded herself, and he would help her save the others.

"I'm Eirtaé," she said, extending a hand. "I'm here to rescue you."


It had been during the Clone Wars, while she was still Senator Amidala and he General Skywalker, that they had last played this game. They had needed to prove to themselves that they knew one another inside and out—they had been desperate for it, really. She would be sitting behind her desk and she would look up and there he would be, leaning against the threshold of her office at the Republic Senate building, or maybe he would find her in one of her favourite Coruscanti boutiques, and she wouldn't realize he was there until she heard a whispered, "Can I help you, my lady?" She had been no better than him, vigilant for rumours of his return from the front, and as soon as she caught wind of them she would wander from Dex's Diner in CoCo Town to Coruscant Park in the Federal District. She knew she would find him eventually, nursing a hot cup of caf or staring out at a sweep of floral arrangements.

So it was no different, really, to enter this ballroom and find him already waiting for her, Sabé at her back and Yané held at gunpoint and Emperor Vader, her husband, on a throne.

Once she had been too late. She had found him as a prisoner of Count Dooku, and the only way to get him back was to return a captured General Grievous to the Separatists. This had all transpired on Naboo, and afterward she contacted the Jedi Council to tell them that her husband—though of course she couldn't call him that at the time, not in front of the Jedi—had sustained injuries during his capture and would be spending the night in the care of the medics on Naboo. She knew she was lying as the words passed her lips; she was no medic.

Still, she had foregone the nearest hospital, delivering him instead to her family's villa in the Lake Country. She realized now that it had been horribly selfish, but that had been the nature of their romance—if it could be considered a "romance" at all. Paddy, Varykino's caretaker, had pretended not to notice as the senator dabbed cool cloths against her husband's forehead and deposited gentle kisses on his lips. That evening she led him into the meadow where they had shared their first picnic; she had decided some fresh air would do him good. She remembered plucking a flower from the grasses and tucking it behind his ear. One corner of his mouth had lifted into a smile—maybe a grimace, maybe he had still been in pain, but she had been in a different world entirely, caught in the shimmery Naboo night, tangled in the fantasy of what their marriage should have been, until she could no longer tease apart reverie and reality.

"I love you," Padmé had said, and in that moment she'd almost believed it.

Now, with her parents' music box in his hand—"Across the Stars" plinking through the air like a spattering of raindrops—Padmé tried not to lose herself in the throes of memory. And yet she couldn't help but think, You were right, Anakin. It did destroy us. Their marriage had been a lie in more ways than one—they had been lying to the Order and the Senate, yes, but they had also been lying to themselves, so eager to convince one another that they were in love…

We'd be living a lie. One we couldn't keep even if we wanted to. Her own words from years ago flickered into memory. I couldn't do that. Could you, Anakin? Could you live like that?

"Where," Padmé ground past her teeth, "are my children?"

"In the care of the Imperial guards. As it should be, for a young prince and princess." Vader set the music box on the throne's armrest, almost reverently, before rotating to face Padmé. "This woman"—he flung a disgusted hand toward Yané, who struggled against Tarkin's grip while glowering up at Vader—"was trying to keep them from me. But all you have to do is come back to me, my love. Come back to me as Empress Amidala, and we will be a family again."

"A family?" Poisonous words simmered on the tip of her tongue, but she somehow managed to wrangle control of her common sense. Padmé sipped in a breath and slid one hand between the folds of her silver tunic, feeling for the cool caress of metal. "What kind of husband murders his wife's niece and sister? What kind of brother beats his own little sister unconscious?"

No. You're right. It would destroy us. It had certainly destroyed him.

At her snarled accusation, Vader cut his eyes toward the captive Yané, and icy panic knifed Padmé's spine. "Who made such allegations?" Vader drawled. "Surely not Ahsoka."

Sabé's rattled inhale reached Padmé's ears, soft as a whisper on the wind.

