Fate/Knights of the Heroic Throne

13thsephiroth · Aug 28, 2025

Fate/Knights of the
Heroic Throne

Disclaimer: This story is set in an alternate universe that diverges from established Star Wars lore. I'm not confident enough to follow Star Wars lore one-to-one, but I'll do my best to respect both Legends and canon where possible. Some timelines and characters' ages have been adjusted to either fit a narrative or just for the sake of it. Shirou Emiya (former Counter Guardian EMIYA) and Arturia Pendragon (former Saber Alter) won't be curbstomping Jedi and Sith—they're both powerful, respectively—but both Jedi and Sith could also reach heights that could rival legends.

Chapter Intro
Human order: Restored.
History: Preserved.
But what of the ones who made it possible?
Heroic Spirits—echoes of legends, bound to vessels, fated to fade without remembrance.
But a wish was made.
One last miracle from humanity's saviour—
that her fallen companions might live once more.

Story Starts
-=&<o>&=-
Prologue Chapter 0 -
The Sword and the
Once Tyrant's Arrival

Live your lives well—my brave, beloved companions.

Galactic Year: 34 BBY

Beep! Beep! Beep! …Thud!

Shirou Emiya—former counter guardian and all-around janitor for the will of humanity—groaned at the sound of the chronometer, after being summarily kicked out of the sleeper.

With his forehead mashed against the cold floor, Shirou let out a pained groan, the chronometer's beeping gnawing at his resolve.

Something soft struck his back—Arturia's sleepy voice followed. "Shirou!"
Shirou jerked upright with a groan, pawing at the chronometer in the near-total dark.

It took Shirou a moment to adjust—02:27 on the chrono, and he almost forgot Naboo ran on a straight twenty-six-hour day. Meaning it was early morning, about four hours before first light—and he wasn't about to lose another chronometer to Arturia's temper as he clicked the alarm off.

With a sigh, Shirou retrieved the pillow from the floor and tossed it at the lump under the covers—shorts and pale legs poking out beneath the blanket, the scent of booze lingering around the groaning mess.

The only reply was half-hearted groans and unintelligible mumblings, followed by snoring.

Shirou chuckled as he left a glass of water and some pain meds on the nightstand before he went down to begin his morning routine.

-=&<o>&=-

Bathed in moonlight and the scent of damp leaves, Shirou sat on a wooden bench, the cool morning breeze brushing past. He sat down with his cup of Caf—laying it on the space beside him and tore off a corner of the warm flatbread coated with a thin brushing of bantha butter already melting.

He sat at the edge of the Palace Plaza, still not entirely used to the buildings around him. The architecture was strange—structures topped by domes that resembled something out of the Middle East, with sharp lines and columns that felt almost Greek or Roman, yet had an odd, faint resemblance to ancient Egyptian architecture, but modernised.

But it wasn't just the city that stood out. The surrounding forest pressed close to the capital, green and dense. It reminded him of the thick tropical jungles he'd fought back in the seventh Lostbelt—and yet, there was something more extraordinary, more structured in how the trees layered themselves. It felt almost like a European forest at the same time.

Most likely… it was her wish that landed them here—one last miracle before the curtain fell. He'd expected to be dragged back into Alaya's shadow until the altered version of Arturia quietly sat down beside him.

For once, the ever-stoic king had confessed fear—of what might come next. After all, her very existence was an anomaly, born of a corrupted Grail system.

Coupled with the phenomenon of the singularities, she had been given a legend, history, and significance. What once was just an Arturia Pendragon, who was just a corrupted version of herself—by a vessel containing all of humanity's sins—is now given a legend. The Tyrant-King, with her Excalibur, warped by Vivian's counterpart, Morgan.

And yet, Excalibur remained a divine construct—despite its form. It wasn't corrupted. If anything, it had been unleashed.

Though branded a tyrant, the truth was more complicated. Both versions of Arturia held the same ideals: a 'perfect king' who placed the prosperity of her kingdom above all else.

One remained chaste, out of duty rather than virtue—a king who placed responsibility above desire, suppressing personal connections for the sake of the throne and her subjects. Yet in doing so, she forefeited something essential and was no longer seen as human by those she served.

The other embraced a tyrant's crown—believing a true king must be willing to become a symbol of fear if it meant shielding her people, even if it meant being hated.

In the end, from Shirou's perspective, both are almost essentially the same: kingdom first, self last. Disconnected. Elevated. A king apart from those they ruled.

Throughout their time in Chaldea, she had mellowed somewhat—no longer rejecting anything that wasn't deep-fried, processed, or sugar-laced.

He chuckled at the memory. Arturia, king of stoicism, had looked personally betrayed when dinner came skewered and smoking, not wrapped in flimsiplast wrap.

Thankfully, Shirou still had access to his tracing. He could at least spear a fish—though he consistently felt some resistance whenever he did. After further analysis revealed nothing wrong with the traced weapons, he chose to ignore it for now.

He hadn't experimented much, but at the very least, he could still trace his ever-trusted married blades. Meanwhile, Arturia could still feel Excalibur's presence—but couldn't seem to grasp or draw it.

The strangest part was the bond. It resembled a Master-Servant connection, except that it was mutual and balanced. This, too, has not been explored yet, as they are still adjusting to their new life.

And with that final thought, Shirou checked his chrono device on his wrist and wiped his somewhat greasy hands on a cloth wipe. He then downed the now-cooled caf, holding the greasy handle with the cloth wipe, before returning to their home, ready to start the day.

-=&<o>&=-

Shirou leaned casually against the frame of their blue-and-yellow SoroSuub AV-21 Landspeeder, one arm propped on the side, his head resting on his knuckles, the other hand on the steering yoke. The wind whistled past, brushing his white hair back, while yellow-tinted goggles shielded his eyes.

Luckily, when they'd awakened in this strange new world—much like the grail system—they'd been granted the knowledge and skills needed to survive in this peculiar galaxy. Most likely the result of that wish.

So, from speaking to the locals to operating these hover vehicles was natural to both Arturia and Shirou. Conveniently, they'd also found identification, two chrono devices, two comlinks, and a credit chip loaded with one hundred thousand credits—though they only discovered the latter later.

Shirou coasted past the silent stalls of the river market, the early hour keeping the city hushed. Instead of stopping, he turned toward the docks—just in time to see a repulsorlift vessel ease into the berth beside him, punctual as ever.

"Oi! Yer early as always, good morning." A gruff, grey-haired, sun-weathered man from the deck of the vessel. The two of them then exchanged three flat, lightweight metal boxes—each about forty-five centimetres square and five and five centimetres thick.

"Much appreciated, lad. But are you sure you want to do this every time?" The family patriarch, Garron Vellasis, asked, eyeing the boxes. "It's more than enough for a couple of days."

"You don't need to worry too much," Shirou assured him with a smile. "You and your family helped Arturia and me a great deal. This is just repayment—plus the dough's already at peak fermentation—any later and it goes to the refuse bin."

Of course, Shirou didn't say that he'd always prepare three extra doughs, three days prior to doing an ingredient run.

For the first few days, they stuck to the river's edge, following its current with the quiet hope that they would soon find a city or a town.

Their identification listed their birthplace as Naboo—a temperate Mid Rim planet, apparently known for its river, lakes, and greenery. Judging by the surrounding vegetation and the fish he'd caught for their meals, it seemed they probably were on their supposed planet of origin.

Most vessels drifted past without so much as a glance. But on the fourth day, one slowed. A Family of fisherfolk, haulers, and part-time ferrymen—curious enough to stop and kind enough to offer help.

They said they'd seen the two of them days earlier—lingering by the riverbank, clearly lost. Curiosity prevailed over caution, and they came to offer their help.

For whatever reason, they'd offered a free ride to Theed—the capital city— without asking for anything in return. Shirou and Arturia hadn't questioned it too hard, as they boarded the floating vessel.

The trip took three more days, with the family stopping in towns and ports along the way—offloading their catch, making deliveries, and trading as they went.

Over those three days, Shirou handled most of the cooking. The Vellasis didn't complain—quite the opposite—especially once tasting the results. Unfamiliar ingredients didn't slow him down. Whatever knowledge they'd been granted worked, and Shirou kept the meals coming, same as always.

Of course, feeding the Pendragon stomach meant that he had to spear an extra fish or twenty—not wanting to burden their benefactors any more.

Hunger's the enemy, indeed. Her favourite line, usually delivered while halfway through her third helping.

"Well now, you spoil us, lad," Garron said with a grin, laying the boxes down and popping the top. A fragrant burst of steam rolled out.

"Oi! Miala! Tenno! Lessa! Come get a slice while we shift the crates—Shirou's got his own haul to collect.

