1. Liar

2. Invisible Wounds

3. No Escape

4. "Why Did You Leave?”

5. Crisis

6. Abandoned

7. Sleepless Nights

8. Mind Games

9. Devastation

10. Sacrifice

11. Self-Sabotage

12. Confessions

13. Recovery

14. Cruelty

15. Lost In My Mind

16. "You Have To Let Me Go”

17. Running Away

18. Exhausted

19. Breaking Down

20. "I Can’t Go Back”

21. “You’re On Your Own, Kid”

22. Shadow Of Former Self

23. Failure

24. "I Was Wrong About You”

25. Nothing Lasts Forever

26. Storm

27. Heated Argument

28. Loss

29. Cast Away

30. Lost Hope

ALTERNATIVE PROMPTS

1. Til Death Do Us Part

2. “I Can’t”

3. Inner Demons

4. No Good Dead Goes Unpunished

5. Serious Injury

6. Trust Issues

7. Loss of Control

8. Trauma

9. Memories Feel Like Weapons

10. Mistake

FAQs

“Do I have to create for all thirty days?”

- Not at all! Feel free to jump in whenever you’d like. This is a creation event, so create as much or as little as you want! However, if you want to be entered in the shout out post, you must participate in all 30 days.

“Can I post a creation after the day has already passed?”

- Yes! You’re welcome to post for a prompt day even after the date, just be sure to tag with which day and prompt you’ve created for! You will only be eligibile for the shoutout post if you complete all 30 days within the month of April.

“What if I don’t understand/like a prompt?”

"Hero?" Sidekick sounded half asleep.

"Sidekick! Are you… tell me you're okay."

"M'fine. Why? What's going on?"

"Check the perimeter. I think Villain's up to something."

"What? I mean, okay."

"I have to go. I'll be there soon."

"Hero?"

He hung up before she could finish her question. First he had to check on his parents. His brother. It felt unlikely, unreal even, that Villain would be able to find them, but he couldn't risk it.

It wasn't as if Villain wouldn't stoop that low. He'd taken hostages before, and had proven time and time again that he didn't make empty threats. If he'd hurt any of them…

But he hadn't. 

A thorough search of his parents' house, his brother's apartment, even the surrounding block, yielded nothing.

Nothing at home, nothing at his base.

So what was Villain planning? It was so unlike him to do anything without it being part of some grander scheme.

Maybe he'd just handed off the tech to a random gang and told them to go wild. Spread some fear. A promise of a chaos that would plague the city.

Or maybe it was all a mind game, a way to get back at Hero without ever having to touch him.

Dammit. If that was it, it was working. Even after assuring the safety of his family and friends, Hero couldn't sleep. He had to get to the bottom of this. Find Villain and imprison him for good. Prevent any further weapons dealing. Protect the city.

Hero got in contact with the police first thing the next morning. They'd managed to get an address from yesterday's delinquents, and it was as good a starting point as any.

Before taking off, Hero got one more look at the gear the group had been using. If nothing else, it would give him an idea of what he'd be up against in the weeks to come. Villain was an engineer. An innovator. His only power was his intellect, but that was enough to let him go toe-to-toe with the likes of Hero.

The police had locked everything up in a vault, but he had no trouble convincing them to grant him access. After all, this could finally lead to Villain's arrest. An end to a reign of terror.

There were five items locked away, one for each criminal. Two electrokinesis cuffs. One pair of vision-enhancing goggles. A pair of boots designed to increase speed. And a belt that equipped its user with near-invisibility. 

A collection of Villain's favorites. Hero could identify all of them on sight. None of them seemed new, but why would Villain bother making petty thieves custom stuff? He'd probably just tossed them his hand-me-downs.

Or more likely, he'd given one of them his hand-me-downs. The collection seemed more designed to outfit a single person, not equip a full team.

And wasn't this the exact setup Villain had used in their last encounter? An odd coincidence, but Hero tried to shake it off. Once Villain was safely behind bars, he'd ask about it directly. Right now it was time to investigate the address. Maybe by the time he returned, the police would have more information for him.

The address didn't lead to some secret base, or shady warehouse; just a one-story house on the edge of city limits.

It felt a little odd to knock on the door, knowing who this place was affiliated with, but Hero was willing to give it the benefit of the doubt. What if it was just one of the robber's mothers? A grandparent? He wasn't about to bash in the door and give some poor old lady a heart attack.