"Not Ahsoka," Padmé echoed, her eyes still trained on Yané and her captor. As Tarkin jostled Yané's slender frame, a sheet of hair tumbled from her updo and slanted gracefully over her shoulder, like the drop of a silky, dark curtain. A grin contorted Tarkin's thin mouth, and disgust crawled over Padmé's skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Here was a man who enjoyed wielding power simply for the sake of it, who derived some sort of thrill from cupping other people's fates in his hands. To this day Padmé couldn't understand his hunger for Ahsoka's execution during the Clone Wars, though it had crossed her mind that perhaps it had been another one of his sick power plays—that he had felt threatened by the audacity of a young woman to fill a position of power, and so he had taken it upon himself to eliminate her.

None of this boded well for Yané. Padmé was all too aware of Tarkin's vicelike grip on his grudges, and she had stood toe-to-toe with him in Ahsoka's trial. She wouldn't even be surprised if his involvement in Vader's empire were linked to a vengeance campaign against Ahsoka's brazen refusal to die. To agitate Tarkin or Vader with no back-up except Sabé—skilled and brilliant as she was—would put Yané's life on the line. Yet Padmé gambled her own safety, along with that of her children, if she didn't take immediate action to gain the upper hand.

"Padmé," Vader said. Her hand slipped from the hilt of the dagger and gravitated toward the comlink beside it, swaddled in the satiny folds of her tunic. "Come back. For me."

"For you?" she sputtered. "I don't feel obligated to do anything for you, nor should I!"

"If not for me, then for our children. Luke, Leia…for Ahsoka, too."

A circlet of metal imprinted against her thumb, quickly growing hot enough to sear her skin. The message was sent. Now she just had to buy time. "Tell me this, then. Where is Ahsoka?"

"Ahsoka?" he repeated in mild surprise, as if they hadn't been talking about her literally seconds earlier. "Well, she's with Prince Vivio, of course, on her way to Crulius. Fortunately he was quite enamoured with her when they met, and now she is to be his bride—one day his queen."

"Ah, yes." Padmé felt her bottom lip curl in disgust. "Vivio and his creepy obsession with women who are far too young for him—girls, really. He's older than me, Vader. And I'm a decade Ahsoka's elder. Stars, just think about it! How could that not make your skin crawl?"

"Padmé…" His chuckle sent ice sloshing down her spine. "You're doing it again."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're trying to appeal to Anakin Skywalker." He rose from his throne, and Sabé cupped a protective hand over Padmé's shoulder, pulling her back a few paces. Padmé shook off Sabé's grip and restored her hold on the dagger, still stashed—unseen—beneath the top layer of her tunic. "I am not Anakin—no longer, anyway. Anakin was a weak, impulsive fool, too driven by the few attachments he could call his own, but now I've shed that skin, now I see what is best for the galaxy as a whole. I thought you would be proud of me, Padmé, politician that you are."

Leather chafed her cheek as he came to a stop mere inches from her, grasping her chin in his gloved right hand. Even now, even after becoming the most powerful man in the galaxy, he was still ashamed of his bionic replacement. Padmé made the mistake of lifting her gaze, and the eyes that had once been Anakin's caught hers, his deep blue irises flecked with yellow. There was no vulnerability there, not like she had hoped, only the scathing flames of anger and hatred. She became very conscious of the scratch of curls at the back of her neck, the glaze of sweat along the ridges of the dagger's hilt. Come on, Quarsh, Mariek. Don't let me down now.

With his left hand, Vader teased a curl free from Padmé's braid. It couldn't have been too difficult; her hair had already begun to tumble out of its style, languishing around her shoulders instead. Dormé hadn't had the time to pin it up properly, since Padmé and Sabé had had to switch places in such a rush. Unfortunately, when Ahsoka had intercepted Dormé at the garden party to ask for her help, she had also inadvertently meddled in Padmé's plan. Of course, Padmé couldn't fault her for that; Ahsoka didn't know that Padmé and her handmaidens had been swapping places since their early teens. How could she be expected to realize that Dormé had in fact been rushing off to transform Padmé back into Empress Amidala? Ahsoka hadn't even recognized Padmé herself under that hood—not as Sabé's anonymous handmaiden, gladly drowned out by the magnificent lustre of the empress's ballgown and headdress.

