The sky was a vivid blue the next day, most of the heavyset clouds of yesterday and ereyesterday blown away by the sun, and Luke was warmed even further when Owen insisted on him keeping so many of their spare clothes, resized to fit him properly. They were warm, they were familiar to him by now, and they smelt like sheep, stew and Aunt Beru; putting them on felt like an embrace.

He climbed into the cart with Beru the next morning, their mule Eopie dutifully tied at the front, eyeing the musket cradled lovingly in her lap. The cuts of meat, raw wool and furs, and homespun clothing loaded in the back of the cart jostled merrily against each other; he tried not to think about the fact that Beru had been in the cart just like this when she found him, and he tried not to think about the state he'd been in when she had.

"If you get cold, there's a blanket just behind you," she said helpfully.

Luke knew what that blanket had been used for, too.

Even so, he did get cold—it was a cold day, and they were travelling for hours, and he got the sense he was most certainly not accustomed to these temperatures—so he was curled up with the blanket around his legs when they crested a ridge and got a clear view down to where the tiny, bumpy road they were running along met the larger road to Alderaan, and…

Beru narrowed her eyes. "That's an Imperial checkpoint," she said.

Luke squinted at it too. There was a blockade set up, with only one thin strip for carts, riders and carriages to pass through, once the soldiers manning it had checked it out thoroughly.

"Are the Empire good or bad?" Luke asked nervously. "In Naboo it wasn't clear—"

"Depends on who you ask. They've been around for a while—the Emperor is old—and they're brutal warmongers, always have been. Spread their Undying Emperor's influence all over the mountains, giving him total control of the area. He doesn't have much interest in the lands beyond the range, except Naboo. I suppose he needed one trading territory with the outside world, but otherwise he just had his own little tyranny in the already-cursed kingdoms."

"Tyranny?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "Whether or not you hate being under 'em depends on the governor who was installed to lord over you."

"But." His head was swimming. He just wanted a straight answer. "I get the sense you don't like them?"

Beru shook her head. "Not many do. They threaten locals—local people, local enterprises—a lot. And… the Undying Emperor just wants control. Necromancy magic… it needs people to control. It needs dead people." She glanced at him. "Do you have any connections with the Empire? You said them warlord's men recognised you."

"Warlord's?"

"Vader—the guy fighting the Empire, probably one of the most skilled necromancers around. His men recently liberated Naboo from Imperial rule, and they wear grey or black." She jerked her chin down towards the checkpoint. "The Imperials wear blood red, see?"

"I… see."

"If the warlord's men recognised you, would the emperor's men too? Far as we know, Padmé was a high-ranking lady from somewhere, and Death knows that Anakin managed to associate himself with all sorts of high figures. You might be a wanted man." She hesitated, then said gently, "For better or for worse."

Luke… shook his head. "I don't know." He glanced down at the red jackets again—he did remember something about men in those red jackets, a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder even as he tried to give them the slip, leading him through vast and elegant halls to a vast and elegant throne room…

"We can't hide you in the produce," Beru said. "They'll search that. We'll just have to dirty your face a little and hope they don't recognise you. Go get some earth to rub in your hair."

Luke grimaced, but it was a good idea.

Didn't mean he liked grabbing fistfuls of dirt to shove on his face, though. Especially when he found a worm in one of them.

They came down the road to reach the checkpoint perhaps half an hour later, and Luke tried not to narrow his eyes at the soldiers. They lit up in his awareness the way Piett had, and he…

…was starting to suspect that it was death—or undeath—he was sensing.

"Halt!" a nasal-voiced Imperial officer declared as they approached, and Beru dutifully brought the mule to a stop. "State your names, business, and why you're on the Aldera Pass." The officer gave Luke a disgusted look down his short, button nose; Luke wondered if it was the dirt that disgusted him, or his nerve to exist.

Beru said smoothly, "I'm Beru Lars. I'm taking my farmer's stock to the market down the Bone Road." The nasal man's companion, a reedy, sickly-pale man with a pen in one hand and a logbook in the other, scribbled every word down furiously.

"Where are you coming from?"

"Near Anchorhead."

"Why can't you go to a market nearer there? There is one."

She gave him a look. "There's a market alright. Have you ever been?"

"No."

"Have you ever wanted to go?"

The nasal man tilted his head in an acknowledging nod. "Getting more business at a bigger market farther away, got it. Who's this?" He glared at Luke again.

