#krennic

He lifted his head. For a moment, the sharp, defensive edges of his persona were gone. His expression softened when he saw you, looking almost embarrassed to be caught in such a state.

"What are you doing awake?" he asked.

"I am always a late sleeper," you reminded him, stepping into the dim light. You looked at the bottle, then back at him. "You usually work when you can't sleep. Not like this."

His jaw tightened. He straightened his back by instinct, regaining his posture until he stood like a Director addressing a formal briefing even in his own home. He asked what you wanted, but you could see the tension in his shoulders.

"What is it?" you asked.

He hesitated, and that silence told you everything you needed to know. "I have too many questions in my head right now," he admitted. The words were quiet and measured, stripped of emotion. That made them feel much worse.

"If I were still in the ISB, I could help you find the answers," you suggested gently.

A soft, tired scoff escaped him. It wasn't mocking. "That is precisely why you are not," he said. It was the first real crack in his armor. It wasn't anger you saw in his eyes, but fear.

He stepped toward you slowly, as if he were unsure if he was allowed to cross the distance. When he finally wrapped his arms around you, the gesture wasn't possessive. It was grounding. He held you tighter than usual, his face lowered near your hair, breathing you in as if he needed proof that something in your life remained untouched by the Palace. You had forgotten how solid he felt, and how much you had missed the deliberate weight of him.

"I would rather confine you here," he murmured against your temple, "than see you in a detention block."

"I could go insane staying in this apartment all day," you whispered.

He withdrew just enough to look at you. His eyes were clearer now, his focus returning as something calculated began to move behind his gaze. He asked you how you would feel about joining the Coruscant Elite circle.

"Me?" you asked, blinking in surprise.

"There are conversations there that never reach official channels," he said slowly. "Not even the ISB hears them."

You tilted your head, reading the intent in his expression. "You want me to spy."

A faint smirk touched his mouth, though it failed to reach his eyes. "I prefer the term personal informant," he corrected. He began to pace, his hands clasped behind his back as his composure rebuilt itself layer by layer. "Rumors circulate among the citizens first. Among the spouses. Among the socialites. This time, you would hear them directly, not through filtered reports."

You hesitated, looking away. "I am a little scared of them. I have heard Mia complain about that group. They are predatory. Sweet on the surface, but poison underneath."

Something sharp flickered across his face. "Do you believe they would dare to try anything," he asked evenly, "when they learn whose wife you are?"

There it was. The pride. The edge. The Director had returned. You studied him carefully, knowing that power had always been his armor, but tonight it felt like something he was clinging to for survival.

"Do you think they will find me as cocky as you?" you asked.

That finally drew a genuine scoff from him. "Perhaps. You are the only woman who tolerates me, after all."

"It is true," you replied. "I am one of a kind."

His smirk held a little longer this time. "Good. Then use that."

As the silence settled between you again, your gaze dropped to the broken glass on the floor. The levity vanished. "This is about Cyras," you said.

He did not answer immediately. His eyes shifted away, just once, toward the darkened hallway leading to your son's room.

"The Emperor’s physician does not conduct routine examinations," he said quietly. "Not without a specific purpose."

The room felt suddenly smaller, the air turning cold. "Do you think he is planning something?" you started to ask.

"I’ll find out," Krennic cut in softly. 

Beneath the control and the polished precision, you saw the truth. For the first time in his career, Orson Krennic was not questioning a rival or a subordinate. He was questioning the Emperor. And you knew then that the world you lived in was about to burn.

********

The sun simulation in the skyline began to glow, but you were already awake.

For the first time in weeks, you didn't feel like a prisoner in your own apartment. There was a spark under your skin—something electric and focused. You had a role to play again. If Orson was going to move pieces in the dark, you weren't going to just sit and watch.

You dressed with care.

The gown Krennic had left for you hung in a protective bag, looking more like military gear than a dress. When you unzipped it, the fabric felt heavy and expensive. It had sharp shoulders and a clean, powerful shape. It wasn't the grey of the ISB, but it still looked like authority.

You stepped into it slowly. In the mirror, you didn't look like a retired officer or a bored wife. You looked like a strategist.

"Mama."

You turned. Cyras stood in the doorway, his hair messy from sleep, holding onto the doorframe. The sound of his voice calmed you instantly. You knelt down, smoothing his hair and kissing his warm cheek.

"Good morning, my little director," you whispered.

He giggled.

When you stood up, Krennic was there. He was already in his crisp white uniform, his collar perfect. The contrast was sharp: the cold, professional man and the soft child held against his chest.

You turned around once so he could see the dress. "How do I look?"

His eyes moved over you slowly. He wasn't just looking at his wife; he was evaluating a soldier. "Amazing. You are not wearing a uniform anymore," he said quietly. "So you must wear something better."

You understood. This wasn't fashion. It was armor.

Krennic had spent years at parties and political dinners. He knew how people fought in those rooms. He had seen smiles that were more dangerous than blasters. He had watched empires rise and fall over a glass of champagne. He was not going to let you walk into that trap unprepared.

He had hired the best tailor on Coruscant for this. Every seam was perfect. The dress demanded respect without having to say a word. It was exactly like the other gowns he had bought you over the years.

"You put more thought into my clothes than your own," you said with a light smile.

"They are always kind to your face," he replied, fixing a small clasp on your shoulder. His voice got lower. "But behind your back, they speak with thorns."

You looked him in the eye. "Then I’ll just have to think faster than they talk."

A tiny smirk appeared on his face. "That’s my girl."

You reached out and kissed Cyras’s forehead one last time before he snuggled back into his father’s arms. For a second, Krennic’s face changed. The "Director" mask was gone, replaced by something much softer.

"Good luck, my love," he said.

******

The corridor outside the ballroom glowed with a soft, golden light. Behind the tall doors, the party sounded like a dream—strings playing a slow, elegant song.

Mia stood beside you, practically shaking with excitement. She leaned in close, her grin huge. “I’ve been waiting for this,” she whispered. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to bring you here.”

You adjusted your cuff, looking at the polished wood of the door. “I feel like I’m walking onto a battlefield I didn't train for.”

Mia laughed quietly. “Oh, you’ll be fine. These people are worse than any officer, but at least they smile while they stab you in the back.”

The doors opened.

You straightened your back instantly. Shoulders back. Chin up. The military uniform was gone, replaced by silk, but your discipline remained.

“Don’t be nervous,” Mia whispered. “Just remember—you are the wife of Director Krennic.”

Those words felt like power. You weren't using them as a shield; you were using them as a weapon.

The room was beautiful—huge crystal lights, marble floors, and the rich people of Coruscant moving in slow circles. Everyone talked in low, careful voices. Their laughter sounded practiced.

Mia led you forward and stopped at a small group. “Everyone,” she said brightly, “I want you to meet someone. This is Lady Krennic.”

The reaction was instant. You saw their eyes widen just a tiny bit. They stood up straighter. Their interest sharpened like a knife.

“Lady Krennic,” one woman said with a polite smile. “A pleasure.”

“We’ve been wondering when we’d finally meet you,” another added.

“Director Krennic kept his private life very... private,” a third said, looking amused. “He was a bachelor for so many years.”

You smiled back, calm and steady. “I imagine he preferred it that way.”

They laughed softly. They liked that answer. Then the testing began. They asked questions that weren't really questions—they were probes.

“How do you like Coruscant?”

“Has the Director adjusted well to being a family man?”

You gave them just enough information, but never too much. Then, someone dropped a heavy question.

“Do you think Director Krennic is being picked as the Emperor’s successor?”

You paused. “I’m sorry?”

A woman tilted her head, looking fake-sympathetic. “Oh—you haven't heard the rumor? People are talking. With the old advisors gone and the Director being so close to the Emperor... people are guessing.”

You took a quiet breath. You didn't say yes, and you didn't say no. You let them imagine the answer themselves.

Suddenly, the mood in the room shifted. Everyone looked toward the door.

“Lady Tarkin,” someone whispered.

You turned. She walked in without any flashy show, but the room moved out of her way anyway. She was calm and serious. She reminded you of her husband—a man who made people afraid without ever having to raise his voice.

Her eyes found yours quickly. “Lady Krennic,” she said, stopping in front of you.

You bowed your head slightly. “Lady Tarkin.”

“I’d like a word.”

She didn't wait for you to agree. She just turned and walked away, knowing you would follow. You did. She led you to the edge of the balcony. Below, the lights of Coruscant stretched out forever—a city that never slept and never felt sorry for anyone.

“Your husband has become very famous lately,” she said. Her voice was flat. “That makes people talk.”

“It seems so.”

