The Grand Imperial Ballroom shimmered with golden light, its towering arches and crystalline chandeliers casting an august glow over the opulent gala. Nobles and dignitaries from across the galaxy had gathered in celebration, their laughter and murmured conversations weaving an intricate melody beneath the sweeping orchestral score performed by the finest musicians of Coruscant.
Tonight was the grand celebration of the Imperial Prince Luke's eighteenth birthday, and the galaxy's elite had gathered to honour the heir to the Empire.
Lady Mara Jade stood at her post beside the Emperor's raised dais, her striking red hair neatly coiled at the nape of her neck, her emerald eyes ever watchful. She was no ordinary court lady; she was the Emperor's Hand, one of his most skilled and trusted enforcers. Her duty tonight was no different than any other, really—to observe, protect, and eliminate if necessary.
Around the grand hall, clusters of Moffs, Generals of the Imperial Army, and Admirals of the Navy gathered in hushed conversation, their ranks denoted by polished insignias gleaming in the candlelight. Grand Moff Tarkin, ever poised and inscrutable, conversed in low tones with the Grand Vizier Sate Pestage, no doubt scheming about the ongoing suppression of rebel forces. General Veers stood nearby, sipping from a crystal goblet while exchanging whispered words with Moff Jerjerrod. The real power brokers of the Empire were here in force, mingling in their refined but ruthless way, always eager to showcase their proximity to the Emperor himself.
And at the edge of the gathering, clad in the traditional stark black of the Sith, stood Darth Vader. Surrounded by his attendants, his imposing form loomed over the proceedings, silent yet ever observant. Though his mask revealed no expression, Mara had no doubt that he was aware of the way young noblewomen fawned over the Prince. She assumed that he was bemused by it, watching as Luke navigated the delicate and often insipid attentions of high society. Vader did not move to interfere, nor did he seem really interested in approaching his son. Yet his presence was an undeniable force, a specter haunting at the edges of the Imperial court.
Despite her disciplined mind, Mara found her gaze straying time and again to the Imperial Prince. Luke stood at the centre of the ballroom, radiating an effortless charm that set him apart from the rigid and calculating men who surrounded him. He was dressed in the ceremonial black and silver of the Imperial Court, his blond hair immaculately combed, his blue eyes alight with mirth as he accepted congratulations from an endless parade of dignitaries. He was composed, gracious, every bit the image of the Emperor's chosen successor.
He was not a boy any longer.
Luke had grown into a man—a man who, despite his royal blood, carried himself with a disarming sincerity. He was kind, affable, entirely unlike the cold aristocrats who vied for the Emperor's favor. Mara had known him for years, watched him train under Lord Vader's watchful eye, had seen him struggle under the weight of expectations that came with being the heir to the Empire. And yet, he bore it all with grace.
Perhaps that was why she had always been drawn to him.
But tonight, perhaps seeing him from afar like this for the first time, Mara felt something new. Something unexpected.
Jealousy.
It crept up her spine like a slow-burning fire as she watched him smile at the young ladies who surrounded him. His dance card had been filled before the evening even began—first with the daughters of General Tagge, then Grand Moff Tarkin's nieces. They preened before him, offering their hands with flirtatious laughter, twirling in silks and satins, their admiration for him blatant.
But it was not them who truly gnawed at Mara's patience.
Rather it was the Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan, always somehow standing close to him whenever he re-emerged from the dancefloor, speaking softly, engaging him in some sort of hushed conversation that made his blue eyes gleam with interest. Leia—cultured, brilliant, beautiful.
The daughter of Bail Organa, a man whose loyalty to the Empire had always been… conditional. Leia had been raised among nobility, trained in diplomacy, poised and graceful in a way that only true royalty could be. She wore an Alderaanian gown of pristine white, regal yet unpretentious, her dark hair woven into an elaborate braid. She was beautiful, of course, with her dark eyes and finely sculpted features, but it wasn't her beauty that made Mara's stomach twist.
It was the way Luke looked at her.
The way he smiled when she laughed, a soft, private smile that belonged to no one else in the room. The way she leaned into him as she whispered something in his ear, the casual intimacy of it. The way he rested a hand on the small of her back, a gesture so natural, so easy, that Mara wanted to tear it away.
They had grown up together, she reminded herself. Their friendship was well-known amongst the Imperial Court, their bond undeniable. And yet, for the first time, Mara wondered if it was truly just friendship.
Luke had always been surrounded by admirers—noble daughters, senators, military officers eager to win his favor. Mara had never cared before. She had never allowed myself to. But Leia was different. She was his equal in every way. If the Emperor were to arrange a match for his heir, who better than the young and outspoken princess of Alderaan?
The thought sent a sharp, unexpected pain through Mara. She clenched her jaw, though her face remained a carefully controlled mask. She was trained to feel nothing, to be a perfect blade in the Emperor's service. But here she stood, brimming with something she could not name.
"Ah, my dear Mara," the Emperor's voice rasped beside her, quiet yet unmistakably amused. "You are rather… tense."
She straightened at once. "I am at your command, my Emperor."
"Indeed." His pale lips curled slightly, his yellowed gaze drifting toward the dance floor, toward the Imperial Prince and the Alderaanian princess. "It vexes you, does it not?"
"I do not know what you mean, your Grace."
A chuckle, dark and knowing. "Oh, I believe you do my dear child." He leaned ever so slightly toward her. "You have been most loyal to me, my Hand. And yet, even you cannot help but feel… possessive over my chosen heir."
Mara stiffened, but Palpatine merely smiled, his voice a poisonous whisper. "You are beautiful, my lovely Mara. And fearless. A rare combination in this place, and one that others have started to notice. Why should the Prince not admire you? Why should he waste his affections on such… distractions?"
Her throat was dry. The Emperor was speaking aloud what she dared not. But his words did not bring her comfort—they only deepened her helpless frustration. She was not some simpering court lady to bat her lashes and beg for attention. She was a warrior, a Hand of the Emperor.
Palpatine's eyes gleamed. "Ah, but duty binds you, does it not? You cannot simply abandon your post to dance, even if it would be so easy to claim his notice. Not while she lingers in his orbit."
Mara inhaled sharply but said nothing.
Leia laughed at something Luke had said. Again, he smiled at the Princess, something soft in his expression. And as he took another lady's hand for the next dance — Captain Juno Eclipse of the Black Eight Squadron, Mara catalogued this time — she felt as if she had been struck by an unseen force.
The Emperor sighed dramatically. "What a shame."
Mara swallowed the bitter taste of longing and turned her focus back to the room, scanning determinedly for threats. That was her duty. Not indulging in foolish emotions.
Yet, despite herself, she glanced once more in Luke's direction.
And in that moment, as Eclipse spoke animatedly to him, Luke's gaze drifted—just for a second.
To her.
His blue eyes met hers, a most delightful glimmer sparking within them. A small, sweet smile tugged at the corners of his lips, just like the ones that he would wear when they were still young children unaware of their true stations. It lasted only a heartbeat before he turned back to the conversation, but Mara's heart jolted as if she had been hit by a live wire.
She exhaled slowly. The jealousy did not fade, nor did the ache in her chest. But for one fleeting moment, Luke had seen her again, had acknowledged her beyond her lot.
It was nothing.
It was everything.
And so, Mara Jade stood at her post, ever the Emperor's Hand, even as her heart longed for something it could not reach yet.