Beru's face lit up and laid a hand on his shoulder. "This is my son, Cliegg Lars—named for his grandfather, you know—"

"I don't care."

Her friend dropped. "Well, I'm sorry. But this is my son. He's helping me with the produce."

The reedy man kept scribbling as his companion kept talking. "And your produce is?"

"Wool, furs, mutton, goat, some homespun clothing—I can give you a discount if you'd like to buy some yourself—"

"This is a checkpoint, not a market square." He narrowed his eyes at the bundles in the cart. "You got meat in there? Dead animals?"

"Yes, sir."

He narrowed his eyes at Luke. "You kill them?"

Luke hesitated, thrown by the question, but technically he had helped Owen with them, so he nodded. "Yes, sir."

"That explains why you feel like death." The nasal man nodded, even as Luke's heart suddenly jack-rabbited and tried to leap out of his throat. "Well, I think everything's in order for the two of you, you'd best be on your way—"

He stepped back to let them through the checkpoint, and Beru immediately urged the mule into a fast trot forwards. Luke made to rub some of the dirt off his face—it felt unpleasant—but froze when the reedy man leaned over to whisper something and the wind carried the whisper to his ears.

"Sir, that ain't how death works. That boy had death magic all over him, like fireworks."

"Is that so?" came the reply; Luke could feel his gaze on his back just before the shout came: "Hey! Stop a second! We're not done yet."

Luke chanced a look back, to see their heads still bent together, conversing—and instantly regretted when the reedy man's eyes widened at the sight of his face.

His now-clean face.

"That's the Prince—!"

"Go," he hissed to Beru. It was unnecessary; she'd already urged the mule into going as fast as he could.

The road was smoother here than it was on the passes higher up in the mountains but they jumped and jumbled along all the same, Luke doing his best to keep the bacon he'd had for breakfast in his belly.

The Imperials scrambled to their horses, shouting warnings to presumably other checkpoints lower down in the valley, but by the time they were mounted Luke and Beru had already put a lot of distance between them.

The first man raised a musket like Beru's and fired, but he was far enough away that it hit the ground before it could hit them. Luke ducked anyway, shuddering and shivering at the sound of the explosion.

Beru noticed. "I'm sorry about this, Luke," she said gently. "Try to hold on for me." She handed him the reins. "And make sure we go straight."

"What—"

Beru twisted around in her seat, knelt on the wood, levelled her musket and shot. She didn't hit, but it startled the first man's horse, who whinnied loudly and slowed down. There were shouts as he tried to get her to speed up again, then the second man—the reedy one—raised his musket, arms shaking—

Luke screamed.

The bullet missed his back but struck his bicep, furrowing through flesh. He nearly dropped the reins, but grasped them with his right hand—trying not to let them twitch out of his grasp—even as his left arm went numb and his eyes blurred.

"Luke!"

"I'm fine."

"If that's the Prince, idiot," the nasal voice came, as he caught up to his companion, their horses thundering ever closer, "don't shoot him!"

"Luke, are you alright?"

He blinked his vision clear and tried to ignore the blood on his arm. "I'm fine."

Beru turned back to the men and fired again. Luke flinched again.

She caught the reedy one right in the side—his scream was horrible, echoing off the mountain pass—and his horse swerved. Miraculously he managed to stay on, but he dropped his musket, clutching his side; before Luke fixed his eyes on the road again, he saw his face harden into determination.

Beru fired at him again, but she went wide, clipping the edge of the road.

The nasal one was gaining on them, though, and he shot again—at Beru, this time. Luke shouted louder than she did when the bullet skinned her shoulder, narrowly missing and spooking Eopie. Luke tried to wrestle him back under control but he was bolting, rattling the cart left and right, and he could barely keep a grip with his one hand—

Beru reached over to steady him. He took it gratefully, and together they got Eopie back onto the road, running straight.

Another shot, though. It skinned Beru's arm and Luke's eyes widened. "Are you—"

"I'm fine," she bit out, but he could see the paleness in her face.

"You don't—"

"I'm fine. Luke, keep driving." She turned to shoot again.

It was terrible. Her arm was shaking badly; she hit the back of the cart, punching a hole through one of her lovely homespun coats; Luke hoped the damage wasn't too bad.

The second man had fallen far behind in the chase, almost out of range, but the first man was gaining on them, gaining on them, musket raised again and targeted for Beru's chest, ready to fire—

"No," Luke said. "No, no, no."

