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angelseraphines · 3 days ago

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THE PHANTOM MENACE | CHAPTER ONE

“the vow of a father.”

the message arrived at dawn.

the holocomm pedestal glowed softly in the center of the study, casting its radiant light against the high ceilings and the frescoed walls, each surface still blanketed in the lavender gloom of early morning. outside the tall windows, coruscant’s skyline hovered far beyond, pale and distant, wreathed in mist. light crept in only gently, lasting and frigid.

lord naem rharrellis did not move.

the projection of governor sio bibble shimmered above the platform, distorted faintly by atmospheric interference, though his tone was steady.

“the blockade remains unbroken,” the governor said. “the trade federation claims legal authority, but the starfreighters are being denied passage. the outer systems are watching closely. we have reason to believe the chancellor has dispatched two jedi to negotiate.”

the message ended there.

the governor’s figure vanished.

naem stood motionless, his hands clasped behind his back, his robes of midnight-blue senator’s cloth falling in weighted folds down to his boots. for a long time, he did not stir. he only stared past the now-empty pedestal toward the far wall of the study, where the shadows ran deepest.

a painting hung there.

it was tall, narrow, framed in etched silver-leaf, set into the wall as if it had always belonged. the brushwork was fine, luminous in its precision. in it, lady darmah sat in half-profile, her figure framed beneath the flowering canopy of a nova tree. she wore a gown of nacreous lavender, her head slightly tilted toward the girl on her lap, vasharre, turned toward the viewer with one small hand on her mother’s wrist, the other extended toward a curl of blossoms above. her hair, already long and dark, shimmered with the faintest hue of violet in the sun-struck paint. beside them stood kraen, proud and straight-backed at age five, a ceremonial sash knotted across his chest, one hand raised as if mid-salute, the other resting protectively on his sister’s shoulder.

enshid, the youngest, had been added after the original commission. she was seated in the grass near darmah’s feet, her head bowed slightly as she looked up at her sister. her hand was full of fallen petals. the light in her pale eyes was small and perfect and too brief.

naem’s breath caught somewhere behind his ribs.

he remembered how melancholic the household had become in the days following their deaths. how the corridors that once echoed with music and soft footfalls had gone silent. how the birds had refused to sing in the atrium garden. how he had ordered the curtains opened every morning and then remained indoors. how he had not touched his wife’s side of the bed. how the funeral pyres had turned to ash in the royal quarter’s sacred grove, and still he had felt none of it was real.

there had been a grand funeral.

naboo was a world of ritual, and house rharrellis, one of its oldest, honored all the rites. but the pageantry of the procession, the chants, the music, it had all fallen empty on his ears. all of it had felt too distant, too gilded. he had spoken the final words, but his voice had not felt like his own. it had sounded hollow, ceremonial.

he had not grieved before the crowds.

he had stood tall.

he had bowed his head.

and when he returned to this room, when the doors had closed, when the scent of jasmine had been replaced with the smoke of incense, he had fallen to his knees before the painting and said nothing at all.

now, years later, with war whispering again, with the trade federation strengthening its hold, with the word jedi echoing in the back of his mind, it was not power that provoked him.

it was memory.

and memory gave way to something more.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the summer celebration began with the rising of the second sun.

within the western courtyard of the rharrellis estate, light poured down like warm gold. the marble stones beneath the guests’ feet shimmered with soft mist as attendants scattered rosewater from silver pitchers, filling the morning air with perfume. ribbons of pale lavender silk had been strung between the upper balconies, each strip inscribed with poetry in flowing naboo script. petals lay scattered across the long reception table, where dishes of candied fruits, violet cakes, and stewed plums awaited the touch of eager hands.

lady vasharre stood at the base of the central fountain, where garlands of purple nova flowers had been woven around the basin’s edge, her hands folded properly in front of her. the silk of her gown caught the morning light, pale lilac threaded with silver. shimmering jewels had been sewn into the collar and cuffs, and a wide sash of translucent blue silk crossed her waist and was pinned with a brooch in the shape of a starburst. around her neck hung a nova star pendant ornate with polished mother-of-pearl and white-gold chain, modest enough to suit her age but the gemstone unmistakably precious.

