Chapter Two: March of Shadows
The march had been grueling. Hours had passed since they left the camp behind, and the world seemed to stretch endlessly in all directions, draped in the gray, oppressive light of a clouded sky. The men marched in silence, their faces drawn with the weight of the battle that loomed ahead. The rain had ceased, but the ground remained soft and treacherous, pulling at their boots with every step.
Anakin walked near the front of the column, the steady rhythm of armor clinking and boots squelching through the mud a constant backdrop to his thoughts. The silence among the men was almost palpable, a collective breath held in anticipation of what awaited them at Ashford. Though they marched together, the distance between them was greater than the mere space of the road. Each man was locked in his own thoughts, wrestling with fear, hope, and the knowledge of what the coming hours would bring.
Ahead, Robert rode at the head of the column, his dark hair whipped by the wind. He had said little since they began their march, his focus singular and sharp. The weight of command sat heavily on his broad shoulders, but it did not bow him. Anakin could sense Robert's determination—his will to see this rebellion through, no matter the cost.
As they rounded a bend in the road, the trees began to thin, giving way to open fields and scattered farmlands. The landscape was marked by the scars of war—burnt-out homes, fields left untended and overgrown. The remains of the kingdom's strife lay bare, like the remnants of a forgotten world.
Anakin felt a familiar pull in his chest, an echo of the destruction he had once wrought on worlds far from here. **War never changes,** he thought grimly, his gaze sweeping across the ruined land. It always left behind the same scars, the same broken lives.
"Not much further now," Robert called out, his voice carrying over the ranks of men. "We'll reach Ashford before dusk."
Anakin nodded but remained silent. The men around him shifted restlessly, some glancing toward the horizon where the first hint of Ashford's distant towers could be seen, barely rising above the treeline.
Robert had promised them victory at Ashford—a turning point in their rebellion against the crown. But Anakin knew well the weight of promises made before battle. War had a way of tearing apart even the most carefully laid plans.
He quickened his pace slightly, catching up to where Robert rode at the head of the column. The rebel lord glanced down at him, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the gravity of their situation.
"You ready for this?" Robert asked, his voice low enough that only Anakin could hear.
Anakin looked ahead toward the horizon, where the road stretched on toward Ashford and the battle that awaited them. "I've been ready for battles all my life," he replied.
Robert's grin widened, but there was a seriousness in his eyes. "Good. We're going to need every sword and every bit of skill if we're going to take Ashford. Tarly's no fool—he'll be ready for us."
Anakin nodded, his mind already shifting into the clarity that came before a fight. "I'll do what needs to be done."
Robert's expression darkened slightly, though his gaze remained fixed on the road ahead. "Just remember what I said—use that magic of yours wisely. These men are fighting with their swords and their shields. They don't understand what you can do, and if they start to fear it..." He trailed off, his meaning clear.
Anakin met Robert's gaze evenly. "I know when to use it."
Satisfied, Robert gave a sharp nod and spurred his horse forward, leaving Anakin to fall back into step with the marching men. He could feel their unease, the flickers of doubt and fear that danced through the air like embers caught on the wind. But he also felt their resolve—their loyalty to Robert, their desire to see the rebellion succeed, to bring down the tyrant who sat on the Iron Throne.
The hours passed slowly, the road winding through fields and forests alike. With each step, the distance between them and Ashford grew smaller, and the tension grew thicker, as if the very air were charged with the anticipation of battle. The men whispered among themselves, their voices low but urgent, sharing stories of past battles and the loved ones they had left behind.
As dusk began to creep across the sky, casting the land in shades of amber and gold, they caught sight of the first walls of Ashford in the distance. The towers stood tall and proud against the darkening sky, a testament to the strength of the Reach's noble families.
Anakin could feel the shift in the men around him—fear mingling with a strange sense of exhilaration. The battle was near, and with it, the chance for victory or death.
"We'll make camp here," Robert called out, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "We'll rest tonight and prepare for the fight tomorrow."
The men began to slow, dropping their packs and setting up a makeshift camp along the edge of the road. Fires were lit, and the smell of smoke and roasting meat soon filled the air, offering a brief respite from the tension that hung over them.
Anakin moved toward the edge of the camp, his gaze fixed on Ashford's distant towers. The night had begun to settle over the land, casting long shadows across the road. The anticipation of battle thrummed through his veins, as familiar to him as the Force itself.