After a few tries with no answer, he forced the door open. A standard deadbolt was no match for superhuman strength, and if the homeowner did end up being an innocent bystander, a lock would cost him less than the whole door.

Inside… there was no one. All the lights in the house were off. The front room held nothing but a beat-up easy chair, and the rooms beyond didn't offer much more. No spare tech, no mysterious notes, not even an unlabeled phone number or address. Before Hero could call it quits, a shed in the backyard caught his eye.

Not much, but it was worth a look.

He tore away the padlock that held the shed closed, taking a chunk of wood with it. The door swung open, sunlight spilling in to illuminate the area. There was a tool chest against one wall, with a workbench directly across from it. A wooden chair sat beside it, speckled with something that looked suspiciously like dried blood.

Hero stepped inside cautiously, wanting a better look at the part of the shed where the sunlight didn't quite reach. A small scraping sound stopped him short, and he held his breath and listened.

Whatever the noise was, it was coming from the back corner. A box. No, a large dog crate.

Did the bastards from the robbery keep their dog locked up in here? Stale air and darkness, no protection from the elements… He muttered a curse under his breath, and the thing in the crate let out a quiet whimper that sounded almost human.

No way…

Hero reached the front of the crate, letting his eyes adjust as he peered through the metal bars, taking in a silhouette that was definitely not a dog.

He knelt, a little too quickly, and the figure inside flinched back, as far as the cramped space would allow. The scraping noise followed them, a sound Hero now recognized as chains.

"Dammit… don't panic. I'm going to let you out," Hero said in a low voice, crushing the locking mechanism with one hand and pulling away the front of the cage. What the hell had the bank robbers done? He knew they were reckless. Stupid and selfish enough to put people in harm's way in order to get what they wanted. He never would've guessed they'd be keeping a person in a dog cage? And who…

He clenched his jaw. No. He already knew the answer to that.

"I won't hurt you," he said. "Just come out, and I'll get you out of here, okay?"

He couldn't bring himself to think about it. Not right now.

The figure in the cage began to crawl forward on bruised, bony limbs. A short length of chain linked their ankles together, and a longer one hung from their neck, like some kind of leash. A muzzle glinted from somewhere beneath their dark, matted hair. Hero took a step back, giving them room.

He could leave now. Call the police. Call an ambulance. Leave and never confirm what he already knew to be true.

"Come into the light," he said instead. "Let me get a look at you."

The captive seemed to be in pain as they crawled to the other end of the shed, stopping just short of the door and staying there, head bowed.

Daylight reflected off of their chains and lit up the bruises scattered across their naked torso. A few sloppily-stitched gashes cut across their legs, and welts ran across their shoulders, but the worst of it was their hands.

Bloodied bandages wrapped around mangled fingers, most of which looked like they'd been broken or dislocated.

Hero knelt next to them. He could still go. He could still get away with pretending this was someone else, some innocent victim—

"Look at me," he said, trying to soften his voice.

He wasn't surprised when it was Villain's eyes that met his own, half-shrouded by dark strands of hair.

Villain, who'd once held a daycare hostage to get the City Council's attention. Villain, who'd murdered the mayor's wife to get her to take his threats seriously. Villain, who now looked up at him with tired, fearful eyes.

Whose body was a testament to the cruelty he'd lived through.

Who was chained and muzzled and broken.

Dammit, why couldn't it ever be easy?

"I'm going to take the muzzle off okay?"

Villain nodded, eyes downcast as Hero tore through the leather straps like they were pieces of paper.

Villain reached up, rubbing his jaw awkwardly with the back of his hand.

"Please…" came his voice, rusted with disuse. "Please, Hero, just arrest me. Please. I'm done. I c-can't—"

"You're okay. I won't… I won't hurt you," Hero said, the words coming out stilted and wooden. How was he supposed to comfort someone like Villain? He'd made his fair share of assurances. Accident survivors, rescued hostages, Villain's own victims. But they were always innocent, undeserving of whatever misfortune had befallen them. Villain on the other hand…

He took in his nemesis. Gaunt frame, hunched shoulders, unable to stand, barely able to crawl—

Did he deserve this much?

"Let me see your hands," Hero said quickly. He was no healer, but damage assessment was better than contemplating whether or not the man before him deserved his pity.

