The time of their passionate kiss, separated by millions of light-years, had treacherously come to an end.
Giving the most sincere smile she was capable of, Padmé Amidala ended the brief but intense communication session.
The holographic image of her beloved man flickered and vanished a second later, leaving the senator alone to wait for the next time.
She was left with mixed feelings.
A fierce battle raged within her between the woman who craved simple family happiness and the responsible politician who carried the hopes and aspirations of millions of Naboo’s inhabitants and countless trillions of Republic citizens on her fragile shoulders.
She was a senator of the Galactic Republic, the elected representative of the planet Naboo, one of the key speakers of the pacifist faction that wished to finally end this protracted civil war.
Anakin was a Jedi Knight, a defender of order in the Galaxy, a monk whose Code commanded him to renounce attachments like family or a loved one.
Finally, he was a general in the very war she so vehemently opposed, which made their secret affair make the senator look like a hypocrite.
At least in her own eyes.
Anakin was significantly younger than her.
Such an age gap is usually a stumbling block in serious relationships, but Naberrie felt good with him.
Padmé had never had a childhood in the usual sense of the word.
While her peers were experiencing their first crushes, she, as Queen of Naboo, was solving crises on a planetary scale, saving her homeworld from occupation by the Trade Federation.
Behind the exterior of an experienced politician hid a girl who dreamed of being an ordinary teenager, even for a little while.
In a way, her dream came true ten years later, when Amidala arrived on the Republic’s capital, Coruscant, on duty and met the grown-up “boy from Tatooine” again.
Secret, short, but no less passionate meetings and dates, games of spies hiding from the whole world.
All of this, defying cold logic, stirred the blood of that girl who had once dreamed of a normal childhood.
Finally, they were secretly married, and… Each of them belonged to different worlds; both, buried under the weight of others’ expectations and responsibilities, did not belong to themselves.
How many times had Padmé berated herself for a whole bouquet of negative qualities.
She should have taken the initiative and pushed him away, but every time she touched him, Padmé gave in to weakness, wanting to stretch out that moment of pleasure.
Wanting it to last just a little longer.
But now her personal selfishness no longer mattered.
The woman ran her hand over her belly, which was already beginning to round, showing beneath her layers of clothing.
Twins.
Yes, Padmé Amidala was carrying the fruit of their shared love right under her heart.
At first, the very thought of pregnancy terrified the senator.
A whole swarm of questions swirled in her head.
What about their status, their shared secret… what kind of life would await the children?
Did she have the right to bring children into this world, torn by a bloody civil war?
What would she do if Anakin, their father, was killed by the Separatists?!
All these contradictions piling on top of each other gave the senator a constant headache.
But now, the time for doubt was far behind her.
Even though the little ones were not yet born, she had already come to love them with all her heart.
The only problem left was Anakin.
Most of the talented Jedi, the most successful heroes of this war, had been recalled to the Outer Rim to fight the Separatists.
The future father didn’t even suspect his good fortune yet, and Padmé, once again, lacked the courage to tell him.
“Padmé, come back down to earth.” A familiar, soft female voice pulled the senator from the chaos of her own thoughts.
It was Naberrie’s friend and long-time ally, Senator Mon Mothma, the representative from the Bormea sector.
Her bright red hair shimmered like fire in the setting sun, and her face showed extreme concern for her dear friend’s health.
“Sorry, it must be the fatigue,” Amidala tried to reassure the Chandrilan.
“I’ll be fine.
Really.” A lie.
The sour pangs of conscience made Naberrie look away.
“Oh, what am I to do with you…” Mon Mothma sighed wearily.
“Come on, the Senate session on humanitarian aid shipments is about to start.
Bail is waiting for us.” * * * The mind-clouding veil of anger was slowly receding, returning the Jedi Knight’s ability to think clearly.
At Anakin’s feet lay the corpse of the Separatist commander he had mercilessly slain.
The arachnid-like Admiral Trench had long earned a reputation as a serious thorn in the side of the Grand Army of the Republic.
