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Chapter Text

PROLOGUE – INFERNO AWAKENED

The twin suns of Tatooine scorched the Mos Espa Grand Arena, turning the air into a shimmering haze of heat and desperation. From a private box high above the chaos, the roar of the crowd rose like a sandstorm—raw, primal, insatiable.

Senator Palpatine of Naboo sat in serene composure, his maroon robes immaculate amid the dust. Across from him, Nute Gunray, Viceroy of the Trade Federation, shifted uneasily beneath his elaborate mitre-hat, throat sacs pulsing with nervous tension.

The choice of Tatooine was deliberate: a lawless Outer Rim world ruled by the Hutts, far beyond Republic oversight or Jedi reach. Here, in the shadow of the Boonta Eve Classic—the galaxy’s most infamous podrace—sensitive matters could be discussed without fear of interruption.

Gunray had additional reason to favour the venue. For years he had run a quiet scheme with Watto, a local Toydarian junk dealer: credits paid to dune bandits to sabotage rival pods, ensuring heavy bets on chosen racers paid off. In exchange for Watto’s silence and supply of cheap, untraceable parts for discreet Federation vessels, the Toydarian received a generous cut.

“A curious venue for our discussion, Viceroy.” Palpatine said softly, his voice cutting through the distant engine screams.Gunray managed a thin smile. “Exactly why it is ideal, Senator. No prying eyes. No Jedi. Only sand…and opportunity.” He leaned closer. “With your guidance, the Federation’s seats in the Senate are assured. Valorum’s days are numbered.”

Palpatine regarded him with cool amusement. “Ambition is a powerful engine, viceroy.”

The starting klaxon blared. Eighteen pods erupted forward in a blaze of repulsor fire and swirling sand.

Gunray’s gaze locked on a sleek green machine piloted by Gasgano, the six-armed Xexto daredevil—today’s heavily backed favourite. “My credits ride with him.” he said with smug assurance.

Palpatine’s attention, however, fixed on a battered, scrap-built pod near the rear. Its pilot was impossibly small—an oversized helmet swallowing a child’s frame.

A human boy. Nine years old, at most.

Gunray noticed the Senator’s stare and gave a wet, dismissive chuckle. “Watto’s slave brat. A curiosity. Human reflexes are no match for podracing let alone a child’s. He will not survive the first canyon.”

Hidden blaster bolts lanced from the dunes—precise shots meant to cripple engines and shear control vanes. Pods spun out in flames. The crowd roared its bloodlust.

The boy’s pod did not falter. It twisted through the fire with unnatural grace.

Gunray’s throat sacs inflated. “A fortunate dodge. Nothing more.”

Lap after lap, the boy advanced anticipating every hazard, threading lines that defied reason.

Palpatine’s voice was quiet, almost wondering. “It should not be possible, Viceroy. No human, certainly no child, possesses reflexes keen enough for such control.”

Gunray shifted uncomfortably. “A fluke. My associates will correct it.”

“Your associates?” Palpatine raised an eyebrow.

“Of no consequence.” The Neimoidian replied slyly.

More bolts streaked. The boy rolled, accelerated, evaded as though he felt the shots before they fired.

Gunray’s voice rose in pitch. “This… this is unacceptable!”

On the final straight, the boy surged past Gasgano in a burst of raw, impossible defiance, claiming victory. The arena detonated in chaos.

Palpatine allowed himself the faintest smile. “Perhaps, Viceroy, you miscalculated.”

Gunray rose abruptly, face ashen, voice trembling with disbelief. “Apologies, Senator. There is something I must attend to.”

Tatooine belonged to the Hutts. They controlled everything, including who conducted business there. Watto had only kept their arrangement silent because he benefited from his cut of the winnings. Without that, Gunray was sure he would sell his name out in order for some kind of compensation.

“Very well, Viceroy.” Palpatine murmured.

Nute Gunray hurried from the box in undisguised haste, intending to leave without paying Watto.

His gaze returned to the track below. The boy had climbed from his pod, pulling off his helmet to reveal a dust-streaked face and fierce blue eyes that scanned the celebrating crowds with wary triumph.

Palpatine, who was also Darth Sidious, a Sith Lord unbeknownst to the crowd, reached out with the Force and almost faltered.
The raw power surrounding the child was staggering. For a moment, the Dark Lord nearly choked on the sheer magnitude of it.

He glanced around the private box, then outward across the arena. No Jedi. No flicker of recognition in the thousands of spectators. The galaxy remained blind.

Little more than a year had passed since he had ended Darth Plagueis’s life and claimed the mantle of Dark Lord. Since then, he had searched quietly for an apprentice worthy of the Sith legacy.

Of course he had Darth Maul. But he regarded Maul as an assassin and not necessarily his apprentice, at least that was how he had justified his existence to Plagueis in compliance with the rule of two. Maul was a placeholder.

Now the Force itself seemed to whisper, pulling him toward this child like an invisible tide.

With Nute Gunray’s abrupt departure leaving their discussions unfinished—and no other pressing obligations on this forsaken world—Palpatine rose.

He recalled the Viceroy’s dismissive words: Watto’s slave brat.

A Toydarian junk dealer named Watto.

Palpatine smoothed his robes and descended toward the streets of Mos Espa, intent on finding the Toydarian.

The streets of Mos Espa teemed with the aftermath of the race—drunken cheers, furious arguments over lost bets, the clatter of wupiupi and the whine of droids. Palpatine moved through the chaos like a shadow, unnoticed amid the revelry, until he spotted the faded sign swinging above a cluttered doorway: WATTO’S PARTS.

He paused at the threshold. A wave of stale air rolled out—rancid oil, scorched metal, and the sour tang of unwashed bodies. Even a man accustomed to the Senate’s perfumed corridors felt a faint inward cringe.

Inside, the shop was a cavern of junk: towering piles of scrap, half-dismantled engines dangling from chains, flickering holoprojectors casting erratic light. A Toydarian hovered near the counter, wings beating frantically, his blue skin flushed darker with agitation.