As if in response to her thoughts, Vader demanded, "So what if Ahsoka isn't happy?" He twined the curl around his finger, and Padmé thought inexplicably of ivy, tracing its fingers up and along the exterior walls of her childhood home—the home that he and his troops had burned to the ground, her parents still trapped inside. A flash came to her, raw and vivid, fire wrenching itself up the stone—photos of children inside, those she had tried and failed to save in her work with the relief group, their young faces lost forever to the flames—and her mother, her father—

Just as she thought a sob might burst from inside her, it all drowned back into her subconscious, swallowed by the hazy shadow of memory. She watched it glint up at her, a gemstone sinking to the bottom of the sea, even as distance softened the jagged edges of reality. "Across the Stars" pelted her eardrums, but differently now, as if it too had been dragged under by the tidal wave—a melody stripped bare of harmony, of depth. "I tried," he was saying, but by the time the words reached her they seemed just as limp, just as devoid of meaning, as the notes of the song. All the same, the dissonance chilled her bones, the discrepancy between the song of her childhood and the monster before her. "I let her walk away, she told me that was what she wanted—but where did that leave me? At least this way, she can't disappear. This way, she's mine."

"And me?" Padmé whispered, finally relocating her voice. "Am I, as you put it, 'yours'?"

"That…is the plan, yes."

"Ah." And there it was again—the visceral churning of disgust, the involuntary curl of her bottom lip. "You claimed you'd overcome Anakin's attachments, Vader. I think you're wrong."

A flustered expression swept his face, but he was quick to wrestle control over his features. "As we speak, Empress, a regiment of Imperial guards waits on Prince Vivio's ship, just a single transmission away. One move against me and Ahsoka will be the one to suffer the consequences." He brushed his thumb along her cheekbone, an ugly leer sliding over his lips. She yanked away. "Would Skywalker have been willing to make that sort of bargain?"

Padmé remained silent, though resolve hardened the line of her mouth. The last time he had threatened her like this, on the balcony of her apartment at 500 Republica, she had given in. The fate of her family on Naboo had hung in the balance, and on the night of Order 66—the night her own husband had gone on a killing spree of those he had once held dear—anyone had seemed vulnerable to the ravages of fate. She had sacrificed her principles, agreed to his demands, and still nearly her entire family had ended up dead. Pooja. Her parents. Sola.

"Surely you wouldn't want to be responsible for her pain, Padmé…not any more than you already have been, anyway." Playing on her guilt—a classic move on his part. But now she knew how to play the emperor's games. "Go ahead—attack me—but know that it will come at a cost to Ahsoka. Alternatively, you could surrender. Either way, my love, you have failed."

At that moment, the comlink throbbed with heat, and a smile shaped Padmé's lips.

"I don't think I have," she said, right as the doors flew open and her troops barrelled in. When Vader glanced down, he found a dagger against his chest—and the hilt in Padmé's hand.

"Stay there, Vader." Her voice emerged with unexpected ferocity. "We've got you cornered."

Padmé heard her small army slide into formation behind her: Sabé, the Panakas, Rex, Wolffe, Gregor, and over fifty members of the Naboo Royal Guard. Though her allies far outnumbered Vader and Tarkin, a whisper of anxiety still unspooled in the back of her mind—how could she hope to compete with Vader's Force powers? The dagger, the shaking hand, her hand, the yellow eyes. Everything seemed to thin into one dimension. Vaguely, she heard "Across the Stars" reel off key, drag miserably through a few notes, and trail to a stop mid-verse.

She had to kill the father of her children.

Padmé's eyes drifted down to his chest, where the tip of the dagger rested against the velvet of his emperor's robes. The music box's final ping still hung in the air, wobbling on the precipice of completion, as if someone could simply flick it from its perch and it would tumble down the music staff to resolve the melody. She reminded herself that he had murdered her sister, her niece, and her parents, that he had imprisoned and deceived and tortured. Then that stubborn note faded, and for an instant it was only the two of them, cocooned in a crystal of silence—delicate, precarious, almost tangible—until it shattered under the strain of Vader's laugh.