-=&<o>&=-

Dawn stretched across the city, and the first waves of life began trickling into the streets. Ahead of schedule, Shirou let the speeder idle through the waking city—no need to rush back just yet.

Home… Still a foreign word. But every so often, on quiet mornings like this, Shirou found himself watching the city stir—and letting himself believe it might be real.

He was grateful to the Velassis, and—though she'd never admit it out loud—Arturia was too. She usually insisted on joining his supply runs, especially when there was something she 'absolutely had to purchase'... which meant food. Always food. The greasier the better.

Somehow, she and Lessa, the Velassi's youngest daughter, had bonded—over a holodrama of all things. Last night was the season finale.

Three episodes back-to-back. Triple the ads. Every complaint—hers especially—still managed to echo straight through permacrete.

Due to the show's popularity and the fact that it was this season's finale, it was marred by advertisements, much to her quite vocal and loud frustrations, which emanated from our restaurant below our living space.

She and a few of our neighbours and regular customers had a holodrama watch session downstairs—accompanied, unsurprisingly, by a bit too much libation. Even through a floor of stone, Shirou hadn't been spared the sound. He figured she'd gotten maybe two hours of sleep by the time he woke up, so he let her be.

Moments like these reminded him how strange—and lucky—their arrival on this planet had been. If not for the Velassis, he wasn't sure where they'd be.

The speeder glided to a quiet halt behind the restaurant, its low hum fading into the stillness of the early morning—another small comfort they were lucky enough to stumble upon.

Meeting the Velassis had been sheer luck. Somewhere along their slow journey to the capital, someone had asked about their plans—Shirou, half-distracted, muttered something about maybe opening a restaurant.

That offhand comment turned into an introduction—to Balron and Tessari Nyl. Balron, in his mid-sixties and born on Naboo, had once worked in logistics—until he grew tired of upper management. He left and opened a restaurant near the Palace Plaza.

Tessari, a Pantoran in her early sixties, was a former casino accountant who eventually joined her then-boyfriend in running the restaurant's back end.

With no children to tie them down, they planned to retire in style—spending their remaining years and credits in Canto Bight, an infamous resort-and-casino city haven in the planet Cantonica.

After tasting Shirou's food—and after Tessari had talked Arturia's ear off—they were offered a generous deal: no down payment, just 600 credits a month, plus a 10% share of profits during repayment and for fifteen years after the final instalment.

The best part? If their 10% profit share amounted to at least twice the monthly rent, half of that value was credited as rent—and any extra was carried over. No need to pay an extra 600 on top of that.

Seven months in, and they'd already paid off over half of the 160,000—credit price tag. With luck, the place would be theirs by year's end.

"Welcome back, Shirou." The flat voice from his left—no mistaking it. Arturia, leaning just far enough around the swoop bike for her torso to be visible, braced herself with one arm and casually bit into a crust. He'd already been preparing the usual three pizzas for the Velassis—so he figured, might as well make three more for Arturia's breakfast.

She was probably eating while tuning her bike, cross-legged on the floor, same as always.

The swoop bike had been a parting gift from the Pantoran—skylane legal, sure, but that didn't stop her from tearing through the forest whenever the mood struck. She called it a 'relaxing cruise'.

Shirou suppressed a shiver at the memory of him riding behind Arturia—clinging on for dear life as Arturia blazed through the woods surrounding Theed.

"Morning. Been up long? Shirou asked as he started unloading the speeder—stacking crates carefully near the rear entrance—his muscles moving on autopilot—while his brain ran through every hair-raising moment of that so-called 'relaxing cruise'. Near-miss, they called it. Stupid phrase when it literally means the opposite. Every moment of that ride was a near-collision.

"I believe I awoke just as you departed. How were the Velassis? And… the medicine helped. Thank you," Arturia said, voice as cool and clipped as ever—formal even in gratitude.

"They're well. Lessa asked for you—I told her you were up late. She'll likely swing by tomorrow," Shirou said, brushing off a speck of flour from one of the crates.

"It would be pleasant to see Lessa. I have cleaned the dining area and set the doughs out to warm," she said evenly, leaning in to resume her work on her bike.

Shirou murmured a quiet thanks and slipped through the back, arms full, already sorting the tasks ahead in his mind.

"...!"

Something clicked. Shirou leaned out of the kitchen's rear entrance.

"Arturia, mind parking the speeder? I left my speeder bike in the bay as well."

In response, a pale greyish hand shot up from around the corner—thumbs-up, no questions asked.

-=&<o>&=-
END

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If you want to read Ch 1, 2, and 3.1-3.2, head over to patreon.

13thsephiroth · Sep 1, 2025

Pre-AN: If you want to know who Tsabin is and don't really care about being spoiled, since her actual known name would only come up after this arc. So up to you.

Fate/Knights of the
Heroic Throne

Disclaimer: This story is set in an alternate universe that diverges from established Star Wars lore. I'm not confident enough to follow Star Wars lore one-to-one, but I'll do my best to respect both Legends and canon where possible. Some timelines and characters' ages have been adjusted to either fit a narrative or just for the sake of it. Shirou Emiya (former Counter Guardian EMIYA) and Arturia Pendragon (former Saber Alter) won't be curbstomping Jedi and Sith—they're both powerful, respectively—but both Jedi and Sith could also reach heights that could rival legends.

Chapter Intro
Human order: Restored.
History: Preserved.
But what of the ones who made it possible?
Heroic Spirits—echoes of legends, bound to vessels, fated to fade without remembrance.
But a wish was made.
One last miracle from humanity's saviour—
that her fallen companions might live once more.

Story Starts
-=&<o>&=-
Chapter 1 -
The Future Handmaiden

Tsabin Vareli—Tsabin to those who knew her—groaned as dim morning light slipped through the shuttered balcony doors. She yawned, high and sharp, stretching until her spine popped; the blanket slid to her waist, a strap of her sheer black nightgown sliding halfway down her arm.

She rubbed at one eye and hunched forward with a groan, fumbling across the bed until her fingers found her datapad and the control fob. She thumbed the holoscreen on, its glow spilling over her as she skimmed today's schedule.

It had defaulted to the news channel—of course—and there it was: their latest planetary scandal splashed across the HoloNet. A polished anchor from the Coruscant News Net recited details of suspected political assassinations tied to King Veruna.

She filed the scandal under future Tsabin's problem and shut off the feed, eyes landing on the chrono's pale digits.

06:58—about half an hour after first light. She stifled another yawn behind her hand while her other arm arched high, reaching over the bed toward her nightstand.

Her fingertips found the smooth bottle of hydration drops. With a practised tilt of her head, she pried one eyelid open, let two drops fall, then switched to the other eye.

The cool sting made her blink twice. Excess moisture slid down to her cheeks, and she swiped it away with the fold of her blanket.

"Caf…" She vocalised yearning for a pick-me-up as they finished their meeting just shy of six hours ago, meaning she probably only had two to three hours of sleep.

She couldn't even use a sedative as she couldn't risk sleeping in. She grumbled about wanting more hours in a day as she stood up, her feet touching the cold Nabooan marbled floor.

Her toes sank into the plush warmth of her slippers. A satin robe slid over her shoulders, its untied belt swaying with her steps. The loose fabric parted, and the hem of her nightgown whispered against the smooth skin of her toned thighs—her tri-weekly training regimen still leaving their mark despite the recent strain on her schedule.

What had started as a local push was now a current, pulling in support from all sides. Naboo's own senator in the Republic, a banking clan, and several shadowed political patrons had stepped in behind the scenes. The senator's reach into the Core gave them valuable connections—though she doubted his aid came without a price.

Their monarch might sit on the throne, but his authority existed only because the people allowed it to do so. And only the people could take it back.

Five days from now, they would try. The planned demonstration had been a nightmare to arrange—the governor of Theed buried them in bureaucratic binds—but Senator Palpatine's discreet influence had carved a way through.

Like most allies in this fight, Palpatine wouldn't stake his name in public. Tsabin, however, had her own theories about what he stood to gain.

Tsabin stepped out into the hall, shuffling toward the dining area with no particular haste.

"One day, we're going to have a guest in here—and you'll be giving them a free show." The voice came light but edged in amusement.

She turned and found Padmé Naberrie, still in last night's attire, a plate of fruit in one hand and a steaming cup—almost certainly caf—in the other.

Only then did Tsabin glance down, taking in the parted robe and sheer nightgown beneath. Not transparent but enough for outlines to show… and for the cool air to draw attention to certain pointy details.

"If this imaginary guest happens to be handsome, I'd be doing them a service by showing off the goods," Tsabin quipped, giving her chest a theatrical squeeze.