He fired. He missed, hit the road. Took aim again—

Luke knotted his eyes closed, shoved the pain in his shoulder away and tried to reach for what Shmi's books had taught him. Something… something about couching commands in Death Speech for better efficacy, something about…

"Stop… stop..." he murmured. He could feel life and death glittering around him again, taking his breath away; he could feel each lethal bullet in each lethal gun. "Stop it now!"

The man lowered his musket, face slack, though Luke did not see it.

Too late.

Heedless of the damage, heedless of the frightened mule, he threw his arms up, reins and all.

Death matter shone in his awareness—in the ground, in the blood spilled along this pass, and in the distance, atop a moving, living thing. He gathered it all and shattered it.

Scrunched it.

His eyes flew open and so did his clenched fists as the road behind them surged and stubbled, great chunks of gleaming ivory… rocks… littering the way, stained brown, the horse shouting as it leapt over the obstacles, felt the earth collapse under its feet, barely staying upright—

They were on Aldera Pass.

Beru had called it the Bone Road for a reason, he supposed.

This whole mountain range was haunted by death.

The man was snarling, glaring at Luke as he manoeuvred in and around everything, stretching, panicking, but Luke wasn't done with him yet.

Something soared towards them from the horizon. White sunlight caught on scuffed armour, the limbs limp and face dull.

So many of the Imperial soldiers were no longer living.

Luke flexed his hands and the second man's undead hands fixed around their deadly rifle, heedless of the blood soaking his side and shirt.

And then Luke thrust his hands forward, and the soldier peppered his comrade with bullets.

He shot him clean off the horse, onto the shifting ground below, and he was dead matter as well; he became a part of that ground, as Luke's right hand ebbed and flowed, scouring the area with bone and granite dust, white and grey.

By the time he was done, he looked at his handiwork. He had crushed them into the earth itself, beneath the frolicking hooves of their riderless horses.

He wanted to vomit all over again.

He sat back in his seat. At some point, Beru had put down her musket and pried the reins back from him, it seemed. He was glad of that.

For a long time, and a lot of ground, they both said nothing.

"Thank you," he said at last. His tone was quiet. "Should we make a stop soon, to get your wounds cleaned and bandaged?"

"You need that arm treated as well," Beru said, casting him a glance. "That's a good idea. A quick stop to clean and treat them, then we'll keep going." Then she offered, "That was impressive."

Luke said, "That was disturbing," and did not say much more.

Thankfully, he didn't need to say much more. He was absolutely shattered after the fight, but when they took a quick break against a grassy verge to tie and stitch themselves up later on, he kept his eyes awake enough to mutter some of the basic spells he'd learnt, and watch the wounds knit closed.

Beru rolled her shoulder, smiling as it stopped herself. "You're a gift."

He flushed, trying to find words on his unused tongue. "I—"

"Owen said the same. Those tracking spells you used to help him with the animals were brilliant. And setting up barriers to keep them away…"

She paused, lost in thought.

"Owen misses his Ma a lot, I know," she said finally. "And not just because her magic was useful. We're both glad to know she lives on in you."

Luke didn't know how to respond to that attempt to reassure him about… all of this… so he just leaned his head against her shoulder in affection. She hummed contentedly.

He accidentally fell asleep like that. Beru smiled at him, gently lifted him into the back of the wagon, and led them the rest of the way there.

He woke to the sound of a gruff guard's voice.

"Reason for travelling to Alderaan?"

"In my case, trade," Beru said, nodding her head to their produce. "In the case of my nephew," Luke poked his head out of the pile of furs, "he has a noble appointment. Are you expecting to greet a man named Luke Skywalker?"

The guard—a large, broad-shouldered man with copper skin and strong brows—frowned at Luke, but nodded respectfully. "I am. Please come in, sir."

He scrambled back into his seat next to Beru to gape at the city as they entered.

The great gates were massive, with spikes along their tops and the sigil of a beating heart wrought into them where they opened. They were a pearly white in some places, but in others blackened by soot and blood—he frowned, eyes following the walls as they looped the city. In some place they stood tall and shining and proud…

In others they were felled by rubble.

Luke eyed them nervously and glanced at Beru.

"Why did Owen say that Alderaan was called the Kingdom of the Dead?" he murmured to her.

Not quietly enough, it seemed.

The guard escorting them grunted, shifting on his mount to give Luke a look. It wasn't necessarily a judgemental look, but he was definitely confused at his ignorance, and there was so much anger there Luke cringed.