Palpatine stepped silently over the threshold and melted into the gloom beside a stack of rusted hyperdrive components. None of the three figures in the room noticed him.

The boy—Anakin Skywalker—stood dusty and defiant with his helmet tucked under one arm. Beside him, Shmi Skywalker, his mother wearing a worn slave garb rested a protective hand on his shoulder. Watto buzzed back and forth above them, gesturing sharply with stubby fingers.

“You promised!” Anakin’s voice cracked with youthful fury. “Extra rations for a month and a full week off work if I won. You shook on it in front of Mom!”

Watto snorted, hovering higher as if to put distance between himself and the boy’s glare. “Eh, motivation, kid! Just motivation! The Boonta brings thousands—shop’s packed. I can’t have my best mechanic lazing about for a week. Bad for business.”

Shmi stepped forward, voice steady but firm. “We had a deal, Watto. You gave your word.” The Toydarian jabbed a finger toward her. “Deal? Ha! The boy must’ve cheated—nobody human wins clean against Gasgano. Something funny going on, I say!”

Watto had wagered heavily against Anakin, convinced by Nute Gunray’s confident assurances that Gasgano was guaranteed victory. The Toydarian had never imagined the boy could win, and now the Neimoidian had vanished without delivering the promised cut for Watto’s silence. During the crowded chaos of the Boonta Eve Classic, he couldn’t afford idle slaves—every hand was needed to turn the flood of customers into profit.

Unseen in the shadows, Palpatine felt it then—a sudden, white-hot flare in the Force, brief but ferocious. The boy’s anger surged like an inferno awakening, raw and boundless, directed not at Watto but at the accusation against his mother. The air seemed to crackle for an instant; a loose bolt on a nearby shelf rattled though no hand touched it.

Anakin’s small fists clenched. His eyes blazed the same fierce blue Palpatine had seen from the box, but now they burned with something deeper—something dangerous.

Palpatine’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles.

The spark he had sensed in the arena was no illusion. It was a blaze waiting for fuel.

Palpatine allowed the silence to stretch just long enough—then cleared his throat with deliberate politeness.

The sound cut through the argument like a vibroblade.

Watto spun mid-air, wings stuttering. Anakin and Shmi turned sharply, eyes widening at the sight of the elegantly dressed off-worlder standing in the doorway.

Palpatine stepped fully into the flickering light, his expression one of mild, almost embarrassed regret.

“Forgive the intrusion.” he said smoothly, his voice carrying the refined cadence of the Core Worlds. “I fear I have suffered a rather… costly afternoon at the arena. Several of my household slaves were wagered on the wrong pod.” He offered a self-deprecating smile. “A foolish indulgence.”

Through the Force he tasted Watto’s agitation—sharp, acrid, laced with the sour panic of ruin. The Toydarian’s losses pulsed like an open wound. Palpatine needed no confession; the creature’s desperation was plain.

He let his gaze drift briefly over Anakin and Shmi, then return to Watto. “I find myself in sudden need of replacement staff. I am not certain this establishment deals in such transactions, but I am prepared to purchase two slaves for a generous price.”

Watto’s small eyes narrowed, suspicion warring with greed. Anakin and Shmi exchanged uncertain glances.

“How… generous?” Watto asked, trying for nonchalance and failing. The hint of desperation in his rasping voice was music to Palpatine’s ears.

An internal smile bloomed, cold and triumphant.

“Name your price.” Palpatine answered modestly.

Darth Plagueis—Hego Damask of Damask Holdings—had left behind fortunes vast enough to buy star systems. Wealth flowed like water to Palpatine who now controlled them. It didn’t matter that Republic credits were of no use here, whatever the currency he could more than afford it.

Watto scratched his bristly chin, wings slowing as calculation took over. Then, with the reckless bravado of a gambler doubling down, he blurted an exorbitant sum in peggats—enough to recoup his losses twice over and still turn a profit.

“Agreed.” Palpatine replied without hesitation.

Watto’s wings faltered in shock. Anakin’s mouth fell open. Shmi’s hand tightened on her son’s shoulder, worry creasing her brow.

In the span of minutes they had gone from bargaining for extra rations and a week’s rest to being sold again to a stranger.

Palpatine turned to them, his expression softening into something that looked almost paternal.

“There is no need for fear.” he said gently. “You will come with me to Coruscant—the heart of the Republic. There you will have a better life: proper quarters, good food, meaningful work. You will be well cared for.”

Anakin searched the stranger’s face, suspicion warring with a flicker of hope he could not suppress. Shmi’s eyes glistened, torn between terror of the unknown and the sudden, impossible promise of something kinder than Tatooine’s sands.

Watto, already counting peggats in his mind, hovered impatiently. “Papers are in the back. Let’s make this quick… got customers waiting.”

Palpatine inclined his head, the picture of gracious patience. There was nobody else in the room, but he didn’t see the need to point that out.

As the Toydarian bustled away to fetch the ownership documents, Palpatine allowed himself one more glance at the boy.

The inferno still smoldered there banked for now, but alive. His mother would have to be removed from the equation and quickly. He already had an idea in mind.

Soon, he thought, the inferno would have all the fuel it needed.

Chapter Text

The last light of Tatooine’s suns bled across the horizon, painting the dunes in deep crimson before night swallowed them whole. Palpatine’s shuttle rested in silence on a secluded landing pad at the edge of Mos Espa, its ramp sealed, its interior lights dimmed to a low crimson.

He had left the boy and his mother in Watto’s cluttered shop with careful words: “Take the evening to gather what belongings you wish, I will return midday tomorrow to collect you both.” A kindness, he had framed it. It gave them time to say goodbye to the only life they had known. In truth, it was time for him to prepare.

Palpatine now stood alone in a small meditation chamber at the rear of the shuttle, his hands clasped behind his back, gazing out the viewport at the scattered lights of the settlement below. The day’s heat still clung to the air, but his thoughts were colder than the desert night.

The ownership documents lay on the console beside him, freshly transferred. The boy’s name stared up in stark lettering: Anakin Skywalker.

Anakin.