"Ahh, you—you're impossible," Padmé sputtered, cheeks heating as she flicked a grape in her direction.

Tsabin plucked the fruit neatly from the air, popped it between her lips and claimed a seat—deliberately facing away from the holoscreen as Padmé focused on Corscant News Net's latest on King Ars Veruna.

"Have you even slept yet?" Tsabin asked, helping herself to a cup of caf.

Only then did she notice Padmé's drink—just steaming water with a slice of meiloorun citrus floating in it, not the caf she'd first assumed.

Padmé let out a weary sigh and switched off the holoscree; the feed had moved on from Naboo. "I've just spent the last hour on a holocall with Senator Palpatine, going over the talking points for my speech at the demonstration."

Padmé pushed her chair back and stood, stretching lightly. "I'm going to nap for a bit before I start on today's meeting prep." She set her dish into the automatic washer and looked over her shoulder. "What about you—any rest? What's keeping you busy today?"

"I think I managed a luxurious three hours of sleep," Sabe said with a sarcastic smile. "But we're in the home stretch now. I can sneak in naps here and there—just like back when we were cramming academy deadlines between intern shifts.

She flicked through her datapad. "Let's see… compile poll stats, get Sasha to link me with someone from environmental, and hunt down something edible for the team—but I think Su Yan sent me something and her recommendations."

She clicked on an unread message from Su Yan—The Empty Pantry. 'Weird name, ' she thought, smirking.

Then arms slipped around her from behind, warm and familiar. "Thank you, as always."

The soft scent of Padmé's perfume mingled with the warmth of her breath as she rested her chin on Tsabin's shoulder. "You've always had my back."

Tsabin leaned in until their cheeks touched, her fingers curling gently around Padmé's forearm, tracing idle shapes against her sleeve.

"Always. Who else would endure your relentless idealism, oh—"

Padmé's fingers pinched her side before she could finish. "You're insufferable," she said, though the small smile tugging at her lips betrayed her."

Tsabin leaned back, arms lifting above her head. "Enough sentiment—you've got a bed calling your name, and I've got a day's worth of errands.

"Well, maybe half a day's worth." She quickly amended.

"Eat before you head out," Padmé replied, pausing in the doorway. "And you should rest too."

"One battle at a time," Tsabin said with a small smile, watching to make sure Padmé's footsteps led to her quarters.

-=&<o>&=-

Tsabin steered the speeder toward the Palace Plaza, the drone of the repulsors fading into the background noise of midday traffic. She glanced at the chrono—half past noon already—and angled toward the restaurant Su Yan had sworn was worth the trip.

Before the change in ownership, the building had housed The Marble Kettle, where she, Padmé, and a handful of friends had lingered over caf and laughter in their university years. Its closure still felt like a small loss, and it was unfortunate that they couldn't visit such a place full of memories recently. Plus, few places could match the decadence of their desserts.

The kindly Nabooan and Pantoran owners had been as much a fixture as the marble counters, slipping her and Padmé free samples whenever they stopped by. Back then, it was often a walk to or from the Palace Plaza with friends—or, in her case, a date with her then-fun, charming, and sweet boyfriend, Casius Virello. He would later introduce Padmé to her first boyfriend, Tavern Duroli.

They'd both been engineering majors, and the four of them had roamed the Palace Plaza on countless double dates. The Marble Kettle had usually been their unofficial last stop, a place to end the evening over decadent desserts.

Being two years ahead, the men had graduated early and taken positions with Kuat Drive Yards. With Padmé and Tsabin buried in internships and coursework, and the men embarking on their careers, all agreed that distance would be unkind.

So they made time for one last week together—Padmé, persuasive as ever, winning her parents' blessing to use their villa in the Lake Country

On the second morning, the quiet villa was broken by the sight of Casius and Tavren locked in a slow, passionate kiss.

They'd laughed nervously when confronted, explaining that they'd always been close—too close for the comfort of their traditional families—and that they were attracted to both men and women. They cared for Padmé and Tsabin, but also for each other, and were caught in the heat of the moment.

What could have ended the trip instead transformed it; the rest of the week was a blur of shared touches, whispered laughter, and a sexual awakening none of them would forget.

They parted on warm terms, maintaining contact over the years. Both men had since earned promotions to lead their own projects and, unsurprisingly, had made their relationship official.

Padmé and Tsabin had never been a couple, yet their bond had grown closer ever since that week, sometimes blurring into intimacy when circumstances—and desire—aligned.

When Caius and Tavren visited last year, they'd all slipped back into the pleasures of their Lake Country escape without hesitation. Now, with Naboo's politics souring by the week, those memories felt impossibly distant—like sunlight through tinted glass. These days, every private indulgence was a potential liability, and Tsabin carried that awareness like a weight on her shoulders.

The illusion broke as she eased her speeder into the multi-tier bay a block from the Palace Plaza, the hum of the repulsorlifts echoing in the enclosed structure. She followed the glowing guide-strips to an open slot on the second tier, the kind of half-secluded space she'd learned to prefer. From here, the sunlit arches of the plaza were just a thin sliver between the bay's duracrete walls.

She killed the engine, locking the speeder before slipping out and tightening her robe. The political tension she'd been living in had made her hyper-aware of her surroundings—eyes scanning the shadows, ears tracking the distant hiss of lift doors.

A low whine drew her attention: a speeder bike approaching along the row. She paused, waiting for it to pass, but instead of continuing on, the bike glided to the end of the lane and swung back.
A prickle of unease ran up her spine. Her hand twitched toward the inside pocket where her blaster should have been—then she cursed silently.

She'd left it in the speeder. Ever since everyone had been tied publicly to opposition movements, they'd been taking self-defence classes and carrying for security… well, trying to.

The rider slowed to a stop a few metres away, the bike still hovering in idle. He was unfamiliar—yet there was something disconcertingly familiar in his bearing. A plain white shirt, simple black slacks, and over it, a striking long coat of deep crimson leather. Broad shoulders strained against the seems, sleeves tugged by the muscles of his arms. Light brown skin, short white hair, sharp grey eyes. He was… handsome. And that only made her more wary.

"Ms Valerie, right?" His voice was a rich, warm baritone—unexpectedly civil for someone blocking her in.

'Was he putting up a pretence to catch me off guard?' The thought came sharp and reflexive.

"It's Vareli," she corrected, her tone cool, shoulders squaring in quiet readiness in case the encounter turned.

"Ah, yes—my apologies. Vareli, Tsabin." The man inclined his head slightly as though trying to smooth away any unease. "You're the one who placed the large feast order earlier." His mouth quirked, faintly amused. "I'd guess you've just parked here and were planning on walking the rest of the way to the restaurant."

He swung a leg over and dismounted, and it was only then that she caught his full height. The bike hovered beside him, engine purring in idle, as he unhooked something from the side compartment.

Holding it out—a sleek black riding helmet—he said, "Name's Emiya. I'm one of the owners of The Empty Pantry… and the one who took your order. Do you need a ride?"

"Uh…" Tsabin stared at the helmet, the unexpected civility of the gesture taking the edge off her suspicion to make her pause. "That's… not the offer I thought you'd be making."

She hesitated, eyeing the helmet, then him. "Do you give all your customers personal delivery service?"

Emiya's brow lifted in quiet amusement. "Well, I usually wouldn't leave my restaurant mid-service. But I'd forgotten my food transport containers in the speeder, so I had no choice. I recognise you from the holocall and I wouldn't want a high-paying customer later thinking I passed them by without offering the neighbourly thing."

He was nice? With a dry edge to his sarcasm. And there was something in the way he spoke—confident, easy—as if he was used to bantering with people of higher station without ever sounding deferential.

"Excuse me," he said, pulling out of her thoughts. "While I'm sure my partner could handle the restaurant alone, I'd like to return sooner rather than later. So do you need—or want—a ride?"

"Uh." Was again her succinct reply.

-=&<o>&=-
END

AN: Tsabin Vareli is Sabé before she changed her name when she pledged herself to Queen Padmé Amidala, neé Nabberie. She seems to suffer from a condition where she was born without a family name, quite the unfortunate predicament, so I gave her one.

Story Tracker|Story ETAs

If you want to immediately read the next chapter, head over to
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If you want to read Ch 2, 3.1-3.2, and 4.1 head over to
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13thsephiroth · Sep 5, 2025

Fate/Knights of the
Heroic Throne

Disclaimer: This story is set in an alternate universe that diverges from established Star Wars lore. I'm not confident enough to follow Star Wars lore one-to-one, but I'll do my best to respect both Legends and canon where possible. Some timelines and characters' ages have been adjusted to either fit a narrative or just for the sake of it. Shirou Emiya (former Counter Guardian EMIYA) and Arturia Pendragon (former Saber Alter) won't be curbstomping Jedi and Sith—they're both powerful, respectively—but both Jedi and Sith could also reach heights that could rival legends.