"What a favour you've done me, Empress Amidala—bringing all of these traitors before me to face their due punishment. I must say, I would have expected better from you, Moff Panaka, considering the power and status you've enjoyed under the Empire." Vader's eyes darted over Padmé's head, almost eagerly. "Can't say I'm surprised by the handmaiden, though."

Padmé tensed at the threat laced beneath his tone, instinctively readying herself to defend Sabé, but Vader had already swivelled his attention away from her. She hardly had time to follow his gaze before a hand clamped over her shoulder and yanked her from the crowd. Padmé's head snapped around to find a vigilant Mariek Panaka behind her, right as Vader bellowed, "Don't shoot!" in the opposite direction. Wilhuff Tarkin. Had it not been for years of concealing her emotions, Padmé would have squirmed beneath his gaze; there was something oily about it, as if one glance could send thousands of worms crawling over her skin. She let her eyes move instead to his blaster—the one he had aimed at her only a few seconds ago.

"So this was your plan?" Mariek rasped in Padmé's ear. "Take on the emperor alone?"

"No—he caught me by surprise. I was coming for my children."

"I thought Larte, Organa, and Sapphira were already taking care of that, Your Majesty."

Padmé gave her head a terse shake, and her curls flicked through the air behind her. "I thought I had a chance to save them—a shortcut. But I was wrong. Tarkin helped Vader to escape from me in the gardens, and then they beat me here—set a trap, took Yané as a hostage…"

Her words tapered into silence as an idea hit. If Tarkin was no longer watching Yané, then who was? Padmé cut her eyes to the right, where Yané knelt beside the dais, unguarded but still bound and gagged. Of course Tarkin had failed to see Yané as a threat, blinded as he was by her shroud of youth and beauty—but that had always been one of the handmaidens' main tricks. Yané would be easier to rescue if Padmé didn't have to stab anyone along the way.

Padmé tipped her head slightly to the right, and Mariek caught the motion and nodded. After all, she too had come to know Yané well during Amidala's reign on Naboo. Mariek loosened her grip on Padmé's shoulder, and the empress sprang to action; her toes skated across the hardwood floor, carrying her silently toward Yané. As soon as she reached her friend, Padmé knelt before her and risked a furtive glance over her shoulder. Vader and Tarkin still faced the Naboo troops head on—meaning that their backs were turned to Padmé—and as far as she could tell, none of her women or men had betrayed a glance in her direction. She slipped the dagger from its hidden holster and began to saw through the ropes that bound Yané's arms and legs.

As she worked on freeing Yané's hands, the blade caught on a particularly stubborn thread, and Padmé made a thoughtless grunt at the back of her throat. Her heart constricted as the sound ricocheted off of the walls, hurtling back toward her ears—and she spun around as Tarkin's boots clicked to a precise stop in front of her. The leather was so polished that Padmé could make out wavy fragments of her reflection. She might have even laughed at the absurdity, if he hadn't currently been hoisting his blaster upward—and aiming the barrel at Yané

"Stop!" Padmé cried, leaping instinctively to her feet. "You can't kill her."

"Why not, Amidala?" Tarkin sneered. "There's no jury here to humour you and your case."

Well, at least now she had a window into his motives. "You lost that trial, if I recall."

"Because of—" Tarkin stopped short. Vader hung back a few paces, casually taking stock of the situation, his arms crossed over his broad chest. A sudden danger thrummed in the air; all three of them knew what Tarkin was not saying aloud. Because of Anakin. Because of Vader.

Padmé's political instincts thrummed with excitement. At least one good thing had come from Ahsoka's trial: a rift between Vader and Tarkin. She could use this. She could tease that divide from the depths of the past and manipulate it—manipulate them. She could tear them apart, at least long enough to rescue Yané, Ahsoka, and the twins—and then make a run for it.

No. No running. Padmé had come to kill Emperor Vader, and that was what she was going to do. The only responsibility she held more sacred was protecting Leia, Luke, and Ahsoka.

"Because of him," Padmé finished for Tarkin, gesturing freely toward Vader. The governor's posture went stiff as a rod. "Of course, now that you share the same goals for Princess Ahsoka, I'm sure it's all water under the bridge. And besides, Vader is not Anakin, as he has made clear—repeatedly." She flashed one of her stock political smiles in her husband's direction.