her hair had been curled in the early morning. ebos had done it with patience and oil, smoothing each lock into soft, dark spirals that now brushed the tops of her shoulders. the front of her hair had been pinned back with twin clips in the shape of moons. her cheeks were pale and soft with powder, though the flush of excitement had already begun to rise.

his daughter stood without speaking.

not out of fear or apprehension, but from something deeper, an understanding, perhaps unconscious, that she was expected to hold the naboo court.

and so she did.

kraen ran circles around her, half in mischief and half in ritual. he had been made to wear a formal jacket, blue velvet, crested with the house sigil. but already he had pulled one sleeve loose and undone the knot at the collar. he held a carved wooden practice saber in one hand and was taunting one of the guards near the garden steps.

amid the courtiers gathered in the central garden, one figure stood apart with a magnetic ease hiarmen rharrellis, the niece of the senator and recently married daughter to the aged patriarch of house mindorón. her gown glinted in reflections of metallic steel, cut fashionably low at the sleeves and adorned with chainwork across the back, a striking contrast to the pastel silks worn by the younger girls. she had entered adolescence with a swiftness that caught many of the ministers off guard, her soaring frame, her aloof manner, the uncanny manners with which she regarded both nobles and servants alike. she said little, offering only curt nods when addressed, but her dismal eyes missed nothing. already, she moved like a shadow of her late mother, drawing glances without needing to earn them. she stood near one of the citrus trees, half-listening to the musicians, her fingers gliding absently across the stem of her crystal flute. she had declined to perform this year. no one dared ask why.

padmé naberrie stood by one of the tables, speaking calmly with a pair of older women studying, fellow peers of hers at the theed university. she wore soft sky-blue and her brown hair touched with gold had been drawn into long braids threaded with fine silver. when vasharre looked her way, padmé smiled, a warm, regal smile, and crossed the stone walkway to join her.

“you’re doing well,” she said, brushing a speck of sugar from vasharre’s sleeve.

“i haven’t done anything.”

“that’s exactly why.”

vasharre smiled softly.

padmé gave her a small squeeze at the elbow and turned as havric tyrn approached from the fountain’s edge.

he bowed low, his teenage frame tall and angular in ceremonial dress, dark-haired, his expression unreadable.

“my royal lady,” he said, voice suave and charming.

“lord tyrn,” vasharre replied, her voice careful.

naem watched all this from the arched balcony overlooking the court, his hands braced on the marble railing, his senatorial cloak hanging still at his sides.

he had remained inside longer than usual this morning.

yet now he watched his daughter’s fifth birthday unfold before him, watched padmé by her side, watched kraen tearing through the citrus grove, watched the old ministers gather around the chancellor’s envoy, watched havric nod politely to the stewards, watched the light catch in the silver thread of vasharre’s dress.

and though the grief buried itself in his chest like a stone, for the first time in many months, he let himself feel something else.

not happiness.

not even pride.

only contentment.

only the transient, precious solitude before the world would turn again.

the court harpists had taken their place beneath the flowering arches of the east pavilion, their instruments carved of whitewood and bone-polished shell, strung with threads of auric fiber that caught the sunlight in a prism of color with every stroke.

the music they played shimmered, soft and complex, a melody built on layered naboo modes once performed only at coronations and royal funerals. each note was deliberate, slow, regal in tempo. it rang through the courtyard not as entertainment, but as ceremony.

lord naem rharrellis recognized one of the harpists at once.

she was seated nearest the colonnade, the silver of her gown folded neatly around her, the dark cascade of her hair fastened with opaline pins. her features were composed and lovely, calm without indifference, framed by silver eyes that seemed ever so slightly disinterested in the grandeur around her. she did not speak. she played with extraordinary discipline. and though she had not yet lifted her gaze to him, naem could not help but observe the precision of her presence.

lady narrhyne dulitha of senconot. once the last daughter of a ruined house. now, the dearest concubine to sheev palpatine of naboo.

naem said nothing, only watched a second longer before turning back to the guests arrayed across the courtyard. he did not care for narrhyne’s sudden reappearance in court society, nor did he care for the way her name had returned to the registries of influence after decades of political obscurity. but he understood what it meant. palpatine, ever calculating, had restored her not for only romance, but for optics. for lineage. for loyalty.