But beneath that anticipation, there was something else—something quieter, deeper. An unease that gnawed at the edges of his mind. He could feel the Force swirling around him, its currents more chaotic than ever in this strange world. It was as if the battle ahead was but one thread in a much larger web of fate, one that Anakin had yet to fully understand.
**Tomorrow,** he thought. **Tomorrow, everything changes.**
—
The sun had fully retreated beyond the horizon, leaving the camp bathed in the soft glow of flickering campfires. The warmth of the flames did little to dispel the cold that crept through the night air, nor did it soothe the tension that had settled over the camp like a thick fog. The sounds of men eating, murmuring in low voices, and sharpening their blades were the only things that broke the otherwise oppressive silence.
Anakin sat on the outer edge of the camp, his back to one of the fires, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon where the silhouette of Ashford's towers stood stark against the darkening sky. The quiet moments before battle always felt the same—filled with an odd mixture of anticipation and dread. It was a sensation he had grown accustomed to during the wars he had fought in another life, but now, in this strange new world, the feeling seemed more acute. More personal.
He could feel the weight of the men around him, their emotions rippling through the Force in a chaotic swirl of fear, hope, and desperation. It reminded him of the legions of clone troopers he had once commanded—each of them brave, loyal, and ready to lay down their lives for a cause they believed in. But the cause had always been an illusion, twisted and manipulated by forces far beyond their understanding.
Anakin shook the thought from his mind. **This is different**, he told himself. **These men fight for their homes, their families. They fight because they have to, not because they've been ordered to.**
A shadow fell over him, and he looked up to see Robert approaching. The rebel lord's warhammer was slung over his shoulder, the weapon's head glinting dully in the firelight. Robert lowered himself onto a nearby log with a heavy sigh, stretching his legs out in front of him as he settled into the quiet of the camp.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the silence between them heavy with unspoken thoughts. Anakin could sense the tension in Robert—his mind racing with strategies and concerns for the battle ahead. Yet, beneath it all, there was a burning determination, a fire that would not be easily extinguished.
"You don't talk much, do you, Skywalker?" Robert finally said, his voice rough but not unkind. His eyes flicked toward Anakin, gleaming with curiosity.
Anakin met his gaze briefly before returning his attention to the horizon. "Not much to say," he replied quietly.
Robert chuckled, though the sound held little humor. "I've fought beside many men in this rebellion—lords, knights, peasants. All of them had something to say about their place in this fight. But you..." He trailed off, studying Anakin closely. "You don't seem to belong to any of them."
Anakin considered Robert's words carefully before responding. He had long since grown used to being an outsider, even among those he fought beside. During the Clone Wars, he had been a Jedi Knight, but even then, he had never truly felt like he belonged within the Order's rigid structure. Later, as Darth Vader, he had been feared, hated, and isolated—more machine than man.
But here, in Westeros, he was something else entirely. A wanderer. A warrior. A man trying to find his place in a world that didn't yet know what to make of him.
"I told you before," Anakin said at last, his voice low and measured. "I'm not from here. My fight isn't the same as theirs."
Robert's brow furrowed, his curiosity piqued. "But you're still here. Still fighting. Why?"
The question hung in the air between them, heavy with implications that neither man fully understood. Anakin had asked himself the same thing countless times since arriving in this world. **Why am I here?** The Force had brought him to Westeros, but its purpose remained elusive. Redemption? Punishment? Or was he simply a pawn in a game played by forces far beyond his comprehension?
"I've fought in wars all my life," Anakin said quietly, his voice carrying a weariness that only someone who had seen too much death could understand. "I've fought for causes that weren't my own, for men who betrayed me, for ideals that crumbled beneath the weight of power. But here... this feels different. The stakes are the same, but the fight... it feels more real."
Robert nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "You don't fight for crowns or thrones, do you? You fight for something else."
Anakin's gaze remained fixed on the horizon, his mind drifting back to the countless battles he had fought in his old life. Battles that had left him scarred, broken, and lost. But now, in this new world, he felt something he hadn't felt in a long time—a sense of purpose. It wasn't fully formed, wasn't clear, but it was there, simmering beneath the surface.
"I fight because I have to," Anakin said at last, his voice steady but laced with a quiet intensity. "Because if I don't, the darkness I've fought against for so long will consume everything. Including me."
