Chapter Text
Your Current Timeline—Coruscant, Imperial Palace
You woke to the sound of crying next door. It took a moment for sleep to fade and for you to realize the noise came from the children’s room. By then, you were already moving. Your feet hit the floor, and you pulled on a robe, hurrying across the hallway to the door opposite yours.
You waved your hand at the wall controls, and the door opened quietly. Dim light from the hallway revealed Shmi’s tear-streaked face. She was curled up under a pile of blankets with her older brother. Luke held her close, his arms wrapped around her. His eyes were wide and distant, still confused from waking up.
“Mama,” Shmi’s voice trembled, tears still streaming down her flushed cheeks. “He was calling to me.”
You walked toward Luke’s bed along the far wall, passing Shmi’s bed. Her blankets were kicked aside and twisted, as if she had jumped out of bed during her nightmare and run to her brother.
As soon as you sat on the bed’s edge, Shmi reached for you. She climbed into your lap, gripping your robe with her small hands. You wrapped your arms around her and held her close.
“Shh,” you murmured against the side of her head, rubbing soothing circles along her back. “I’m here now. You’re safe.”
You turned your gaze to Luke and beckoned him closer with your free arm. He hesitated for only a moment before leaning in, settling against your other side, his head resting on your shoulder.
Soft light from Coruscant’s cityscape filtered through the curtains. Skyscrapers glowed in the night, and rain tapped gently on the windows. In the quiet room, only Shmi’s uneven sniffling broke the silence.
“Tell me what you saw,” you asked her after a while when her sniffling subsided.
“I saw daddy,” Shmi answered, her voice small. “He was calling to me. I could see him, but he couldn’t see me. He looked like he was in pain.”
Your heart ached with the pain you’d felt every day since learning Anakin was gone. You forced a smile, hiding your sadness, and gently stroked Luke’s and Shmi’s hair.
“It was just a nightmare,” you murmured. “Your father—he is not in pain. He can’t feel anything.”
“Because he’s a ghost?” Shmi asked.
When you first told the children about their father’s death, you hid the harsh truth behind a gentler lie. It was simpler than reality, which they were too young to understand. You told them their father had become like Uncle Ben, their favorite Force ghost, who sometimes visited to share stories of his adventures with Anakin and their older brother, Luke.
You told that lie out of love and a desire to protect them. Now you carried a quiet guilt, knowing you would have to let it go and tell them the truth someday.
“Because he’s a ghost,” you confirmed.
“Why hasn’t he come to visit us yet?” Luke asked.
“It… takes time,” you replied slowly. Anakin had asked you to tell Luke the truth, saying he was old enough to handle it. But you couldn’t bring yourself to crush his hopes yet. So you kept up the lie. “When a Force-sensitive person dies… it takes time for them to reconnect with the living.”
It was easier to let the children hope they might see their father again than to tell them the painful truth. Anakin would never become a Force ghost. His essence was erased from the Force when he passed through the archway on Malachor, leaving only a fragment behind. That fragment was tied to the holocron you used to defeat Palpatine, and nothing else.
Anakin was gone.
Truly, irrevocably, dead.
“I miss him,” Luke’s quiet voice cut through the dead of the night. You tightened your hold around him.
“I miss him too,” you replied, thankful that your voice didn’t shake as you silently fought the emotions that threatened to overwhelm you. You had to be strong for them.
A month had passed since the Emperor’s official burial, which was only symbolic. There was no body, only memories of the man you loved. You spent that month grieving, days blending together as you tried to care for your children, the Senate, the Empire, and your duties. It was overwhelming, but staying busy helped during the day. At night, you barely slept, and when you did, the nightmares came.
Shmi’s nightmares began a week after you came home. Luke, once bright and affectionate, had become quiet—much too quiet. Their grief was different from yours, and nothing could help their young minds. Adults watched them with pity and kept their distance, always careful around the children.
You hated it as much as they did.
Luke was more sensitive to it than his sister, and his Force abilities didn’t help. You knew he could sense people’s emotions and fleeting thoughts. More than once, Luke had asked you questions no child his age should have to ask, just as he did now.
“What am I supposed to do?”
You squeezed his shoulder. “Now? Absolutely nothing.”
“But… they keep looking at me… like I’m supposed to fix it.”