Chapter Intro
Human order: Restored.
History: Preserved.
But what of the ones who made it possible?
Heroic Spirits—echoes of legends, bound to vessels, fated to fade without remembrance.
But a wish was made.
One last miracle from humanity's saviour—
that her fallen companions might live once more.

Story Starts
-=&<o>&=-
Chapter 2 -
The Empty Pantry

The first thing Tsabin thought as she settled behind him was simply—'his back's large.'

At least she'd chosen to wear pants beneath her robe. In a dress, she might have to hitch up the skirt and risk flashing the stranger.

'Emiya. That's an unusual name,' She wondered if his parents had come from another Mid Rim world—like the Pantoran wife of the man who'd once owned The Marble Kettle, before it became The Empty Pantry.

He'd been courteous, offering a steadying hand as she climbed onto the speeder. His grip hand had been rough with callouses, his hand broad against hers—the kind of hand shaped by work. Or perhaps by training.

It fit. His build was strong and lean, not the bloated bulk of bodybuilders but the hardened frame of someone who'd laboured most of his life. Maybe he'd saved enough credits from it to open a restaurant.

'Though, I wonder what type of work would leave callouses between your thumb and index fing—'

"Ms Vareli." His warm baritone cut into her thoughts.

She blinked, startled—it struck her they'd already stopped. The street was one she knew well.

The same narrow alleys she and Padmé had haunted in their younger days stretched before her, before politics and duty turned those days into cherished memories.

She removed the helmet he'd lent her and leaned towards the bike's holo-mirror, fingers combing her hair back into place.

Satisfied, she swung her leg over the idle bike. Nodding her thanks, she accepted his hand as she alighted from the vehicle. Unfortunately, her heel caught one of the bike's pedals as she stumbled into the man.

In response, he easily steadied Tsabin as he grasped her hands a little more firmly and palmed her shoulder, but not lingering.

"Careful," he said mildly, setting her straight before moving on. He opened the speeder's storage, lifting out container units. "Entrance's around the corner. You can sit by the counter—I'll be with you shortly"

A burst of raucous cheering came from that way. Emiya gave her a rueful little smile. "Apologies for the noise."

Then he was gone, slipping inside through what she assumed was the restaurant's back door—leaving her alone.

"..."

For some reason, Tsabin felt mildly irritated. She looked down at her outfit, which was terrific as always, and then gazed at her reflection in the bike's holo-mirror. From that angle, the holo-mirror gave her a clean side profile—face and shoulders framed just so.

She found nothing amiss. Beauty was one of her constants; not vanity, simply a fact she'd long since accepted. She'd long grown used to the attention—men and the occasional woman turning their heads, the weight of stares on her back, the endless flirtations, bold or quiet.

Which, of course, could be frustrating sometimes, especially in her line of work. Too many times, older men of power, lecherous and smug, or pampered heirs, had tried their luck. Though some of them would probably be an interesting lay, she at all times maintained an air of professionalism.

Something about not eating where you shit—of course, Padmé's the occasional exception.

But this Emiya kept his distance. Instead of the usual 'hold on tight' trick, he'd simply pointed to the side handles.

Even when she stumbled, he'd steadied her with the bare minimum of contact, offering only a curt warning to be careful.

No lingering glances, no suggestive excuses, no hint of interest at all.

'Hmph. His loss.'

Tsabin turned the corner and was faced with a swoop bike, parked at the side of the establishment. Heat shimmered in the air—midday sun pressing down, the plaza's clamour bleeding into the side streets.

As the restaurant sat at the corner entrance of the street, facing the Palace Plaza, this bike was either registered or they were just blatant with the—usually illegal and infamous—vehicle.

She shrugged—she wasn't Security Forces.

As she turned the next corner, a blast of noise hit her—jeers, laughter, the groans of disappointment—just as a body lurched into view, nearly colliding with her. He caught himself against the wall and heaved, retching into the street.

"You there—" a stoic yet dignified voice said, cutting through all the raucous, "come assist your downed comrade, here."

Tsabin hurriedly moved away from the retching figure, only to face a peculiar scene.

The restaurant was packed, credits sliding hand to hand as losers groaned and winners toasted their so-called 'maid goddess.'

'Whatever that means,' thought Tsabin.

A group of five men, of which four were hunched over a table, their foreheads leaning heavily against the table. At the same time, the fifth had his cheek mashed against the table, looking at the figure that seemed to hold the attention of everyone in the establishment.

At the centre of this all stands a petite, slender woman in her late teens or early twenties. She was dressed in a black-and-white dress with frills and an apron, stockings tight above the knees and a ribbon at her hair and throat. It looked cute, almost playful—yet the expression on her face was anything but.

Her expression was severe, framed by light-golden blonde bangs and locks, and her yellow-golden eyes were sharp as a sky raptor's. The mismatch only made her stand out more.

In her right hand, she held a mop and a bucket, extended toward the hunched man at the centre table. And on her left hand was a large folded triangular flatbread in which she bit, a sharp 'mokkyu' sound escaping as the crowd leaned in.

"See that you clean the area—and as for the rest, though you have lost, you must finish what you began. To waste what has been prepared, or to leave disorder behind, would be an insult to the toils of others."

The crowd erupted in applause as the girl nodded, eyes closing in solemn dignity as if she accepted their praise as her due. She continued to demolish her slice of flatbread, each sharp 'mokkyu' only fuelling the crowd's cheers."

The man, who had hunched over but was facing the black-clad girl, begrudgingly stood up and waddled over to her as she handed over the cleaning materials to the guy. She patted his shoulder, giving him a sudden second wind at the gesture as she warned him. "One must take care not to dirty my mount… or else."

"One must also finish their bowl of salad," a dry voice cut in. Emiya—somehow already behind the counter, sleeves rolled neat under a black waistcoat—drew fresh laughter from the regulars."

The once-imposing girl puffed her cheeks, pouting like a chastised child. Laughter rippled through the room; clearly, this was a familiar routine. But when she swept her golden eyes across the crowd, silence and order fell in an instant.

At the exact moment Tsabin reached the counter, the girl who had been recently chastised—or teased—by Emiya retrieved an empty platter from the centre table. A matching tray was left filled with various familiar foods, yet unfamiliar at the same time. There were half-eaten sandwiches—meat patties, breaded cuts, battered slices—alongside fried scraps and a heap of noodles.

That same flatbread she'd seen earlier appeared again, this time circular, smeared with red sauce, a layer of what looked like melted cheese, and sprinkled with toppings, cut into triangles. At the edge of each opposite side—mirroring each other sat large bowls of salad, both conspicuously untouched.

"Ms Verali. This is the co-owner of the restaurant—Arturia Pendragon." Emiya gestured towards his petite coworker as she set the tray on the counter. He retrieved it a moment later, sliding into the auto-washer.

The name Pendragon caught Tsabin's ear—it sounded like the sort of family name you'd hear in noble circles, and it fit the girl's bearing. Was this an heiress and her bodyguard, eloping from a family that can't accept their love? The thought made her giggle as she followed Emiya's movements.

He pulled on a long black apron—simple, straight, no frills—tying it neatly at his waist before folding the hem to conceal the ties.

Tsabin's gaze drifted, lingering on Emiya's shapely rear. She only remembered too late that she had just been introduced, and when she turned her head to her left, Arturia—still gazing at her stoically—caught her in the act.

Her gaze dipped, tracing where her own eyes had lingered a moment earlier. When she looked back, there was the faintest glint of amusement in the girl's golden eyes—but her expression stayed perfectly stoic.

"A pleasure," she said, bowing before collecting her untouched salad bowl, grabbing a fork, and carrying it towards the caf machine at the open front of the shop.

Arturia balanced the bowl of salad against the caf machine, absentmindedly forking greens into her mouth as she set out five cups. Tsabin found her gaze straying back to Emiya—heat brushing her cheeks before she looked away again. He lowered several baskets into the fryer, oil hissing sharply as steam curled upward.

He crouched by the bar's side cooling supply unit, fishing out two bottles and a small plate with what looked like a slice of cake.

He held both bottles between his thumb, index, and middle fingers as he placed the plate of dessert in front of Tsabin.

"My apologies for just saying this now—you'll have to wait about fifteen to twenty minutes for your order. I just dropped your large batch of fried tip-yip and fried tubers in the fryer." Emiya set a dainty fork on the plate, his expression faintly contrite.