She looked at you, studying your face. “The Emperor does not want to pick a successor. He wants to live forever. He wants control that never ends.” She paused. “He has no interest in passing down power.”

The words felt cold. You hesitated, then spoke quietly and honestly. “I thought you might... hate me.”

She gave a small, sharp laugh. “Because Wilhuff and your husband were rivals?” She shook her head. “That was just work. Men think those fights are personal. They usually aren't.”

She looked out at the city. “If I am angry,” she continued, “it is at the man who made my husband a scapegoat when it was convenient.”

You watched her closely. You saw the quiet anger she had turned into a tool.

“What we are doing here,” you said, your voice so low only she could hear, “is removing the problem. The Emperor.”

She didn't flinch. “The officers just follow orders,” she replied. “They are not the source of the rot.”

You held out your hand. “Lady Tarkin,” you said, meeting her eyes. “I think we could be very useful to each other.”

She looked at your hand for a moment, weighing the risk. Then she took it. Her grip was firm.

“This Empire,” she said, “has always underestimated the women who understand how it works.” She paused, then added lightly, “I prefer talking like this in a crowded room. People get too brave when they think they are in private.”

You smiled a little. “I won't argue with that.”

“Good.”

The alliance was made. Not with a contract, but with an understanding. The "Socialite Web" was finally ready to catch its prey.

The music swelled again, turning soft and sweet—the kind of melody that tried to make a conspiracy feel like a romance. You walked back to Mia after your talk with Lady Tarkin. The older woman had already slipped away into the crowd.

Mia tilted her head, her eyes sharp even with a champagne glass in her hand. “So…” she whispered. “What did you and Lady Tarkin talk about?”

You kept your eyes forward, watching the crystal lights sparkle against the marble floor. “Just some stuff.”

Mia let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “Some stuff?” She leaned in closer. “That is the first time she has come to a party like this since her husband died. She hates these social circuses. I think she only showed up tonight because of you.”

The words felt heavy. Because of you.

You didn’t answer. You just watched the crowd move like a living thing. Officers. Wives. Ambitious sons. Every smile was practiced. Every whisper was a move in a game. From the outside, the Empire looked like it could never break.

But you knew better.

“Mia.”

Your tone made her straighten up instantly. “Yes?”

You swallowed hard. For the first time all night, your expensive silk dress felt like thin, weak armor.

“If something happens to me. And to Orson…” The words stuck in your throat. You refused to imagine him falling, or worse, being erased from history. “Can I trust Cyras to you?”

Mia froze.

“What the—?” Her voice almost cracked.

You gently touched her wrist to calm her. “Quiet. You are the only person I can trust. You love my son, too.”

Her face changed. The shock turned into something raw and protective. She looked angry and afraid all at once.

“Of course I do,” she said firmly. “I am his aunt.”

You gave her a small, sad smile. “That is why I am putting my faith in you.”

The music kept playing. Someone laughed behind you. A senator’s wife clinked her glass. Life went on as if nothing was wrong.

“I…” Mia’s voice dropped to a tiny whisper. “I can’t ask what you are planning, can I?”

You shook your head once. No.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself like a soldier taking an order she didn't want to hear. “I understand,” she said quietly. “You can count on me.”

********

That night, the apartment was finally quiet. The loud noise of the party faded into the hum of Coruscant traffic. Orson took off his gloves first. He always did that—like he was peeling off a mask.

“How was your afternoon?” he asked.

You kicked off your heels and let them drop by the sofa. “It felt like a jungle.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Talking to those people is more tiring than planning a war, isn't it?”

“It was.” You touched the bracelet on your wrist and added quietly, “I met Lady Tarkin.”

He froze.

It wasn't a small movement. He stopped completely. The relaxed mood vanished. His shoulders went stiff, and he lifted his chin like he was back in a military meeting. “You what?”

“She came to me.”

Shock flashed across his face before he hid it. His jaw tightened. It wasn't fear; it was calculation. The Tarkins were never just "friendly."

“And?” His voice got sharp. “What does she want?”

“She offered to help us.”

He let out a short, angry laugh and paced across the room. “And then what? She’ll take all the credit just like her husband always did?”

The old anger came out before he could stop it.

“Even if she tries,” you said calmly, “she can’t. She doesn’t have the power her husband had.”

“That’s…” He stopped mid-sentence. You were right, and he hated how much sense it made.

Silence filled the room for a moment.

“I have to go to Scarif,” you said.

That got his full attention. “Why so sudden?”

“Lady Tarkin mentioned something. Her husband always wanted to tear down that tower there. She hinted that it was… a problem for the Emperor.”

He watched you carefully. “The Citadel tower.”

You nodded.

He breathed out slowly. “There are things kept there,” he whispered. “Records. Secrets. Leverage.”

You knew. He had used files from Scarif many times to trap politicians or force Admirals to obey him.

“Then that’s exactly why I need to see it,” you said.

He studied you, thinking about the danger. “If you go there officially, people will notice.”

“Can you give me clearance?”

He shook his head. “Not as yourself. If they find out you’re there with me—especially since you aren't ISB anymore—it will start a fire I can’t put out.”

“Then what?” you asked softly.

A slow, clever smile grew on his face. “Pretend to be my assistant.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“You’ll travel with my permission. Just a helper. No badges. No rank.” He stepped closer to you. “Invisible.”

“Undercover,” you whispered.

“Exciting, isn't it?” He smirked, that dangerous spark returning to his eyes.

*****

The next morning, Scarif rose from the sea like a blade made of sunlight and salt. The ocean glittered around the Imperial base. It looked peaceful, but it was hiding the Empire’s darkest secrets.

You stepped off the shuttle next to Krennic. You were wearing a crisp Imperial uniform that wasn't yours anymore. The fabric felt heavier than you remembered. Your cap shadowed your face, hiding who you used to be.

No one questioned you. They saw Krennic’s white cape first. They always did.

Officers went stiff. Technicians snapped to attention. Everyone looked down. On Scarif, everyone obeyed.

Inside the elevator, the doors closed with a quiet hiss. It was just the two of you reflected in the shiny walls. You watched the glowing floor numbers.

“If Imperial security is always this easy, Orson,” you whispered, “it’s no wonder the Rebels can hide so well.”

Krennic didn't look at you at first. His jaw tightened just a little. He fixed his gloves with slow, careful movements.

“Well,” he said, his voice smooth. “I’ll make some changes next time.”

He pressed a button for the high levels, then another for the lower ones. “You go here,” he said.

The elevator shifted. This was it.

“Good luck.” His hand found yours for a second. It was firm and steady—a silent promise.

The doors opened on his floor.

“Director Krennic,” an officer barked, standing straight.

“Don’t mind me,” Krennic replied coolly. He stepped out, his white cape flowing perfectly behind him. “Just doing an inspection.”

The doors shut, and you rose alone.

The database level was cold and quiet. Rows of glowing screens looked like a forest of light. These towers held secrets the whole galaxy would kill for.

You moved fast. You logged in using a fake ID. Your fingers were steady as you searched for the Emperor’s past and the truth about Darth Vader. You memorized the secret medical files and the travel patterns. You didn't take any files—you just kept them in your head. When you were done, you erased your search history. You left the system completely clean.

When you went back down to find Krennic, he was in a giant hangar. He was surrounded by engineers who looked like they hadn't slept in days. A half-built weapon towered behind him.

He stood in the center of the room like he owned it.

“This part is off by two degrees,” Krennic said sharply, pointing at a metal joint. “Under high pressure, it will break. Fix it.”

The lead engineer started to stutter an apology.

Krennic moved along the platform, seeing every tiny mistake. He didn't just want weapons; he wanted perfection. You watched him for a moment. This was him in his element—smart, ruthless, and in total command.

You stepped forward. “Director.”

He stopped talking and turned to you. “Are you done?”

His voice was softer now. The engineers noticed, and they looked confused for a second.

“Yes, sir,” you replied.

He looked at the officers one last time. “Great work, everyone. This is what the Emperor needs.”

The engineers looked relieved. “Thank you, Director!”

He walked away without looking back, and you followed him. Once you were back on the shuttle and the doors were locked, he sat down right next to you. His shoulder almost brushed yours.

“Find anything?” he asked quietly.

“A lot, Director,” you answered.

Krennic looked at you with a satisfied smile. “Good.”

********

The files were damning.

Accounts were drained through fake companies. Money was sent to "special projects" that never appeared on any official records. Governors were quietly paid off, and entire planets were starved just to keep them under control. It was filth—elegant, professional filth. In any other case, it would have been enough to ruin a man.