The child’s potential thrummed like a barely contained storm—vast, volatile, magnificent. But power alone was not enough. It needed direction. It needed loyalty.

Unconditional loyalty.

He had sensed Anakin’s fear for his mother earlier, sharp and protective, woven tightly through the raw anger that had flared when Watto pointed an accusatory finger at her. The accusation had been aimed at Anakin for cheating, yet his fury had surged in defense of her. It was a white-hot spike in the Force that had even rattled a bolt on a nearby shelf.

That bond was the only tether holding Anakin to anything soft. If handled with precision, its severing could forge him into something unbreakable.

A quiet satisfaction settled over Palpatine, cold and absolute, like the first breath of winter.

He turned from the viewport, robes whispering against the deck. There was work to do. A trap to set.

Palpatine moved to a concealed compartment at the chamber’s rear. With a subtle gesture the panel slid open revealing folded robes of black coarse fabric. He shed the maroon senatorial garments, letting them pool at his feet, and donned the dark attire with deliberate care.

Finally, he drew the heavy hood forward, the fabric falling like a veil across his features. He stepped deeper into the crimson light of the projector, where it bathed him in blood-tinted gloom.

He was no longer Senator Palpatine. He was Darth Sidious.

The holocomm activated with a low hum, encryption layers folding over the signal like layers of night. A hooded projection flickered to life before him, awaiting connection.

On the other end, in a dimly lit cockpit somewhere beyond Tatooine’s orbit, the recipient accepted. A scarred, blue-skinned face appeared—Cad Bane, the notorious Duros bounty hunter, his wide-brimmed hat casting shadows over cold red eyes.

“Lord Sidious.” Bane drawled, voice dry and unhurried. “Heard you might call someday. Figured it’d be for somethin’ interestin’.”

Bane was considered one of the best bounty hunters and mercenaries of the underworld, with a reputation for fighting Jedi. This was crucial for the plan Sidious had in mind. He needed someone the Jedi would have sufficient interest in to warrant their own intervention.

The Sith Lord’s hooded form leaned forward. “I have a task for you of significant importance.” His voice was low yet menacing.

Bane’s hat tilted slightly. “I’m listenin’.”

“You will take command of a freighter currently docked in Mos Espa’s outer yards—the Driftspire. Depart tomorrow at midday. There will be one additional passenger boarding before you leave—a human woman. Ensure she is aboard and treated as ordinary cargo. Deliver her to Coruscant.”

In truth, the Driftspire would be loaded overnight with crates of restricted military blasters and banned disruptor rifles, enough prohibited weaponry to trigger every alarm from the Rim to the Core. An anonymous tip, routed through one of Palpatine’s Senate aides had already been sent to a Jedi outpost on the Rim. Cad Bane’s name would guarantee pursuit.

Bane paused, calculating. “A passenger on a routine run? Unusual.”

“You need only concern yourself with the delivery.” Sidious replied, his voice smooth and final.

Bane’s hat tilted slightly in acknowledgment. “Payment on arrival?”

“Of course.” Sidious said in a conclusive manner.

The projection winked out. In the crimson gloom, a predatory satisfaction touched Sidious’s hidden features. Payment would never be necessary. Once Bane realised the Jedi were involved, Sidious was sure he would opt to escape rather than face capture.

Sidious removed the hood, folding the dark robes away with the same deliberate care he had used to don them. The senator’s mask settled back into place.

Now all that remained was to handle Anakin and Shmi.

The following morning broke hot and bright over Mos Espa, the streets already stirring with the clamor of merchants and early gamblers. Palpatine’s shuttle had returned to the landing pad hours earlier; now he walked the short distance to Watto’s shop on foot, robes pristine despite the grit, demeanor warm and approachable.

The Toydarian’s establishment loomed ahead, its sign creaking in the rising breeze. Beside it, a narrow door led to the cramped slave quarters Watto provided—conveniently close, so his property was always within reach.

Anakin and Shmi waited outside, small bundles of belongings at their feet. Shmi’s face was tired but hopeful, her hand resting lightly on Anakin’s shoulder. Palpatine approached with an easy smile, his hands open in greeting.

“Good morning to you both.” he said kindly, voice rich with genuine-seeming warmth. “I trust you are well rested?”

Shmi nodded gratefully. “As well as we could, sir. Thank you.”

Anakin studied him, suspicion softening into cautious trust. “We’re ready.”

Palpatine inclined his head. “Excellent. Allow me to introduce myself properly—I am Senator Palpatine of Naboo.”

He knelt slightly to meet Anakin’s eyes, then looked to Shmi. “First, let me be clear: you will not be my slaves. The purchase yesterday was merely the legal necessity to free you from this world’s chains. On Coruscant, you will be free citizens. I will provide employment, comfortable quarters in my own residence, and every care—as I promised.”

Shmi’s breath caught, tears glistening. “Free…?” The words sounded like a distant dream. All she had ever known was slavery.

“Truly.” Palpatine assured her, placing a gentle hand on her arm. He turned to Anakin, his expression one of genuine admiration.

“And you, young Anakin—your victory yesterday in the Boonta was nothing short of extraordinary. Few humans of any age could pilot a pod with such skill and precision, let alone a boy of nine. That kind of talent… it is rare. Exceptional. I believe you are destined for far greater things than these sands could ever offer.”

He held the boy’s gaze, his voice warm and earnest. “I intend to see you reach your full potential.”

Anakin searched his face, the Force within him brushing against Palpatine’s carefully shielded presence. What he felt was truth—no deception in those words, only sincere belief in his abilities. For the first time in his young life, someone powerful saw him not as property, but as extraordinary.

Palpatine paused, his expression turning regretful. “There is, however, one small complication I must mention. An obscure Republic trafficking statute—intended to prevent exploitation of former slaves—requires that new citizens from the Outer Rim travel on separate civilian vessels for initial processing. It is a formality, nothing more.”

Shmi frowned slightly. Anakin’s brow furrowed. Palpatine raised a reassuring hand.

“Shmi, you will board a freighter departing at midday—the Driftspire. It is bound for the same destination, Coruscant, and will arrive only a few hours after us. Anakin will travel with me on my senatorial shuttle. We will all meet at my residence upon landing.”

