Star Wars: Shadow of Skywalker

Naboo - The Royal Palace

The grand corridors of the Royal Palace on Naboo echoed with the soft shuffle of boots and the low murmur of voices. King Veruna, dressed in regal Naboo finery, walked alongside Senator Palpatine. The senator's calm, almost serene demeanor belied the careful maneuvering happening behind his pleasant expression.

"I trust you understand the gravity of our situation, Senator," Veruna began, his tone weighed with frustration. "The Trade Federation's demands on the plasma trade are escalating. They press harder with each passing day, and the other royal houses are already accusing me of corruption—claiming I favor the Federation in our dealings."

Palpatine inclined his head, his polite smile unwavering. "Such accusations are, of course, baseless. The weight of leadership is often misunderstood by those who do not carry it."

Veruna sighed heavily. "It's not only that. The recent attack on our caravan by pirates has stirred public unrest. The Spacefighter Corps we established, once the pride of Naboo, is ill-equipped to deal with such threats. Our outdated starfighters—what little we have—are no match for modern raiders."

"Indeed, Your Majesty," Palpatine said, his tone measured. "The N-1 starfighter project is vital for the security of our planet. A powerful deterrent to both external threats and internal dissent."

Veruna nodded, his voice tinged with desperation. "That is why I wish to secure additional funding from Damask Holdings. Your relationship with Damask is invaluable in this matter. I must ask you to negotiate on my behalf. We cannot afford delays, Senator."

Palpatine's smile deepened as he folded his hands behind his back. "You have my word, Your Majesty. I will speak with Lord Damask and advocate for the necessary resources. Naboo's prosperity—and its security—is paramount."

The pair turned a corner, passing a series of tall windows that overlooked Theed's lush gardens. Palpatine allowed a brief silence to fall before speaking again.

"Your Majesty, if I may," he said, his tone soft, "the challenges you face are not insurmountable, but they require decisive action. The Federation must be met with strength, not appeasement. And as for the royal houses…" He let the words hang, his implication clear.

Veruna nodded slowly. "I trust your judgment, Senator. Naboo is fortunate to have you in its corner."

"It has been an honor discussing these matters, Your Majesty," Palpatine said with a polite bow. "But I must take my leave. There is much to be done."

"Of course, Senator," Veruna replied. "Please keep me informed of any developments."

"Naturally," Palpatine said, turning to leave. As he walked away, his warm smile faded, replaced by a look of quiet calculation.

As Palpatine traversed the palace corridors, he suddenly stopped mid-step. His eyes narrowed, his head tilting slightly as if listening to a distant sound. A chill swept through him, a strange stillness in the Force that sent a shiver down his spine. It was dark, cold, and utterly alien.

Focusing his mind, he reached out into the vast expanse of the Force. The sensation intensified, a pulsating void that seemed to whisper just beyond the edges of perception. It was stronger now than the faint ripple he had felt the day before. And its source…

"Tatooine," Palpatine murmured, his lips curling into a thin smile. "How intriguing."

His thoughts turned to his master, Darth Plagueis, who had been conducting covert dealings on the desert world. 'Could this be his doing? A secret apprentice? Or is this… something else entirely?'

Palpatine entered his private quarters and activated his comlink, his voice shifting into a harsh rasp. "I have a new mission for you, apprentice."

The voice on the other end responded immediately. "I have sensed it as well, Master. What are your orders?"

"You will go to Tatooine," Palpatine instructed. "Investigate the disturbance in the Force, but do not engage. Report your findings to me directly."

"And what of my current mission? I have located Siolo Ur Manka."

"Leave the Jedi be for now. This matter is far more important."

"It will be done, Master," the voice replied.

On the windswept peaks of Ryloth, the zabrak Sith apprentice stood motionless, his dark robes billowing in the howling wind. His black and red face was twisted in a scowl as he gazed through his binoculars at a wooden hut nestled far below. Inside was his original target, the elusive Jedi Master Siolo Ur Manka.