But this was the Emperor. He wasn't just a politician or a rival you could embarrass in a hearing. Dirt could hurt a senator, but it could not kill a myth.

You scrolled further, looking for a weakness. There was nothing about his health beyond perfect medical reports. There was nothing explaining the scary feeling that followed him, or the way rooms seemed to grow cold when he entered. There was no explanation for his power.

You leaned back slowly, the pieces moving in your mind. Then, the answer surfaced.

"The Nightsisters."

You whispered the words, but the air in the room changed instantly.

"No."

Krennic didn’t raise his voice, but the refusal was sharp. He sat in front of you with his arms crossed and his jaw tight. He hadn’t forgotten the visions they put in your head—the way they reached into your mind as if they owned it.

"They are the only ones I know," you said calmly, turning to face him. "They are the only ones who are anything like him. Or like Vader." Your gaze didn't shake. "And at least when I speak to them, they won't choke me for asking questions."

There was no joke in your voice.

Krennic’s expression hardened. He hated that you had to choose between different kinds of danger. He looked away first, pacing across the room. He hated magic. He hated anything he couldn't control or study. But he hated the Emperor’s secrets even more.

Finally, he stopped.

"Fine."

The word was heavy and reluctant.

"But if they try to hurt you," Krennic said, stepping toward you, his voice low and serious, "you tell me."

It wasn't a suggestion. It was a promise. You looked at him, seeing the edge beneath his calm face. It wasn't exactly fear; it was something more protective.

"Of course." *****

Thrawn’s shuttle waited in a quieter section of the hangar, removed from the usual traffic. He was already there when you arrived, standing just outside the ramp with his hands folded behind his back, posture as precise as ever.

“Welcome,” he said.

You slowed as you approached, studying him for a brief moment. “If you’re already here,” you said, “then they’ve seen it. The vision. That I would come.”

“Exactly.” His tone remained calm, almost academic. “They’re waiting for you.”

The journey was short, and silent.

When you stepped onto the deck, the air felt heavier—thick with something ancient. The Nightsisters stood in a loose circle, their voices rising and falling in low chants that didn’t quite sound like language. Green light flickered across the stone beneath their feet, faint but alive.

They didn’t turn when you entered.

“You wish to ask us about the Emperor,” one of them said.

“Yes.”

“You wish to know how to defeat him.”

“That’s right.” You stepped closer, steady. “I assume we share the same interest.”

The chanting stopped.

One by one, they turned to face you. Their movements were slow, deliberate, as if they had been expecting this moment for far longer than you had.

“We have been waiting,” one of them said.

You didn’t waste time. “What exactly is the Emperor’s power?”

“Emperor Palpatine draws upon something beyond flesh,” another answered. “An energy. It is called the Force.”

You held their gaze. “Like the Nightsisters.”

“Not exactly.”

There was a pause.

“What is it, then?”

A slight shift moved through them. Something colder.

“He follows a path,” one said. “A doctrine. The Sith.”

The word landed differently.

“They destroyed my people,” another added, her voice tightening, the faint green glow around her hands flickering.

You nodded once. “He gave the order. There’s a record of it. Not detailed—but enough.”

That was enough.

The reaction was immediate. Shoulders stiffened. Eyes sharpened. The air itself seemed to pull tighter, as if the name alone carried weight.

“The Sith do not conquer openly,” one of them said. “They move in shadow. They erase.”

“They were believed extinct,” Thrawn added from behind you, his tone even. “That assumption was… incorrect. They endured. Quietly.”

You glanced back at him. “You knew.”

He gave a small, almost indifferent shrug. “The Emperor’s abilities—and Lord Vader’s—were… unusual. It warranted attention. No matter how well something is concealed, there are always fragments left behind.”

He stepped closer, voice lowering slightly, more deliberate now.

“The Sith follow what is known as the Rule of Two,” he continued. “There are never more than two at a time. A master and an apprentice. The master holds power. The apprentice seeks it.”

You considered that. “Palpatine is the master. Vader is the apprentice.”

“Yes.”

“Then who could possibly stand against them?”

A brief silence.

“A Jedi,” one of the Nightsisters said.

You exhaled lightly. “They’re extinct.”

“Not entirely.”

You turned back to Thrawn.

“Luke Skywalker.”

You frowned slightly. “The boy from Tatooine?”

“The same.”

You thought of the reports. The pilot. The anomaly. The one Vader had taken an interest in.

“He could be useful,” you said slowly.

Thrawn’s gaze remained steady. “More than that. If Skywalker can reach Vader… then the structure the Sith rely on begins to fracture.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “You think he could turn him.”

“I think,” Thrawn said, calm as ever, “that Lord Vader is not as fixed in his position as the Emperor would prefer.”

******

The pilot academy was all symmetry and noise—rows of TIE simulators aligned like teeth, instructors barking precision into boys who wanted to be legends. You wore your uniform like a second skin, cap low, insignia gleaming. Krennic had not come; this was not his kind of recruitment. He dealt in durasteel and kyber; you dealt in the intangible.

Authority opened doors; confidence kept them open. You moved through the halls, asking the right questions without asking too much.

“Skywalker?” A cadet rolled his eyes, leaning against a locker. “He’s… odd. Doesn't fit the mold.”

“Keeps to himself,” another added, shrugging with a hint of disdain. “A loner. Thinks he’s better than the rest of us.”

You let the silence hang, then tilted your head with a practiced, idle curiosity. “And Lord Vader’s evaluations? Does he share your... assessment?”

A flicker passed through them—quick, unguarded. Envy hummed under their skin.

“He watches him,” one admitted, his voice tight. “More than the rest of us. For no reason. Skywalker isn’t better; he’s just… lucky.”

Jealousy is never quiet. You thanked them and moved on, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place.

Beyond the hangars, the grounds opened into weathered stone outcrops that the Empire had chosen to surround rather than destroy. The wind moved through the dry grass with a patient, whistling sound. There he was.

Luke Skywalker sat atop a broad slab of rock, back straight, eyes closed. He looked small against the vastness of the academy, but the air around him felt heavy, pressurized.

Pebbles lifted first. A slow, defying ascent. Then larger stones rose, circling him in a quiet, impossible orbit. He did not strain. He did not gesture. It was a subtle, precise answer to a call you could not hear.

You didn't see a boy. You saw a mechanism.

The snap of a dry twig under your boot was a gunshot in the silence. Luke’s eyes snapped open.

Gravity reclaimed its prize.

The stones struck the ground in uneven beats, dust rising in pale clouds. He turned sharply, his blue gaze locking onto yours—shocked, vulnerable, and terrifyingly powerful. Neither of you moved.

There was something raw in his face—youth not yet hardened, discipline not yet settled. He looked like a man caught trespassing in his own potential.

You let the silence work, your mind already filing him away. He wasn't a student; he was a detonator. If Vader was the Emperor's "Hand," this boy was the "Blade" meant to sever it.

You smiled. It wasn't warm; it was the sharp, predatory satisfaction of a scientist who had finally found the missing element.

He did not speak. He only stared, sensing the weight of your gaze.

Power like this does not announce itself, you thought, your fingers twitching toward the encrypted comms in your pocket. It waits. And I am the one who will decide when it strikes.

You had found the key to the Palace. You had found the end of Palpatine.

******

You returned late.

Coruscant’s skyline stretched beneath the viewport as your shuttle descended, the city still alive, still restless. By the time you stepped inside the apartment, the lights were dimmed—quiet, controlled. The kind of silence that meant he was waiting.

Krennic stood near the window, still in uniform, the white of it catching what little light remained. He didn’t turn immediately, but you could tell he had heard you the moment the door opened.

A pause.

Then, without looking at you—

“Did you find him?”

You slipped off your gloves slowly, setting them aside as you walked further into the room. There was something different in your steps now. Not urgency. Not doubt.

Certainty.

He turned then, just enough to see your face.

You met his gaze.

And smiled.

“I think,” you said, voice steady, “we found a way to win.”

Krennic nodded. This meant that, this time, it was his turn to find out the truth.

********

The apartment door slid open with a soft hiss. The doctor stepped inside, already reaching to loosen his collar. He stopped. The lights were dimmed to a low, sickly amber, and the air felt heavy, like the atmosphere before a massive storm.

He didn't see the shadows move. He only felt them.

Cold, armored hands seized him from the dark. Death Troopers. They didn't just grab him; they handled him like a piece of meat, dragging him into the center of the room. His boots scraped uselessly against the floor until they slammed him into a chair.

The light shifted.

Across from him sat Krennic. He was leaning back, legs crossed, his white cape draped perfectly over the chair. He didn't look angry. He looked like a man watching an insect under a glass. There was a terrifying, quiet stillness to him—the kind of calm a predator has right before it bites.