Anger flared inside you, sharp and sudden. You wanted to crush something in your hand. Instead, you turned Luke to face you, keeping your expression calm and holding back the anger you felt at having to talk about this at all.
“Listen to me, Luke.” Your voice was firm but tender. “You are eleven years old. Your only job right now is to grow. To learn. To love your sister. Nothing else, do you understand me? You are not responsible for the galaxy.”
Luke swallowed and nodded. You sighed in relief and pulled him into your arms. It was time to have the hard talk with Leia, the one you’d been avoiding for weeks. But you also had to face the issue everyone whispered about behind your back, too afraid to ask you about it directly.
There was the empty throne, Luke’s claim as the next heir, and unrest among high-ranking Imperial officials, each with their own hidden agenda.
But that could wait until morning. Right now, your children needed you, and you needed them.
“I saw the nightmare, too,” Luke whispered quietly beside you. You stilled, listening to him. “It was like dad was in a dark room… empty but loud at the same time. And he was shouting something, but I couldn’t hear him. And he couldn’t see me, but he looked panicked. He was trying to break through the thick glass… and I was on the other side of it. And then… everything just went quiet.”
Again, you cursed your inability to use the Force. You couldn’t sense what Luke felt or take away his pain. It left you feeling helpless, and you hated that.
“Dreams borrow pieces from our fears,” you spoke gently, both of your children listening intently. “And from our memories. It’s a way for our mind to deal with grief… with the pain.”
“Is that why it hurts every time I think about him?” Luke asked.
You exhaled slowly, trying to steady yourself. “Yes. It hurts because you love your father. But that love doesn’t end, even when he’s gone. Sometimes, love has nowhere to go, so it aches.”
Shmi sniffled next to you. “Will he come back if we’re good?”
She was still too young to understand death, no matter how many times you tried to explain. To her, Anakin seemed only gone for a moment, and she believed he would come back, even as a ghost. To Shmi, ghosts still felt real and alive.
“Your father won’t come back,” your voice shook, but you kept going. “Not in the way you remember. He’ll live in your memories, always with you in your heart. What he gave you—his kindness, courage, and stubbornness—will always stay with you. He left a piece of himself in each of our hearts. So in a way, he’s here with us now.”
Your children were silent for a moment, and you suppressed a shuddering breath, closing your eyes briefly.
“Can you stay here with us?” Shmi asked, her words slurred with sleepiness.
You opened your eyes, smiling down at her. “I was hoping you’d ask. Now, come here.”
You lay down on the bed, pulling both of your children close. Shmi curled into her side immediately, already asleep. Luke, on the other hand, was still awake, staring up at the ceiling.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“If I feel things… things other people don’t… is that bad?”
Your heart skipped a beat. Luke was very attuned to the Force, but he was still too young to tell his own feelings from others. Anakin wasn’t here to train him, and you had no access to the Force. You couldn’t even see Force-ghosts like Obi-Wan or older Luke to ask for help. You had few options, and you hated being in this situation.
“No, it’s not bad.”
“Even if the things I feel are… wrong?”
You chose your next words carefully. “There’s nothing wrong with feeling things besides happiness. It just means you’re human. We all have other emotions, even difficult ones. Your father understood that better than anyone.”
You paused to think. “But you don’t have to hide those feelings. It helps to let them out, or act on them if that helps. When it feels like too much, tell me. Or Leia. Or Obi-Wan. Don’t carry it alone, okay?”
“Okay,” Luke answered, just above a whisper.
“Sleep now,” you said softly, kissing the top of his head. Luke’s breathing evened out a few minutes later. You stared at the ceiling for the rest of the night, unable to sleep as you thought about what you had to do.
In the morning, you would call the meeting. It was time.
___
Coruscant, High Council Chamber
The banners had not yet been taken down.
Black and silver cloth hung in the High Council Chamber, covering the symbols that had ruled half the galaxy and governed the rest for the last ten years. Outside the transparisteel windows, Coruscant moved under a dark sky. The traffic lanes were unusually empty, almost like the planet was waiting for something.
At the end of the chamber stood the throne.
Empty.
You hadn’t dared to look at it.
You wore all black, not your usual armor, but a formal gown that showed you were both mourning and in charge. Your hair was pinned back. You hid your grief and fear behind a firm resolve, betraying yourself only by the tightness around your eyes as you waited for the room to fill, hands at your sides.