"As you can see behind you, I had to juggle two—well, technically three—large orders at the same time. I was going to be on time when I remembered that I left our leaseable food storage units in our speeder."

She'd paid the deposit for the leaseable food containers—they kept meals fresh on the way back. The system skimmed a five per cent fee, the rest refunded once the units were returned.

"So this is on the house—cheesecake, I made with kaaf milk," Emiya explained.

Tsabin took the small fork with a grin. "Oh, don't worry about it—I can wait, but thanks for the freebie." She caught the faintest smile touch his lips before he bowed and moved along the counter, topping off drinks with practised ease.

She propped open her datapad and took her first bite of the dessert.

"...!"

'Wow, this is so good!' Tsabin nearly moaned as she forked a second bite, and then a third, and before she realised it, the plate was bare. Horror struck—she hadn't even savoured a single bite.

'I know, I'll just or—' Her thought broke off as another plate appeared as if conjured, offering up a slice of heaven on Theed.

A chuckle rumbled above her, and she looked up to find Emiya watching her with quiet amusement, eyebrow lifted. He set down another plate—fried pastry, white with powdered sugar.

"Zepolle," he said evenly. "A fried pastry, its dough blended with the same kaaf cream cheese as the cake. So—red, white or caf?"

"Huh?" Tsabin looked up, slow and dumbfounded, her mood still whiplashed from the past half minute.

"Do you want a glass of red or white Nabooan Wine—or perhaps caf?" His tone carried a dry edge. "Consider your driving, caf might be wiser." He gestured towards Arturia with a slight lift of his hand.

"No need, I'll take a white. I can always switch the speeder to automatic, so one or two glasses won't hurt."

Technically, the law didn't care if the system was automated—the driver was always accountable in an emergency. Still, Tsabin reasoned, one or two glasses hardly counted. Emiya's brow ticked upward as he silently poured her glass of Nabooan white.

He gave a brief nod, then turned away, working the fryer with practised ease—long tongs agitating the fried goods as he shook the basket and sent a wave of steam rolling upward.

He waved. Tsabin's hand twitched up before she realised it wasn't meant for her—Arturia, behind her, dismissed it with a brisk shoo while delivering five steaming cups of caf to the men at the centre table, their previously retching comrade now recovered enough to rejoin them.

Her cheeks flamed as she turned the aborted wave into a hair-fuss, trying to project an air of nonchalance. Pointless—Emiya had already vanished into the back.

She groaned inwardly as an elderly woman at the bar met her eye and winked conspiratorially. Wonderful. Even her embarrassment had an audience.

Her datapad buzzed to life. Tsabin flicked it open—Sasha Malvern. Tsabin smiled faintly—an old acquaintance from their studies, now a trusted teammate, and the reason Tsabin had her Environmental Ministry connection in the first place.

The message was brief and to the point: the demonstration was being pushed back two weeks. Better timing, festival day, local shops and businesses already signed on.

Tsabin exhaled hard. More time to plan. Less panic. Though Padmé would still run herself ragged.

Not if she could help it. Fingers flew as she sent a reply to the whole team, slipping in a cheerful suggestion to invite guests along.

She grinned at the thought and waved for the petite and stoic lone waitress.

-=&<o>&=-
END

Tip-yip: Domesticated bird from Endor. It's cute, so don't Google it if you don't want to imagine it as fried chicken. haha

Holo-mirror: Don't think it's canon, but this mirror provides the distance of vehicles behind.

If you want to immediately read the next chapter, head over to
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If you want to read Ch 3.1-3.2, and 4.1-4.2 head over to
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13thsephiroth · Sep 9, 2025

Fate/Knights of the
Heroic Throne

Disclaimer: This story is set in an alternate universe that diverges from established Star Wars lore. I'm not confident enough to follow Star Wars lore one-to-one, but I'll do my best to respect both Legends and canon where possible. Some timelines and characters' ages have been adjusted to either fit a narrative or just for the sake of it. Shirou Emiya (former Counter Guardian EMIYA) and Arturia Pendragon (former Saber Alter) won't be curbstomping Jedi and Sith—they're both powerful, respectively—but both Jedi and Sith could also reach heights that could rival legends.

Chapter Intro
Human order: Restored.
History: Preserved.
But what of the ones who made it possible?
Heroic Spirits—echoes of legends, bound to vessels, fated to fade without remembrance.
But a wish was made.
One last miracle from humanity's saviour—
that her fallen companions might live once more.

Story Starts
-=&<o>&=-
Chapter 3.1 -
The Once,
'Once and Future Tyrant King'
a small interlude

"Okay, here I made you guys a spread of finger foods sa—"

"Let's start this watch party with a to—"

"Lorna, I can't be with you because—"
"Cliffhanger, such discourtesy!"

"Cheers!"

"We've finished the keg!"

"I've found a case—"

"Noooo—!"

"Ria! Ria! Ria!"

"Hmm— You shmell nwoice Shiiir—"

"And you st—"

Beep! Beep! Beep!…Thud!

Beep! Beep! Beep!...Shirou!!

-=&<o>&=-

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Arturia Pendragon—former Tyrant King—opened her golden-yellow eyes to darkness as the alarm's beeping blared incessantly. She kicked behind her, eyes already sinking shut—in preparation for her return to slumber—but her foot found only empty sheets.

"Shirou!"

Beep! Beep! Beep!

"Shi—rou?"

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Her hand stretched forward, fingertips brushing a cold wall through the blanket still draped over her, while her legs shivered faintly in the cool air.

Curling tighter into her cocoon—bringing her cold feet into the warmth—she finally let one arm slip free, fumbling behind only to pat empty space.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

"Argh!"

She flung the blanket aside in frustration, sprawling supine with arms and legs spread. Her eyes shot open to the textured ceiling of their modest quarters—a studio apartment perched above the restaurant they had lucked into.

A pulse of pain thudded behind her eyes—last night's revelry fighting its way back into the periphery of her memory.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

The chrono clinked 04:48, its steady pulse mocking her with every beat of the alarm.

Her eyes settled on the faint outline of a glass waiting on the nightstand.

She dragged herself upright, golden hair spilling over her shoulders as dizziness lanced through her head, as her fingers reached for the water—only to find a small packet.

Blinking groggily, she rubbed at her eyes, golden hair tumbling over her shoulders as she brought the object closer.

Pain meds.

Her lips curled into a small, unguarded smile.

Cross-legged now, she leaned forward on an elbow, claiming the glass with her free hand. With a smooth tilt of her head, she downed the pill, chasing it with a swallow of cool water.

Arturia sat idly, listening to the alarm's constant shrill, waiting for the dull comfort of the medication to take hold.

"Dumb Shirou," the curve of her lips lingered. Refusing to leave her face as she heard the telltale sound of Shirou's speeder bike leaving.

-=&<o>&=-

"Dumb Shirou indeed," Arturia muttered to the empty kitchen. Three large pizzas waiting—Shirou's greasy morning offerings—as opposed to his regular rolled omelettes, fish, soup, and his cherished rice.

She had planned to peruse the forums on last night's triple-feature while sipping her morning caf. As she scrolled through, most debates circled whether the holodrama's protagonist would continue with his sworn revenge—toppling the vast conglomerate that had destroyed his family through hostile takeovers, blackmail, and even assassinations—or yield to the love he had come to acknowledge for the heiress, innocent yet the most fitting target of his vengeance.

Mid-sip—just as she was about to deliver a riposte in the forum, being firmly of the have-you-cake-and-eat-it-too camp, siding with both vengeance and love—Shirou sent a brief message: Check warmer.

Later, and after her first cup of caf and morning distractions, she now started with the day's prep and mise en place. Normally, she would do this with Shirou after they did their morning supply run, 'I could be a benevolent king for once,' she thought as she tore into a slice of her greasy breakfast while pulling out the three-day fermented dough for the day's shift.

Her appetite remained immense, her tastes still indulgent—or rather unhealthy. 'Well, that's Shirou's opinion,' she thought, as he always aimed for some balance in diet… usually.

Of course, she couldn't miss that her rich breakfast was a concession for last night's binge, a thoughtful gesture as he even added her favourite spiced sausage—a smoked bit of heaven Shirou had perfected to her taste—though he hadn't missed the chance to an equal amount of vegetables as a complement to her heavily spiced slices of smoked, emulsified meat.

With a sip of caf and another bite of her breakfast, she set about making the bread for the day's sandwiches. Shirou had already portioned the dough that morning, and like his pizza dough—the very ones she had pulled from the cooling chamber to warm—he did a great deal of what he described as cold proofing with many of his baked goods.

A qualitative improvement without the need for much active guidance—or so he explained. Arturia double-checked the programmed preset before misting the oven's chamber and shutting the door.