The words carried a weight that Robert didn't fully understand, but he didn't press the issue. Instead, he leaned back on the log, his eyes flickering with a mixture of respect and caution. He had seen men like Anakin before—men who carried the weight of their past like a cloak, men who had faced horrors that most could only imagine. But there was something different about Skywalker, something that set him apart even from the grizzled veterans Robert had fought beside for years.
"You speak like a man who's seen his share of battles," Robert said, his voice softer now. "But there's something else there. Something you're not telling me."
Before Anakin could respond, another figure approached the fire, his presence announced by the soft crunch of boots against the dirt. Jon Penrose appeared out of the shadows, a bowl of steaming stew in one hand and a skin of wine in the other. He flashed a grin as he settled himself down beside them.
"Mind if I join you, my lords?" Penrose asked with a grin, though he didn't wait for an answer before plopping down on the log beside them. He handed the wine to Robert and the bowl of stew to Anakin, then took a long swig from his own flask. His eyes twinkled in the firelight, a welcome contrast to the somber mood that had settled over the camp.
Robert grinned back, his mood lightening just a fraction. "Penrose, you've got a knack for showing up at just the right time."
"Aye," Penrose agreed with a chuckle. "Figured you could use some company. The lads are ready for the fight tomorrow, but there's a lot of nerves going around. Thought I'd bring a bit of cheer to the camp." He winked at Anakin before taking another swig from his flask.
Anakin accepted the bowl of stew with a nod of thanks, though he barely touched it. His mind was still far away, lost in the maze of his thoughts. The weight of the upcoming battle pressed down on him, a familiar yet unwelcome companion. He had fought in so many battles, led so many men into the fray, but each time felt like a new burden added to the ones he already carried.
Penrose glanced at Anakin, his grin fading slightly as he noticed the tension that still lingered in the air. "Skywalker," he said, his tone more serious now, "I've been meaning to ask... that trick you pulled back in the woods. Is that something you do often?"
Robert shot Penrose a warning glance, but the bearded soldier simply shrugged. "I'm just curious, my lord. Not every day you see a man throw another halfway across a battlefield without lifting a sword."
Anakin's grip on the bowl tightened slightly, though his expression remained calm. He had expected the questions, the curiosity. In his old life, the Force had been a constant companion, a tool that he wielded with ease and confidence. But here, in Westeros, it was something unknown, something feared. And that made it dangerous.
"It's not something I use often," Anakin replied evenly. "But when the time comes, I'll use it."
Penrose nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing in thought. "You've got the men talking, that's for sure. Some think you're a sorcerer, others think you're something more. Me?" He grinned again, leaning back against the log. "I think you're just a man with some tricks up his sleeve. And that's good enough for me."
Robert chuckled, though there was an edge to his laughter. "As long as you use those tricks to help us win tomorrow, I don't care what the men think."
Anakin remained silent, his gaze drifting back to the horizon where Ashford lay in wait. The night had fully settled over the camp now, the stars hidden behind a blanket of clouds. The weight of the battle ahead pressed down on him, but it was nothing compared to the weight of his past.
**Tomorrow,** he thought to himself, his jaw tightening. **Tomorrow, I fight again.**
But this time, he fought not for the dark side or the light. He fought for something else. Something greater. Something he could not yet name.
As the fire crackled softly beside him, Anakin allowed himself one final thought before the conversation drifted into silence once more.
**Perhaps, here in this world of kings and rebels, I will find what I've been searching for.**
But even as he thought it, a small, nagging voice in the back of his mind reminded him of all the battles he had fought and the lives he had taken. Redemption, he knew, would not come easily—if it came at all. The weight of his past was not something that could be cast aside with a single battle or a single victory. It would haunt him, shadow him, until he either rose above it or was consumed by it once again.
Across from him, Robert took another swig of wine and stared into the fire, his mind clearly turning over the strategies for the coming battle. Beside him, Jon Penrose leaned back, his eyes half-closed, though his grip on the flask remained steady.
For now, the camp had settled into an uneasy quiet, the men lost in their own thoughts and fears. But tomorrow, the quiet would shatter, and the blood would flow. Anakin knew that well enough. He had lived through too many battles to believe otherwise.
Robert broke the silence one final time, his voice low and contemplative. "We're going to change the world tomorrow, Skywalker. For better or worse, everything changes when we take Ashford. Maybe the gods are on our side, maybe they're not. But I'll be damned if I'm going to let Tarly and his lot keep us down."
Anakin nodded, though his thoughts were elsewhere. "One battle at a time," he replied softly, his voice barely audible over the crackling of the fire.