The experienced fleet commander had been giving the Republic fleet a hard time with his raiding attacks, and now he had even launched a daring assault on the Core Worlds!
Anaxis — a strategically vital planet-shipyard for the Republic, located in the Aksum sector — was under siege, while CIS ground forces stormed Fort Anaxis, the Republic’s fortified military base.
The appearance of the Separatist fleet deep in the rear of the Grand Army of the Republic had terrified the entire command structure.
Three of the most proven Jedi Generals were sent to defend the system: Mace Windu, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and Anakin Skywalker.
Anakin cast a brief glance at the cooling corpse of the oversized spider.
Trench, stripped of his weapons and most of his augmetics, was completely helpless before the peacekeeper.
Skywalker could have taken him prisoner.
That was what a true Jedi should have done.
“Take another’s life only in the direst necessity.” The words of Master Yoda, flashing through his mind, were replaced by the sight of the mangled Echo, a Clone Commando from the 501st Legion twisted by the Separatists, whom everyone had long thought dead.
Could the young Jedi Knight have let Trench live?
This piece of shit clearly deserved no mercy, but still… Gunray’s capture and escape, the second landing on Geonosis, Count Dooku’s escapes that had become an annoying routine.
If the Clone Wars had taught Skywalker anything, it was that you get rid of your enemies when you have the chance!
Anakin clenched his teeth, trying to suppress another surge of rising anger.
This spider’s ability to crawl out alive from guaranteed-death situations could rival that of Darth Maul — the old enemy of his dear teacher and friend, the young knight Obi-Wan Kenobi.
Trench had been blown up along with his own flagship several times, but the arachnid simply refused to die, continuing to harass the Republic army’s forces even after half his body had been replaced with cybernetic implants.
Yes… To make sure this spider never disturbed the peace of the Republic’s citizens again.
There was not a drop of regret, sympathy, or remorse in the Jedi’s eyes.
Trench was an enemy, and Anakin had eliminated that enemy.
That was his duty to the Order, to the Republic, to the Chancellor… The halls of the Herald of Graphia, a mighty void predator, held centuries of history.
A history inextricably linked to the unforgiven sons of the Lion.
To the Angels of Retribution.
Since the bloody Uprisings of Rasputin, the Order’s first campaign, this strike cruiser had served the warriors in grey-and-red armour.
Fate seemed to protect this vessel of the Emperor’s will through every campaign, and the ship received the least damage, coming through even the most brutal void battles unscathed.
This was what guided the then-Chapter Master when he chose the strike cruiser as one of the Order’s two flagships in the distant era preceding the unspoken schism that split the Order into two barely tolerant halves.
It was named the Herald of Graphia about half a century ago.
It had a different name long before that, but that name was no longer needed.
For the strike cruiser had rightfully earned this name, because the feat its crew had accomplished was impossible… But we have been indulging in memories a bit too much.
The ship itself had long since become the abode of the 2nd Company of the Angels of Retribution.
Or the “Blades of Valor,” as they were known within their Order.
And recently, the Inner Circle had begun holding its meetings here.
And it was at one such meeting that the fate of the Unforgiven was decided.
It was on this ship that an event would occur, fateful for many in the galaxy, a decision that many would consider heresy and great betrayal.
It was on the Herald of Graphia that the sons of the Lion would decide to abandon the crusade.
* * * The training hall was empty.
Usually, it was filled with many brothers, both veterans and yesterday’s scouts, trying to glean a measure of their senior mentors’ skill and battle experience to build something of their own upon, while maintaining the continuity of generations.
Now, most of them were in their cells, not really understanding what had happened.
Not being members of the Inner Circle, these brothers had no idea of the great changes to come… This hall had been built based on records of similar places from the time of the Great Crusade.
Spectator stands, training cages, weapon racks, rows of combat servitors — all of it seemed to serve as a portal to those times when Lion El’Jonson still walked among men.