It was a practised action born from observation and Shirou's nagging. Endless lectures on critical control points, safety, timing and more.

Arturia wrinkled her nose at the memory. She had been subjected to countless tirades on proper kitchen protocols—all thanks to the day she had reduced a perfectly good oven to scrap and nearly set fire to their recently acquired, rent-to-own establishment.

First came the smell of smoke. Then, through the bar's access door, she glimpsed a choking black smog. Shirou had rushed in—from the fresher—trousers half-pulled, just in time to keep the flames from spreading.

The result was that she sat seiza for the whole long and merciless lecture on microbial gases, gluten development, heat, moisture, crumb, and crust—while Tessari Nyl, Pantoran, former co-owner, and all-around mischief-chaser, filmed her humiliation with a gleeful glint in her golden eyes.

Her legs felt numb after that gruelling lecture, humiliation compounding when Shirou had to carry her to one of the bedding mats in the dining area. That crude arrangement hadn't lasted; once profits came in they had invested in a small upstairs studio apartment.

We also added a separate fresher and bath—the bath was non-negotiable, according to Shirou.

Anyway, Arturia then brought out their fry slicer, clamping it down on the prep table, and she then dragged a large container full of tubers—already washed.

She couldn't help but feel a tick forming on her head as she stomped angrily at the reminder, as further punishment, Shirou and the Pantoran had conspired and collaborated on her uniform.

She knew his history with her lighter counterpart—long before his regrets began to settle, long before his idealised dream of becoming a hero had been twisted by Alaya's pragmatic solution to preserving humanity, and long before his paradoxical suicide wish had resonated with the Grail.

Depressing history aside, Arturia was sure that this uniform was nothing more than Shirou's hidden kink made manifest and Tessari's boundless mischief.

She harrumphed, though her lips betrayed her with a smile as she took another bite, a sharp 'mokkyu' ringing out. Then she turned back to the task at hand, sliding tubers into the fry cutter and dropping them into a cold bath of water.

-=&<o>&=-
END

If you want to immediately read the next chapter, head over to
discord.
If you want to read Ch 3.2, and 4.1-4.3 head over to
patreon.

13thsephiroth · Oct 14, 2025

Fate/Knights of the
Heroic Throne

Disclaimer: This story is set in an alternate universe that diverges from established Star Wars lore. I'm not confident enough to follow Star Wars lore one-to-one, but I'll do my best to respect both Legends and canon where possible. Some timelines and characters' ages have been adjusted to either fit a narrative or just for the sake of it. Shirou Emiya (former Counter Guardian EMIYA) and Arturia Pendragon (former Saber Alter) won't be curbstomping Jedi and Sith—they're both powerful, respectively—but both Jedi and Sith could also reach heights that could rival legends.

Chapter Intro
Human order: Restored.
History: Preserved.
But what of the ones who made it possible?
Heroic Spirits—echoes of legends, bound to vessels, fated to fade without remembrance.
But a wish was made.
One last miracle from humanity's saviour—
that her fallen companions might live once more.

Story Starts
-=&<o>&=-
Chapter 3.2 -
The Once,
'Once and Future Tyrant King'
and The Empty Pantry Challenge

Arturia, once the Tyrant King of Camelot, feared ruler, peerless knight, took up a napkin and primly dabbed at the corners of her mouth. Her regal composure never wavered as she dispatched another double-patty shaakburger with cheese—seven already finished, their flimsiplast wraps folded neatly at the edge of her large tray, which was laden with her chosen favourites from the restaurant—and, by Shirou's insistence, a large bowl of salad.

The minced shaak patty, smashed near paper-thin, provided a crisp bite, while the second patty was cooked thick, brimming with juice—her deliberate preference for both a seared crust and tender, juicy meat gave her the best of both worlds in mouthfeel.

Melted shaak-milk cheese, a blend of cheeses crafted by Shirou, was draped across each patty, its silky consistency the result of Shirou's expertise in cooking.

Back when they were starting, Arturia, of course, demanded her favourite items, like the current burger she was demolishing demurely. And a burger isn't complete without the greatness of melted American cheese. Like always, he acquiesced and asked for patience as he made several types of cheese from shaak milk.

He used a blend of this and melted it in a splash of white wine, and stabilised it with some sodium citrate. According to him, this was the key ingredient needed for a melting cheese as it prevents the fats from splitting when melted.

Additionally, Shirou prepared an amazing sauce and some pickles, which served as the perfect complement, cutting through the richness of the high-quality meat and cheese.

'An indulgence worthy of a king,' she thought, her eyes closing briefly as she savoured the daily caloric conquest made possible by Tessari Nyl and her holodrama-in-arms, Lessa Vellasi.

In a rare concession to her personal chef, attendant, and mother hen, Arturia had admitted that her appetite might prove a burden on Shirou and their shared finances. She had approached Tessari—Lessa at her side—and together they devised a scheme: a food challenge.

The rules were simple. A group of up to six could be formed for this challenge. If one side cleared their platter within the hour while the other failed, the losers paid for both. If both finished, each simply paid for their own. However, if they finish it within half an hour or the challengers beat the record—currently seventeen minutes—they would eat for free. But if they were to beat the current record, not only would they eat for free, but drinks were on the house for that night, and they could request a reward—provided it's within reason.

She had overheard more than once that customers hoped to claim her company as a prize. Most fell silent whenever Shirou appeared in the room. Only one had been bold enough to speak it aloud: a hulking Zabrak merchant, prosperous, well-travelled, and a regular customer whenever trade carried him through the Chommell sector.

It was that same Zabrak who carved his name into the record at seventeen minutes—beating hers by half a minute. His triumph, however, ended less gloriously—struck down not by defeat but by indigestion. He had, after all, been the first challenger to brave the platter alone.

The platter was daunting: ten sandwiches of every variety—shaakburgers with cheese, battered fish, breaded tip-yip, and sausage in buns—plus a forty-six centimetre pizza, a pile of fried tip-yip, a mountain of tuber fries, a bowl of salad, and a bowl of shaakmeat pasta large enough to feed a family.

He requested transportation to the nearest medcentre—only for Arturia to loudly proclaim that his wish was her command—thus cancelling his earlier request for a date, much to his dismay.

Two months had passed, and the merchant had yet to return. Perhaps trade called him elsewhere. Perhaps he still recalled the indigestion. Or perhaps the humiliation of being carried by a petite 154-centimetre Arturia—perched side-saddle on her swoop bike and clinging for dear life—none could say.

She now faced a challenger of five, the dining area bustling with cheers and wagers. The spectacle had become frequent enough that Shirou was forced to impose limits: once per day only, with no more than four groups permitted at a time. Arturia would still have but a single platter, yet up to four groups could stand against her simultaneously.

Without Shirou's restrictions, the restaurant might truly have lived up to its name—The Empty Pantry. Despite rumours, her stomach wasn't a bottomless abyss, nor was she a sarlacc that had devoured a goddess and stolen her form.

Arturia bristled at the reminder of that rumour—one that had first surfaced shortly after a certain Pantoran's visit. The timing had been too coincidental to dismiss. Distracted by the thought, she seemed to glare openly at one of the challengers as she bit, prim yet menacing, into a piece of fried tip-yip.

The challenger, already heavy with food, stiffened under her heated gaze. Sweat shone on his brow as he bent back over his platter, shovelling more down despite the visible strain. To her, it seemed needless; he was clearly near his limit already.

She spared the man one last glance, noted his foolish persistence, and dismissed it at once. If he chose to choke himself in pride, that was his affair. Arturia returned to her meal, taking a neat bite of pizza with a small 'mokkyu' that, inexplicably, drew giggles and soft 'awws' from the crowd.

Arturia then stood up and bussed out the empty bowl, previously filled with pasta, and threw away all the neatly folded flimsiplast before coming back to the centre table and settling in.

'Anyway,' she thought, forcing herself to dismiss the sarlacc rumour. To temper matters, Shirou ruled that if multiple groups challenged her and lost, they would divide the price of her platter amongst themselves.

For many, the challenge became less a contest and more a bargain. Office workers, families, and circles of friends often booked it on the Zhellday nights before the weekend, treating it as a gathering rather than a competition.

Drink flowed freely during these gatherings—fortunate, given beverages yielded two to three times their cost—often eclipsing food itself. Such revelry was a recent development. For the first half of the year, their income had been steady and unremarkable—until the Zabrak proved the challenge was possible alone. From then, not only did the number of challengers grow, but so too did the restaurant's traffic.

Looking down at her platter, she was surprised that she had already finished all but a single slice of pizza—while the bowl of salad loomed at her periphery, menacingly.