"Because the winter before last, the Empire attacked us, decimated our population, and killed our royal family," he bit out. "And now Aldera Pass is more corpse than soil and almost all of our houses are empty."

Luke swallowed as they hit the cobbled and paved roads, and travelled past building after shining building. Now that he realised it, it wasn't the just gleaming stones that made them shone; they shone in his awareness, too, neon and bright, like the blood that had spattered their walls was luminous.

A few living beings moved among them, dull and smoky, but he could sense more spectres than citizens.

"I see," he said. He didn't see. But he did sense it.

Some groups of people were shovelling rubble and scrubbing blood off walls, still. Luke ducked his head, levelled his shoulders, and muttered something. The blood wiped from the walls and a few larger stones flew neatly into the loading cart.

The workers stood there in abject shock for a moment, but Luke kept his head down and the cart had passed before they saw him. Beru squeezed his arm.

The rest of the journey was made in a silence; Luke couldn't help but stare around the buildings some more. Sleek white buildings, statues, ornate railings, decorations, beautiful gardens… Alderaan was a jewel in the mountains. He imagined the place in winter, snow cuddling the rooftops and sprawled on the fences and benches, the roads dusted with salt.

He imagined all that white drenched red and looked away.

Eventually, they reached the palace.

The city-state of Alderaan was nestled in the valley below the mountain Aldera, climbing up its side house by sturdy house. The palace was at the highest point, surrounded on all sides but one by sheer cliffs, great balconies around its turrets viewing the whole of the city, and the vistas around. His neck hurt from craning it by the time he arrived. Perhaps that was why he didn't notice her at first.

She was shorter than him, and he was still staring with wide eyes at the palace front and courtyard, a pressure building at the back of his mind, as she strode down some steps from a side door. The guard jumped to attention when he saw her, shouting, "Your Majesty!" and Luke was shocked out of his skin.

He spun around to look.

She was, again, shorter than him. A thin silver crown was nestled in her crown of plaited hair, her brown eyes hard and severe, her grey-blue dress thick and fur-lined, coming up in a neat collar at her neck. High boots clasped her shins and crunched the gravel loudly with every step.

She inclined her head to the guard, regal and untouchable, then she turned to Luke and grinned.

Luke blinked.

"Luke!" Her smile faltered a little when he didn't respond. "Of course. You said you didn't remember me."

"I'm sorry—"

"No, you said it, I should have expected it." She stepped back, lowering her arms—Luke realised abruptly she'd been expecting a hug, and stepped forwards.

Ignoring the guard's scandalised squawk, he wrapped his arms around her small frame, trying not to knock her over. She was heavier than she looked, with all the fancy clothing.

She laughed, and hugged him back. He could sense Beru's smile on his back.

"Thank you," he whispered. "For helping me."

"Of course," she whispered back. "You have no idea how much I owe you."

They pulled away after a moment, but Leia kept a hand on his hand. "Commander Antilles, thank you for escorting them in safely. Your squad will be needing you at the gates."

He saluted, turned around and exited the courtyard. Luke watched him go.

Then Leia tugged his forward and he fell into step with her, heading up the main, sweeping stairs and into the palace.

Luke paused at the door, glancing back at Beru, but his aunt smiled. "Go! I'll head to market."

"I hope it's busy for you," Leia told her. "Thank you for bringing him."

Beru inclined her head back to her. "Thank you for helping my nephew."

Leia blinked, glancing at him, and Luke nodded.

"Feel free to return once your trading is finished," she said. "We will have a room for you, and for Luke."

"I appreciate that very much, ma'am." She glanced at him again. "Good luck, Luke."

Luke nodded, and followed Leia inside.

"We may as well begin at the start," Leia said. They were in a parlour, with one of those splendid balconies just outside; it took him a good few moments to tear his gaze away from the view and sit down next to her on the sofa. Two steaming drinks had been put out on the table for them. Luke took a sip of his once Leia had hers, and found it very sweet. "What do you remember?"

"I… remember my mother, reaching for me, and saying Luke," he said. "Then I woke up in Naboo on the Naberries' land."

"That makes sense," Leia said.

"What?"

She frowned in confusion, then explained, "When someone is resurrected, they sometimes… Well. There's a phenomenon known as dusting. If your soul is too far gone, it can't always return to the place where the spell was cast; instead, it returns to places which are somehow significant to you. You basically disintegrate in the spot where the necromancer is resurrecting you and reform somewhere else." She tapped her fingers along the side of the mug. "Necromancy is an imprecise art; only about half of resurrections work, and when they don't, the body disintegrates, so it's difficult to tell the difference between dusting and failure."