Shmi hesitated, glancing at her son. Anakin opened his mouth to protest, unease flickering in his eyes.

“It is the safest and quickest way.” Palpatine added gently. “The delay is brief, and everything has been arranged for your comfort.”

Shmi nodded slowly, forcing a small smile for Anakin’s sake. After a moment, Anakin did the same.

Palpatine guided them toward the bustling landing pads at the edge of town, where shuttles and freighters came and went.

If all went to plan, this would be the last time Anakin would ever see his mother alive.

The trap was closing.

And the boy was already his.

Chapter Text

The senatorial shuttle's engines thrummed steadily beneath Anakin's feet—a smooth, refined vibration utterly unlike the sputtering rattle of the junkers he'd known on Tatooine. Yet even that luxury couldn't untie the knot twisting in his gut.

Only a few hours had passed since he'd said goodbye to his mother on that sun-blasted docking pad in Mos Espa. She'd pulled him into a fierce hug, her calloused hands gripping him tightly, murmuring that this was his chance, that he had to go with the kind off-worlder who'd bought their freedom. Her smile had been brave, but Anakin had seen the tears glistening in her eyes.

He shouldn't have left her. The thought gnawed at him relentlessly, a sharp instinct like the warning hum he felt just before a pod veered into a canyon wall. Something was wrong, he could sense it, a faint pull in the back of his mind. But the Senator had promised: the Driftspire was only hours behind. Mom would be on Coruscant soon, safe, free. They'd be together again before he could even miss her properly.

Anakin stood at the viewport, arms folded tightly across his chest, staring into the hypnotic blur of hyperspace. Stars streaked past in endless white lines, countless points of light racing alongside the shuttle as if challenging it to a duel.

"How many stars are there?" he asked quietly, his voice barely rising above the engine's hum. He didn't turn away from the view.

Senator Palpatine sat in one of the elegant seats behind him, composed and serene in his flowing maroon robes. A soft chuckle escaped him, warm and reassuring. "Too many to count, my young friend. Billions upon billions. Worlds beyond anything you can imagine.”

Anakin nodded slowly, pressing his forehead against the cool transparisteel. The sight eased the turmoil inside him, little by little. It was beautiful—terrifying, too, like hurtling away from everything familiar into the unknown. But maybe that was part of it. Maybe this was what leaving the sands behind truly felt like.

Palpatine shifted slightly, his tone gentle and curious. "You seem lost in thought, Anakin. Tell me—how did a boy your age come to master something as dangerous as podracing?”

A flicker of pride warmed Anakin's chest, pushing back the lingering shadows of doubt. He turned to face the Senator, leaning against the viewport. Palpatine watched him intently, his sharp eyes full of genuine interest.

"I've always been good at fixing things." Anakin said, a small smile creeping onto his face. "Building them too. Watto's shop got wrecked pods all the time, most of them were crashed so bad no one else wanted them. Engines melted, controls torn to scraps."

He shrugged, remembering the hours spent in the heat and dust. "So I started fixing them up in secret. One day, I made a deal with Watto: if I could build a working pod from the ones everyone said were hopeless junk... I got to race it. He thought it was an easy win for him."

Palpatine smiled faintly, leaning forward. "But you proved him wrong."

Anakin's voice grew brighter. "I love flying. When I'm in the pod, blasting through the canyons... it's like I'm the wind. I feel everything—the engines, the air shifting. The pod and me... we're just one thing."

He paused, searching for better words. It sounded childish out loud, but it was the truth—the only time he ever felt completely free.

"Have you ever felt that, Senator? Like you're part of something bigger?"

"More than you know, Anakin.” he said softly. Then, with a warm smile he added "Your mother and father must both be very proud of you."

Anakin hesitated, the words catching in his throat. "I... I don't have a father."

For a split second, Palpatine's composure faltered—his eyes widened ever so slightly, a flash of genuine alarm crossing his features before it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He recovered smoothly, tilting his head with intrigued curiosity.

"How... intriguing," he murmured, his voice steady again, though Anakin caught the faint edge of something deeper in his tone.

Before Anakin could dwell on it, a soft chime echoed through the cabin, followed by the calm voice of the shuttle's pilot over the intercom. "Approaching Coruscant, preparing to drop from hyperspace."

The stars slowed, snapping back into pinpricks as the shuttle reverted to real space. Ahead, the entire viewport filled with the breathtaking sprawl of Coruscant—an endless city-planet glowing with trillions of lights, traffic lanes weaving like rivers of fireflies through towering spires that pierced the clouds.

Anakin's breath caught. He'd never imagined anything like it.

The shuttle descended gracefully into one of the Senate district's private landing platforms, docking with a gentle hiss. As the ramp lowered, cool, recycled air rushed in, carrying the faint hum of the megalopolis.

Anakin stepped out beside Palpatine, still staring wide-eyed at the soaring architecture. "Should we wait for Mom?" he asked, turning to the Senator. "Her ship should be here soon, right?"

Palpatine placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "There's no need to linger at the docks, my boy. We will return to pick her up the moment she arrives. Everything has been arranged."

They moved toward the exit where a line of sleek air cars waited. Palpatine paused at a nearby terminal, swiping a thin card across the scanner with a practiced motion. A soft beep confirmed payment for their transport back to the senatorial apartments.

Anakin nodded, forcing a smile as they boarded the air car. The knot in his stomach had eased further amid the wonders around him. Mom would be here any moment. Soon, they'd all be together in this incredible place.

The air car lifted smoothly into the endless streams of traffic, carrying them deeper into the heart of the Republic.

The journey from the landing platform was brief—a smooth glide through the illuminated skylanes of the Senate district. The air taxi banked toward the pinnacle of luxury: 500 Republica, the most exclusive residential tower on Coruscant, its sleek spire rising like a monument to power amid the planet's endless urban sea. Reserved for the Republic's elite, it gleamed with understated opulence, its private landing pads shielded from the chaos below.