A piercing screech echoed across the marble floor as the challenger shoved his chair back. He rose unsteadily, hand pressed to his mouth, and stumbled for the open street-front, his path swerving close enough to nearly knock into a customer entering.

From the adjacent street—where her swoop bike was parked—came the sound of retching. The crowd jeered and cheered at the group's automatic disqualification.

With her last slice in hand, she leaned to the side and fetched the bucket and mop Shirou had wisely stationed for such occasions. She stood tall, regarding the five disqualified men, hunched and labouring for breath.

Their tray was still filled with untouched wrapped sandwiches, half-eaten burgers, and a mauled piece of fried tip-yip—a significant amount of meat still clung to its bones.

'At least they were able to finish the fries, though they barely touched the pizza, pasta, and salad,' Arturia noted, sighing at the pathetic attempt.

Arturia stood up, holding both the bucket in one hand and biting her last slice of pizza with another 'mokkyu.'

"You there—" the raucous slightly abating at her words, "come assist your downed comrade, here."

The man sitting nearest turned his head to face her, as his cheeks mashed against the table's surface.

Arturia gave him a severe stare as she took another bite of her pizza with a 'mokkyu'. The man held a mesmerised look as the light hit Arturia in such a way that it just enhanced her regality.

"See that you clean the area—and as for the rest, though you have lost, you must finish what you began. To waste what has been prepared, or to leave disorder behind, would be an insult to the toils of others."

The crowd erupted in applause as Arturia nodded, eyes closed in solemn dignity as she basked in their appreciation of her words. She continued to demolish her slice of flatbread, each sharp 'mokkyu' only fuelling the crowd's cheers.

The man, who had hunched over but was facing the black-clad girl, begrudgingly stood up and waddled over to her as she handed over the cleaning materials to him. She patted his shoulder, giving him a sudden second wind at the gesture as she warned him. "One must take care not to dirty my mount… or else."

"One must also finish their bowl of salad," a dry voice cut in. Emiya—somehow already behind the counter, sleeves rolled neat under a black waistcoat—drew fresh laughter from the regulars.

'This man—' Arturia thought, irritatingly, as she puffed her cheeks, as her pout was followed by a ripple of laughter through the room.

Arturia cast her gaze around—quieting the insolence of the crowd—as she lifted her empty tray and carried it towards the counter for Shirou to place in the autowasher

It was then that she got a good look at the new arrival. She hadn't seen her before—or at least not enough to warrant recognition. Judging by her bearing, however, she would have been impossible to forget had she visited more than once.

Black and gold draped her form in distinctly Nabooan style, the robe's lines flowing into gleaming fitted trousers. Her hair was wound into looping coils tied into twin buns, with bangs neatly framing an elegant, sharp-featured face. Amber eyes, steady and unblinking, were fixed on the—

"Ms Verali. This is the co-owner of the restaurant—Arturia Pendragon."

-=&<o>&=-
END

AN: In Star Wars they have five-day weeks. Zhellday is the fourth before the weekend—Benduday.

Next Chapter Update: Release that Witch... and Wizard?!
If you want to read the next chapter, head over to
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If you want to read Ch 4.2-4.3 and 5—I'll also be updating 6 & 7 before we start with Release that Witch... and Wizard?!—head over to
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13thsephiroth · Oct 14, 2025

Fate/Knights of the
Heroic Throne

Disclaimer: This story is set in an alternate universe that diverges from established Star Wars lore. I'm not confident enough to follow Star Wars lore one-to-one, but I'll do my best to respect both Legends and canon where possible. Some timelines and characters have been adjusted to either fit a narrative or just for the sake of it. Shirou Emiya (former Counter Guardian EMIYA) and Arturia Pendragon (former Saber Alter) won't be curbstomping Jedi and Sith—they're both powerful, respectively—but both Jedi and Sith could also reach heights that could rival legends.

Chapter Intro
Human order: Restored.
History: Preserved.
But what of the ones who made it possible?
Heroic Spirits—echoes of legends, bound to vessels, fated to fade without remembrance.
But a wish was made.
One last miracle from humanity's saviour—
that her fallen companions might live once more.

Story Starts
-=&<o>&=-
Chapter 4.1 -
The Future Queen
and the Decree to Empty the Pantry

Shirou's eyes skimmed the order list as he checked each thermocrate in turn. He'd usually refer to it as 'leasable food container units,' when talking with customers—less questions asked. Cold meats layered with pickles, cheese, salad greens, oil and vinegars, sealed in bread rolls and wrapped tightly in flimsiplast. A lasagna, cooled and firm enough to hold its shape once sliced. Sausages, smoked cuts, dips, flatbreads stack neatly—everything in its place.

Shirou swung open the thermal oven, the relatively new unit gleaming—a replacement for the 'Arturia incident'—reaching in and lifting the pizza just enough to see the telltale leopard spots beneath the crust.

The heat of the oven barely registered—his nerves were long since used to it."

"Alright. Pizza's done," he told the empty kitchen, hefting the pizza with the peel he'd made from Perlote wood—an indigenous tree of Naboo—and slid the pie into another thermocrate.

"All I need are the fried goods," he said to himself, dusting off the peel and propping it against the oven. The delay—having to retrieve the thermocrates from the speeder bay—had been irritating, but at least gave the lasagna time to set. The thought of the dish collapsing into a sloppy mess on a plate nagged at him.

He moved back towards the prep table, sealed the thermocrate shut, and stacked them both—he could feel the container slightly heated up as it did its thing.

'These thermocrates are really convenient,' Shirou mused as he hauled them out toward the speeder.

The thermocrates held meals at the perfect temperature—graphene weave heaters regulating warmth, smart humidity controls preserving balance, and a hydrophobic mesh catching stray droplets before they reached the food. Even fried goods stayed sharp and crisp while the meat retained its juices.

He stowed the containers in the speeder, then rushed back inside. The smell of tip-yip and tuber fries greeted him, along with the sight of Arturia engaged in hushed conversation with the Vareli customer. He winced—once again regretting the day curiosity had led him to look up what tip-yip actually looked like alive.

Shirou fetched two stainless—or rather plasteel—bowls, still warm from the washer, and set them by the fryer. He lifted both baskets—gave them a brisk shake over the fat, then hooked them on the rack above the vat as grease dripped back into the fryer.

Shirou turned the heat down to standby before dumping the golden tip-yip and fries into separate bowls. Raising his hand high, he scattered salt in an even shower as he tossed the fried goods.

He carried the bowl back in two trips, sealing each in its thermocrate before loading them into the speeder.

He snatched up a towel, wiping his hands before circling the bar with quick refills, then stopped before the pair—the guest jotting notes on a datapad while Arturia was describing the garden area they have upstairs.

'Curious.' "Your orders are done."

His gaze shifted to his maidware-clad partner. "Would you care to escort our guest back to the speeder bay?"

Both turned to him.

"Our guest here ordered three thermocrates' worth of food—I would think that would be an inconvenient walk back to their speeder," he explained dryly.

"I'm fine with that," Arturia replied, her hand gesturing with quiet poise toward the blonde guest. Hair tied up in twin buns, bangs, and loose locks of hair framed a sharp, high-cheekboned face, her brown eyes calm and composed. "However, our guest also wishes to book the restaurant for private use after hours."

-=&<o>&=-

The chrono read 23:01. Outside, the luminous disc of Ohma-D'un, Naboo's water moon, spilt silver light across the city of Theed as her sleek six-seater speeder—a graduation present from her parents—slid through the air.

She guided the speeder toward the last-minute event Tsabin had put together.

Rabbine Ondel sat beside her, bright-eyed and cheerful. A new graduate from Coruscant University, she'd landed only today and was already drinking in Theed's nighttime skyline. Palpatine had recommended her; soon she'd take over Tsabin's event duties and help with makeup and wardrobe.

Since it was her first day, Rabbine would mostly observe while Tsabin showed her the ropes. Tsabin and Su Yan, along with the others, had gone ahead to prepare the event, while Rabbine was left to rest for a few hours before joining in to help once they arrived.

Padmé smiled into the holomirror. Behind her, Mara dozed while Sasha leaned against the transparisteel, watching the city pass.

Lately, she had felt the pressure to step up—an idea of becoming a symbol for the people, inspired partly by a holonovel mentioned during one of her mentoring sessions with Senator Palpatine.

With the demonstration postponed—now set three weeks from today, two weeks later than the original Benduday, and in line with the merchant guild's festival—she felt relieved of some of the pressure. She had proposed her idea at that afternoon's meeting, amidst the flavourful spread of food Tsabin had brought—well, she had someone help the three thermocrates' worth of food.