The comlink in his hand crackled. "Tsk," he growled, his frustration evident. "Consider yourself lucky, Jedi."

He turned sharply and marched toward the sleek, predatory shape of his Scimitar starship. "Next time, there will be no escape," he muttered, boarding the vessel. The ship's engines roared to life, carrying him toward Tatooine.

The oppressive heat of Tatooine's twin suns bore down on the desert, but Anakin felt none of it as he woke. Contrary to his expectations, he wasn't exhausted or aching from the events of the previous night. Instead, his body felt strangely invigorated—stronger, even.

As he sat up, his fingers brushed against something cold and metallic. He looked down to find the strange cube still clutched in his hand. Its green energy pulsed faintly, casting an eerie glow on his face.

'Did you… heal me?' Anakin wondered, examining his arms and legs. His cuts and bruises were gone, replaced by smooth, unblemished skin. But the holocron gave no answer.

Instead the vision enveloped Anakin entirely, pulling him into another reality as vivid as it was terrifying. He saw a man—tall, imposing, and pale. His gaunt face was devoid of humanity, his sunken eyes burning with a cold, hollow light. Clad in black robes that rippled unnaturally, he exuded a presence that seemed to crush the air around him.

In his hand, the man held a weapon Anakin still couldn't quite comprehend—a blade of pure red light, crackling softly with energy. It hummed as though alive, its glow illuminating the man's stark, skeletal features.

'What is this weapon?' Anakin wondered again, his thoughts rushing. 'A vibroblade? No… it's something more.' The answer seared itself into his mind, unbidden: lightsaber.

But there was no time to dwell on the name. Memories surged forward, not his own but vivid and overwhelming. They weren't just images—they were lessons, techniques, an intimate understanding of the weapon's movements and possibilities.

Anakin watched as the figure adjusted his stance, his red blade moving in slow, deliberate arcs. His posture was balanced, almost elegant, the movements blending the calm precision of defense with the overwhelming power of offense.

The scene changed. The man now stood amidst a squad of soldiers. Their uniforms gleamed in the dim light, a blend of red and yellow plating over sleek black bodysuits. Their visors gleamed like polished glass, hiding their expressions, but Anakin could feel their fear.

The soldiers raised their blasters, their weapons trained on the unmasked figure. The man remained still, his lightsaber held at his side, the faint hum of its blade barely audible over the tension.

Then the soldiers fired.

Blaster bolts streaked through the air, but the man didn't flinch. His red blade moved with a speed Anakin could barely follow, deflecting each bolt in tight, efficient arcs. Some bolts ricocheted back toward the soldiers, striking them with precision that seemed almost intentional.

The figure advanced. His steps were slow, measured, yet each one seemed to drive the soldiers back. As he moved, his free hand rose.

The air around him shifted, darkening, thickening with an unnatural energy. A wave of invisible force rippled outward, striking the soldiers like a physical blow. They staggered, their blasters faltering. One fell to his knees, clutching his chest as though something vital were being ripped from him.

Anakin felt it too—the cold, unrelenting pull of the void. The soldier's skin color dulled, fading to muted gray. His body convulsed, his breath escaping in ragged gasps. Within moments, he collapsed, his form withered and lifeless.

The remaining soldiers tried to regroup, their movements panicked yet disciplined. Their blasters roared again, but the man was relentless. He deflected their fire with ease, his red blade carving through the air like an extension of his will.

Anakin studied every movement—the way the figure flowed between strikes, how his feet shifted to maintain balance, the seamless integration of the lightsaber with his use of the Force. He wasn't just fighting—he was dominating.

Three figures emerged from the ranks of soldiers, their presence commanding. The first was a woman, her single blue lightsaber igniting with a sharp hiss. Beside her, another woman spun a double-bladed yellow weapon, the hum of its twin blades slicing through the chaos. The final figure, a man wielding a green lightsaber, stepped forward with a determined glare.