"Director... I don't understand—" the doctor stammered, his voice thin.

Krennic didn't move. He just stared. The silence went on for five seconds, then ten. It became a physical weight in the room. Krennic’s eyes were cold, flat, and hungry for the truth.

"Why did you touch my son?"

The question was a whisper, but it sounded like a death sentence.

"I was assigned—"

"Who sent you?" Krennic cut him off. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. The power in the room was all his. He leaned forward just an inch, his face entering the light. "Why did you do it?"

The doctor swallowed hard. His throat felt like it was full of sand. He looked at the Death Troopers, then back at the man in the white suit. He realized then that he wasn't talking to an officer. He was talking to a father who had decided to become a monster.

"The results," the doctor whispered. "The DNA... it’s compatible."

Krennic’s expression didn't change, but his eyes turned into chips of ice. "Who."

The doctor began to shake. The terror in the room was so thick he could taste it. "Your son," he gasped. "And the Emperor."

The world seemed to stop. Krennic didn't explode. He didn't scream. He just sat there, perfectly still, letting the horror of the words settle. Then, he took a slow, deep breath.

"Explain."

The doctor’s words spilled out in a panicked rush. "It’s a contingency! The Emperor is unstable. He needs a vessel—a body to hold his essence. Someone young. Someone strong. Your son's genetic structure is... it's the only one that works. It's ideal."

The doctor was pleading now, his eyes wide. "I only followed orders! I had no choice. Please!"

Krennic stood up. He moved with a terrifying, slow grace. He adjusted the cuff of his glove, his movements precise and elegant. He walked over to the doctor, standing so close the man could hear the faint rustle of the white cape.

Krennic looked down at him. There was no mercy in his face. There was only the cold, dark realization that the Empire he served wanted to eat his child.

"Thank you for the information," Krennic said softly.

The doctor felt a flash of relief, thinking he was safe. He started to thank him, but the words never left his throat.. 

Krennic moved. It was clean. It was professional. It was the act of a man who no longer cared about rules, ranks, or souls.

The doctor slumped forward. Silence returned to the apartment.

Krennic stood over the body for a moment, his breathing perfectly steady. He didn't look disgusted. He didn't look sad. He looked like a man who had finally found his true purpose. He turned his head slightly toward the Death Troopers.

"Clean this up," he whispered. "Not a word to anyone."

Krennic walked toward the door, his white cape snapping behind him. He didn't need the Emperor's permission anymore. He didn't need the ISB. He was done being a servant. From now on, he would be the one who hunted.

*******

One Year Later

Empire Day arrived under a sky that felt tighter than usual, the atmosphere heavy with the scent of ozone and the distant, rhythmic thrum of low-flying star destroyers.

Inside the Imperial Palace, the officers gathered in polished rows, their uniforms immaculate and their voices kept low out of a paranoid habit that had long ago replaced respect. It was meant to be a celebration of order, unity, and strength. But the noise bleeding through the reinforced transparisteel told a different story.

Outside, protesters filled the avenues, their chants rising in uneven waves that pressed against the palace walls like a physical weight. They weren't scattered anymore. They weren't afraid in the way they had been six months ago. There was a rhythm to the dissent now—an organization that felt clinical, deliberate, and cold.

"It is getting out of hand," one officer muttered, his eyes darting toward the high balcony. "This was never supposed to reach the capital."

"It didn’t," another replied, his voice barely a ghost of a sound. "Not until recently. Not until the messaging changed."

A third officer leaned in, his gaze sharp and hungry for a scapegoat. "The ISB is stretched thin. Ever since Director Krennic’s wife was removed from propaganda, the narrative control has collapsed. No containment. No redirection. The crowd found its voice."

"Or someone gave it to them," the first countered.

They didn’t say your name. They didn’t need to. Their eyes shifted toward the balcony where Orson Krennic stood apart from the collective fear of the officer corps. He held his posture with a relaxed, almost indifferent grace, one hand resting lightly against the railing as he looked down at the sea of movement below. He was measuring the chaos, his gaze fixed and analytical.

Good, he thought, the corner of his mouth tightening in a microscopic display of satisfaction. Very good.

Behind him, Grand Admiral Thrawn approached without a sound. He stood with his hands folded behind his back, his glowing red eyes mirroring the distant lights of the city.

"There are more gatherings beyond the lower districts," Thrawn said quietly. His tone was observational, devoid of the panic infecting the rest of the room. "This is not an isolated riot, Orson. This is synchronization."

Krennic did not turn to look at him. "It is Empire Day. We increased deployment." His eyes tracked the shifting lines of white-armored stormtroopers far below. "There are more soldiers than usual."

"Yes," Thrawn replied, a brief, chilling pause following his words. "And still, there are more people."

The air in the room shifted then, turning brittle. The deep, ceremonial red of the Emperor’s Royal Guard cut through the grey rows of officers like a splash of blood. Conversations died mid-sentence. Men stepped aside without being told, their breath hitching in their throats. The guards moved with a terrifying, silent purpose. They didn’t head for the throne. They headed for Krennic.

Orson turned as they approached, his movement controlled, though you would have noticed the way his shoulders locked into a defensive line.

"Yes?" he asked, his voice steady.

"The Emperor requests your presence."

There was no room for interpretation. Krennic held the guard's masked gaze for a second longer than necessary before he inclined his head once. He turned to Thrawn, his expression a mask of professional boredom. "Inform Lord Vader that I have been summoned."

"Of course," Thrawn replied, already stepping back into the shadows.

As Krennic walked away, the whispers returned, sharper and more desperate. The Speculation spread faster than the fires in the streets below. Vader isn't here. The Emperor calls Krennic directly. What does that tell you?

Krennic ignored them. He walked with the guards, his boots echoing against the high, dark walls of the corridor leading to the sanctum. The silence here was absolute, swallowed by the stone. When the massive doors finally ground open, the room beyond was steeped in shadow, illuminated only by the flickering glow of the city through the massive viewport.

Krennic entered alone. The throne faced the window, the Emperor’s back turned, his figure little more than a jagged silhouette against the endless lights of Coruscant. Krennic stopped at the prescribed distance, his heels clicking together.

"Your Majesty."

The chair turned with agonizing slowness. Emperor Palpatine came into view. He looked calm, almost welcoming, but his presence felt thinner, sharper—like a blade worn down to its most dangerous edge.

"Director Krennic," the Emperor said, his voice a soft, dry rasp. "My loyal aide."

"At your service," Krennic replied, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs that he refused to let reach his face.

"On this day of celebration," Palpatine continued, his pale fingers dancing lightly against the armrest, "I find myself reflecting on the nature of loyalty. On the foundations of an Empire."

Krennic remained perfectly still.

"Tell me," the Emperor said, his yellow eyes sharpening. "Why have you chosen to betray me?"

Krennic’s eyes flickered, just once. "Pardon me, Your Majesty?"

Palpatine watched him, unmoved by the play of innocence. "I have my own sources, Orson. I see the threads. This campaign of slander. This unrest that speaks with such... professional precision. It traces back to someone very close to you."

The words landed like lead. Krennic’s jaw locked.

"She was an exceptional officer," Palpatine went on, his voice almost thoughtful, almost nostalgic. "I admired her work. You know that. I admired her ability to shape the way the galaxy breathes." A faint, hideous smile touched his lips. "I read everything you wrote, even the parts you thought were hidden."

Krennic held his composure through sheer, agonizing will, though the color had drained from his face.

"But this," the Emperor said, the softness vanishing into a cold, lethal vacuum, "has gone far enough."

"It is impossible, Your Majesty," Krennic replied, his voice a low, vibrating cord of tension. "My wife is loyal to the Empire."

Silence stretched between them. Palpatine leaned forward, his hood casting a deep shadow over his face.

"Yes," the Emperor whispered. "To the Empire. But not to me."

The distinction was a death sentence. Krennic’s mind raced, searching for an exit, a lie, a weapon. He could feel the trap closing. He could feel the weight of his "Dada" life crashing into his "Director" life.

"We will know the truth soon enough," Palpatine added, his voice regaining that terrifyingly pleasant lilt.

Krennic frowned, his pulse roaring in his ears. "I'm sorry?"

The Emperor did not waver. "The ISB has already taken her into custody. Even as we speak, she is being reminded of where her true debt lies."

The words didn't echo. They didn't need to. Krennic stood there, his world suddenly tilting on its axis. For the first time in his life, the floor felt like it was made of glass, and he was watching the cracks spread toward his feet.

******

The ISB didn't just move; they occupied.