She paused, letting Luke take it in. Luke took a too-large sip of his drink to avoid talking and winced, spluttered, when it scorched his tongue.

When he'd finished, he said, "Is dusting common?"

"Not as common as failure. I dusted, actually, when you resurrected me—I woke up in my bedroom in the palace to your confused voice in my head and when I remembered, I had to walk all the way down the stairs again, covered in ash."

Luke nearly dropped his mug.

"What?"

She shrugged. "It's not common, but it isn't necessarily rare—"

"I resurrected you?"

Leia's mouth dropped open. "Oh. Right. You don't remember that."

"I don't remember anything!"

"I know. My apologies."

He took a deep breath. "How do we know each other? Who am I?"

Leia winced. His suspicion skyrocketed. "Who am I?"

"I… don't know who you are," she admitted. "That is, I don't know where you learned necromancy, or who from—if you're associated with someone in the war, I'd assume it would be Lord Vader, if only because you don't seem associated with the Empire; it was the Empire who bombed and massacred my kingdom and killed me. We… had been resisting them for too long, it seems, and Palpatine didn't like not having every inch of the mountains under his wrinkly thumb." She scowled.

Then she took a deep breath, and continued. "Anyway. You contacted me after death amidst the chaos, asked if I wanted you to resurrect me so I could try to serve my people, and I said yes."

"Just like that?" Luke asked.

"I didn't have many options. I was dead. The Alderaanian survivors were not. And you said your mother was Padmé Naberrie—she had known my adoptive father, the king. She was good friends with my father. I hoped I could trust you."

"I see," Luke said. "And Padmé… Naberrie?"

"Yes! That's why it makes sense you appeared on the Naberrie estate; it's your home. Or, your mother's home. Is that where you met your aunt?" She gestured towards the courtyard.

"My aunt is Beru Whitesun Lars. She's a farmer near here." Luke swallowed. "The Naberries took me in when I first showed up, then when I mentioned I had a deathmark they kicked me out and threatened me. I ran away."

Leia… didn't seem to know how to respond to that.

"I'm sorry," she said.

He took a breath, clasping his hands together. That spell had healed up his arm nicely, he noted idly; he barely felt a twinge. "They were my mother's family?"

"As far as I know… yes."

"Then I must have never met them before," Luke said, "and they certainly didn't know about me. At least… I hope they didn't." If they had, and they had kicked him out anyway—

"Then I have quite a few questions about who you actually are, then," Leia teased.

Luke smiled bitterly. "Me too."

"Anyway. The Naberries were down in Naboo, you said. Your aunt is a farmer near here. How did you travel all that way?"

"I don't know."

Leia raised her perfectly arched eyebrows. "You don't know?"

"No! I just showed up again, covered in ash, after I was attacked by one soldier and chased by two more who seemed to know me!"

"Covered in ash?" Leia hummed. "You probably dusted again. I'm not an expert, beyond some personal studies into it all I know is what, well, you told me, but as I understand it, when emotions or fears get too high, they can… overpower… your magical connections to the physical world. You're lucky you re-materialised; the necromancy bonds could have failed. You could have just died again."

"Well that's great." His tone was scathing but his expression was scared; he didn't like thinking about the fact he was dead.

He didn't like thinking about the fact that he'd nearly died again.

Leia didn't like it either, it seemed, but she had the faculties to prod, "You said a soldier attacked you? Was he wearing grey or red?"

"Grey."

She hissed. "So that was probably one of Vader's men. Perhaps you weren't associated with the warlord before you died, after all; there are independent necromancers, I suppose."

"Maybe… He was rambling about the Emperor. I didn't understand any of it. And the other two soldiers in grey… they frightened me at the time, but I don't think they wanted to hurt me."

"Stranger and stranger." She furrowed her brows and clasped hands in front of her. At some point she'd finished her drink; the mug was sat neatly on the coaster on the table.

"So I dusted. And then I woke up near the Lars farm, and Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen took me in."

"So they're your family? They knew you beforehand?"

"…no," Luke said.