a servant approached with a glass of cool wine, which naem accepted only to occupy his hand. he barely sipped it. his eyes remained on the proceedings below, on vasharre accepting a poem-scroll from one of the visiting historians, on padmé gently correcting kraen’s posture during a bow, on the ministers of culture gesturing toward the musical ensemble.

the colors were brilliant. the light flawless. no detail had been spared.

but naem felt none of it.

he had made up his mind weeks ago.

he would resign his senatorial seat.

not in disgrace. not in weakness. only in honesty. he had served naboo with full devotion. had carried his house’s legacy for four decades in the galactic senate. had drafted treaties, quelled disputes, and kept his hands clean where others bartered souls for power. but grief had hollowed something in him, and though he masked it well, he felt it now more than ever. as if his spirit had begun to dissolve, one decision at a time.

and if there was one man he trusted to guard naboo in his place, it was palpatine.

naem turned at the sound of a new arrival.

he did not need to be told who it was.

sheev palpatine stepped down into the courtyard with the ease of one born to glide through ceremony. he wore pale robes of political white, the folds edged in stately gray. his presence was subtle and unthreatening, and yet every head turned as he passed. the ministers bowed. the aides smiled. even the children paused in their running.

he moved toward naem with a familiarity born of long years.

“naem,” palpatine greeted. “your estate has never looked finer.”

“nor has your tailoring,” naem replied dryly, extending a hand. “though i doubt you came to discuss marble and stitching.”

“no,” palpatine smiled, taking his hand briefly. “i came to wish your daughter a happy fifth year. and to remind you, though it seems unnecessary, that she grows more lovely by the hour.”

naem gave an indistinct smile.

“she favors her mother.”

“then she is doubly fortunate.”

they stood, the sunlight reflecting softly across the stone, the sound of the harps still playing behind them.

“you’ve made no mention of your return to naboo,” naem said.

“the senate was eager to rid itself of me,” palpatine responded. “they worry i’ve grown too fond of faraway systems.”

naem did not laugh. but he tilted his head somewhat.

“perhaps you have.”

palpatine’s eyes. clear and unreadable, watched the children in the court below for a beat longer.

“and what of you?” he asked. “you have not remarried. i hear whispers.”

naem’s jaw tensed.

“they are only whispers.”

“you’ve always dismissed rumor too quickly.”

“and you’ve always entertained it far too seriously.”

palpatine raised a hand in mock concession.

“surely the galaxy expects you to move forward.”

“the galaxy,” naem said, his voice even, “did not love darmah.”

palpatine said nothing to that. nor did he press the subject.

they stood in silence for a minute, the weight of it more truthful than anything spoken.

then a young steward approached, head bowed, and leaned in inconspicuously to naem’s side. his voice was low, respectful.

“my lord,” the attendant said. “three visitors await you in the northern conference room. they identified themselves as emissaries of the jedi order.”

naem glanced at palpatine, who had already begun to smile.

“it seems your celebration is drawing the most interesting guests.”

naem exhaled once through his nose.

“excuse me,” he said.

palpatine inclined his head.

naem stepped away from the balcony’s edge, descending the outer stairs with practiced composure, though his mind had already begun to sharpen. if the jedi had come, then the situation with the trade federation had worsened. they never sent knights unless diplomacy had already begun to fail.

he walked through the arched corridor of the estate’s north wing, the high windows casting long lines of light across the polished stone.

and somewhere deep beneath the layers of grief, ritual, and politics, something shifted. something began.

the force moved.

and naem rharrellis moved with it.

the eastern wing of the estate was far more desolate than the rest, colder, too, walled in pale stone and shaded by long curtains of deep green velvet that caught the light without ever reflecting it. the ceilings were vaulted, old in design, carved with sigils and star-charts that dated back centuries. the hallways here were reserved for diplomacy, for treaties, for secrets that could not afford to be overheard.

naem rharrellis walked through them with the gravity of a man returning to an archaic mask.

his formal shoes struck the marble evenly as he walked, not rushed, not hesitant. the music of vasharre’s birthday, still faintly audible from the outer courtyards, seemed worlds away.

he paused before the door of the estate’s principal conference chamber.

a stoic guard opened it without instruction.

the room was lit by natural light from a skylight overhead. the windows had been drawn wide, casting bands of sunlight down over the central table, where three figures stood waiting. they had not seated themselves. of course they had not. jedi rarely did unless instructed. they stood in silence, their presence quiet but unmistakable.

naem entered alone.

his eyes moved first to the figure nearest the window, tall, composed, unmistakably familiar in bearing.