The doors of the High Council Chamber closed with a soft hiss, shutting out the distant hum of Coruscant’s traffic. For the first time in ten years, the room felt small and stifling. You swallowed hard, fighting a wave of nausea as ten pairs of eyes focused on you at the head of the crescent table.
You allowed your gaze to travel the length of a table in a single, measured sweep. Chancellor Mon Mothma sat directly to your left, wearing flowing robes in pale neutral tones, elegant but deliberately unadorned, her posture upright and her expression calm as she met your gaze.
Next to her sat Senator Leia Organa, dressed in formal but practical robes with subtle Alderaanian and Nabooian touches. She watched you from the corner of her eye, her gaze inquisitive. Maybe she sensed the tension pressing in on you from all sides. Her Force abilities had improved greatly over the decade, thanks to training from her father and her brother’s Force-ghost visits. You ignored her sharp look and turned your attention to the next person at the table.
General Lando Calrissian leaned back in his chair, wearing a general’s uniform with his own touches: rich fabrics, a flowing cape, and polished boots. His smile always meant he was thinking things through.
Next to him, General Wedge Antilles wore a neat, simple uniform. He was lean and confident, a veteran pilot who had survived battles others had not.
At the end of the table, General Jan Dodonna sat almost still. His hair was silver with age, and his uniform was plain but dignified. He watched the others from across the table, where the Imperial advisors sat.
Your gaze swept over to that side as well.
Grand Admiral Firmus Piett sat directly to your right, in his spotless white uniform, medals perfectly aligned, his posture rigid. His face was weathered and serious, marked by years of command and strain of holding the fleet together by discipline alone.
Supreme Legal Advisor Vesh Korr sat next, a thin man with metallic silver cybernetic eyes that stood out against his pale skin. His dark robes were sharply tailored, showing his preference for order and control.
Beside him, Lord-Admiral Selvar Quince wore a dark, decorated naval uniform. He was broad-shouldered and imposing, with a stern look and a square face, his ambition clear.
Minister Ralden Kye sat nearby, dressed in elaborate Core World fashion with jeweled rings on his hands. He looked polished and well-groomed, a sign of his wealth and self-interest.
Finally, at the other end of the table sat Lord Varyn Kess, the man you despised most. He wore no military uniform or senatorial robes, just dark, tailored civilian clothes marked by a small sigil at the collar: Imperial Stewardship Authority. He had served Emperor Anakin Skywalker for years as an administrator and advisor on “continuity of governance.”
That alone made him dangerous, unpredictable.
Your hands clenched for a moment when he met your eyes, his lips curling into a smile.
Piett glanced at Kess, his face showing clear dislike. Piett disliked him as much as you did. You saw the others as allies trying to keep the Empire together, but Lord Kess always seemed like a wolf pretending to be harmless.
You didn’t trust him. He smiled at you as if he believed history was already written and he had won. You looked away from him and addressed everyone in the room with a calm, steady voice.
“The emergency session of the Joint Concord Council is now in order. Let us begin,” you took your own seat at the head of the table.
The room was silent for a moment, like a calm before the storm, as everyone present assessed one another. These were the people who had once fought against one another and now commanded a unified military.
“You all know why you are here,” you continued. “Emperor Anakin Skywalker is dead. With the burial ceremony finally concluded, it leaves us with a pressing issue of who is in command.”
A ripple passed through the chamber, quiet but present.
Supreme Legal Advisor Vesh Korr leaned forward, his silver cybernetic eyes catching the light. “Your Majesty, the Galactic Concordance does not account for—”
“—a sudden absence of unified executive authority,” Chancellor Mothma finished. “Especially one tied to military command.”
Piett nodded once. “The fleets are holding formation. But some sector commanders are delaying compliance, awaiting clarification on who gives out orders.”
“Translation,” Lando drawled, tilting his head, “they’re wondering if they can get away with ignoring direct orders from you, Grand Admiral.”
Piett’s jaw tightened.
“My husband and I created this balance on purpose. Military authority was never meant to rule on its own. Any attempt to take control in his absence would break the Galactic Concordance,” you reminded everyone.
Piett’s lips thinned into a tight line, his gaze shifting to you. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, the fleets don’t run on a signed treaty. They run on chains of command.”
Your hands curled into fists under the table.