Anakin's eyes darted between them, his mind absorbing the subtle differences in their stances, their movements. They were skilled, disciplined, and coordinated in a way the soldiers weren't.

But they weren't enough.

The unmasked man shifted his stance, his movements still deliberate but now faster, sharper. His blade rose in an elegant flourish before crashing down in a devastating strike. The woman with the blue lightsaber moved to block, but the sheer power behind his attack drove her backward.

The yellow-bladed woman lunged, her double-bladed weapon spinning in wide arcs meant to overwhelm. But the man caught it mid-strike, locking it with his red blade. With his free hand, he unleashed a surge of lightning, the crackling energy striking her chest. She screamed, her weapon spinning out of control as she was hurled across the battlefield.

The green-bladed man pressed the attack, his strikes fast and precise, each one aimed at exploiting an opening. But the unmasked figure was unrelenting. Each of his movements countered not just the attack but the intent behind it. His blade caught the green saber in a powerful clash, the force of the impact sending sparks flying.

Anakin could feel the tension in the duel, the way the man used his stance to control the space around him. His strikes were fluid yet powerful, each one designed to exploit weakness and create openings. This wasn't just combat—it was artistry.

The green blade wielder faltered. The unmasked man disarmed him with a single, devastating strike, severing the man's arm at the elbow. The green blade fell, its glow extinguished as its wielder crumpled to the ground.

The double-bladed yellow weapon reignited as its wielder recovered, spinning it with renewed ferocity. She darted toward the unmasked man, her movements faster now, desperate. But he didn't flinch.

With a single, devastating slash, he caught her weapon mid-spin, locking it once more. His free hand rose, the air darkening as he unleashed the void. Her steps faltered, her strength draining visibly. She dropped to her knees, her weapon deactivating as her body convulsed.

The unmasked man advanced on the final woman, her blue blade raised defensively. She fought valiantly, her strikes precise and deliberate, but it was clear she was losing.

Anakin's eyes narrowed as he watched, every motion burning into his memory. The way the unmasked figure deflected her blade with minimal effort, how he forced her into increasingly desperate positions, how his free hand constantly worked to sap her strength even as their blades clashed.

The duel ended with a single strike. Her blue blade deactivated as it fell from her hands, leaving her defenseless. The unmasked man raised his red blade and brought it down in a final, brutal arc.

The vision faded in a flash of crimson light, but not before one word burned itself into Anakin's thoughts:

"Niman."

Anakin clutched the holocron tighter, his small hands trembling. His chest heaved as he processed what he had seen. He didn't just witness the fight—he understood it. The techniques, the stances, the integration of the Force with combat—it was all etched into his mind.

'If only I was strong like that man,' he thought, his awe mingled with a deep, burning desire.

The holocron pulsed violently in Anakin's trembling hands, dragging him into another vision. This time, the figure stood taller, cloaked in dark robes that flowed like living shadows. His face was now obscured by a mask, bone-white with streaks of crimson, its hollow sockets radiating a cold, crushing emptiness. Anakin shivered. This wasn't a man—it was a void, a presence so overwhelming it seemed to swallow the air itself.

The battlefield stretched out before him. Soldiers in red-and-yellow armor darted between ruined walls, their blasters trained on the figure. Their ranks were disciplined, moving as a single, efficient force. At the front were six robed figures, their lightsabers igniting in a chorus of hums and flashes. Blue, green, yellow, orange, silver, and violet blades illuminated the desolation, their wielders forming a protective line as the soldiers advanced behind them.

The figure stood unmoving, unarmed, yet the entire battlefield seemed to bend to his presence. The air grew heavier, the very ground trembling beneath his feet.

Anakin's breath caught as the soldiers opened fire. Blaster bolts streaked through the air, their paths arcing toward the masked figure. But none found their mark. The bolts disintegrated before they reached him, dissolving into the cold void that surrounded him.