"What are you playing at, Amidala?" Tarkin rolled each word deliberately from his tongue, as if to taste the edges and slopes of every syllable. Even Padmé's allies appeared to have the same question; Sabé and Quarsh had shuffled closer together, the better to exchange whispered commentaries, and the majority of the group soon followed suit. Only Vader watched with no apprehension whatsoever, his eyes placid—maybe even amused. She swallowed hard.

"Nothing," Padmé made herself say, waving off Tarkin's question. By some miracle, the word floated from her mouth in a passably steady tone—good. "I only meant to say that I remember that trial, and so do you, and no matter what the emperor says, he can't change the past; he can't change the truth." She flicked her eyes to Vader's, but to her surprise, his remained flat—not a trace of yellow or gold in sight. She almost would have preferred to see rage-induced flames consuming his irises; at least she knew what to make of him when he was angry.

Padmé cleared her throat and gathered herself, pivoting her focus back to Tarkin. "Anyway," she said, completely aware of the pettiness of her next attack, "Ahsoka outranks you now."

Tarkin bristled. "Does she, though? She has no power of her own anymore." And there was the proof, then: this was all rooted in power, at least from the governor's perspective. "Really, she's nothing but His Majesty's charge, with a courtesy title tacked in front of her first name."

"Her first name?" Padmé raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued at the distinction. She was a politician—she could play these word games forever, and indeed, she had been since her career started at age eight—but only so long as she kept Tarkin fighting on her front.

Fortunately for her, he took the bait. "Names have power, of course. You took a new name when you became queen, didn't you? What was it originally…Naberrie?" Of course he knew very well that it was Naberrie. Padmé hailed from one of the most influential families on Naboo, and Tarkin had been close to Palpatine, the would-be emperor from Padmé's homeworld.

"Yes," she replied simply.

"But that was voluntary," Tarkin pointed out, clasping his hands behind his back. "Padmé Naberrie was tied to a family legacy, to the will of those who had passed on the name to her—a collective consciousness entirely separate from her own. But Padmé Amidala—now, she was free of outside influence, beholden only to herself. 'Amidala' was your regnal name, perhaps, but it was also your own. Why else would you keep it after your two terms expired?"

"Go on," Padmé said calmly. If need be, she still gripped a dagger in her hand.

"Well, the princess's case is an entirely different story—a reverse version of yours, in fact." He dropped his voice to address the now unspoken past. It was probably a pointless gesture, as Vader—who must have been aware of what Tarkin was about to say—did not attempt to stop him. "'Tano' was largely her own…passed down to her, perhaps, but from an anonymous family, and one whose influence she transcended as soon as the Jedi Order swept her away."

A smirk curled the corners of Tarkin's lips as he glanced around the Jedi-Temple-turned-Imperial-Palace. "Later, His Majesty bestowed upon her the Imperial name, Skywalker, and left 'Tano' buried in the past. Then he ensured that 'Skywalker' came to be associated primarily with him and his dynasty, so the princess was reduced to a mere extension of him. Now her identity is no longer her own, but tied inextricably to his—the emperor's sister, you understand?"

Padmé pursed her lips. Of course that thought had occurred to her, too. There was a reason she had refused to take "Skywalker" as her surname, even once it had come out that she and Anakin were married; it was a tradition left over from a patriarchy that men like Tarkin and Vader were now trying to reinstitute. Why shouldn't Anakin have become an Amidala or a Naberrie? Sola and Darred had chosen "Naberrie" over "Janren" for their daughters' surnames.

"The same goes for your very own handmaidens," Tarkin added, and Padmé's posture pulled upright. "That's the tradition on Naboo, isn't it? That the handmaidens take new names to reflect the cadence of their queen's, thus giving their identities over to her? Everything they do, from security to dresses"—he spat the word as if it were dirty—"is for the sake of the queen…"

Without thinking, Padmé threw herself between Yané and Tarkin, and the blaster bolt ripped past her side, peeling a scream from her throat. Her legs weakened and sank beneath her—down, down, down, until she was on her knees—but her face tipped up to the sky, her mouth still gaping open, as if at any moment she might resume her scream. Padmé gasped for air instead, waiting for the full impact of the pain to ebb away. One millisecond and she would have missed the flash of Tarkin's shifting blaster—one millisecond and Yané would be dead.