The air taxi settled onto one such elevated platform with a faint hum, the engines whispering to a stop. As Anakin and Palpatine stepped out onto the broad, wind-sheltered deck, the vehicle reversed thrust and slipped back into the flowing traffic, vanishing back toward the distant stations.

Palpatine led the way to a private turbolift, the doors parting silently at his approach. The descent was swift and seamless, opening into a grand private foyer—vast windows framing panoramic views, floors of polished marble veined with rare alloys, and subtle lighting that cast a warm inviting glow over elegant furnishings from worlds.

Anakin's eyes widened as he took it in, the scale and refinement hitting him like a cool breeze after Tatooine's relentless heat. Everything was flawless, immense—far beyond anything he'd imagined.

Palpatine gestured forward as they proceeded down a wide corridor. "These apartments provide every amenity and safeguard one could require." he said calmly. "You and your mother will find them more than adequate."

He paused before a pair of adjacent doors in a secluded wing, their surfaces sleek and unmarked save for discreet access panels. "This suite will be yours." he indicated the left with a nod. "The one beside it—for your mother, when she joins us."

Anakin stared at the doors, a flicker of excitement cutting through his lingering worry. Mom would step through hers soon.

A precise mechanical whir echoed from the main hall as a silver protocol droid approached, its plating immaculate and movements fluid.

"Welcome back, Master Palpatine." it intoned in a crisp, refined tone. Its photoreceptors shifted to Anakin, processing the unexpected presence.

Palpatine glanced at the droid with calm authority. "11-4D, this is Anakin Skywalker. He and his mother will be residing here indefinitely. Prepare the adjacent suites accordingly."

"Understood, sir." 11-4D replied smoothly, inclining its head toward Anakin. "Greetings, Master Anakin. I am at your service for any needs—refreshments, facility orientation, or otherwise."

Anakin managed a small, awkward nod, still absorbing the droid's polished elegance compared to the rusted heaps he was used to scavenging.

Palpatine rested a light hand on Anakin's shoulder, guiding him toward a spacious lounge with expansive views. "Settle in, my boy. Explore as you wish. I will monitor the arrival manifests myself, the Driftspire is due shortly."

Anakin sank into one of the deep, contoured seats, the cushions enveloping him in unfamiliar comfort. 11-4D lingered briefly before gliding away to fulfil its instructions. As Palpatine withdrew toward his private study, Anakin leaned back, gazing out at the endless rivers of light weaving through the spires below.

The apartment was quiet, vast, and impossibly grand—a world away from the cramped, sandy quarters he'd shared with Mom. He glanced at the doors to the suites again, picturing her arriving soon, tired but safe, her eyes widening just like his had at all this luxury. The Senator's calm assurance lingered in the air, steady and reliable.

Still, that faint pull of unease tugged at the edges of his mind, like a distant engine misfire he couldn't quite place. He pushed it down. Everything was fine. Mom would be here any moment now.

Soon, this shining place would feel like home.

----------------------------

Palpatine closed the heavy doors to his private study with a soft click, sealing himself in the dimly lit sanctuary. The room was austere compared to the rest of the apartment—dark wood panels, a broad desk of polished obsidian, and shelves lined with ancient Sith artifacts concealed behind false bindings.

He settled into the high-backed chair, folding his hands as the weight of the day's revelations settled over him.

Palpatine had been genuinely surprised when Anakin revealed he had no father. How was such a thing possible? A virgin birth, whispered in old legends, manipulated by midi-chlorians… or something more deliberate.

Or it was the will of the Force.

No… the will of the dark side.

A being so strong in the dark side that it would bring balance to an uneven scale, given the thousands of Jedi.

Palpatine loathed the Jedi.

He hated their self-righteousness, their hypocrisy as they preached detachment and peace while clinging desperately to their power and influence over the Republic. They feared what they could not control, destroying or suppressing anything that threatened their stagnant order—all in the name of balance.

Their downfall now fell to him, after a thousand years of the Sith growing in the shadows, as Darth Bane had envisioned.

The dark side had delivered this boy—this staggering conduit of raw power—straight to him on that forsaken world.

If he was correct, Anakin would need careful taming. With the right guidance he could become a most powerful apprentice and ally.

A low chime interrupted his reverie—the secure holocomm on his desk flashing with an encrypted priority alert from his Outer Rim network. The message was brief: Incident on Driftspire freighter.

Palpatine's lips curved into a slow smile as he dismissed the notification.

Anakin did not know it yet, but his Sith training had just begun.

The first lesson was pain.

Chapter Text

The apartment felt too quiet. Anakin sat in the spacious lounge, staring at the doors to the suites—one for him, one for Mom. The cushions were soft, the lights warm, but none of it could fill the hollow space inside him. Hours had passed since they'd arrived, and the Driftspire should have docked by now. He had pulled a loose wire from the side of one of the low tables—something that had come free from a decorative panel—and was twisting it between his fingers the way he used to with scrap parts back home, trying to keep his hands busy. Any minute now the comm would chime.

He pushed down the uneasy pull in his mind—that strange feeling like a warning hum. The Senator had said everything was arranged. It had to be fine.

The doors to the private study whispered open, and Palpatine emerged, his face drawn and somber.

Anakin's heart skipped. The Senator paused for a moment, then crossed the room and sat slowly on the couch beside him.

"I have just received some terrible news." he said quietly.

Anakin's breath caught. "What is it? Is it Mom?"

Palpatine nodded, his voice heavy with sorrow. "There has been an incident with the Driftspire."

The words landed like a blow. Anakin stared at the Senator, waiting for the rest of the sentence, the part where it wasn't true. But Palpatine only looked back with quiet grief.

"The ship was intercepted en route. There was a dangerous criminal aboard—a bounty hunter named Cad Bane—and illegal weapons. The Republic received a tip and Jedi were sent to lead the operation."

Anakin's mind raced. "But... Mom wasn't a criminal. She was just a passenger."

"I know." Palpatine sighed, the sound full of sorrow. "It seems Bane resisted, the Jedi disabled the ship and boarded. They docked and fought their way through. In the chaos of the battle inside, the cargo hold was breached. Your mother was inside. The Jedi killed her, Anakin. They were there—on the ship, in the fight—and they killed her."