You hadn’t even made it back to the apartment when the hallway filled with the rhythmic, hollow snap of polished boots. There was no formal summons, no polite request for a statement. There was only the quiet, terrifying efficiency you had once admired from the other side of the desk. They called it an "invitation to confer," but the heavy grip on your elbows said otherwise.

The irony was a bitter, jagged thing in your throat. You had spent years watching people sit in these sterile rooms, measuring the length of their silences and breaking them down piece by piece. You knew the architecture of this fear better than anyone. You just never imagined you would be the one trapped within it.

But the restraints didn't matter. The cold transport didn't matter. Even the way the junior agents avoided your gaze—fearful of the ghost of your former authority—was irrelevant.

It was Cyras.

The sound of his crying was a physical blade, cutting through the professional veneer of the arrest. You could still feel the phantom sensation of his small, frantic hands reaching for your tunic, the sheer, unadulterated terror in his eyes as they pulled you apart. And then, the true cruelty: they didn't leave him behind.

They took the boy too. That realization settled into your chest like a stone, cold and immovable.

*******

The interrogation block was exactly as you remembered—bleached of color, smelling of ozone and recycled air. It was familiar in a way that made your stomach turn.

And there he was. Captain Tigo.

He stood under the harsh glow of the overhead lights as if he had been rehearsing this moment in front of a mirror. You looked at him—really looked at him—and the panic for your son was shoved into a dark corner of your mind, replaced by a razor-sharp focus.

"I didn’t realize you were in such a hurry to end your career, Captain," you said, your voice coming out smooth and dangerous. "Or your life."

Tigo didn’t flinch, but his jaw tightened, a tell-tale sign of the irritation bubbling beneath his stiff collar. "Careful," he warned, his voice a low rasp. "You are in no position to make threats, traitor."

You let out a quiet, melodic scoff, shifting in the restraints as if they were nothing more than an ill-fitting garment. "Position?" Your lips curved into a ghost of a smirk. "You think a pair of binders changes the fundamental hierarchy of this room?"

His eyes flickered. "You picked the wrong side."

You tilted your head, studying him with the clinical detachment of a scientist looking at a failing experiment. "Did I?" You paused, letting the silence stretch until he shifted his weight. "You’re the one who should be checking the seals on your doors, Tigo. You’re the one who should start worrying."

Tigo’s gaze hardened, his face reddening. "Is that the Rebel talking? Have you finally found a cause worth throwing your life away for?"

"Pfft." The sound was sharp, dismissive, and utterly imperial. You leaned back as far as the chair allowed, looking at him with a boredom that was more insulting than a slap. "Don’t insult my intelligence by putting me on the same level as those amateurs. This isn't a rebellion, Captain."

There was something in the way you said it. The ease. The absolute, terrifying certainty. It made him hesitate—just for a heartbeat.

Because it felt familiar. Too familiar.

It was the same controlled arrogance, the same quiet belief in one’s own inevitability that defined Director Krennic. Tigo swallowed hard. He tried to tell himself it was a bluff. You were restrained. Isolated. Caught. Krennic was currently trapped in a cage of his own making in the Emperor's sanctum.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice until it was a hiss. "You really think he’s going to save you? The Director is a dead man walking."

Your smile didn't fade. It didn't even waver.

That was what unsettled him most. It didn't look like the desperate hope of a wife waiting for a miracle. It looked like the predatory patience of a trap that had already been sprung.

*********

The interrogation room was exactly as you remembered it. Cold. Clinical. An architectural taunt designed to make the occupant feel small, fragile, and utterly transparent.

You sat restrained, your shoulders pressed hard against the metal chair, the low, electric hum of the overhead lights filling the oppressive silence. You had sat on the other side of this table more times than you could count. You had watched strong men dissolve in this room. You had measured the exact frequency of a breaking spirit. Now, the shadow was your own.

The door slid open with a pressurized hiss. You exhaled softly the moment she stepped into the light.

Of course it was her.

Dedra Meero entered with her data tablet held like a weapon, her posture a rigid line of ambition. There was a glimmer of predatory satisfaction in her eyes, the look of a collector finally pinning a rare specimen to the board. She didn't speak immediately; she simply let the weight of her presence settle.

"I was right all along," she said finally. Her voice was thin and sharp.

You tilted your head, your expression a mask of bored indifference. "Were you? Right about what, Dedra?"

Her lips thinned into a hard, bloodless line. "You always had inconsistencies. Patterns that didn't align with a loyal officer. Movements that defied Imperial logic." She stepped closer, her tone dropping into a quiet triumph. "I followed the thread, and here you are."

You watched her for a beat, then offered a small, humorless smile. "And yet, it was your own men who spent months chasing shadows because you couldn't see the sun. You’re the one who stood in the High Command meetings and begged Partagaz not to throw you into a cell for your failures."

The barb hit its mark. You saw it in the way her grip tightened on the tablet, the knuckles of her gloved hand turning white. For a moment, the air in the room turned brittle.

Then, you leaned forward as much as the binders would allow. The first crack in your composure appeared—a flicker of something raw and desperate.

"I don't care what you do to me," you said, your voice tight and urgent. "Send me to a labor camp. Wipe my records. Do whatever your ambition requires." You lowered your voice, the words trembling with a sudden, jagged edge. "Just let my son go."

Dedra watched you. She leaned in, her eyes scanning your face, filing away your weakness like a data point. "He will be fine," she said casually. "Children are adaptable. They forget." She paused, a cruel tilt to her head. "You have a friend, don't you? Mia? A lovely socialite. I wonder how much she knows about your little web."

Your stomach turned into a knot of ice. So they had mapped the social circles too. For a heartbeat, a cold, piercing terror for Cyras threatened to overwhelm you. Dedra saw the flicker. She tasted the victory. She thought she had won.

Then, you smiled. It was a small, controlled, and utterly wrong expression.

Dedra’s brow furrowed, her certainty wavering as she searched your face for the logic she had missed. "What is this?" she demanded, her voice sharpening. "What are you planning?"

You leaned back into the chair, the metal creaking softly as you settled into the shadows. "Dedra," you said, your voice almost pitying. "I truly thought we could have been partners."

And then you laughed. It wasn't loud or hysterical; it was a low, chilling sound that echoed off the sterile walls like something breaking.

Dedra stilled, her mind racing to find the angle. The door behind her hissed open again. She turned, her hand instinctively hovering near her side. Major Partagaz stepped inside. He looked tired, his expression a mask of stony authority, but there was a dark, roiling anger beneath the surface.

"Sir," Dedra said, straightening her uniform immediately. "The prisoner is being uncooperative, but the evidence of her coordination with the unrest is—"

Partagaz didn't look at her. He walked past her, his gaze briefly meeting yours before he turned toward Meero with a look of profound disappointment.

"You had no authority to bring her in, Supervisor," he said quietly.

Dedra blinked, the shock momentarily robbing her of her poise. "There is clear evidence, sir. She has been spreading anti-Emperor sentiment. She is a threat to the throne."

Partagaz closed the distance between them. He lowered his voice until it was a lethal whisper. "If you knew when to close your eyes, Dedra… and when to pretend you heard nothing… you might have survived this transition."

Dedra stiffened. "She is betraying the Emperor."

Partagaz held her gaze, his face inches from hers. "The distinction, Supervisor Meero, is that we serve the Empire." He paused, letting the weight of the words crush her. "Not the man."

The silence in the room became absolute. Slowly, Dedra turned her head to look at you, then back to the Major. The pieces of the puzzle began to click together, forming a picture she had been too blinded by her own ambition to see.

"Wait," she whispered, her voice barely audible as her eyes darted between the two of you. "Both of you… the Director… the socialites…"

The certainty she had walked in shattered into a thousand jagged pieces.

"You’re all working together."

*************

6 Months Before

The meeting was held in a secret location, far from the prying eyes of the Imperial Palace. No guards stood at the door. No cameras recorded their movements. It was a silent void where the most powerful people in the galaxy gathered without the Emperor’s permission.

Orson Krennic stood at the head of a metal table. He looked stiff, his white cape grayed by the shadows. He looked at the men around him, weighing the cost of this betrayal.

"We are here for one reason," Krennic said. His voice was cold and professional. "The Emperor is no longer a leader. He is a virus eating the Empire from the inside."

No one moved.

Across from him, Grand Admiral Thrawn stood perfectly still. His red eyes were like burning coals in the dark. Beside him, Darth Vader was a wall of black armor. The heavy, rhythmic hiss of his breathing was the only clock in the room.