“master jinn,” naem said.

qui-gon bowed his head with a faint smile, the warmth in his expression touched by something more somber beneath.

“lord rharrellis,” he said, voice calm. “you have my thanks for receiving us.”

“you are always welcome,” naem replied, stepping forward and folding his hands before him. “it has been some years.”

“too many,” qui-gon agreed, before gesturing toward the others. “may i present master mace windu of the high council… and my padawan learner, obi-wan kenobi.”

naem’s gaze moved to the second jedi.

mace windu stood in composure, the authority around him palpable but not theatrical. his robes were formal, though less ornate than the attire of most galactic diplomats. the violet blade at his belt needed no adornment. his nod was brief.

“senator rharrellis,” mace said, his tone clipped and stern.

naem inclined his head in return, noting the gravity in windu’s posture, not rudeness, but purpose.

and then his eyes came to rest on the youngest among them.

obi-wan kenobi.

younger than naem expected, but not an adolescent. well-built and focused. the auburn braid at his shoulder marked his rank clearly, though he carried himself with balance that suggested something more advanced than years might allow. his eyes, cerulean, met naem’s directly, but did not stay for long.

the boy bowed with perfect decorum.

“my lord,” he said, his voice polite, deeper than expected.

naem observed him a while longer, but said nothing. only a glisten passed behind his eyes.

this was the first time they met.

it would not be the last.

qui-gon stepped forward then, his tone adjusting subtly as he moved into formal address.

“we come not merely to pay respects,” he said. “though we would offer them gladly, on behalf of the temple. the force has brought us with purpose.”

“the jedi do not visit old friends for pleasantries.”

“no,” qui-gon said. “not in times such as these.”

mace took one step closer to the table.

“grandmaster yoda has sensed something. something long-stirring. a call in the force that resonates through your house.”

naem did not respond at once.

“your royal family,” windu continued, “is among the oldest in the galaxy to maintain its force lineage. jedi, temple scholars, galactic record-keepers, the name rharrellis has passed through all of them.”

“there are no noble houses with a deeper link to the order than that of house rharrellis,” qui-gon added. “your uncle, grandmaster soluke, trained me in my youth. his teachings remain foundational among us. it is through him the council recognized the strength of your bloodline. and through him… that we look to it again.”

naem stepped slowly to the head of the table, resting one hand on the carved edge.

“what exactly have you seen?”

qui-gon’s expression was grave.

“a presence. two, to be precise. strong in the force. very strong.”

“your children,” windu said. “kraen and vasharre.”

the words did not shock him.

not fully.

naem was mute for an instance longer than necessary.

“kraen is the heir to my house. he has been trained for statesmanship, not asceticism.”

“he is more than capable of both,” qui-gon said. “and the girl, your daughter…”

he paused. not out of uncertainty.

“she is… powerful. even now.”

naem’s gaze flashed to him sharply.

mace said nothing.

obi-wan, who had spoken nothing all this time, stood stationary, watching as the two jedi knights discussed this matter with the senator.

“this strength is not uncommon among your family,” qui-gon continued. “we do not take it lightly, but we do not take it as surprise. yet the way it moves in them… it is rare.”

“rare enough to merit a visit,” naem said, half-remark, half-question.

qui-gon’s eyes drifted downward.

“grandmaster yoda believes it may be connected to the prophecy.”

an eerie silence fell between them.

naem’s hand tightened somewhat at the edge of the table.

he knew the prophecy.

all elder houses who bore legacy in the force did.

“a chosen one shall come, born of no father, and through him will ultimate balance in the force be restored,” mace said, the words falling like incantation. “yet his path shall not be walked alone, for only through the wisdom and discipline of the forceborn shall balance be truly fulfilled.”

naem’s mind roamed once in thought.

it had been years since he had heard those words aloud.

they were spoken rarely now, even among the temple’s most devout. a riddle of the past. a prediction half-buried by history, half-dismissed by logic.

but it had not always been so.

his father had spoken of the forceborn before his death.

not idly. not in passing. he had believed, to his final breath, that the time was nearing. that the force would soon demand its answer. and if the rharrellis house had been destined to shape galactic peace in centuries past, why not again?

