A/N: I apologize for the long absence. I have been sick of late, but now I think I have completely recovered! Yay! Thank you all for the reviews and making this story a favorite.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OC's. Please do not sue. This is purely for fun.

Chapter 3

The men standing on either side of her didn't smell like old death—they smelled like something far worse.

No amount of cologne could cover the reek that wafted off of them. No amount of shiny jewels or imported alien silks and velvets could plug the holes in their souls. There was simply nothing in the known Universe that could blot out the putrid stink of dead dreams emanating from the courtiers charged with bringing her to the Emperor. It was hard to cover something that you were proud of, after all.

Irena stood between them, trying hard not to be noticed. Her tiny body had been scrubbed harshly until almost the top layer of her skin was removed. Then they'd clothed her in the same silks and velvets they wore, only to her body they felt like acid. These were articles of clothing purchased with stolen money, with funds that had been given to these courtiers with hopes that their client's plea would be given directly to the Emperor's ear.

That was how they murdered dreams, she realized. By stopping them before they ever had a chance to be realized. To her eleven year old mind, that was somehow worse than taking a life. To live without hopes and dreams was to live without life, itself.

It didn't seem to bother the two men. If anything, such knowledge—and it was beyond obvious that they knew what they did—brought them happiness. They enjoyed the raping of dreams, of the power they held over other lives. It was why they smelled so bad, their souls full of the dead, rotting dreams of others. It made her want to cry.

"Don't," the man on her right snapped. "Don't cry, child. We went through hell trying to make you into something pleasing to the Emperor. Do not embarrass us with ruining our fine work with your sickening tears. Now stand up straight!"

She did as she was told, trying not to shift in the stiff brocade fabric of her gown. I'm going to meet the Shadow King, her mind whispered. I'm going to meet him, and he's going to eat my dreams and my hopes and all that I am and then I'll die. Then he's going to breathe new life into me, but I'll still be hollow and empty. I'll be just like these two men. Will I reek like they do?

The doors of the lift parted, and the men started forward. Irena did her best to keep up, to keep her head bowed and her feet properly in front of her as she had been instructed. It was a lame attempt at best, and they let her know with the threatening glances they threw her way. She couldn't help the way her legs wobbled, the way her feet fell heavily instead of like delicate snowflakes.

It was hard to walk with a lightness of the foot when the heart was weighed down with such heavy sorrows.

Sorrows will fade in time, a melodious voice whispered across her thoughts. But the memory will remain, child. It is the memory that gives power, and the power that gives life to new joys.

She knew that voice, knew the feel of it, the texture of cold silk rubbing around the inside of her skull. It chilled her, left behind a coating of vicious ghost-like shadowy liquid to drench the inside of her soul. It was why she called him the Shadow King in her dreams. Not because of what he looked like, as she had called the Lord Vader the Shadow due to his appearance, but because of what the Shadow King felt like on the inside.

Like shadow made tangible. Like acrid smoke that burned the soul instead of the eyes.

A hand latched onto the back of her neck, spinning her around roughly before she realized that she had stopped following the men. "Listen to me, you back-world brat," one of the men hissed into her face. "You fall behind again, you flinch like that before the Emperor, or you so much as make a hair on your disgusting little head fall the wrong way in his presence, and I swear I will make what is left of your life a living nightmare."
She knew that he meant it, could see it in the aura around him. Lives drifted before her eyes as the fog of dead dreams around the man enveloped his face. He had ruined so many sentient beings, condemning them to a fate worse than death. They still lived, but they lived in a state of muted existence, lived a life without hope, condemned to a servant's life without the possibility of freedom.

Even a slave's life held more joy in it.

That will not be your fate, the Shadow King whispered again. Do not show him fear, my child. Your destiny is with me. Show him that. Show him as you showed the Stormtrooper that killed your mother. Reach for the power, little one, as Lord Vader taught you. Reach for it now.

Irena didn't want to, didn't want to feel the wind inside her skin. She knew in some part of herself that her mother and father would never want her to touch that power again. It was a bad thing, a dark place inside her heart that only hungered for more each and every time she let that wind blow across her soul.