Leia said, "Luke. I don't know you well—we were close friends, but you had your secrets and I had mine—but this seems odd. You had family in Naboo who you'd never met and you didn't recognise. And you had family near Alderaan who you'd never met? The fact that dusting is drawn to family lines and important locations and such explains how you ended up there but—"

"I don't know why I was so isolated growing up. I don't remember. You know that," he insisted. "I just know… they said that they'd thought my parents, Padmé and Anakin, were dead, and their child with them. I only recognised them as my family because of the fancy photographs on their mantelpiece that my mother had paid for—she was in them."

"I see."

Luke shook his head. "I— I know I'm saying this a lot. But I don't know anything. I'm trying to pick up sorcery… and… and maybe necromancy"—after the way he'd killed those soldiers on the way here, purely on muscle memory, he wasn't so sure—"and my grandmother was a sorceress herself, so Beru and Owen provided me her books. I've been studying them but—"

He was rambling. He knew he was rambling. He couldn't stop.

But Leia leaned forwards to put a hand on his, stop him from wringing his thumbs. He smiled at the gesture, and cupped her fingers in his palm.

"Your hands are cold."

She laughed. "Yeah. They get cold easily when you're undead."

He nodded his head, closed his eyes, and focused for a moment. Heat flared between them, and Leia smiled as both of their pale, chilly fingers warmed as if dangled in front of a fireplace.

"Thank you," she said. "That was sweet. Is that all the magic you know?"

He let go of her hand to rub the back of his neck. "I know… a little of it."

"Do you remember Death Speech?" Leia asked.

"I do. Somehow. However it works."

"That's a start." She smiled reassuringly. "It's the language spoken by dead souls—at least, a version of it human tongues can replicate. It's used for spell-casting, summoning, and if your will is strong enough—and if the undead's will is weak enough—it can even be used to control the undead. Once you give commands, they must be obeyed."

Luke grimaced. "That seems… immoral."

"It is," Leia conceded. "But it's the way it is. What matters is what you make of that relationship—and it is possible to train yourself against it."

When she saw his hesitant expression, she squeezed his knee. "Luke, it will be fine. Alderaan may be a ghost town with so many lost, but we're slowly rebuilding and finding our spark again, and we can host you for as long as you need."

Luke's eyes crinkled and wetted with tears. "Thank you."

"Of course. Anything." She stood up. He stood with her. "I'll come and show you to your rooms, now—and if your aunt comes back with any of her produce unsold, I'll have a look at that. Those jumpers looked divine."

The Imperial Palace in Coruscant had seen a lot of death. The Emperor had murdered his way to power and he had murdered to stay in it—in more ways than one. Failed assassinations, executions, punishments, simple transmutation spells to maintaining the Undying Emperor… The vast hallways glowed with power and he revelled in the world he'd created.

The warlord from the northern mountains was a nuisance, as ever, but death was still his business and he had to admit that he relished the challenge. With the war, with so many resurrected soldiers sent to fight for him, his direct grip on his kingdom only grew, and that grip on its citizens could not be escaped.

Still, he had his machinations and pet projects and interests. So when he was seated in the plush, luxurious chair at his desk, in his office, and heard a tap at the window, he tilted his head.

He didn't recognise the messenger hawk, but he recognised the seal—the Naberrie household, the one from which dear Padmé had hailed. He doubted that Jobal or her rabble had anything to say to him, which left Panaka. A loyal guard to the Naberries, and a loyal fellow citizen of Naboo to his emperor; Palpatine had to admire how the man so ardently did not see the contradictions therein.

He opened the window and removed the letter from the bird's leg. It held still long enough to allow him to, then fluffed its wings and tried to enter the room, the warm, once he was done. He shut the window in its face.

He ignored the mournful call and turned back to his desk, unrolling the letter and reading it.

His lips tugged up.

A teenage boy with no memory and a deathmark, appearing at the foot of the Naberries' land, in the same cottage Palpatine had had burnt down in warning—not that Panaka knew that.

Luke Skywalker was alive.

Or rather, not truly dead.

Good.

While letting him fall back into Vader's hands had been and remained something to be avoided, permanently, at all costs… this was good.

He rapped his hand on the desk. A serving boy appeared in the doorway immediately and bowed so low his nose nearly touched his knees. "Your Imperial Majesty—"

"Fetch my spellbooks and my orb," he ordered. "And I require the ingredients for a location spell."

The boy made the dangerous mistake of hesitating and questioning, "A location spell, sir?"

But this new opportunity—and renewal of hopes for a plan that the boy's reticence had long threatened—had made Palpatine magnanimous.

"Of course," he said. "My son is alive. Shall we not bring him home?"

The serving boy turned white.