Robert shot him a sidelong glance, but said nothing more. He simply took another drink from his flask and stared into the flames, his mind already in the heart of the battle that awaited them.
As the night deepened and the fires began to die down, Anakin allowed himself to close his eyes, just for a moment. He wasn't seeking sleep—he knew it wouldn't come easily tonight—but rather a brief reprieve from the storm that raged inside his mind.
The shadows of his past lingered, but perhaps, just perhaps, the dawn would bring something new.
The camp was alive with the subtle noises of men preparing for battle. The sky above was a muted gray, the remnants of the storm lingering in the air, casting a damp chill over the soldiers. The march had been grueling, but Robert's men moved with a quiet determination, their weapons sharpened and armor polished in preparation for the coming fight.
Anakin stood near the edge of the camp, observing the bustle of activity around him. Despite having marched with them for days now, he remained on the periphery, a lone figure in a world that had not yet fully accepted him. The men often cast wary glances his way—curious but cautious. Some whispered about the strange powers he had shown in the woods, while others kept their distance, unsure of what to make of him. Anakin could feel their wariness through the Force, a faint hum of unease that followed him wherever he went.
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a tall, grizzled soldier approaching him with purpose. The man's armor was well-worn but maintained, and his presence carried the weight of authority. Anakin recognized him as Ser Martyn Swann, one of Robert's trusted lieutenants. Swann was a man of few words but quick actions, respected among the ranks for his loyalty and sharp mind.
"Skywalker," Ser Martyn called out, his voice deep and gruff. "Robert wants you at the war table."
Anakin raised an eyebrow but nodded, falling into step beside the knight. They moved through the camp in silence, passing clusters of men sharpening swords and preparing their armor for the day ahead. Anakin could sense the tension in the air, a mixture of fear and resolve, and beneath it all, the faint tremor of anticipation for the battle to come.
Ser Martyn led him to the heart of the camp, where Robert was gathered with his commanders around a large map spread over a makeshift table. The other men glanced up as Anakin approached, their expressions a mix of skepticism and curiosity. Though Robert had welcomed him, these commanders had yet to be convinced of his worth. To them, Anakin was still an outsider—a man with unknown allegiances and powers they could not understand.
Robert, however, greeted him with a firm nod. "Skywalker," he said, his tone carrying a weight of authority, "we've got a battle to plan."
Anakin stepped forward, studying the map spread before them. The hills outside Ashford were laid out in careful detail, with markers representing the positions of the Reach army—led by Randyll Tarly—and Robert's own forces. It was clear that Tarly had chosen his ground carefully, using the natural terrain to his advantage.
"The Reach army is preparing for an open battle," Robert explained, pointing to the markers on the map. "They're positioned near the hills, but they're not dug in for a siege. Tarly's ready to strike first, which means we need to be ready to meet him."
One of the commanders, a broad-shouldered man named Lord Harlan Hunter, spoke up. "We can't fight them in the open. Their cavalry will tear us apart if we meet them head-on."
Anakin studied the map, his eyes narrowing as he considered the terrain. "The hills," he said quietly, drawing the attention of the other men. "They create natural choke points. If we position our forces here," he pointed to a narrow pass between two steep ridges, "we can funnel their cavalry into a tighter formation, limiting their mobility."
Lord Harlan frowned, his expression skeptical. "And what happens when they break through our lines? We'll be cut down in those narrow passes."
Anakin met his gaze evenly. "Not if we use the terrain to our advantage. The hills will slow them down, giving our archers time to weaken their ranks before they reach us. And if we position our infantry strategically, we can hold the pass long enough to turn the tide."
The other commanders murmured among themselves, weighing Anakin's suggestion. Some nodded in agreement, while others remained unconvinced.
Robert, however, seemed intrigued. "It's a risk," he admitted, his gaze still fixed on the map. "But it could work. We're outnumbered, so we need to fight smarter, not harder. If we can lure Tarly's forces into the pass, we stand a better chance of holding them off."
Lord Harlan spoke again, his tone more measured this time. "It's not a bad plan, but it hinges on Tarly taking the bait. He's no fool—he won't charge blindly into a trap."
Anakin nodded. "That's why we need to be subtle. We make it look like we're retreating into the hills—draw them in, make them think we're vulnerable. Once they're committed, we hit them hard."