The words struck like a blade. Anakin stared at him, the room tilting. "They... killed her?"

Palpatine nodded slowly, his voice low and heavy. "They chose their mission over her life."

Anakin's fists clenched. "How can they just... do that?"

Palpatine met his gaze steadily. "To make matters worse, Anakin... the Jedi were unable to apprehend Bane. He escaped.”

Palpatine continued, his tone gentle but deliberate. "I have tried reaching out for more information. I have contacted the Jedi Council directly, but they have declined to comment—citing an ongoing investigation.”

He leaned closer, his voice softening further, each word measured to twist the knife. "I did not have the chance to know her well, Anakin, but I could tell she was kind. Caring. A good person. How the Jedi failed to sense this innocence... how they could fight inside that ship, knowing lives were at stake... it is beyond me."

NO.

The single word tore out of him, raw and sharp. The air in the room thickened. Suddenly, the low table between them trembled. Then the glass surface cracked with a resounding snap.

A few shards lifted an inch before clattering back down. The lights overhead flickered once, blue sparks dancing along the fixtures.

Anakin gasped, eyes wide with shock. The sudden violence of it—the table he'd been leaning on just moments ago—cut through the grief like cold water. He stared at the fractured glass, then at his own hands as if they belonged to someone else.

"What... what did I do?" His voice cracked, small and frightened.

Palpatine flinched slightly as a shard of glass skittered past his boot, but he did not pull away. Instead, he stepped closer, his voice steady and calm. He could feel Anakin’s anger rising—sharp, hot, and he let it build, watching it crest in the air between them.

"It's all right, Anakin." he said softly. "Anger is a natural emotion. It's all right to be angry. To feel the pain. Let it out—don't hold it in."

Anakin looked up, his breath still ragged, tears streaming down his face. The Senator's words wrapped around him like a lifeline, making the strange power feel... less like a curse, more like something that belonged to him.

Mom was gone. The thought returned—her face in the void, her hand on his shoulder that last time on Tatooine, the promise she'd made him keep. Gone. And the Jedi—the ones who were supposed to protect people—had killed her. They had been there. They had fought.

The anger flared again, hotter, hungrier.

Palpatine resisted an urge to smile.

The cracked glass on the table shattered completely, fragments bursting outward in a glittering spray. A nearby chair skidded back several inches, wood groaning against the floor. A chandelier dangling above nearby dropped and shattered into pieces, darkening the space around them.

Anakin froze again, staring at the destruction, heart hammering. "I... I didn't mean to..."

Palpatine knelt to his level, his sharp eyes meeting Anakin's without flinching. "Ornaments can be replaced. What you just did... it's not something ordinary. There are people in the galaxy—very few—who are gifted with the Force. A kind of energy that binds everything together. Some can sense it, move things with their minds, even feel others' emotions. And I suspect, Anakin, that you are one of them."

He paused, letting the words settle. "The way you flew that podracer... And now, seeing this..." He gestured lightly toward the carnage in their vicinity. "I think I was right."

Anakin stared at him, the tears slowing as confusion mixed with something almost like wonder. "But... it felt wrong. Like I couldn't stop it."

Palpatine shook his head. "It's only frightening because it's new. But in time, I'm sure we will understand it. No one else needs to know just yet."

Anakin nodded shakily, but the anger didn't fade. It simmered there, just beneath the numbness. His mother was alone when it happened. Alone on that ship, with no one to help her. He could have said something—told Senator Palpatine that feeling, that warning hum in his mind, begged to go back. But he hadn't. He'd let her go. The helplessness burned, a fire in his chest that made his hands tremble. How could he have been so weak? How could the Jedi have been so careless?

Palpatine rose slowly, offering his hand. "I understand this will be difficult. Try and get some sleep, Anakin.”

Anakin took the hand, letting Palpatine guide him to his room. The doors slid open with a soft hiss. ""I'll be just outside if you need me." Palpatine said as the doors closed behind him, leaving Anakin alone in the vast, empty room.

----------------------------

Palpatine walked back to his study, the doors sealing with a quiet click. He sat at his desk and folded his hands, taking a moment to think ahead to the coming days. What would Plagueis have made of this? He wondered in deep thought.

Plagueis had been a visionary, his intellect as sharp and unyielding as the dark side itself, but he had grossly miscalculated his own place in the unfolding events.

His thoughts drifted to a night on Sojourn, when Plagueis had demonstrated his mastery over life itself. He had brought Darth Venamis back from death multiple times—his test tube experiment that ultimately served its purpose. Venamis had convulsed, his eyes snapping open with a gasp each time, the process repeating until the Bith was reduced to a quivering shell. It was astonishing, a testament to Plagueis's profound understanding of the midi-chlorians—the microscopic life-forms that connected all beings to the Force. Such power, such control over death itself. If only Plagueis had directed those efforts toward preserving his own life.

Anakin had been an unexpected addition to the grand scheme, a variable that had materialized on that forsaken sand planet like a gift from the shadows themselves. Finding him had not been part of the meticulously crafted plan he and Darth Plagueis had devised to dismantle the Republic and eradicate the Jedi Order from the galaxy. Sidious had suspected the dark side's hand in it. The dark side had a way of weaving its own threads into the tapestry, turning chance into destiny.

Palpatine considered Anakin with cold calculation. The child was raw and his emotions were a storm that could be directed but not yet controlled. He would require gentle guidance at first, the illusion of safety and understanding, until the anger had hardened into something usable. The lie about the Jedi had already taken root; now it would be nurtured, watered with every memory of loss, every flare of helplessness. Anakin must come to see the Jedi as the enemy, the galaxy as a place that took what it wanted. In time, the mask of the kind mentor would give way to the truth: the master who would teach him to wield his power, to become the weapon the Sith had waited a millennium for.

Palpatine’s thoughts turned to the next phase of the plan. He was about to create a crisis that would obliterate Chancellor Valorum's credibility beyond repair. A catastrophe so profound that the Republic would have no choice but to turn to him to save the day as the new Supreme Chancellor. The pieces were already in motion. It was time to bring them together.