Villain shifted, holding both hands out, wrists bared. Like he was expecting to be cuffed, Hero realized.

"I'm not arresting you. I just want to see them," he clarified, reaching out to unwind the bandages, one-by-one. Both hands were spotted with deep puncture wounds, some of which looked infected. The marks were strange, and Hero was unable to guess at the cause until he removed the last bandage, revealing a small screw still embedded in Villain's palm.

"Dammit—!" he almost dropped Villain's hand.

The hand of an engineer. Someone who tinkers and builds, someone who uses their hands to create— The notion sickened him more than anything else he'd seen today.

"Why?" was all he could say. 

Villain didn't answer.

He couldn't sit here and dwell on this. Villain needed a healer, or at least a hospital. And then— and then, he'd need to be arrested. He'd pay for his crimes, but not like this.

But what if it happened again? Villain had plenty of enemies. Rivals and ex-henchmen who were in prison now, ready to take revenge. Guards and cops who'd been personally wronged who would look the other way. He'd have to take preventative measures against that.

"Alright," he sighed. "Let's go then." Hero knelt, taking Villain into his arms and cradling him to his chest as he took off. The beaten man curled in on himself as they flew.

"Please…" he said, barely above a whisper.

"No one will hurt you," Hero replied. "Villain, you're under arrest." After a moment, he added,

Anakin wouldn't speak to him. On the ship when they were returning from Naboo, he'd maintained his distance, and once Obi-Wan had gotten his commlink back, he'd sent Anakin messages frequently, only to receive nothing.

Obi-Wan knew that the deception had upset Anakin. He understood why — more than most, he understood.

But he had hoped that Anakin would also understand why he did it.

"You lied to us," Anakin had said, when Obi-Wan had approached him on the ship. "What else have you lied to me about? Do you even care about any of us?"

Obi-Wan had no response to that — how could he, when he knew that Anakin was right? He did lie to them, after all.

And now he was here, alone, because he did what he knew to be right. Anakin wouldn't speak to him, Ahsoka wouldn't speak to him, Cody wouldn't speak to him, the Council wouldn't speak to him.

He'd succeeded on his mission, and yet —

He'd failed them all.

Letting out a sigh, Obi-Wan placed his commlink back on the table next to the bed. He winced as his throat spasmed at the rush of air, and then he coughed, bending forward slightly to gasp for air.

That seemed to trigger a chain reaction of sorts. The more he gasped for air, the more it irritated his throat, causing him to gasp even more. And the air wasn't even traveling down his throat properly, which meant that —

He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't breathe.

The room seemed to tilt on its axis around him as he shuddered and gasped and placed his forehead on his knees. There was a ringing noise, muffled by the blood rushing in his ears, followed by the sound of footsteps. Voices surrounded him, but he couldn't make them out, not until —

"Obi-Wan?" A hand on his shoulder, pushing him back until he was lying back again, head arching backward in a desperate reach for air. He couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, couldn't —

"Okay, okay, just hold on." The voice was gentle, soothing. "Your throat has swollen up too much. You're not getting enough air."

There were hands holding him down, the hiss of a hypospray, followed by the feeling of everything getting floaty and blurry, until…

The Shadow King was lying on his back when Nisha entered the cell, chained limbs still spread wide to further restrict movement. His torso and thighs were littered with scourge marks from the previous night's session, half-healed by a mage to keep him from sinking too far into delirium. Weeks of meager food and near-immobilization had left his body visibly weakened, and one would be hard pressed to find even an inch of unbruised skin.

"Our time together is drawing to a close, you know," Nisha said, kneeling to remove the bit in Cerus's mouth. "In a matter of days, your fate will be decided. How does that make you feel?"

"I'll strike your men down the moment I step out of this cell. And I'll save you for last so you can watch them d—nghhh!"

Nisha dug a finger into one of the gashes over his ribcage, turning his threat into a strangled scream.

"And why haven't you struck down any of my men yet, hm? Biding your time?"

"If I weren't in chains you wouldn't dare be so bold," Cerus snapped.

Suddenly, Nisha had an idea. "Then perhaps I'll remove them and prove you wrong," they said.

"You are a fool."

"Perhaps." They stood, moving to the gauntlets that rendered Cerus's hands immobile, and began to unlatch them. The Shadow King flexed weak fingers as Nisha removed each metal glove, seemingly at a loss for words.