But now the shot was wide open—Yané still could be dead. A bolt of panic drove Padmé into a crouching position, and she fumbled for the Naboo royal pistol at her hip. Why the sudden ambition to murder Yané? Why the gag, for that matter? Yané must know something important, and Tarkin was determined to keep her from passing the information along to Padmé.

"Tarkin," she warned, but her voice had turned frustratingly breathy. "Don't—"

"You couldn't begin to understand what we do, Governor."

His eyes snapped out of focus and he keeled forward, landing smack on his face in the middle of the hardwood floor. Sabé stood above him, her hands wrapped around the barrel of Panaka's signature heavy blaster pistol, the butt of the gun poised above her head like a makeshift club. Stray curls corkscrewed around her face, and rage burned deep within her eyes. Behind her, the Naboo troops had opened fire on Vader, who deflected the attacks with a flick of his hand. Silhouetted against the bedlam, Sabé was the spitting image of a goddess of chaos.

She tossed Panaka's blaster to the side and knelt in front of Padmé. "Are you okay?"

"Yané…Yané first," Padmé managed. Sabé swiped Padmé's fallen dagger off the floor and severed Yané's restraints in record time, then yanked down the gag and threw her arms around her friend in a hug. They were quick to disentangle themselves, however, clumping around Padmé instead. Didn't they have better things to do than fuss over her? She had to stare down at her side for a moment to remind herself that she, not Yané, was the one wounded.

"Padmé, can you walk?" Sabé demanded, an uncharacteristic hint of panic in her tone.

"Of course—of course." Padmé tried to stand on her own, but Sabé pursed her lips into a frown. Padmé huffed and slung a reluctant arm around Sabé's shoulders, allowing the handmaiden to guide her to her feet. "It's probably just a flesh wound…I've survived worse. Seriously, Sabé, you don't have to look so worried; I can hardly even feel it anymore." She wasn't lying, either. Padmé knew that the sudden lack of pain was probably due to a surge of adrenaline, but she had to believe that if any internal organs had been hit, she would know. She even attempted a laugh, but was quick to cut herself off when the creases along Sabé's brow deepened.

"Well, it's a good thing you thought to sew diamonds and rubies into the jumpsuit material," Yané mused. "They would have deflected the blaster bolt, to a certain degree, at least."

"That was Dormé's touch," Sabé remarked dryly. "We'll have to thank her later."

Without warning, Yané grasped Padmé's hand in hers. "Come on. I know where they took your children." She tensed as if to take off, then froze unexpectedly in place. She pivoted back around to face Padmé, tears now glistening in her dark eyes. "Padmé…I…thank you."

Padmé nodded wordlessly, for there was nothing left to say.

They took off together in a sprint, still in sync after all of these years, hugging the wall so as to avoid being spotted. With Tarkin unconscious and Vader occupied, Padmé dared to imagine that their escape might even be easy—but of course, no such luck. Her limbs locked beneath her, grounding her in place, like a nightmare in which she could not flee from her pursuer.

"Leaving so soon, Empress Amidala? It's not like you to run from a fight."

Padmé managed to turn her head, far enough to catch a glimpse of Vader's sneer. Already multiple members of the Nabooian troops lay scattered across the ground like abandoned toys. Vomit rose in her throat at the thought, and she swallowed it back down. At that very instant, another soldier fired at Vader, presumably in an attempt to break his Force-hold on Padmé and her handmaidens. With only a flick of the emperor's wrist, he too joined the casualties.

Padmé couldn't rival his Force powers, and somehow she doubted she could talk her way out of this one, either. Even as Anakin, her husband had been impossible to sway—but Vader? Tarkin had been right—names were power—and Vader, like Amidala, was beholden to no one.

"General Skywalker!"