Robert grinned, a fierce light gleaming in his eyes. "I like it. A little misdirection, a little surprise—that's the way to win a fight."
Ser Martyn stepped forward, his voice steady. "And if they don't fall for the ruse?"
Robert's grin widened. "Then we do what we always do, Martyn—we fight. But I have a feeling Tarly's pride will get the better of him. He'll come for us."
The other commanders nodded in agreement, their skepticism beginning to fade as they saw the potential in Anakin's strategy. Robert turned to Anakin, his expression serious but approving. "You've got a sharp mind for tactics, Skywalker," he said. "But remember, these men don't know you like I do. You'll have to prove yourself on the battlefield tomorrow."
Anakin inclined his head, accepting the challenge. **Prove yourself.** It was a familiar refrain, one he had heard many times before. But this time, it wasn't just about earning the respect of Robert's men. It was about carving out a place for himself in this world—a world that did not yet know what to make of him.
You're right—Anakin's character, especially post-Vader, would not be overly concerned with how others perceive him, particularly if they see him as something fearful or even demonic. His focus would be more on the effectiveness of his power and achieving the outcome he seeks, rather than worrying about others' fear of him.
As the commanders dispersed, Robert clapped Anakin on the shoulder, his grin fierce and eager. "We move at first light. Be ready," he said, his voice carrying the weight of authority and the thrill of the coming battle.
Anakin nodded but didn't follow the others immediately. He lingered by the table, watching as the camp shifted into motion. Robert noticed him waiting and turned back, eyebrow raised in question.
"Something on your mind, Skywalker?" Robert asked, crossing his arms, his grin softening into curiosity.
Anakin's gaze shifted from the map to the horizon, his mind turning over the power that hummed through his veins. "You've seen what I can do," he began, his voice low but steady. "Call it magic, call it power—it doesn't matter to me. But if you want me to use it in this battle, there's something you should know."
Robert's grin faltered slightly, his eyes narrowing as he sensed the seriousness in Anakin's tone. "Go on."
Anakin met Robert's gaze directly, his expression calm, almost indifferent. "I don't care how the men see me," he said bluntly. "If they think I'm a demon or some dark force brought to life, that's their problem. What matters to me is that we win. I've fought wars where fear was as useful a weapon as any blade. If you want me to use this power, I will—but don't expect me to hold back for the sake of their comfort."
Robert studied him for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. "You'd scare them if you showed them too much of what you can do," he said carefully. "Men fight better when they trust who's beside them."
Anakin's lips twitched into a faint smile, though there was no warmth in it. "Trust comes from results. If they fear me but we win, they'll fall in line. I'm not here to make friends, Robert. I'm here to help you win this war."
Robert let out a low chuckle, though there was an edge to it. "Aye, I figured as much. You've got a different way about you, Skywalker. Most men would shy away from being seen as a monster."
Anakin's gaze darkened slightly, his voice taking on a sharper tone. "I've been seen as far worse than a monster. Fear is nothing new to me—neither is hate."
For a moment, there was a tense silence between them. Robert watched Anakin closely, the weight of the words hanging in the air. But then, as if sensing there was no point in pressing further, Robert shrugged and offered a lopsided grin. "Fine by me. I care about results too. But just don't let that power of yours get out of control. We need you sharp, not burning out like some mad sorcerer."
Anakin inclined his head slightly, acknowledging Robert's caution without committing to it. He had spent years wielding the Force as both Jedi and Sith, and while he no longer walked the path of either, he knew his own limits—and his own darkness.
"I know how to control it," Anakin said calmly. "I've had practice."
Robert clapped him on the shoulder once more, his grin returning with full force. "Good. I'll leave the sorcery to you, then. Just make sure we're still standing when the day's done."
With that, Robert turned and strode away, barking orders at his men once more. The camp continued to shift and stir, preparing for the coming battle. Anakin remained where he stood, watching Robert's men move with purpose. They whispered about him, cast glances in his direction, and no doubt spoke of the "magic" they had seen him wield in the woods. But he did not care. Their fear was irrelevant to him—only the battle ahead mattered.
**Fear.** It was an old friend, one he had used before and would use again. Whether these men saw him as a savior or a demon was of no consequence. He had a role to play in this war, and if that role required him to strike fear into the hearts of friend and foe alike, then so be it.
He turned away from the table, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. The power of the Force surged within him, ready to be unleashed when the time came. Tomorrow, the battle for Ashford would begin, and with it, another chance for him to prove—if only to himself—that he still had control over the darkness within.