Robed figures moved next, their coordination flawless. The violet-bladed wielder raised her hand, summoning a shimmering barrier that rippled in the air before the group. The others spread out, their lightsabers weaving defensive arcs as they approached.

The masked figure finally moved.

His hands rose slowly, and the battlefield seemed to shift. An invisible wave rippled outward, dark and cold, carrying a weight that Anakin could feel even through the vision.

The soldiers at the front screamed first. Their bodies seized, their movements slowing as the wave passed through them. Anakin could see it—the faint, glowing threads of their life force, pulled from their bodies and drawn toward the masked figure like mist in a storm. The soldiers collapsed one by one, their bodies withering into lifeless husks.

They faltered, their lightsabers flickering briefly. Anakin could sense their confusion, their fear as they felt the same pull. The violet-bladed figure pressed forward, channeling more energy into her barrier to block the wave. For a moment, it held, the rippling wall of light standing firm against the encroaching darkness.

But the masked figure's hand clenched into a fist, and the barrier shattered like glass. The violet wielder staggered, her lightsaber wavering as the void reached her. Her body convulsed, her scream cutting through the chaos as her life force was ripped away. Her lightsaber fell, deactivating as her lifeless body crumpled to the ground.

Anakin's chest tightened as he watched, his small hands gripping the holocron tighter. The masked figure wasn't just killing them—he was consuming them, taking everything that made them alive and leaving nothing behind.

The remaining figures spread out, their movements faster now, more desperate. The silver-bladed wielder leapt high, her saber spinning as she aimed to strike from above. The orange-bladed man lunged from the side, his strikes precise and relentless.

But the masked figure didn't need a weapon.

He raised one hand toward the silver-bladed woman mid-air. She froze, her body contorting unnaturally as the void consumed her. Her saber fell from her grasp, extinguishing before she crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

The orange-bladed man pressed on, his strikes a flurry of desperate attacks. The masked figure stepped aside with minimal effort, each movement deliberate and fluid. Then, with a simple gesture, he unleashed a burst of energy that sent the him hurtling backward into a crumbling wall. He didn't rise.

The yellow-bladed wielder moved next, spinning her double-bladed weapon in intricate arcs. Anakin watched intently, trying to understand her movements, her technique, even as the masked figure countered effortlessly. He extended both hands, and the ground beneath her cracked open. Darkness surged upward, consuming her from below. Her scream was brief, cut short as her weapon clattered to the ground.

The remaining two stood together, their lightsabers raised defensively. The green-bladed man roared, charging the masked figure with all his strength. The figure caught his blade mid-swing—not with his hands, but with the void itself. Anakin could feel it: the man strength faltering, his life force draining away. The green blade flickered and died as man collapsed, his body crumpling into a lifeless heap.

Woman with blue lightsaber was the last. Her attacks were fast and desperate, her movements precise but ultimately futile. The masked figure extended his hand toward her, and she froze. Her saber extinguished as her body convulsed, her strength ripped away until she fell, motionless, at his feet.

The battlefield grew silent. The soldiers who remained fled, their discipline broken, their spirit shattered. The masked figure stood alone, surrounded by death. But it wasn't enough.

Anakin's breath quickened as the void expanded. It consumed the ground, the buildings, the air itself. Forests blackened, rivers dried, and the sky darkened as the planet was reduced to ash and silence.

The holocron's voice cut through the vision, cold and distant. "This is the void. It does not give. It only takes. To wield it is to become it. The strong devour. The weak fade."

The vision shifted. Anakin saw the planet from above now, a lifeless, gray sphere drifting in space. At its center, the masked figure stood, his presence a singularity around which all destruction revolved.

'Force Drain' the name etched itself into Anakin's mind. The knowledge came not in words but in understanding—an ability to take the essence of life itself, leaving nothing but emptiness behind.