“you believe,” naem said slowly, “that my son is the forceborn.”

qui-gon nodded his head once.

“perhaps.”

“perhaps?”

“there is clarity in the force. but not certainty.”

mace folded his hands behind his back.

“we do not presume the outcome. only the obligation to seek it.”

naem said nothing.

his eyes drifted for a fleeting moment toward the shuttered window.

beneath it, the light fell in strips across the floor, bright, unmoving.

he did not yet respond.

but the room had changed.

the future, long ominous, had spoken.

naem rharrellis stood at the head of the council table, the folds of his formal robes casting deep shadows beneath the golden light of the skylight. the carvings along the conference walls, symbols of the elder houses, chronologies of nobility and service, glinted softly in the hush. but none of it registered.

the words dangled in the air.

both of his children.

kraen and vasharre.

the jedi had come not only to speak of the force. not only of prophecy. they had come to take.

and naem had buried enough.

he turned away from the table, not abruptly, but with the stable control of a man reining in something bitter behind the throat. his steps were slow, the heels of his boots echoing softly against the stone floor as he walked toward the tall arched window at the far end of the chamber.

when he spoke, his voice remained level.

“my wife died in the second month of the last cycle. my youngest daughter before the third was complete. they had not been ill once in their lives previously. and yet…”

he let the sentence drift off, unfinished.

mace windu said nothing.

qui-gon, standing nearest to the window, lowered his gaze, not in submission, but in respect. the troubles of the past clung to the room akin to a shroud. grief did not have to be spoken to be felt.

naem kept his back to them.

“i have two children remaining. two. i will not surrender both to the temple. not now. not so soon.”

his voice was firm now. low. edged with something deeper than politics. this was not a refusal born of pride. it was one born of loss. the kind of loss that had no shape, no solution, only aftershocks.

he turned back toward them slowly, hands clasped behind him again, as if holding them together kept his grief from spilling.

“do you know what it means,” he said, “to sit at a table with empty chairs? to hear your son and daughter speak and know they are speaking to ghosts?”

obi-wan kenobi shifted, and not out of discomfort. his hands remained folded before him, but his posture straightened, as if struck by clarity. he did not glance to his master for permission. he spoke with a calm, even cadence, one that gave no offense but offered something new.

“my lord,” obi-wan said, “what if the council trained only one child?”

naem narrowed his icy eyes.

“one?”

obi-wan nodded once.

“kraen or vasharre. not both. the other would remain with you. the heir continues. the house endures.”

mace windu turned his head now, slowly, deliberately, and regarded the young padawan with measured focus. his arms remained crossed, his expression unreadable, though a slight shift in the air marked his disapproval.

“that is not the precedent of the council,” he said.

“it is not the precedent,” obi-wan agreed, “but it is not forbidden.”

“attachment leads to corruption.”

“and extinction leads to to the collapse of legacy,” obi-wan replied without flinching. “if both are taken, the house of rharrellis may fall. if one remains, the line persists.”

naem’s gaze moved to him with a new kind of scrutiny. the padawan was younger than the others, but he was not reckless. his voice was too calm, too practiced. he spoke not with arrogance, but with reflection. naem recognized the tone. it was the sound of someone who was sensible beyond his years.

qui-gon placed a hand at his side, glancing once to his apprentice before speaking.

“he speaks wisely.”

mace windu’s absence of oration wavered for several beats longer.

he uncrossed his arms slowly, one hand resting near his waist.

“if we begin selecting only those whose families approve,” he said flatly, “then the will of the force becomes subjugated by politics.”

naem stepped forward now.

“this is not a question of politics. this is a question of survival.”

he walked to the table again, standing at its head, and for a period of time, he allowed his eyes to close.

when they opened, they were peaceful.

he thought of kraen, bold, storm-eyed, impatient with ceremony, yet commanding in presence even as a child. the guards often said he would have made a better commander than a senator. he fought in mock duels with carved sabers twice his size and never once let himself lose.

he thought of vasharre, softer, yes, but never weak. she had learned how to speak before she had learned how to run. she listened before she answered. she knew when to hold her tongue and when to use it like a blade. her grace was not performance. it was inheritance.

but she was not meant for the life of a jedi knight.

he could not let her go.