Piett was just stating the obvious, and he was right. The Galactic Concordance was signed by Emperor Skywalker and Chancellor Mothma. You inherited your title through marriage after the treaty and only acted as his liaison when Anakin was away from the Imperial Center. You had no real power, and it took only a few days to realize that after announcing the Emperor’s death.
Another voice spoke from your left, cutting off your plummeting thoughts. Minister Ralden Kye, representative of Core Worlds Commerce, adjusted his jeweled cuffs. “The markets are destabilizing. Stability was built on Emperor Skywalker’s authority. Investors require reassurance. A successor.”
The word lingered like a provocation.
You managed not to flinch. “Luke is only eleven years old.”
A heavy, deliberate silence filled the room.
“A regency would be the logical step,” said Lord-Admiral Selvar Quince of the Outer Rim Defense Council. “Temporary, of course.”
Leia immediately answered. “Temporary power structures have a habit of becoming permanent.”
Dodonna finally spoke, voice quiet but firm. “History supports Senator Organa’s concern.”
Mon raised a hand. “The Concordance was designed to prevent this very crisis. The separation between military and civilian authority—”
“—functioned because Anakin Skywalker was trusted by both,” Vesh Korr finished.
“And now?” Wedge asked, his tone level. “Who gives the orders when trust runs out?”
“My husband died to prevent another tyrant from rising, whether in robes or in uniform. I won’t let his legacy become an excuse for fear,” you said. “The survival—”
“Survival requires leadership,” Lord Kess cut in smoothly, addressing everyone at last. “And continuity.”
Leia turned sharply, her gaze penetrating. She was not fond of the man either. “And the leadership of one man invites manipulation.”
Several people glanced at her, some with approval, others with calculation.
Kess inclined his head. “Apologies, Senator Organa. Old habits. In times of crisis, the Emperor often asked me to… anticipate the worst.”
“Then anticipate this,” you spoke, drawing his attention to you. “My son is the rightful heir.”
Kess smiled again. This time, there was hunger in it.
“No one disputes Prince Luke’s claim to the throne,” he said. “But the galaxy cannot be ruled by a child. The fleets are restless. The Outer Rim is already testing borders. I agree with the Lord-Admiral. What we need is a regent.”
A murmur rippled through the chamber, quickly suppressed but not gone.
“A single authority,” Kess continued, “with executive command over both military and civil functions. Temporarily, of course,” he repeated Lord-Admiral Quince’s words. “Until the boy comes of age.
Mon’s eyes hardened. “That would dismantle the very balance Anakin Skywalker created.”
“Balance,” Kess said calmly, “is a luxury of peace.”
Leia laughed—once, sharp and humorless. “What you speak of is the ideals of a man who decides the future of the galaxy without the people’s consent. That’s exactly what my father tried to prevent.”
“Legitimacy does not equal capability,” Kess replied, unbothered. “The Senate will not place the galaxy under a child’s name while others rule in his shadow. And the fleets will not accept orders from a Senate that cannot even agree on its own authority.”
Leia scoffed. “So this is it? The military decides when democracy is inconvenient?”
Kess’s smile did not falter—but something dark flickered behind his eyes. “Senator Organa, preventing chaos sometimes requires decisive force.”
“And chaos is guaranteed when the military decides it knows better than the Senate,” she fired back.
“Enough,” you interrupted, your voice sharp. “My children will not grow up under a military regency. I won’t trade one kind of tyranny for another.”
Every head turned in your direction.
“There will be no unified regency,” you continued. “No consolidation of power.”
“Then you will have war,” Kess said calmly. “Fragmented command. Competing authorities. Governors choosing sides.”
Several murmurs filled the room, agreeing.
“Then we make the limits clear,” Leia spoke, her attention turned toward you. “No Emperor. No unilateral military authority. The Republic side of this union must finally stand on its own.”
“That will fracture the fleets.” Piett’s gaze was on you as well. “It could cause the Outer Rim to secede. The warlords would rise.”
“Only if the fleets believe they are above the law,” Chancellor Mothma carefully reminded.
You held back a sigh, your head pounding. Everyone kept avoiding the truth.
“—then we face them together— openly, lawfully—” someone else spoke, but you tuned them out.
“—propose a civilian regent, bound by law, limited in scope, until Luke comes of age—”
“—that proposal will be ignored the moment the first sector breaks ranks—”
“—or it will be defended by those of us who still believe my father’s victory meant something—”
“—belief does not stop war—”
You stood up.