Perhaps he had fought in one of these cages, setting a clear example for his attentive sons.
The hall, despite the oppressive feeling of emptiness, was not entirely devoid of its ancient masters’ attention.
On one of the training platforms, in a battle trance, one of the three most important figures in the Order, split in two, was relieving stress.
In the eyes of the outside world and even his brothers from other Unforgiven chapters, he was an “ordinary” captain of the second company, but within the Angels of Retribution, a huge responsibility lay on his shoulders — to lead the Order in its endless hunt for the ghosts of the past… Long ago, he had not been the Master of the Hunt.
Even earlier, as an ordinary battle brother in a tactical squad, he could not have imagined such a high and responsible position.
And in his distant youth, he had no idea that beyond his planet, in the void of black space, any life existed at all… Another swing from the combat servitor snapped him out of his thoughts.
Parrying the axe blow, he severed the servitor’s legs, then drove his sword into its chest.
The imaginary enemy, whose real threat the training servitor could only partially represent, fell before the onslaught of the Angel of Death.
“Last one,” the warrior muttered.
This fight had helped, as one of his lieutenants would say, to “blow off steam.” Training was truly refreshing, sending blood coursing through his superhuman body and helping him gather his thoughts.
This proven method had worked throughout his entire life.
Even back when the future demigod was still a man… The Master of the Hunt stepped out of the ring and collapsed onto a chair.
Half-forgotten images suddenly began to trouble his peace again: “…He stood on a mountain of corpses.
The beasts were afraid to approach him.
They growled, howled, and gnashed their teeth.
But they feared him.
He was the killer of their leader.
He was stronger.
And the beasts retreated.” “The boy slowly hobbled home.
He walked past the torn corpse of his father.
Past the bisected servants.
Past his mother, whose throat had only been slit.
He had already seen this, and so he simply walked on.” “He came out into the square.
In the distance, the battle still raged.
The monsters were retreating, but he didn’t care.” “Approaching an overturned cart, he dropped his sword.
The clang of steel was the last reminder of his master.
But now only one thing mattered — the body of a girl who looked about 12 years old.” “He carefully picked her up and gently carried the lifeless body towards the temple.
All the way, he whispered:” “Yana…” his voice trembled.
“Wake up, please.
Don’t die.” “The boy thought the temple would help.
He was wrong.
There wasn’t a single living person there, and the temple itself was burning.” “He sat for another hour by the wall of some house.
The monsters were gone from the city center, but that was all the city’s defenders had managed to do.
The boy didn’t care.” “He only looked up when a strange knight approached him.
A giant in grey armour with blood-red trim.
He shouted something in a language the boy didn’t understand, and a few seconds later, another knight ran up.
This one was in snow-white armour, and only one of his shoulder guards was grey.
He immediately took the body from his arms.
The boy was too weak to resist.” “She’s not dead.” “W-what?” “I said she’s not dead.
She just lost consciousness.
She’ll be fine.” “The boy looked at the giant, then collapsed to the ground.
A smile froze on his lips…” The Master of the Hunt stood up.
The visions had finally left him.
But why did they still torment him?
Memories of a past life before ascension… For many brothers, they were nothing more than a barely perceptible dream.
For others, on the contrary, after many years, memories of the past were completely erased.
But the Master of the Hunt remembered, if not everything, then a great deal… But why?
He didn’t know the answer to that question.
And, to be honest, he didn’t want to know.
Let the Order’s Librarians and Apothecaries deal with such questions; his lot was battle.
The Master of the Hunt loved to think in his free time.
And not just think, but that day his rest didn’t progress beyond talking to himself (and a couple of broken servitors).
One of the junior fleet officers burst through the training hall door like a bullet.
“Master Casimir!” he shouted.
“Our fleet has emerged from the Warp!
The Company Masters are summoning you to the council.” The one called Casimir smirked.
“Mortals rarely call me by name,” he thought.
“Either the youth is foolish, or fearless.