Palpatine rose and approached a discreet panel in the study's wall. With a subtle gesture, it slid open revealing a tiny, concealed chamber lined with layers of cortosis alloy—a rare material that dampened Force signatures and shielded against prying senses. Damask Holdings, Plagueis's plasma refining company, had maintained a secret mining operation on Baldemnic for such purposes. Plagueis had deemed such a room necessary for any scenario where the dark side might be used near other Force-sensitive beings, a precaution against Jedi detection or unintended disturbances.

He stepped into the cortosis-lined chamber, the panel sealing behind him. Beside the door there was an open slot in the wall with folded dark robes that he clasped and quickly donned. The air was cool and still, the walls absorbing any echo of power. While Palpatine was confident he could disguise his true presence from the boy, he decided unnecessary risks were not worth taking without knowledge of his true capabilities.

He activated the secure holocomm, the device humming as it projected the hooded figure of Darth Sidious.

The connection to the Viceroy of the Trade Federation, Nute Gunray, established almost immediately. Gunray's hologram appeared, throat sacs pulsing with fear. “Lord Sidious."

"Viceroy." Sidious said, voice low and measured. "It is time to commence the blockade of Naboo."

Gunray bowed hastily, but his voice wavered, caught between obedience and fear. "My Lord... I am not refusing, of course. The fleet stands ready. The droid army awaits your command. But... there are slight complications."

Sidious tilted his head ever so slightly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make the Viceroy's hologram flicker with unease. "What complications?"

Gunray swallowed, the sound audible even through the projection. "There was... an operation on Tatooine. A minor arrangement concerning the pod races. It has been exposed. The Hutts are now involved. Gardulla the Hutt is... displeased. She demands compensation for perceived interference in her interests. Unless paid in full, she threatens to cut off our shipping lanes and trade routes in the Outer Rim."

Sidious's hooded gaze remained fixed, unblinking. "And you allowed this exposure?"

"My Lord, I—I took every precaution. I did not anticipate—"

"Precautions are meaningless without foresight, Viceroy." The voice remained soft, almost patient, yet the edge beneath it was unmistakable. "You were entrusted with discretion. Yet here we are."

Gunray's hologram bowed even lower, his voice cracking. "I apologize, my Lord. I will rectify this immediately. We will pay whatever is demanded. But... there is also the small matter of the Trade Federation's representative seats in the Senate. Once the events begin, we will need a presence. A voice to defend our actions... and deflect any... unfortunate scrutiny."

Sidious considered, letting the Viceroy stew in the quiet. Then, quietly continued: "You will have your seats. I will see to it. The Senate will bend as it always has."

Gunray's relief was immediate, though the fear lingered in his posture. "Thank you, my Lord. Thank you. We are eternally grateful."

"The Naboo operation will be postponed." Sidious continued, voice unchanging. "A few months at most. We cannot afford any distractions, I will handle Gardulla. Resolve your end of the matter and await my next command."

The hologram flickered out. Sidious remained motionless for a moment, a flicker of mild irritation crossing his features—nothing more than a brief tightening around the eyes. The delay was an annoyance, a small ripple in the current, but it was of little consequence to the grand scheme.

Chapter Text

Anakin tried to sleep, but the darkness offered no rest.

Instead, it brought dreams of his mother.

She stood on the edge of the Mos Espa dunes, her simple dress fluttering in the hot desert wind, her smile as warm and steady as it had been the day he won the Boonta.

The twin suns hung low behind her, casting long shadows that reached toward him like open arms. He stepped forward, his heart swelling, reaching out to touch her hand. His fingers brushed hers—rough from years of work, familiar, safe.

But the moment he grasped her, she began to slip away.

An invisible current tugged her backward, gentle at first, then relentless. “Mom!” he cried, stretching further, his voice cracking in the dry air. Her smile never wavered, but her eyes grew distant, sad, as the sand beneath his feet dissolved into blackness. The dunes vanished, swallowed by an endless void—cold, absolute, a nothing that pressed in on all sides, stealing the breath from his lungs. He lunged again, arms outstretched, screaming her name, but she floated farther, smaller, her form blurring into the infinite dark until she was a mere speck, then nothing at all. The void closed in, a silence so profound it roared in his ears. He was alone in it, adrift.

Then the black ignited.

Flames erupted from the nothing, hungry and alive, curling around him like serpents. They licked up his arms, roaring in his chest, heat building from within until it felt like his very heart was ablaze. He looked down and saw the fire pouring from his own skin—hot, bright, devouring everything in its path. The flames grew, consuming the darkness, turning the void into an inferno that scorched the air and blinded him with its light. He tried to scream, to call for her one last time, but the fire burst from his mouth instead, a torrent of rage and heat that filled the endless space.

Anakin woke with a gasp, the sheets tangled and damp with sweat, his heart slammed against his ribs like a trapped animal. The room was dark and silent except for his ragged breathing. A lamp on the bedside table rattled once, then stilled, as if echoing the dream's final tremor.

Anakin lay back down, but the heat lingered. Not on his skin, but deeper—smoldering in his chest like coals that refused to die. He stared at the ceiling, the faint glow of Coruscant’s artificial dawn seeping through the high windows. The flames from the dream still danced behind his eyes, not gone, just banked. Waiting.

After a while the silence became unbearable. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. His bare feet met cool marble as he crossed the room without turning on the lights.

The lounge was as he had left it. The low table sat cracked and broken, glass fragments glittering faintly in the dimness. The chandelier lay in a shattered heap, crystals scattered like fallen stars. He stepped carefully around the debris, the sight pulling last night’s memories back in a rush: the Senator’s calm voice, the words that cut deeper than any blade, the power that had erupted from inside him without warning. His mother’s face in the void. Gone.

He walked to the large window that overlooked the city. The sky outside was lighter than before—still dark but edged with the pale blue of artificial morning. Traffic lanes of sky cars moved in silent rivers of light far below, endless, indifferent. Anakin pressed his forehead to the cool transparisteel and watched them drift.