"You're mad," he said at last. "What are you hoping to achieve?"

"I only wish to see if you're capable of following through with your promises."

"Unchain me and see."

"Not yet."

Nisha made a point to take off the blindfold before moving to the wall of implements and selecting a heavy cudgel. They decided to leave the bit out. They wanted to see if Cerus was capable of begging after all.

The fallen king's face went ashen when he saw the weapon in Nisha's hands, and they relished the barely-concealed fear in his eyes.

"What are you doing?" Cerus said. It sounded more like a threat than a question, but Nisha didn't care, encroaching slowly, silently on their target.

"What are you doing?" Cerus demanded again, louder, more desperate.

"If I'm going to remove your chains, I need to ensure you can't run away," Nisha said plainly, stopping at Cerus's feet, raising the cudgel over a pale, bruised shin, and bringing it down just above the ankle.

The crunch wasn't unlike a sound they'd heard in battle, the scream that followed much the same. The only difference was how both sounds cut through the quiet in the cell, undiluted.

Once Cerus's screams died out, Nisha moved to the other leg, waiting for the look of horror to cross the chained man's face, the realization that it was going to happen again, before bringing the cudgel down a second time.

The resulting scream was just as rewarding as the first had been, something gutteral, animalistic. More than Nisha had been able to drag out of him so far. As before, they waited for the screams to soften before moving on. This time, to Cerus's exposed right hand.

Enclosed as his hands had been, they were unmarred, looking out of place compared to the rest of his body. Nisha would remedy that.

Cerus's eyes were wild with pain and fear, body shaking and straining against the chains, as if he were capable of doing anything to save himself. Nisha tapped the hand gently, as if marking their target, then raised the cudgel high in the air—

"D-don't— stop, stop, or you'll regret this night—" Cerus gasped out. Still making threats. What a pity.

Nisha brought their weapon crashing down onto the hand, and then, when the first strike didn't quite satisfy, hit it again, drawing another inhuman shriek from Cerus. And as Nisha moved to stand next to their final target—

"No, please, please stop, please!" The words came out as sobs, barely intelligible, but they left Nisha grinning broadly. A victory at last.

They raised the cudgel—

"Please! Please!"

—and brought it down, twice in quick succession. 

They drank in Cerus's ragged whimpers as they hung the cudgel back in its place, then moved to unlock the manacles that bound him.

His chest heaved as they moved from shackle to shackle, unclasping each in turn.

"What— why?" He barely got the words out.

"You're unchained," Nisha said. "Strike me down."

Cerus didn't respond, shaking arms folding in to cradle shattered hands to his chest, legs curling as he rolled onto his side with a great effort, eyes glazed over with pain.

"Strike me down," Nisha repeated, not taking his silence as an answer. They delivered a hard kick to Cerus's torso, then another. A scream tore itself from the man's throat as their foot connected with his wrist.

"Will you?" They continued their assault, heedless of Cerus's choked cries. "Will you?"

When at last they stopped, they were panting heavily, sweat trickling down the back of their neck. Nisha swallowed.

"I thought not." They ran a hand through their hair, tucking wayward strands back. "Count yourself lucky that the priests are expecting answers, or I would've cut out your tongue too."

They left without reattaching his chains; a small mercy. 

He'd be back in them soon enough.

§•§•§

Only a moment later, the soft moonlight was eclipsed by the silhouettes of two ravens coming to rest on the windowsill, and he knew somewhere deep within him that his oath had been sealed.

The next morning, he rose earlier than usual and ate his breakfast as quickly as he could manage to hold it down. The sun still hadn’t even begun to show itself in the young day’s sky when he slipped past the guards at the sanatorium, giving each of them a look which told them not to stand in his way if they valued their lives. They had no way of knowing that, in truth, he wasn’t sure if he would have the courage to make good on that threat; they only saw the determination in his eyes and stepped aside. 

As he pushed through hall after hall, he wasted no time looking at anything other than the faces in each cell, searching for blue eyes and red hair. Any strange looks that may have been aimed his way were lost in the blur of stone and bars and wrong faces. 

When he finally turned a corner and saw a short-cropped burst of orange in the nearest cell, he was just in time to stop the guard who was preparing to enter with whatever sad excuse for a breakfast they had prepared for the day. He caught the guard by the arm, stooping down to look her in the eye, and pressed a few coins into her hand.