Anakin collapsed to the ground, gasping for air as the vision ended. The holocron pulsed faintly in his hands, its light steady and cold. The knowledge lingered in his mind, but it was incomplete—fragmented, as though the power shown to him was locked behind a door he didn't yet know how to open.

"I'll learn," Anakin whispered, his voice shaking but resolute. "I'll learn everything. And then, I'll destroy them all."

Anakin sat motionless in the cold silence of the cave, his small hands trembling around the holocron. The vision still burned in his mind—the masked figure, the destruction, the void swallowing everything. It had been so vivid, so real. For a moment, it felt as though he could almost touch that power, feel it coursing through his veins.

But now, sitting there in the darkness, he felt… nothing.

He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. "Why can't I feel it?" he muttered, his voice echoing faintly off the cavern walls. "Why can't I use it?"

The holocron's faint green glow pulsed steadily, as if mocking him. The whispers had faded now, leaving only silence. Anakin glared at it, willing it to give him more answers, more visions. But it remained still, its secrets locked away.

With a frustrated growl, Anakin shoved the holocron aside and stood. His small frame felt impossibly heavy, his limbs trembling with exhaustion and anger. He raised a hand, mimicking the motion he had seen the masked figure use in the vision.

He closed his eyes, focusing with all the intensity his young mind could muster. He imagined the pull, the wave of darkness, the void consuming everything in its path. He thought of the masked figure's outstretched hand, the way it had torn the life from his enemies.

Nothing happened.

His hand trembled in the air, outstretched and useless. There was no ripple, no surge of power, no pull of the void. The silence of the cave was deafening, pressing down on him like a weight.

His frustration boiled over. "Why won't it work?!" he shouted, his voice cracking. His hand dropped to his side as his other clenched into a fist.

Anakin's mind raced, grasping for understanding. He thought of the figure in the vision—the way he had stood, the way the void had seemed to radiate from him effortlessly. He didn't know who the man was or where the power came from. Was it the holocron? Was it something inside him?

"Is it because I'm weak?" he whispered, his voice barely audible. His anger simmered beneath the surface, feeding on his confusion and fear.

His gaze fell to the vibroblade lying on the ground beside him. The weapon was clunky, crude compared to the elegant red lightsaber he had seen in the earlier vision. But it was all he had.

Anakin reached for it, his fingers wrapping tightly around the hilt. He stood, the blade feeling heavy in his small hands, its weight unbalanced compared to the graceful movements of the lightsabers he had seen.

'If I can't use that power,' he thought bitterly, 'then I'll learn to fight without it.'

He raised the vibroblade, trying to mimic the stances and movements he had seen in the vision. He shifted his weight, his feet sliding into a defensive posture. His small hands trembled as he brought the blade up, its edge catching the faint green glow of the holocron.

The first swing was clumsy, the blade slicing awkwardly through the air. Anakin stumbled, his footing slipping on the uneven ground. He gritted his teeth and tried again, adjusting his grip, his stance.

The second strike was better, the blade cutting through the air in a wider arc. But it was slow, uncoordinated. His movements felt wrong—off balance, too heavy. He remembered how the masked figure had moved: fluid, precise, every strike an extension of his body.

Anakin tried to copy it, his feet shifting, his arms moving in tandem with the imagined weight of an unseen lightsaber. He spun the vibroblade, trying to replicate the arcs and sweeps of the figure's strikes.

The blade slipped from his hands, clattering to the ground.

Anakin froze, his chest heaving. His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood. "Why can't I get it right?!" he screamed, his voice breaking with frustration.

He picked up the blade again, his movements growing more frantic. He slashed at the air, his strikes wild and uncontrolled. Each swing felt heavier than the last, his small arms trembling with the effort.

The cave seemed to mock him, its silence broken only by the sound of his labored breaths and the clatter of the vibroblade when it slipped from his grasp again.