I hope it’s the latter, because not everyone can tolerate a fool as a messenger for long…” A few minutes later, the Master of the Hunt donned his armour and headed for the exit.
“Well then,” he muttered, putting on his helmet.
“I will trust that everything has happened as Farail said.” * * * “Damn it!
I’ll be damned if abi believes me when I tell him about this!” These were the first words spoken on the bridge of the Twilight Blade.
They came from a man from whom no one expected any reaction at all: Lieutenant Commander Jamil Bakir, one of the captain’s deputies, who, in the twenty years spent on the ship, had barely uttered more than a hundred words not related to void warfare.
However, now he had a good reason to let his tongue off its leash.
The experienced crew of the ship had seen it all over the long years of service.
Alongside the valiant sons of the Lion, they, simple mortals, had to pass through fire, water, and even ork captivity to temper their souls in the flames of the endless conflicts that preceded the Galaxy’s split into two uneven halves and the beginning of the Indomitus Crusade.
But emerging from the Warp in a place where the light of the Astronomican could not be seen… A common occurrence for the Imperium Nihilus, but it boded nothing good for the Imperium Sanctus… The crew learned they were a considerable distance from the Emperor’s light from the Navigator.
A scrawny youth, recently arrived from the Aldervacht house, had, surprisingly, borne the absence of the God-Emperor’s light steadfastly.
He didn’t scream, didn’t thrash around his cabin, didn’t prophesy the end of the world, as happened on other ships — he simply stated in a slightly trembling voice that he couldn’t see His divine light, and that they were perhaps somewhere outside their home Galaxy.
This calmness, incidentally, was always a reason for the unusual respect the crew held for him, having endured the previous overly emotional guide through the empyrean for far too long (may the God-Emperor keep his soul).
The Navigator’s statement was backed up by Magos Olvin, who declared that none of the surrounding star clusters matched the Martian star charts.
Captain of the Twilight Blade, Erwin Macbeth, seemed the least shocked of all.
He immediately contacted the Fleet Admiral, informing him of their strike cruiser’s status.
The crew, meanwhile, was gradually recovering from the event.
Some were already praising the God-Emperor for the Miracle and the life He had granted them, which they could once again dedicate to fighting His enemies alongside the Angels of Death.
Suddenly, their commander rose from his throne, indicating his desire to address everyone on the bridge: “My friends,” he began.
“I’m afraid I have to dampen your joy.
I have just been informed that half of our fleet was lost in the Warp.” The tremor in the captain’s voice revealed that this news had taken even him by surprise.
Erwin, an old void wolf who had seen much, had lost half his comrades in a few hours for the first time in his career.
Just yesterday he… The captain pulled himself together.
No, it was not the time for him, a veteran who already had great-grandchildren, to be despondent.
There had been worse times.
Now he needed to link up with his fleet, as the ship was a considerable distance away.
It was at that moment that the Admiral contacted them again: “Admiral Kaur speaking!
All ships, group around the flagship!
Be ready to—” The vox transmission cut off abruptly.
“Honoured Magos, what happened to the communication?” “I don’t wish to alarm you, but it appears we are being jammed,” the adept of the God-Machine replied in his indifferent mechanical voice.
“And by whom?” The Servant of the Omnissiah didn’t have time to answer.
Because at that moment, those whom Erwin feared most came on the line.
“This is the frigate Guardian of Order.
I was sent by Lady Viola Den Shin, I am her acolyte — Varrek Harahan.
We have arrived to establish contact with the fleet of the valiant sons of the Lion, as their aid is needed for the crusade.” “He’s lying,” Erwin thought grimly.
“He’s definitely here to plant a spy on us.
Or worse, to seize MY ship.
Well, we’ll see who gets whom…” “Attention, gentlemen!” the captain addressed his subordinates.
“Representatives of the Inquisition will be arriving shortly.
I am going to personally greet our ‘gracious’ guests.
In my absence, command passes to Jamil.
And may the God-Emperor protect us!”