All he said was, “Let me.”

She stared at him for a long few seconds, head tilted to one side, before shrugging.

“If you insist.”

Handing him the tray of oatmeal and water, she unlocked the door of Bren’s cell and started off toward the next one down, leaving Eadwulf there alone. He slipped through the door, closed it behind him, and crouched down next to Bren, truly taking in his current state for the first time. 

Perhaps the most noticeable thing should have been how beat up he was – the dark bruises, the blood that no one had bothered to wash from his skin. But instead, all Eadwulf could see was how empty he looked. There was always such a fire behind his eyes, a kind of passion and life there, like his mind was working so feverishly to puzzle the world together that you could watch it happening from the outside, and now? That fire had been all but doused. His eyes were glazed over, wandering helplessly around the space, looking through it all and not truly seeing any of it. There was a slight strain on his face, a clench to his brow that Eadwulf knew his resting face didn’t possess, which betrayed some process of thought, no doubt an unpleasant one. It was distant, though, and passive, as though the thoughts had taken on a life of their own within his mind and he, in this clouded state, was helpless to resist or engage them at all. When his gaze finally fell on Eadwulf, there was a soft spark of recognition that sent Eadwulf’s heart into his throat.

Eadwulf returned every morning after that, and again every night, so long as he wasn’t off on a mission or locked away for the sake of some punishment. Each morning, he fed Bren whatever breakfast the guards had prepared, careful to make it a far more gentle process than the other meals likely involved. As Bren’s hair grew longer with time, Eadwulf took to brushing it, and trimming it when the ends began to fray. A few times, he considered cutting it short again; surely, it would be more comfortable for Bren to have less of it. But there was no ignoring how his eyes fluttered closed at the feeling of it being brushed, or how he hummed in a way that almost seemed to approach contentment — better to keep it long, Eadwulf always ultimately decided. 

At night, Eadwulf would clean him — easy enough to do with a simple spell, but most nights Eadwulf wiped his face and hands the mundane way first, probably more for his own sake than for Bren’s — and tended to whatever wounds may have been sustained since the last visit. Then, he would take out whatever books he had been able to find that day, sit by Bren’s side, and read. Bren’s favorite of the books, judging by the way his eyes brightened ever so slightly at the sight of its cover, was an old children's story about a young boy and a cat prince, so they always started and finished with that one. In between, they cycled through as many of the other books as Eadwulf thought they safely had time for, and by the time he closed the fairytale for the final time, Bren was almost always slumped against his side, asleep. 

Eventually, once the rifts between them had been repaired, Astrid joined him for some of his visits, though she was quickly given more responsibilities than him and often found it more difficult to get away. On those days, Astrid would braid Bren’s hair once he had brushed it in the mornings, and alternated reading with him at night.

And after every nighttime visit, he would sit in his bed and write a few lines in a journal: how the day’s visits had gone, what had gone on in the outside world that day or over the past few days, what he and Astrid were doing in their own lives. Someday, he told himself, Bren would have his mind back. Someday, he would hand over the journal, a meticulous record of the days Bren was locked away. Someday, Bren would be able to read it, and it would be as if he hadn’t missed a thing at all.

In all that time spent in Bren’s cell, Eadwulf never feared being discovered by Master Ikithon — not out of carelessness or apathy toward the consequences he would inevitably incur, but because he knew it was foolish to assume he hadn’t already been discovered at the very start. The archmage’s gaze took immense care to avoid, and nowhere was it more omnipresent than in the halls of the sanatorium. The chances that he had gone unnoticed were laughably slim — it was better to assume Master Ikithon was well aware, that a confrontation would come soon enough.

And come it did.

One morning, nearly two years into his visits, Eadwulf arrived at Bren’s cell to see his teacher standing there, calmly watching him approach. Inside the cell, he could see Bren’s eyes wide and his face held more tensely than usual. He was shifting slightly where he sat, as though his own body were the walls of a prison preventing him from running away.

All at once, Eadwulf was overcome with the urge to run forward, to lunge at Ikithon, to scream, because how dare he come here and strike that kind of fear into someone so helpless, hasn’t Bren been through enough? But he pushed the urge down and kept calm as he walked in spite of it. It was him that the archmage was angry with, it was him who would face the consequences of his actions; Bren had no reason to be afraid.