At the end of the table, Major Partagaz looked exhausted. "This is suicide, Orson," he said. "We are not hunting rebels. We are trying to kill the man who owns us."

Partagaz wasn't there for glory. Krennic had told him about Cyras—how the Emperor wanted to use the boy's body to live forever. That horror had turned the old Major into a traitor.

Krennic looked at you. It was your turn to speak.

You stepped into the light. You felt the eyes of these killers on you. You knew a secret that had almost cost you your life. You had spent weeks digging through old, forbidden archives—nearly getting caught by the Royal Guard—to find the one thing Palpatine buried deepest.

"We aren't here as friends," you started. Your voice was flat and steady. "We are here because we have the same problem. The Emperor."

Vader’s helmet moved slowly toward you. The room grew freezing. "You speak of treason," he rumbled. "Be careful. Your life is a very small price for me to pay."

You didn't flinch. You looked directly into the black lenses of his mask. "I’ve already paid the price, Lord Vader. I nearly died finding the truth. I know about the girl from Naboo. I know about the secret marriage. I know about Anakin Skywalker."

The silence that followed was terrifying. You felt an invisible grip tighten around your throat. The air left your lungs. Your feet almost left the floor. But you didn't stop. You choked out the last words.

"I know... about your son."

The pressure snapped. You fell back against the table, gasping for air. Slowly, Vader’s mask turned toward the far corner of the room.

Luke Skywalker stood there. He looked young, dressed in a pilot’s flight suit, but the Force moved around him like a storm. He wasn't a cadet anymore; he was a miracle.

"Your son," you repeated, your voice rasping. "He is alive. And Palpatine will kill him just like he killed your wife. He will use him until there is nothing left."

The room felt like it was about to explode. Partagaz looked shocked. Thrawn’s eyes narrowed with sudden, intense interest. Krennic didn't move a muscle.

"Director Krennic," Vader said finally. His voice was a hollow, low growl. "Make sure you can control what you have started."

He didn't kill you. He didn't say no. That was the alliance.

You rubbed your neck, regaining your strength. "We are not Rebels," you told them, looking at Thrawn and Partagaz. "We are fixing the Empire. Palpatine doesn't care about order anymore. He only cares about living forever. He will burn every planet we built just to stay alive."

Thrawn nodded slowly. "He is an error in the strategy. His goals no longer align with the safety of the galaxy. Removing him is the only logical path to stability."

You looked back at Vader. "He promised you power. He promised you that you would never lose what you loved." You waited a beat. "He lied. He’s been lying to you for twenty years. Don't let him lie to the boy."

Vader looked at Luke. The boy didn't move, but his gaze was locked on his father. The "Web" was finally complete.

"We have one chance," you said, your voice turning sharp. "If we wait, the Rebels will kill him, and they will take the Empire down with him. Let’s not give the galaxy to the amateurs."

You looked at the men who held the fate of the stars in their hands.

"Let’s finish this ourselves."

*******

Present Time

The chamber felt smaller than before, the air thick with the smell of old stone and ozone.

“Answer me, Director Krennic.”

The voice from the throne was thin, yet it carried a weight that pressed against the lungs. Orson Krennic lifted his head slowly. For the first time, he stopped looking as an officer or a servant. He looked as a man.

What he saw was unsettling. Emperor Palpatine sat cloaked and still, but the illusion of a human ruler was fading. Something monstrous lurked just beneath the pale skin. Disgust crawled up Krennic’s spine.

“Why did you betray me?” Palpatine asked, his voice almost a whisper.

Krennic didn’t hesitate. The fear was there, but it was cold, focused. “Because I know what you intend for my son. For Cyras.”

Silence stretched. Then came the laughter. It was low at first, then it rose, echoing off the high, dark walls until it filled every corner. It wasn’t the laugh of a man who was surprised. It was the laugh of a predator who had already won.

“You’re afraid,” Palpatine said, his yellow eyes boring into Krennic’s.

“I am,” Krennic replied, his voice level.

“Why?”

Krennic didn’t answer. He didn't look away, either.

Palpatine’s lips curved into a cruel, faint smile. “How unfortunate,” he murmured. “If only you had the Force. You might have remained loyal. Like Lord Vader.” He rose from the throne, his heavy robes dragging softly against the floor. “Come. Walk with me.”

Krennic followed, not out of obedience, but because there was nowhere else to go.

They stepped onto the balcony. Below them, Coruscant was a sea of fire and light. The Empire Day celebration was a hollow spectacle—Formation troopers, red flags, and the forced appearance of order. But beyond the palace gates, the noise was different. The chants of the protesters were growing, a rhythmic roar that the military could no longer drown out.

Palpatine gestured vaguely toward the chaos. “Look at them. Confused. Divided. Waiting for a hand to guide them.” His voice dropped to a hiss. “With the right loyalty, you could rule them. Shape them. The obedient and the defiant alike.”

Krennic’s jaw tightened. The deal was being laid out, and it was repulsive. “You want me to surrender my son.”

Palpatine didn't need to answer. His silence was a confirmation. He looked at Krennic as if he were a piece on a board, a tool to be used or broken. Then, the Emperor snapped his fingers.

From the shadows, a Royal Guard stepped forward. He was carrying a small, quiet figure.

Cyras.

The boy was asleep, his head resting against the guard’s crimson armor. For a second, Krennic forgot how to breathe. The sight hit him like a physical blow. Then came the anger—pure, hot, and immediate.

“You bastard,” Krennic spat.

Palpatine didn’t flinch. He looked at Krennic with an indulgent, patient expression. “You misunderstand, Director. This is an opportunity.” He stepped closer, his voice coiling like a snake. “With your cooperation, you could stand beside me. Not beneath. You could help me shape the future. Rule this entire galaxy.”

He glanced briefly at the child.

“All it requires… is a contribution.”

Krennic said nothing. He watched as the guard stepped forward and placed Cyras into his arms. The weight of his son grounded him instantly. The child was warm. Real. Alive. Krennic pulled him close, his grip protective and fierce.

“He’s not a clone,” Krennic said quietly, his voice vibrating with a dangerous edge. “Is he?”

Palpatine looked offended, his features twisting slightly. “Director,” he chided, “I am not without restraint.”

Krennic didn’t respond. He looked down at the boy in his arms. “Cyras.”

The boy stirred, blinking his eyes open slowly. He was disoriented for only a second before he recognized his father’s face.

“Dada,” Cyras whispered, his small hands reaching up to grab Krennic’s tunic. Then, his voice grew urgent. “Mom.”

The word hung in the air, sharper than any blade. It was a reminder of the "Web," of the woman waiting in a cell, and of the treason they had built together.

Krennic lifted his gaze back to the Emperor. Palpatine was watching him carefully, measuring the choice as it formed in real-time.

“Join me, Director,” Palpatine said. His voice was calm, as if there was still time for a negotiation.

But Krennic knew the truth. No matter what he said, the Emperor had already made his decision. And Krennic, holding the future of his family in his arms, had finally made his.

Krennic stood like a statue, Cyras a warm, heavy weight against his chest. He didn't look at the child; he kept his eyes locked on the monster in front of him.

“I do crave power,” Orson said, his voice dropping into a low, reflective rasp. “But not like this. I don't want to be a god, Palpatine. I want to lead.”

For the first time, something shifted in the Emperor’s pale features. It wasn't anger—not yet. It was the cold, flickering shock of a predator realizing its prey had grown teeth.

“It seems I misjudged your devotion,” Palpatine murmured, the yellow in his eyes catching the light.

Krennic let out a slow, jagged breath. “You didn't misjudge it. You took it for granted.”

Palpatine studied him, his head tilting like a carrion bird’s. “You have taken me off guard, Director. Truly.”

Krennic turned toward the balcony, clutching Cyras. His hands were trembling, a frantic vibration he tried to bury in the fabric of his son's tunic. “I had considered a more… gracious end for you,” Krennic said, staring out at the burning horizon. “Exile. A quiet life. Distance from the machine you built.”

Below them, Coruscant was screaming. The organized cheers of Empire Day were being swallowed by a tidal wave of genuine rage. The cracks in the Empire weren't just showing; the foundation was snapping.

“I wanted to preserve your dignity,” Krennic added, his voice gaining a hard, bitter edge. “So you could at least be remembered as an Emperor, and not as a corpse.”

Palpatine scoffed, a sound like dry parchment tearing. “And yet you stand here, speaking as if you hold a single string in this web. How do you manage such confidence when your life rests in my palm?” His voice sank into a lethal hiss. “When I give the word, your wife and your son die. In an instant. Is that the 'order' you want?”