“kraen,” he said at last, “is the elder. he is stronger, more physical, more willful. he does not fear hardship. and if the prophecy truly is forthcoming, if this forceborn is to emerge from my line… then let it be from him.”

no one dared to moved.

“he will go with you,” naem said. “vasharre will stay on naboo as the heiress to house rharrellis.”

the jedi did not answer at once.

qui-gon stepped forward, placing both hands before him, fingers lightly interlaced.

“we will honor your choice,” he said after a pause.

but there was something in his voice.

a softness that had not been there before.

not reluctance. not resistance.

only a trace of something that did not match the certainty of his words.

and naem noticed.

the silence would return. not the strained pause of negotiation nor the expectant hush of judgment, but the final stillness of a choice made. it lay thick over the chamber, over the ancient table and its inlaid crests, over the slanting light now deepening to amber across the polished floor.

naem rharrellis stood with his hands folded before him, his expression carved from something colder than stone. not indifference. not resolve. only that singular expression born from a man who had made peace with an impossible decision.

his voice, when it came, was hushed. but not unsure.

“vasharre,” he said, “must never be told.”

the jedi stood across from him in silence.

“she must never know of her connection to the force,” he continued, slower now. “not from me. not from you. not from anyone. she is not to be trained. not to be tested. not to be watched. she is to live her life in the house where she was born. she will be raised in politics, not prophecy.”

obi-wan’s gaze remained fixed ahead, unreadable.

qui-gon was motionless.

mace windu offered the vaguest incline of his chin.

“your terms are understood,” he said.

naem’s eyes did not waver.

“you will leave now,” he said. “and return tomorrow.”

“tomorrow,” qui-gon repeated, not as a question, but as confirmation.

“yes. at midday. you will collect kraen then.”

his voice faltered almost imperceptibly on his son’s name, but he held his ground.

“my family must be allowed to enjoy this final celebration together. one more day. one final day in which we are still whole.”

no one opposed him.

naem’s hands fell slowly to his sides.

“you understand what you are asking of me. what i am giving you.”

mace windu nodded once.

“i will train him personally,” he said. “he will be guarded, educated, and shaped in accordance with the code. his name will be spoken with respect in the temple. and in time, beyond it.”

naem turned his head slightly, as if to look through the far wall.

not at the conference room.

but at everything beyond it.

the gardens. the court. the music.

the laughter of children playing under sunlight that would never fall the same way again.

“my son will leave behind his name,” naem murmured. “his titles. his bloodline. he will call no one father. no one sister.”

“such is the code,” windu answered, without apology.

“then so be it.”

qui-gon lowered his head respectfully.

obi-wan said nothing. he bowed without expression, but something behind his eyes changed, barely.

the jedi turned to go.

and the door sealed shut behind them with a faint, echoing click.

naem stood where he was.

alone in the chamber.

alone with the fading light.

the walls around him, once vibrant with the colors of his ancestors, now seemed paler, distant. the voices of the courtyard had dulled, as though the world beyond the stone had turned to glass. he drew a breath that did not quite reach his lungs.

he thought of kraen’s wild, uneven laughter, the way he had once fallen asleep with a training saber still clutched to his chest.

he thought of vasharre’s serene, elegant voice, the way her small fingers still curled around his hand during temple visits, her eyes always scanning the ceiling as if the stars might be carved into it.

he thought of darmah.

and of enshid.

and of the prophecy.

for only through the wisdom and discipline of the forceborn shall balance be truly fulfilled…

naem had never given himself over to visions. never claimed to speak for the future. but he had been raised with the the living force interwoven in his life. his uncle’s memory lived in spirit within the halls of the jedi temple, continued to echo in the skyscrapers of coruscant. and when his father, on his final breath, had whispered that the forceborn was near, that it would emerge soon and that the galaxy would not be ready, naem had listened.

and now the shape of that future had begun to move.

and in the vast emptiness of the room, naem rharrellis bowed his head.

he thought of shining stars.

and he grieved.