“Trouble sleeping?” Palpatine’s voice came from behind him, soft, almost gentle.

Anakin didn’t turn at first. He kept staring at the city. “I dreamt of her.” Anakin said quietly.

“Oh. What did you see?” came Palpatine’s reply.

“She was right there. I could almost touch her. But every time I reached out, she moved farther away. Until she was gone. And then... everything was fire. It was coming from me.”

He finally looked over his shoulder. Palpatine stood near the broken table, arms folded loosely, expression calm in the half-light.

Anakin gestured toward the wreckage on the floor. “Like that. Like what happened last night. I couldn’t stop it then either.”

Palpatine stepped closer, his gaze moving briefly over the shattered glass before returning to Anakin.

Anakin swallowed before he asked, “Are you... going to turn me over to the Jedi?”

Palpatine regarded him for a long moment, his expression thoughtful, almost sorrowful.

“I don’t think that would be the best path for you, Anakin,” he said quietly. “The Jedi have their ways—strict ways. They forbid attachments. Love. Family. They would take you from the world you know, train you to suppress everything that makes you feel. Anger, passion, grief—they would call these things dangerous.”

Palpatine paused to let the words sink in, then continued. “I intend to keep my promises to you, Anakin. I want you to have a better life than the one you were given. I want to see you reach your full potential—not suppressed, not hidden, but realized.”

He placed a steady hand on Anakin's shoulder. “In time, I will arrange tutoring for you. The finest minds on Coruscant will teach you mathematics, sciences, history, politics—everything a proper education requires. You will not grow up in ignorance or chains.”

Anakin looked down at the broken glass scattered across the floor, then back at Palpatine. The Senator's eyes were calm, patient, almost kind.

“I know you’re in pain. I do happen to be familiar with a meditation that may be useful to you,” Palpatine continued. “In times of distress, when the anger or the pain becomes too much. Would you like to know it?”

Anakin shrugged, the motion small and tired. “Okay.” he said.

Palpatine nodded. “Next time you are alone—whether in your room or anywhere quiet—close your eyes. Concentrate on the feeling inside you. Whatever it is in that moment—anger, grief, fear, anything—give in to it. Do not push it away. Do not try to make it smaller. Let it rise fully. Feel where it gathers in your body, how it moves. Let it fill you completely.”

He concluded, watching Anakin's face. “That is all for now. Sleep, if you can. I will see you in the morning.” Palpatine rose and walked away, leaving Anakin standing by the window.

Anakin watched the city lights moving endlessly below, rivers of motion that never stopped. Sleep felt impossible now—the dream still clung to him, the flames still smoldered in his chest. He had nothing else to do, no one else to talk to, so he decided to try what Palpatine had suggested.

He turned away from the window and made his way back to his room. The door slid open silently. Instead of lying down, he climbed onto the bed and sat upright against the headboard, legs crossed, back straight. He closed his eyes.

For a moment there was nothing—just the quiet hum of the apartment, the distant thrum of traffic far below. Then he concentrated, as Palpatine had said. He reached inward, searching for the feeling.

It came slowly at first. The sharp, twisting sense of loss that hadn’t left him since the news. Then fear—for the future, for what came next in this enormous, unfamiliar place. Then anger, at the Jedi who had done this, at himself for not stopping it, at the galaxy for letting her die alone.

The emotions spiraled, twisting together, growing hotter, heavier. He almost felt like he was ablaze again. There was a strange soothing effect in it, a rhythm to the burn, as though the fire recognized him and settled into place. Power hummed beneath it—deep, steady, waiting to be drawn from. He could sense it like a muscle he hadn’t known he had.

And then something shifted.

Even with his eyes closed, the room became clearer. Not seen with light but felt. The shape of the bed beneath him, the walls around him, the broken fragments still scattered in the lounge beyond the door. He could almost see them illuminated in the dark, outlined in faint, shimmering edges. The awareness was sharp, precise, as though the anger had sharpened his senses along with it.

He opened his eyes. Nothing had changed but the feeling lingered.

And that was how it started.

Over the next few months Anakin repeated the meditation almost every day. At first it was just something to do when the silence became too heavy, when the memories of his mother pressed too close. But soon he found he looked forward to it. He was giving in to his emotions, letting them rise—loss, fear, the sharp sting of helplessness—and instead of fighting them, he gave them room. The anger came most often, hot and bright, but it no longer felt like it was controlling him. It felt like fuel. Something he could draw from.

Unknowingly, he was turning his pain into the foundation of his power.

The complication on Tatooine resolved itself quietly—Gardulla silenced by Darth Maul's intervention, the threat to the Trade Federation's outer rim shipping lanes ended before it could spread.

As Palpatine had promised, he arranged for tutors to begin coming to the apartment. Sharp-eyed scholars arrived at regular intervals. They began teaching Anakin mathematics, the basics of galactic history, the structure of the Senate, sciences. He learned quickly, absorbing the lessons with a focus that surprised them. Palpatine would sit in on some sessions, listening in silence, then afterward offer his own quiet observations: how the Republic rewarded the powerful, how the Jedi claimed to serve justice yet often stood aside when it mattered most.

Reports from Naboo began to arrive in fragments. The Trade Federation had initiated a blockade—a dispute over taxation of trade routes. As Naboo was a major exporter of plasma, this caused prices to rise sharply as supplies tightened. Palpatine shared the news with quiet concern, watching Anakin's face as he spoke.

"The Trade Federation claims it is a simple matter of commerce." he said one evening. "But the consequences are already being felt across the Core. Plasma is the lifeblood of so many worlds. And yet the Jedi... the guardians of peace... do nothing. They stand idle while a planet is strangled."

“Why can’t they help?” Anakin asked him.

“They claim they are not soldiers, merely keepers of the peace. I find it to be quite hypocritical that while my home world suffers, they have the power to enforce peace.” Palpatine replied.

The blockade stretched on. Months later came word of invasion—droid armies landing, occupation beginning. Palpatine brought the updates with measured sorrow, always careful to sow frustration and distrust of the Jedi into Anakin's mind.