Krennic didn’t flinch.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “All my life, I’ve followed orders.” He adjusted his grip on Cyras, his fingers grazing a concealed comm-link. “Now,” he added, his eyes snapping back to Palpatine’s, “it’s my turn.”

“What?” Palpatine frowned, sensing the shift in the air too late.

The answer was a roar of dying metal.

A violent tremor ripped through the palace. The floor groaned as a massive impact shattered the outer wall. Stone exploded inward in a hail of durasteel and dust. Through the billowing smoke and the red emergency lights, a shadow emerged.

Darth Vader.

His cape snapped in the artificial wind like a funeral shroud. One hand was extended, his fingers curled as if he were crushing the very oxygen in the room. The Force surged, a raw, invisible tide that tore the remaining tapestries from the walls.

Vader didn't speak. He didn't have to. The crimson blade ignited with a violent snap-hiss, casting a bloody glow across the ruins. He leveled the lightsaber at the Emperor's throat.

Palpatine’s expression darkened into something demonic. “Lord Vader,” he rasped. “Have you forgotten your place?”

Vader took a step forward, his boots crunching on the rubble. “I have outgrown it.”

The words hit harder than a physical strike.

“Everything you are… I made you!” Palpatine shrieked, his composure finally breaking.

Vader didn't stop. “And everything you promised… was a lie.”

The air snapped. Palpatine’s hands flew up, blue lightning lashing out with a deafening crackle. Vader met the storm head-on, his red blade absorbing the bolts, the energy splashing and hissing against the light.

They moved at once—a collision of two gods.

Krennic scrambled back, shielding Cyras with his own body as the shockwaves of their battle blew out the remaining windows. The Royal Guards rushed forward, their force pikes humming, but they never reached the fight.

Suddenly, the guards were seized by an invisible hand. They were lifted into the air, their bodies thrashing as they were hurled backward against the stone pillars.

At the edge of the ruin, Luke Skywalker stood with his hand raised. His jaw was set, his eyes bright with a terrifying, focused light. The Force bent around him, raw and wild, as he cleared the path for his father.

Blaster fire erupted from the corridors. Grand Admiral Thrawn entered at the head of a death trooper unit, his movements a symphony of cold precision. “Secure the perimeter,” he ordered. “Do not interfere with Lord Vader. Kill anyone else who moves.”

And then, the temperature plummeted.

From the smoke of the broken wall, cloaked figures emerged with an eerie, flowing grace. The Nightsisters. Their voices rose in a low, dissonant chant that made the skin crawl. Green mist coiled around their fingers—the ichor of Dathomir.

“You took everything from us,” one hissed, her eyes burning with ancient spite.

They struck like vipers. Green energy lashed out, weaving around Vader’s red strikes, hitting Palpatine’s defenses from angles that defied physics. The Emperor’s focus fractured. For the first time in decades, he was forced back.

Step by step.

He was cornered between a son seeking justice, a father seeking redemption, a General seeking logic—and a sisterhood seeking blood.

Palpatine was the master of the dark, but as he looked into the eyes of the people he had spent a lifetime using, he realized the dark was finally looking back.

For the first time in a thousand years, the Sith had nowhere left to step.

The Throne Room was a jagged wound in the sky. The wind howled through torn steel and pulverized stone, carrying the scent of rain and ozone. Around Palpatine, the circle closed in. It wasn't just a military coup; it was the galaxy's collective shadow finally coming home to roost.

Palpatine’s gaze flickered—sharp, yellow, and desperate—searching for a string to pull, a mind to break. But the strings were cut.

“I did not foresee this,” he admitted, his voice a dry, papery rattle. “But you understand nothing. You are small men playing with a fire that will consume you.”

He straightened his spine, his presence expanding until the shadows seemed to bleed from his robes.

“Even in death, I do not end,” he hissed. “I have prepared for this. Contingencies. Loyalists. If I fall, the galaxy falls with me. Naboo, Vardos, Burnin Konn... they will all be ash before my heart stops beating. You will rule over a graveyard.”

A heavy silence followed, broken only by the whistling wind.

Then, Orson Krennic did something no one expected. He turned his head, looking away from the God-Emperor as if he were a boring report.

“Did you hear that?” Krennic asked.

Across the debris, Thrawn gave a slow, predatory nod. The Nightsisters tightened their grip on their glowing blades, their eyes wide with dark mirth. Luke Skywalker didn't move, his focus locked on the Force, but his breathing remained rhythmic and calm.

Krennic’s smirk returned—the old, arrogant Krennic, but sharpened by a father’s rage. He looked up at the broken ceiling, toward the hidden satellites and the comms-net above the clouds.

“Did you hear that?” he repeated, his voice booming.

A voice cut through the static of the room’s internal speakers. Clear. Cold. Merciless.

“Loud and clear.”

Cyras stirred in Krennic’s arms, his small face lighting up with a spark of pure joy. “Mom!”

In the ISB transmission hub, you stood over the master console, your fingers white-knuckled against the controls. You felt a wave of relief so violent it nearly knocked you over, but you didn't let go. He was alive. Orson had him. Now, it was time to burn the rest of the mask away.

Back in the chamber, Palpatine’s face fractured. The mask of the "All-Knowing Master" didn't just slip—it shattered.

“Oh, I know,” Krennic said, stepping toward the Emperor with the confidence of a man who had already won. “I know every secret you buried in the dark. I’ve been reading your mail for months.”

His voice carried a lethal weight now.

“Operation Cinder,” Krennic announced, and the name echoed through every speaker on Coruscant. “Climate disruption arrays. Planetary genocide disguised as 'security.' And your first target? Naboo. Your own home. Your own people.”

Palpatine’s eyes turned into twin pits of fire. “A necessary sacrifice,” he spat. “To ensure the Empire does not outlive its creator!”

Behind the Emperor, Vader’s stance shifted. The red blade hummed with a new, deeper vibration. Naboo. The word was a trigger. It smelled of lake retreats and forbidden vows. It smelled of Padmé.

Krennic saw the monster in Vader wake up, and he pressed the blade in further.

“And that’s just the beginning,” Krennic continued, his voice rising. “Genetic harvesting. The Sith Eternal. Exegol. A hidden world of clones and cultists, built to keep a corpse on a throne forever.” He adjusted Cyras in his arms, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “And you wanted my son for your laboratory. You wanted to steal his life to extend your own.”

“Why do you insist on speaking, Director?” Palpatine shrieked, his composure dissolving into raw, jagged fury.

Krennic smiled. It was the most beautiful, cruel thing you had ever seen.

“Because,” Krennic said, “the galaxy is listening.”

Palpatine froze. “What?”

Below the Palace, the world went silent. The fighting in the streets stopped. The protesters lowered their signs. Every TIE pilot in the sky, every Stormtrooper in the barracks, and every citizen in the lower levels stared at the nearest screen.

In the ISB control room, you looked at Partagaz. He gave you a single, grim nod. You slammed the final override.

The broadcast was live. Unfiltered. Across every HoloNet frequency from the Core to the Outer Rim, the Emperor was caught in 4K, screaming about genocide and child-harvesting.

“I’ve dismantled your failsafes,” Krennic said, his voice echoing across the stars. “The galaxy doesn't belong to a ghost anymore. It belongs to us.”

Palpatine’s face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated hate.

“You presume... TOO MUCH!”

He didn't just attack; he exploded. Lightning erupted from his fingers in a blinding, violet storm, aimed directly at Krennic and the child.

But the lightning never hit.

A red blade flashed in the dark, cutting the bolts in half. At the same time, a wall of pure kinetic Force slammed into the lightning, reflecting it back toward the ceiling.

Vader and Luke. Side by side.

The Father and the Son stood as a single shield, the red and blue light blending into a violent purple glow. The Emperor’s power fractured against them, dissipating into the ruins like harmless sparks.

Vader’s red blade and Luke’s blue spark met the violet torrents of Force lightning, grinding the energy into harmless dust.

"You are nothing!" Palpatine shrieked, his voice cracking like breaking glass. "A broken machine and a boy! I am the Sith!"

He didn't see the shadows moving behind him.

The Nightsisters struck like a fever. They didn't use lightsabers. They used the raw, green ichor of Dathomir. Ghostly chains of emerald energy lashed out from the smoke, wrapping around Palpatine’s wrists and ankles. They were anchoring him. They were dragging the "God" back down to the bloody earth.

"For our sisters!" the lead crone howled, her voice layering with the screams of a thousand dead witches. "For the world you burned!"

Palpatine’s lightning flickered. His focus fractured. For a split second, the storm died.

That was the opening.