That single voice flung through the air like a tiny pebble, sending ripples tearing across an enormous lake. Flickers of emotion manifested on Vader's face—melancholy? anger? anguish?—as Rex emerged from his anonymous position near the back of the formation. Vader's gaze skimmed over the blond buzzcut and the battle-hardened eyes; he must not have known that Rex was here at all, not until now. A clever weapon, Rex's presence, to be deployed at their most desperate hour. Sure enough, Vader's inattention shattered his control over Padmé; her body launched abruptly forward, and a sharp surge of blood burned through her veins.

Rex looked to her, a message written clear across his eyes: Go. Padmé wasted no time in seizing Yané's and Sabé's hands, dragging them after her and toward the ballroom exit.

She heard Rex's name leave Vader's lips—in disbelief, she decided. It wouldn't be long until that wore off, but she only needed a few more seconds. Her injured side gave a sudden throb, and she pulled in a sharp breath, tightening her grip on Sabé's and Yané's hands. Even that couldn't keep her grounded in the moment; simply the sound of Rex's name in her husband's mouth had sent her slipping back into a memory—only a few months pregnant, gazing across the stars at a holographic version of Anakin, intertwining his transparent fingers in hers.

It's Rex. I'm worried he's letting his personal feelings drive him too much on this mission.

I wonder where he learned that, she had replied, her lips turning up in a smile.

Since the rise of the Empire and the death of her family, Padmé had begun to wonder if her life was no longer a linear stream of consciousness, but rather a scattered collection of moments; often she found herself fully consumed by something that had happened years ago, as if a pocket of the past had risen up to clamp around her. No warning, either—one moment, she was Senator Amidala; the next, the Queen of Naboo; and then back to the Galactic Empress, her mind hurtled forward through the years like a ship in hyperspace. The so-called "present" served as her base, the place she could generally come back to rest, at least for a little while.

The moments were never quite the same as when she had first lived them, though; they had since been interlaced with shivers along her skin, and a feeling like—like hearing the off-key ping of her parents' music box for the first time in years, and trying in vain to make a fist around the note, to grasp it to her heart and keep it from leaving her behind. Take me to Mum and Dad. To Sola. Take me back to them. Please. Time swept her into flashes but never again the entirety of the moment—like a mirage, always in sight but never tangible. Still, if the past lived on in some form, warped as it was, then so must Sola and their parents. So must the Republic.

And so must the version of Padmé Amidala untouched by her husband's empire.

They had made it to the hallway. Somehow, they had made it to the hallway! Padmé could have cried of relief, but the weight of sorrow seemed to drag any traces of levity into the pit of her stomach. They wheeled around a corner, and Sabé threaded her fingers through Padmé's, lugging her along; Yané had already broken from her grasp to lead the charge. Padmé's legs tripped beneath her as she struggled to keep up. That in and of itself was unusual. She never had difficulty keeping up with her handmaidens; she had trained alongside them as queen! Was it possible the unfelt pain at her side was affecting her more than she had thought—unburying sentiments that she hadn't realized were still hers, driving her to these…delusions?

But then something beautiful—silvery, almost, like a soprano chorus of bells—laughter, it was laughter—teased Padmé out of the clutches of despair. She lifted her eyes to see bouncing dark curls, two young women flying down the hall to meet one another and converging effortlessly in a hug. In less than a second, Saché had flung an arm around Yané's neck, and Yané hoisted her up so that Saché's knees rested on her hips. She threaded a delicate hand through Saché's short curls, blinking away disbelief, before locking her lips onto hers in a gentle kiss.

Saché squeezed her eyes shut and returned the kiss, tears seeping past her eyelashes. She was still trembling as Yané set her back down—even more cautiously this time, as though Saché were an easily breakable figurine. "I'm sorry," Saché gasped, collapsing back into Yané's arms. "It's just—it's been so long—some days I wondered if I'd ever see you again—"

"Me, too," Yané whispered. "I never got to say goodbye…and you cut your hair!"

Saché laughed at the sudden detour, but her voice remained raw and swollen with tears. "I—I killed him," she confessed, almost timidly. Her shoulders jerked forward with another sob, creating the illusion that she was melting into herself. "Yané, I killed Prince Vivio—"

"Good," Yané replied with conviction, tilting Saché's chin upward for another kiss.