Anakin dropped to his knees, his body trembling with exhaustion. Tears stung his eyes, but he wiped them away angrily. "I can't… I can't stay weak," he muttered. "I have to be strong. Strong like him. Strong enough to make them all pay."

The memory of Shmi's broken body flashed through his mind. The Tuskens, the slavers, the mercenaries—they were all responsible. They had taken everything from him, and now they would pay. But he needed to be stronger. Stronger than anyone.

Anakin picked up the vibroblade one last time. His movements were slower now, more deliberate. He focused on balance, on precision, trying to emulate the control he had seen in the visions. His strikes were still clumsy, but each one carried more intent, more focus.

Sweat dripped from his brow as he practiced, his small frame shaking with the effort. The blade felt heavy, unwieldy, but he refused to stop.

'If I can't use that power yet,' he thought, his jaw tightening, 'then I'll train with what I have. I'll find a way. I'll become strong.'

The holocron pulsed faintly behind him, its glow steady and cold. It didn't whisper or guide him, offering no answers, no encouragement. It simply waited, its secrets locked away, as though testing his resolve.

Anakin swung the vibroblade again, his focus narrowing. He didn't know how long he practiced—minutes, hours, it didn't matter. He had nothing left but this.

His strikes began to steady, his movements growing more purposeful. They were still imperfect, still crude compared to what he had seen, but they were his.

The sun climbed higher, and Anakin's stomach growled painfully. He realized too late that his supplies had been lost during his frantic escape to the cave. Cursing under his breath, he ventured outside, the cube tucked into his belt.

The heat was unbearable, but hunger drove him forward. As he searched the area, his thoughts drifted to Shmi. Her love, her sacrifice—it haunted him.

'Why did she have to die while scum like Watto gets to live?' he thought bitterly, his grip tightening on the vibroblade.

A sudden howl shattered his thoughts. Anakin froze, his face paling as he recognized the sound. Anoobas.

He sprinted back toward the cave, but the howls grew closer. Panic set in as he saw the pack—a dozen hulking predators with jagged tusks and gleaming fangs—charging across the dunes.

The first anooba struck him like a battering ram, sending him sprawling. His vibroblade flew from his grasp as the creatures encircled him, their growls reverberating through the sand.

They lunged. Teeth sank into his arms and legs, ripping through flesh. Anakin screamed, crawling desperately away as blood streamed from his wounds. Despair gripped him, his mind flashing to Shmi's lifeless face.

'I'm too weak,' he thought, hatred surging through him. 'Too weak to protect her, too weak to save myself!'

The pack closed in, their snarls deafening. One lunged for his throat, and Anakin thrust out his hand in a final act of desperation.

A surge of cold, dark energy erupted from within him, guided by the holocron at his side. The anoobas froze mid-attack, their bodies convulsing as their life force was drained. One by one, they collapsed, their withered, mummified forms crumbling into the sand.

Anakin staggered to his feet, his wounds miraculously healed, his body brimming with unnatural strength. A twisted smile crossed his face as he struck the ground with his fist, sending a shockwave rippling through the sand.

'So this is power,' he thought, his eyes gleaming with newfound fascination.

Far away, in the shadowed ruins of a Mos Eisley pub, a Zabrak male stood amidst the carnage. Dozens of bodies—mercenaries and civilians alike—lay lifeless around him, their expressions frozen in terror. The scent of blood and scorched flesh hung heavy in the air.

Darth Maul knelt, his clawed fingers brushing the blood-soaked floor as he closed his yellow eyes. The dark side surged around him, powerful and wild, a chaotic storm rippling through the Force. His lips curled into a savage grin.

"Powerful dark side user..." he muttered, rising slowly. He turned his head, his eyes narrowing toward the endless dunes of the desert.

"I found you."

Without hesitation, the Sith apprentice stepped over the bodies, his dark robes trailing behind him as he disappeared into the night riding on his speeder.