But the fog of dead dreams was growing, obscuring the man's face from view. It was reaching for her, threatening to prove the Shadow King wrong. That shouldn't have happened. In fact, it had never happened before in all her young years spent staring at the halos of people. Fogs never grew larger. More victims appeared in the course of a person's life but the fog never grew, not like this. Irena whimpered, tears filling her eyes. She knew that if it touched her, she would be as this man had said, cursed to a life without hope, without dreams.

Yet if she reached for the cold wind inside her heart, she would disobey the memory of her parents, and forever be without the love she once knew.

One ghostly tendril reached out of the fog, traveling down the man's arm, heading for the hand still wrapped around the back of her neck.

Her fear won. With all her might she reached for the cold ember within her heart, the one that Vader had blown to life when he had destroyed her home world. The wind exploded within her like a thunderstorm, sickly pain and bitter pleasure scouring her insides until all other feelings vanished. She could no longer feel the man's hand on her neck, though she knew it was still there. It was like she felt it from far away, like she was remembering the memory of how it would feel to have a hand on the back of her neck.

It is the memory that gives power, the Shadow King whispered again. I told you this would be true. Now use that power, my child. Use the power and walk to me on your own. Do this, and I promise you the life that will give you new joys to replace your sorrows.

Her eyes filled with the power of the storm, the blue tint in her eyes giving way to the gray, swirling as the power churned within her. The cold ember blazed into a dark flame, fanned by the winds inside her skin, burning away thought and emotion and leaving numbness in its wake. No sorrow and no remorse, no sympathy for the victims dancing a morbid waltz in the fog of this man. She knew only the moment, only that she did not want this man to ever touch her again.

"Don't touch me ever again," she whispered… and shoved at him with her tiny hand.

She did not see his face, covered as it was with the memory of his victims, could not see his reaction as he flew backward through the room. He hit the wall hard enough to crack it, the sound echoing dully in her wind-filled ears. And then he slumped to the floor, and did not move again.

Irena turned her swirling eyes on the other man, watched the look of utter horror cross his features. And then that man fell to his hands and knees before her, face bowed to the floor. Choking sounds emanated from him, like he was trying to swallow and sob and speak at the same time. She took the two steps it took to reach him, staring down at him as if from a great distance. He looked so small now, so powerless when but a moment ago he was so tall, so imposing.

"Don't ever hurt me again," she half-spoke, half whispered. "Don't hurt anyone else ever again, either. It's not nice."

He nodded, or at least tried to. His fear was like the smell of fresh baked cookies mingled with sharp shards of glass on the torrent of her power. She liked it. She loathed it. She didn't know what to think of it.

"P-please," the man managed out at last. "I… I didn't mean… I… please, don't kill me."

The part of her that wasn't completely consumed with the cold flame of power screamed and cried for her to stop. The part that reveled in the numb-like feeling knew the Shadow King would like her to kill this man, too. And perhaps it was too soon after the death of her parents, or perhaps it was something that Admiral Thrawn had said to her in that secluded conversation in that conference room that changed her mind. She would never really know, never truly understand why she stopped that day.

Only that she pushed the flame away, and somehow bottled up the wind again. And offered him her hand.

"What's your name?" she asked, eyes returning to their lost grey-blue shade.

"Andryl," he whispered back, voice trembling. "Please, I meant—"

"The Shadow King is waiting," she interrupted, taking his hand and waiting for him to climb back to his feet. "We have to go through the doors. Andryl, I'm scared. Will you stay with me?"

Andryl stared down at the tiny girl, cold sweat breaking out across his face. How any being in the known galaxy could be frightened after exhibiting such power was beyond him. But wisely he nodded.

"You should call him Emperor," Andryl said, clearing his throat until his voice was steady once more, trying to remember all the diplomatic training he had learned over his years at court. And yet all his courtly training could not contain the slight tremor that ran through his limb as he held the strange little girl's hand. "Unless he tells you to call him Shadow King, that is."

Her eyes swirled again with a hint of the storm before returning to normal. "I think I shall call him Master after today."

He did not know what to say to that, and so simply nodded. "A wise choice."

"The only choice," Irena murmured, a single tear sliding down her face. "The Admiral told me that."

Again, Andryl had no words for the girl. He only nodded once more and led the way through the double doors that lead to the Emperor's main audience chamber. Irena only spared one small look for the crumbled shell of the man she had killed, knowing that she would see him again for the rest of her life each time she looked into a mirror. Each time she saw the fog of her own victims.