Saché pressed a hand to Yané's shoulder, stopping her. "You don't think less of me?"

"Are you kidding? I would have done it myself, love, if I were there. That bastard deserved everything he had coming to him, trying to force himself on you." Yané tucked a stray piece of hair behind Saché's ear, a gesture so beautifully intimate in its simplicity. "You are so worthy, Saché, so…wonderful. Stars, I've waited for you for over a year now. And I didn't want to be selfish, because you deserve the best, but sometimes I worried that you…may have found someone else, back on Naboo?" Yané bit her lip, letting vulnerability shape her features for the first time, and Saché reached out to clench her girlfriend's hair between her fingers. The way they gazed at each other, they could have been the only two people in the universe.

"Never," Saché said with quiet intensity, and met Yané's lips in a desperate kiss.

Padmé's heart flipped at the show of adoration; it reminded her too much of her marriage to Anakin. Saché and Yané were good for each other, though. Their relationship was founded on years of love and trust and support—not lust and recklessness, as Padmé's had been.

Unexpectedly, Saché disentangled herself from the kiss. "The others will be coming soon."

The others? A bolt of realization jolted Padmé upright, and she shared a sideways glance with Sabé. She had sent Saché after Ahsoka and Vivio; if she was here, then that meant—

A young woman swept around the corner, an emerald-encrusted dagger gleaming at her hip. Now that Padmé could see her up close, rather than meshed within the crowds at the garden party, she noticed new determination etched along her face, the blaze in her eyes accentuated by smudges of dark pigment beneath, as if her eyeliner had turned to war paint. Even after weeks on the growth-stunting Force-suppressant, the young woman's lekku now reached her waist, though she had become more slender than was healthy. Yet with her shoulders thrown back, she still radiated power, bulwarked by dual senses of exasperation and justice.

Finally, Padmé began to cry. "Ahsoka," she gasped, and extended her hand.


I hope you enjoyed the chapter; I will do my best to post the next installment much sooner than this one. I understand that the handmaidens can be difficult to keep track of, especially since most of them have such similar names. Would anyone find it helpful if I posted a secondary/supporting character guide on my profile page? It is probably about time for me to update it anyway...

As for The Clone Wars, I am really enjoying the new season. I'm excited to see Ahsoka onscreen again, of course, and it's really nice to see her interacting with other female characters who are around her age. Feel free to let me know what you think (about this chapter, or TCW, or both!) in the reviews, if you are so inclined. Speaking of reviews, here are my responses:

Guest (Nov. 22): Thank you so much! I'm glad you're enjoying it. :)

Nameless: Well, I gave Obi-Wan a break in this chapter! Finally, right? ;) Also, I was really happy to see your comment about Padmé. Honestly, I think she had so much wasted potential in the prequel trilogy, and one of my favourite parts of writing this story has been fleshing out her character as I think she deserved. I'm glad to know that you feel I have succeeded in this area. Thank you, as always, for your kind words; reading your reviews never fails to make my day, and I am so very grateful for that.

donutstar123: Thank you! I'm sorry the new chapter took so long, but I'm glad you're enjoying!

FSRD: Here it is! I'm glad you're enjoying it; thank you for your review!

Guest (Mar. 5): I'm sorry it took me so long, but here it is! Thank you for your continued support despite the long wait. :)

GlamGram: Thank you! I too enjoyed killing off Vivio...he was the worst. I'm glad to hear that this story is bringing you some relief in the midst of the pandemic; writing it has helped me, as well. I hope you enjoyed the brief reunion between Ahsoka and Padmé, as you mentioned you were looking forward to it. I will definitely elaborate on their reunion in the next chapter!

Before I sign off, I just wanted to acknowledge that these are really difficult times for everyone. I hope I have been able to bring you some small measure of joy with my writing, even though I am sorry that this is all I can really offer. Please take care of yourselves as best you can. I am thinking of you all. Let me know if there's any other way I can help or extend support to my readers, albeit digitally.

Love, Isabelle