The storm had passed, but the shadow of war still loomed over them, heavy and foreboding. And Anakin Skywalker stood ready to face it—on his own terms.
The camp was a hive of activity as the final preparations were made for the battle. The crackling of campfires blended with the sounds of soldiers checking their weapons, murmuring in low voices as they gathered in small groups. The air was thick with anticipation, the kind that clung to the skin like humidity before a summer storm.
Anakin moved through the camp quietly, his presence barely noticed by most of the men. Despite Robert's acceptance of him and the strategy he had laid out for the battle ahead, he remained an outsider. He could feel their wariness, their fear of the unknown that he embodied. It wasn't just the strange powers they had witnessed in the woods—it was the fact that he came from nowhere, with no past they could understand and no loyalty they could trust. **That's how it's always been,** Anakin thought to himself. **No matter where I go, I'm always on the edge.**
He found a quiet spot near the edge of the camp, away from the hustle and noise, and sat down on a rock. The sky above had darkened slightly, heavy clouds hanging low in the sky as if reflecting the tension in the air. Anakin closed his eyes, letting his senses expand through the Force, feeling the currents of life around him. The men's emotions pulsed like a heartbeat—anxious, nervous, but resolute. There was a resolve in Robert's camp that was unmistakable. They were willing to die for him, for their cause, even if they feared what they would face.
But Anakin's own emotions were far more complicated. He had walked away from so much destruction in his past—he had destroyed lives, torn apart entire planets in the name of peace, only to realize too late that peace born of fear was no peace at all. **And now here I am, again on the edge of battle, again preparing to use fear as a weapon.**
A sound stirred him from his thoughts. Footsteps. Anakin opened his eyes and found Ser Martyn Swann approaching him once more, his face set with the same grim determination as before.
"Skywalker," the knight said in his rough voice. "Robert wants you at the front lines tomorrow. He thinks your... skills might make the difference when things get tough."
Anakin nodded. "I'll be there."
Ser Martyn paused, clearly still unsure of how to handle the man before him. He glanced around the quiet corner of the camp, his brow furrowed. "Look, I've fought beside Robert for years. He's a hard man, but he knows what he's doing. If he thinks you can help us win this battle, I'll trust his judgment. But I don't know what you are—sorcerer, demon, or something else. Just... don't let that power turn on us."
Anakin regarded Ser Martyn for a moment before speaking. "I fight for the same reason you do—to win. If that means using the Force, I will. But don't mistake me for something I'm not. I'm no demon, and I have no intention of turning on Robert's men."
Ser Martyn nodded slowly, though his expression remained guarded. "Good to hear," he muttered before turning to leave. "Tomorrow will be a long day. Best get some rest, Skywalker."
Anakin watched him go, feeling the distance that still separated him from Robert's army. It was a distance that would only be crossed through bloodshed and victory—through the demonstration of power. But that was something he understood well. Power, in any world, was the currency of survival.
As the night deepened, Anakin returned to the center of the camp, watching as the last of the preparations were made. Robert's men were strong, loyal, and skilled—but they were facing a formidable enemy in the Reach army. The battle ahead would be brutal, and Anakin could sense the weight of it pressing down on everyone.
He moved toward his tent, but before he could reach it, a group of soldiers nearby caught his attention. They were gathered around one of the fires, sharpening their blades and speaking in low voices. One of them, a young soldier with dark, curly hair and sharp features, glanced up as Anakin approached.
The young man's eyes widened slightly before he quickly looked away, whispering something to his comrades. Anakin could feel their discomfort through the Force, the way their shoulders tensed and their hands gripped their weapons a little tighter.
He stopped a few paces away from them, considering whether or not to engage. **They fear me,** he thought. **But maybe fear is the only thing they need right now.**
Without a word, he turned and walked away, leaving the soldiers to their murmurs. Tomorrow, everything would change—either they would win, or they would be crushed. And Anakin would do what he had to do, regardless of how they saw him.
As he entered his tent, the soft hum of the Force remained constant in his mind. Tomorrow would be a test—not just for Robert's army, but for him as well. How much of his past could he truly leave behind? And how much would the Force demand of him in this new world?
The night grew still, the camp gradually falling into an uneasy silence. But for Anakin Skywalker, there would be no rest—only the constant pull of the Force, and the knowledge that tomorrow, on the battlefield, he would once again be called to wield it.