“I will abdicate.”
Every head snapped toward you.
You activated the central holoprojector. The Concord Charter glimmered into view, sections pulsing in blue.
“Until Luke Skywalker reaches majority,” you started when everyone’s attention was on you, “no individual will inherit full imperial authority. Military command will be overseen by the Imperial High Council, chaired by Grand Admiral Piett. Civil governance remains under Chancellor Mothma and the Senate.”
“And the throne?” Quince pressed.
“The throne remains occupied,” you replied. “By the Empire itself.”
Lando’s smile faded. “That’s a dangerous idea.”
“It’s a necessary one,” you answered. “I will serve as Imperial Steward. Bound by charter. Accountable to this council.”
Vesh Korr’s cybernetic eyes glinted. “A temporary solution.”
“Every solution is temporary,” you said evenly. “Including peace.”
You could feel Lord Kess studying you.
“Empty thrones,” he said softly, “invite claimants.”
“The throne will remain empty,” you repeated, voice unwavering. “Held in trust for Luke Skywalker. There will be no regent with unchecked power. Not you,” your gaze cut to Kess. “Not anyone.”
Leia sat up slowly, her face hard to read, but her resolve was clear. Around the table, people were already thinking ahead, forming alliances and planning their next moves. Quince and Kye exchanged glances. Piett stared forward, already considering loyalty and logistics. Wedge’s jaw tightened as he looked at Dodonna, who nodded back. Lando gave himself a faint smile, like a gambler facing long odds.
Chancellor Mothma folded her hands. “Then let us be clear. This council does not just preserve order. It decides whether the galaxy stays united or breaks beyond repair.”
People nodded. Your gaze was on Kess, his own eyes on you, filled with challenge.
“The Senate will draft an emergency charter by dawn,” Mon spoke. “Until then, Grand Admiral, the fleets remain defensive only.”
Piett nodded. “Understood, Chancellor.”
“And if the fleets refuse?” Kess asked, his question directed to you, not Piett.
“Then they declare themselves traitors—to an eleven-year-old boy.” Your voice was cold, hard. A threat.
Kess smiled, then nodded. In that instant, a cold certainty settled over you.
This was only the beginning. Someone in the room was already reaching for the throne—with or without Luke. Beyond the sealed doors, the Empire felt it too.
The decade of certainty was over.
___
Coruscant, Imperial Palace, Training Chamber
“You seem… distracted."
You turned at the voice, your eyes searching for the dark shadows that always signaled the presence of the Sith.
You stood in the center of the large training chamber, dressed in black fighting leathers that clung to your skin. Your arms were bare except for Beskar bracers, leaving your shoulders exposed. Your hair was tied back, away from your face.
You stood motionless, eyes searching. Then it came—a burn along your right arm as the hidden runes flared to life. For a heartbeat, your focus slipped, just as Malix’s tall silhouette emerged from the shadows. His dark cloak hung still, even as unseen currents swept loose strands of hair across your face.
It still unsettled you to see him in your world, even though you’d invited him here yourself. His dark eyes flashed beneath the lights, his gaze burning straight through you.
“I had a long day,” you replied flatly. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Every day since you returned to your own timeline, you trained under the watchful gaze of the ancient Sith Lord, learning to use his power. The runes still burned along your right arm, a constant reminder. They marked everything you had lost and everything you could never be again.
You once had a connection to the Force, but now it was gone. The loss echoed in your bones, leaving emptiness where instinct used to be. The runes offered no way back, only a link to him, the Sith.
You remembered what the Force used to feel like.
That memory hurt more than any burn the runes could cause.
“You’re thinking about it again,” Malix said, his voice smooth. “The Force. The power that abandoned you.”
“Get out of my head,” you seethed, fingers twitching at your sides, muscle memory reaching for something that no longer existed.
Malix stepped forward. “You keep reaching inward. That is why you fail.”
“I’m not failing,” you said sharply.
“You do not reach for power,” he continued calmly. “You allow it to move through you.”
You flexed your marked arm. The runes blazed brighter, heat crawling beneath your skin. Shadows peeled from the chamber walls, stretching toward your feet in unnatural shapes.
Malix watched, his presence heavy as gravity itself. He didn’t move, but the air seemed to lean toward him.
“Again,” he commanded.