As it turned out, neither did he. Master Ikithon wasn’t angry, not at Eadwulf nor Bren; he never said or even suggested that Eadwulf would be punished, and the calm smile never fell from his face. He seemed entirely unfazed — pleased, even — by Eadwulf’s actions. 

“You are welcome to visit our dear Bren whenever you wish, Eadwulf,” he said in a tone that could almost be mistaken for good-natured, “as is Miss Becke. In fact, I think it’s wonderful that you three have grown to care so much for each other, even after all this time. By all means, do continue to come visit him if it pleases you.” Moving closer, he added in a lower tone, “I would only urge you to remember that it is for you, yes? As much as it pains me to say this, Bren is — how shall I put this? — absent, by all accounts. You are a smart boy, I have no doubt you’ve noticed. Each time you leave this place, it is to him as if you were never here at all; he won’t remember. The sharp young man we knew is, I’m afraid, no longer with us.”

And every night since then, as silence fell over the sanatorium’s halls, Eadwulf would look down at Bren, tucked against his side the same way they had once grown used to laying in their beds, and ask himself: how could that possibly be true?

How, when he still squirmed at the mere sight of his old teacher standing nearby, when his eyes still sparked at the sight of his favorite fairytale’s cover, when he still remembered how to fall asleep next to Eadwulf like it was as simple as breathing, could Bren be gone? How could it be possible that such a sharp mind, so full of passion and of life, simply slipped away? Even if he remembered none of it, even if each day felt to him like the first time, Bren seemed in his own way to welcome their company far more than any other’s, to relax in some small way at their presence; did that not count for something?

This is different, he repeated to himself when he laid back on the medical table. There will be no theatrical falls or fake funerals. Anakin probably… hopefully… never find out this ever happened.

The large needles that pressed into his head stung far worse than the last time. Obi-Wan’s eyes screwed shut as the facial transformation program initiated.

You’re still lying to him, though.

As far as his former padawan knew, Obi-Wan was deployed in the Outer Rim. He even sent a message that his comms would be limited due to interference from the planet’s atmosphere. That technically was the case with his flagship and the men aboard.

Technically.

There were lots of technicalities these days. Obi-Wan was getting rather tired of them.

Droid casualties were technically not loss of lives.

Jedi were technically trained for battle situations.

Obi-Wan was technically not breaking his promise to Anakin that he wouldn’t lie to him again.

Yet, here he is. One room over from where he was born again as Rako Hardeen the last time he was asked to perform a mission that was technically for the good of the galaxy. Obi-Wan had to be the one to undergo the procedure because he was technically the only one who could play the part accurately.

The machines finally stopped whirring and the pressure subsided. Obi-Wan remained lying back with his eyes shut until the throbbing of his head started to reduce.

What-ifs were already flooding his head. What if…

…the chancellor figures it out?

…the 501st is deployed with the 212th?

…I truly am killed on this mission?

…Anakin finds out?

Obi-Wan swallowed hard, finally inching his eyes open to adjust to the fluorescent overhead lamps. A medical droid hummed with satisfaction and then handed him a mirror.

“Facial transformation is complete. I will be right back with the voice modulator, Master Kenobi,” the droid said and buzzed away.

Obi-Wan held the mirror's reflective side down for a long moment. His stomach turned just thinking about the face he would see staring back at him. Every ounce of the Jedi wanted to call the council and tell him he couldn’t do this. As much as he tried to convince himself the reward was greater than the risk, Obi-Wan wasn’t sure anything was worth the pain it would bring to Anakin and the irreparable damage it would do to their already-strained bond.

I’ve allowed this to go too far. Even if Obi-Wan wanted to stop things, he knew too many pieces were in motion. Now, it truly was more dangerous for him to bail than to go through with the mission.

Chancellor Palpatine had been raising too many red flags with the Jedi Council. They needed more intel on his movements, but there were very few close enough to the ruler that would be willing to report on his private matters. The council suggested asking Anakin, but Obi-Wan quickly shut down their request. Anakin was fiercely loyal to those he cared about— the Chancellor was one of those lucky people.

Obi-Wan slowly turned the mirror around. The clean-shaven face that gradually came into view was horrifically familiar in a way that felt like a saber to the gut. Obi-Wan’s fingers quivered as they traced down the vertical scar that nearly took his right eye.

Forgive me, padawan.

Anakin himself would never betray the Chancellor.