Vader didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, his heavy mechanical boots cracking the marble floor. He didn't swing with finesse. He swung with twenty years of buried rage. His red blade carved a jagged line through the Emperor’s shoulder, smelling of ozone and burning cloth.

At the same moment, Luke moved with the grace of a predator. He spun low, his blue blade slicing through the air in a perfect arc, severing the Emperor’s connection to the ground.

Palpatine fell to his knees, his hands clawing at the air. The green mist of the Nightsisters began to sink into his skin, turning his veins a sickly, glowing emerald. They were poisoning his spirit, rotting the dark side from the inside out.

"Now!" Krennic’s voice boomed over the comms, echoing from the ISB hub where you watched, breathless.

Vader stepped over his master. He looked down at the shivering, broken thing that had turned him into a monster. He didn't say a word. He simply raised his blade high, the red light reflecting off his black mask like a sunset.

Beside him, Luke raised his own weapon. They looked at each other, a brief, silent acknowledgment of blood and fate.

They struck together.

A cross of red and blue light flashed through the chamber, brighter than a supernova. There was no scream this time. Just a sudden, violent vacuum of sound as the Emperor’s physical form disintegrated. A shockwave of dark energy exploded outward, cold and oily, but it was caught by the Nightsisters’ green shield and smothered into nothingness.

When the light faded, the throne was empty.

Only a scorched circle remained on the floor. The Emperor was gone. Not just dead, but erased. His "contingencies" and his "immortality" were burned away by the combined light of a family and the vengeance of a murdered people.

In the ISB room, the silence was absolute. You looked at Partagaz. He let out a long, shaky breath and lowered his head. The war wasn't over, but the monster was dead.

Back in the ruins, Vader deactivated his saber. The mechanical hiss of his breath was the only sound left. He turned slowly toward Krennic, who was still clutching Cyras.

For a second, a memory flashed through Vader’s mind. He imagined a different life. A life where he hadn't listened to the Emperor’s lies. He saw a version of himself without the mask, holding a child who wasn't afraid of him. He looked at Krennic—a man he usually hated—and felt a strange jealousy. Krennic had done what Anakin Skywalker could not. He had kept his family together.

Then, Vader turned his head toward Luke. The boy was tired and his clothes were burnt from the lightning, but his eyes were kind. There was no hate in them.

"Good work, father," Luke said softly.

Those words hit Vader harder than any lightning bolt. For twenty years, he had been a monster and a slave. People called him "Lord" or "Butcher," but no one had called him "father" with such pride since before the fires of Mustafar.

Vader’s heavy shoulders shifted. He didn't speak, but his posture changed. The dark, heavy weight that had pushed him down for years seemed to vanish. It felt like the invisible chains the Emperor used to control him had finally snapped. He stood taller, his chest expanding as he took a long, deep breath.

He knew it was too late to change the past. He knew the galaxy would still fear his mask. But for the first time, he didn't feel like a slave. He had killed the man who lied to him. He had protected the son who believed in him.

"It is finished," Vader rumbled. His mechanical voice sounded different now. It didn't sound like a threat anymore. It sounded like a promise.

Krennic didn't move. He watched Vader carefully, still holding Cyras close. He didn't care about Jedi or Sith. He only cared that the shadow over his son was gone. He looked into the camera that was still showing his face to trillions of people across the stars.

In the ISB office, you watched the screen through tears. You saw the smoke, the ruins, and your family standing in the middle of it all. You saw Vader standing beside Luke, acting like a guard instead of a monster.

Partagaz stepped up beside you and put a hand on your shoulder. It was the first time the cold Major had ever been kind.

"The broadcast is still live," he whispered. "The galaxy is waiting to hear from you."

You wiped your eyes and straightened your uniform. You looked at the screen, at Orson holding your son. Your "Web" was no longer for spying. It was for building something new.

"Then let's tell them the truth," you said.

You leaned into the microphone. Your voice traveled across the stars to every ship, every station, and every home in the galaxy.

"The Emperor is dead," you said, your voice strong. "The Empire is still here. But today, for the first time, it belongs to the people. Not to the monster who tried to destroy us."

********

The sun simulation of Coruscant filtered through the high windows, painting the bedroom in soft, honeyed gold. You woke slowly, drifting up from the best sleep you’d had in years. The constant tension that used to live in your shoulders was finally gone.

Behind you, a familiar warmth stirred. Krennic shifted, his arm draped possessively over your waist, pulling you closer into the sheets. For a moment, there were no politics, no rebellion, and no war. There was only the quiet rhythm of his breathing against your neck.

Eventually, the smell of fresh caf pulled you both out of bed.

The morning was blissfully domestic. Krennic sat at the small breakfast table, his white tunic unbuttoned at the collar, looking more relaxed than you had ever seen him. Cyras, now active and walking confidently on his own, hurried across the floor with a toy starship, his little footsteps echoing against the marble.

Krennic tapped a glass datapad, scrolling through the morning’s galactic news. The headlines were no longer filled with fear. Since the broadcast of Palpatine’s crimes, the galaxy’s hatred had turned entirely toward the dead Emperor. Darth Vader was being recast by the public—not as a monster, but as a tragic slave used by an evil man.

“Vader has gone completely quiet,” Krennic remarked, tracing a report from the Outer Rim. “The sightings have stopped. He’s stayed on Mustafar since the funeral. Luke is still with him.”

You sipped your caf, watching Cyras play. “I think he wants to retire, Orson,” you said softly. “After twenty years of being a weapon, perhaps he just wants to be a father.”

Krennic hummed in thought. He didn't miss the Sith, but he respected the silence. The Nightsisters had returned to the shadows of Dathomir; they hadn't forgiven Vader, but the death of Palpatine had satisfied their hunger for vengeance.

And then there was Thrawn. With the throne vacant and the old system dead, the military needed a leader who understood the "big picture." Krennic had used his new influence to appoint him as the Head of the Military. Thrawn’s genius was the perfect shield for this new era—logic over cruelty, art over terror.

A sharp, rhythmic knock sounded at the door.

Krennic groaned slightly, standing up to open it. Major Partagaz stood there, looking as stiff and professional as ever. He checked his chronometer and looked at Krennic.

“Shouldn't the leader of the galaxy wake up early?” Partagaz asked, his voice dry.

Krennic leaned against the doorframe, unbothered. “I live in my house, Partagaz. I can do whatever I want.”

“Since you took over the Palace, you should hire more people to handle your schedule,” Partagaz countered.

You walked up behind Krennic, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Soon, Major. We’re still adjusting.”

Partagaz gave a short, rare nod. Then, his eyes softened as he looked down at the floor. “Hello. Look who’s here?”

“Uncle!” Cyras chirped, running over to wrap his arms around Partagaz’s knee.

Partagaz actually patted the boy’s head before looking back at Krennic. “You have fifteen minutes to get ready. We have a line of senators coming to pledge their loyalty. They’re terrified of you, which makes them very punctual.”

Krennic rolled his eyes, but he started heading toward his dressing room to find his formal white cape. The broadcast of him holding Cyras in the ruins of the palace had made him a galactic hero—the father who took down a tyrant to save his son. Between that image and the support of the Coruscant socialites you had won over, his rise to the top had been unstoppable.

This was everything he had ever wanted. He was finally the man in charge. But as he looked at you and Cyras, you could see in his eyes that the "power" was just the frame. You were the picture.

While Krennic got ready, you followed Partagaz into the living area. The Major was actually letting Cyras "fly" his toy ship near his face.

“You want to know what happened to her?” Partagaz asked without looking up.

“Dedra?” you guessed.

“She’s still in the ISB. No promotion. But we found out how she got her lead on you,” Partagaz said, his voice dropping. “It was Lady Tarkin. She was the one feeding Dedra information. It seems she inherited more than just a name from her husband. She hated you as much as Wilhuff hated Krennic.”

You felt a cold spark of triumph. You had offered her an alliance, and she had tried to use it to bury you.

“I will speak to Orson,” you said smoothly. “Lady Tarkin is to be banished to the Outer Rim. Somewhere cold, quiet, and very far from the light of the Core. She can spend the rest of her life in the shadows she loves so much.”

Partagaz nodded. “And Captain Tigo?”

You offered a small, dangerous smile. “Let’s just say a very unfortunate accident happened during his transfer. He won’t be a problem anymore.”

Partagaz looked at you, a faint glint in his eye. “Now you have that same smug look as Orson Krennic.”

You straightened your gown, tilting your chin up. “What can I say? I’m Lady Krennic.”

Krennic walked back into the room, snapping his high collar into place. He caught your eye and winked. The enemies were gone, the family was safe, and for the first time, the future belonged to you, to him, and to his son.

THE END

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