You inhaled, eyes closing. Against every instinct, you reached outward, connecting with the sigils etched into your skin. Darkness gathered, folding space like fabric. You opened your eyes. With a sharp step, your form blurred and reappeared meters away, boots landing clean on stone.
Teleportation, fueled not by the Force you had lost, but by the power you had been given.
Malix inclined his head slightly. “Acceptable.”
He raised his hand. The shadows on the far wall tore free, slithering across the floor like spilled ink. Towards you.
Your pulse spiked.
“Defend yourself,” Malix ordered.
The shadows lunged.
You moved on instinct, but too slowly.
A tendril snaked around your ankle, ice-cold even through your boots, yanking you down. You slammed your palm against the stone, teeth clenched as you hit the ground. The shadows lunged, clawing at your skin, leaving behind phantom marks.
“Stop!” you screamed.
Nothing happened for a split second.
Then Malix sighed, disappointment flickering in his eyes. With a lazy flick of his hand, he froze the shadows. You glared up at him from the floor.
“This is why you keep failing,” he said, stepping closer and looming over you. “You try to fight as you once did, with the Force guiding you and controlling your instincts. Now, you must learn to fight as you are.”
Your eyes flashed. “And what, exactly, am I?”
“A shadow.”
He reached for your marked arm. You tried to pull away, but his grip was unyielding. The runes flared, heat flooding your veins. Darkness stirred in answer. You sucked in a sharp breath.
“Do you feel that?” Malix asked. “That resistance? That anger?”
“Yes,” you admitted through clenched teeth. “And I hate it.”
“Good.”
The shadows surged again, stronger this time.
“Now stop asking for power,” Malix commanded. “And start taking from it.”
Something inside you broke—not with rage, but with grief. The hollow ache where the Force once lived forced you to stop reaching inward.
You reached outward. The runes ignited again.
Space folded.
You vanished.
Malix’s shadows struck empty air as you reappeared behind him, boots hitting stone hard enough to crack it. You raised your hands, darkness condensing—sharp and solid—until twin black blades formed from nothing, humming with unstable energy. They resembled lightsabers, but their edges devoured light instead of casting it.
Malix smirked. At his gesture, the shadows surged. Instinct took over. With a practiced motion, you moved. He moved as well.
Your skill with dual blades was unmistakable—fluid spins, precise strikes, perfect balance. You carved through the advancing shadows as if they were flesh and blood, every move honed by years of discipline, not raw power.
Malix finally stepped forward, his presence intensifying. With a flick of his fingers, the shadows reformed behind you, faster this time.
The runes flared.
This time, you did not turn. Did not move. Did not teleport. You commanded the darkness to obey. Shadows surged up like a wall, halting his strike mid-motion before shattering into smoke.
Silence followed.
You stood trembling, twin blades still humming in your hands.
“I didn’t feel the Force,” you said quietly, your eyes wide. It shouldn’t have been possible for you to stop his attack without sensing it.
Malix smiled. “Exactly.”
He studied you, crimson light reflecting faintly in his eyes. “The Sith before me believed power came from domination— of others, of the galaxy, of the Force itself. They were fools.”
He circled you slowly. “Power comes from accepting what you are when everything else is stripped away.”
The blades in your hands flickered, uncertainty rippling through you.
“And what am I?” you repeated the question.
Malix’s smile faded, his voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to vibrate in your bones.
“You are the void they left behind. The echo of what was lost. The hunger that remains.”
He stopped in front of you, his dark cloak brushing against the stone. The crimson glow in his eyes deepened, as if he could see the storm inside you— the grief, the anger, the hollow space where the Force once thrived.
“You are not a Jedi. Nor a Sith. You are not what you were. And that is your strength.”
The words settled over you like a shroud. The blades in your hands steadied, their unstable energy humming in sync with the runes on your arm. The shadows around you pulsed, as if waiting for your command.
“You no longer need the Force to win on the battlefield,” he announced. “Through me, you will become something… no one has ever dreamed of seeing.”
You opened your mouth.
“The training is over,” he said. “Get some rest. Tomorrow we will resume where we left off.”
He vanished into a swirl of shadow, leaving you alone in the training chamber before you could reply. Exhaustion threatened to drop you to the floor, your knees suddenly weak. The blades faded and the runes dimmed, but your arm still burned.
You had not reclaimed your lost powers.
You had become something new—and that frightened you more than Malix ever could.