She'd proposed her idea of becoming a symbol for the masses, adopting the name Amidala—taking inspiration from her current public pseudonym Liora, meaning light, while Amidala also means compassion, nobility, and divine favour—a fitting name and symbol for the people to rally behind.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, Tsabin, along with most of the team, refused it outright, believing in the power of the people. 'No need to martyr yourself for the cause,' Tsabin had told her, her voice steady, softened by the bite she took from the cheesy, sauced flatbread she called a pizza.

Padmé's lips curved at the thought of Tsabin—her closest friend since childhood. She remembered them splashing in Lake Paonga as neighbours, their school and academy days, afternoons after volunteer work, the internship they shared and the quiet moments between lectures at Theed University.

She could hardly ignore how their friendship had grown into something deeper, sometimes physical when mood, convenience, and discretion met. Since her only relationship with Tavern Furoli ended, she hadn't sought others nor did she have much time for a serious relationship.

Though that final weekend of fun at her family's villa at Lake Country—was a memorable night of passion—and that fiery encore when both their ex, now in a relationship, had visited.

Her reflection in the transparisteel betrayed the blush heating her face, stirred by the memory of four sets of limbs tangled, intertwined, and glistening with sweat after their shared night of passion—made sweeter by her deepening bond with her best friend.

She gave a slight shake of her head, clearing away the thoughts before her companions could notice. She shifted in her seat, thighs brushing, a quiet pulse of relief grounding her.

She shook off the memory, letting her thoughts drift back to the day's events.

Earlier that day, after she'd risen from a refreshing sleep, Tsabin had arrived with a petite companion at her side. The woman held herself with perfect posture; her skin was pale, with a greyish hue, her fair hair tied neatly in a bun, and her arresting golden eyes.

An aura of majesty and severity clung to her as she carried three thermocrates with ease, one arm bearing their weight while the other steadied a faltering Tsabin.

Padmé lifted her gaze to them, her first thought a wry one—that perhaps Tsabin's weakened knees came from some quick indiscretion. Unlike herself, Tsabin did take the occasional partner; Padmé even thought that Tsabin and Su Yan had once shared a history.

She placed the thermocrates on the table, then guided Tsabin into a seat with composure both severe and graceful. Up close, Padmé felt her aura all the more—intimidating, regal—accented by a peculiar dress. Its hem stopped at her thighs, revealing flashes of pale skin above fitted white stockings, with narrow straps trailing upward beneath the skirt.

"This is the spread your companion ordered. May it be to your liking." The voice was dignified, carrying a faint masculine quality. Padmé startled, heat blooming across her cheeks as she realised she had been staring—but the woman gave no sign of caring.

Her delicate fingers brushed the controls, and the thermocrates slid open with a hiss. Steam curled into the air, carrying the mingled aromas of familiar comforts and curious novelties. Her pupils dilated, her mouth tingled with saliva, her senses alight under the assault of fragrance.

"Would you also provide a glass of warm water?" She motioned gracefully toward Tsabin. "Your companion lacks the constitution for speeder travel. I would recommend the use of mild stims to guard against such discomfort."

The bluntness of the remark left the table in silence. The wordless confusion of the others mirrored Tsabin's incredulous disbelief.

She then faced Tsabin with unflinching composure. "We shall strive to meet your request swiftly. I must ask that you arrive early—" not at all sounding like a request, Padmé thought, "should there be last-minute changes—and you did pledge assistance with staffing. As there are supply runs yet to complete, I shall withdraw."

With hands clasped, the woman bowed slightly before turning, each step toward the apartment's entrance deliberate and measured. Her exit seemed to break the spell she had cast, leaving the others blinking in confusion.

"Padmé," Tsabin said, breaking the silence.

"Yes, Tsabin?"

"If tall, dark, and handsome warns me not to let that demon drive, make sure I listen next time," she muttered, cheek against the marble table.

"Oooh, tall, dark, and handsome—Shirou Emiya, the co-owner. He leaves an impression, doesn't he?" Su Yan teased.

A chuckle escaped her as she remembered Tsabin's colourful account of the petite demon at the controls.

"Ms Padmé?" Rabbine came tentatively from her side.

"Oh, it's nothing. Just recalling today's little entertainment." She shared a chuckle before glancing at the navigator. "We're close now. Would you message Su Yan and Tsabin for me?"

"Yes, Ms Padmé."

"Rabbine, call me Padmé. Just remember—I'm Liora in public. Tsabin's been careless with names lately.

"Yes, Ms…Pad—Liora?"

Padmé chuckled, her smile warm and encouraging. "It's all right. You'll learn quickly enough."

-=&<o>&=-
END
Next Chapter Update: Release that Witch... and Wizard?!
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13thsephiroth · Oct 23, 2025

Fate/Knights of the
Heroic Throne

Chapter Intro
Human order: Restored.
History: Preserved.
But what of the ones who made it possible?
Heroic Spirits—echoes of legends, bound to vessels, fated to fade without remembrance.
But a wish was made.
One last miracle from humanity's saviour—
that her fallen companions might live once more.

Story Starts
-=&<o>&=-
Chapter 4.2 -
The Future Queen
and the Decree to Empty the Pantry

Previously…
Her datapad buzzed to life. Tsabin flicked it open—Sasha Malvern. Tsabin smiled faintly—an old acquaintance from their studies, now a trusted teammate, and the reason Tsabin had her Environmental Ministry connection in the first place.

The message was brief and to the point: the demonstration was being pushed back two weeks. Better timing, festival day, local shops and businesses already signed on.

Tsabin exhaled hard. More time to plan. Less panic. Though Padmé would still run herself ragged.

Not if she could help it. Fingers flew as she sent a reply to the whole team, slipping in a cheerful suggestion to invite guests along.

She grinned at the thought and waved for the petite and stoic lone waitress.

-=&<o>&=-

After acknowledging her call, the stoic lone waitress stacked five steaming cups of caf on a tray, slid another under the dispenser, and carried them to the table of six—the earlier wretching customer now back. At the same time, his struggling comrades took cautionary bites of their still massive pile of food.

She set each cup down in turn, skipping the man who had nearly bowled Tsabin over. Each of their faces lit up, eagerly nodding at something she said—her words drowned by the chatter of the restaurant crowd.

Retrieving the last cup from the dispenser, she placed it before the poor guy hunched over the table as she gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder.

With that task down, her gaze did a quick sweep of her surroundings before she approached Tsabin, tray tucked beside her.

"How may I help you?" The server clad in black and white asked, her voice as flat as her expression.

"I'm putting together a last-minute gathering—my colleagues have been working without pause for weeks. Do you take on catering deliveries?"

The question seemed to snag her composure; her face, usually blank as carved stone, gathered into lines of quiet concentration.

"Before I answer that question, how last-minute would this be and for how many people?" Her voice remained even, though a weight lay behind it.

"Perhaps twenty-five, at most thirty. And… tonight," Tsabin admitted, as heat pricked her cheeks. She forced a small sheepish smile, scratching her jaw as she remembered the posted closing time.

"Around the twenty-third hour," Tsabin added quickly, faltering under the weight of her stare, an awkward chuckle slipping out.

"Hmm." Arturia laid the tray aside, words measured but heavy. "We were planning to close early. Tomorrow is our first day off since opening."

Tsabin frowned at that, already thinking of an alternate.

"However, the previous owner told us to seize opportunities," she added, giving a solemn little nod.

"Besides…" Her lips twitched, a slight smile forming. "Shirou's a busybody." Her gaze flicked toward the back.

For Tsabin, it was a fleeting, picturesque image—broken the next moment by the abrupt snap of her head.

"Unfortunately, the last of our thermocrates are committed to your current order. Would disposable containers suffice?" Arturia asked, pausing only to acknowledge departing patrons with a curt nod.

Tsabin turned the thought over—then inspiration struck.

"Or… we could rent this place instead after hours. Invite more people, have drinks. Everyone wins, right?" She flashed a hopeful smile.

"...!"

"Sorry, is Shirou Mr Emiya?"

Arturia's brow arched as she nodded in acknowledgement. Serendipitously, the back door opened and in stepped the subject of her query.

His gaze swept around the room once before fixing on the fryer. Two baskets, one in each hand, shaken with effortless ease. Not a twitch of strain as the heavy-looking filled baskets were then clipped above the vat.

Then, retrieving two stacked plasteel bowls, he placed them on the counter beside the fryer.

The fried goods fell in a crisp heap. His hand rose high, scattering salt with a motion almost theatrical, light from above framing him as though centre stage. Tsabin caught herself staring—her gaze drawn lower by the unfortunate placement of the bowl.

A prickling awareness slid over her, and she coughed into her hand, trying to shake off the evidence of eyes that had lingered too long. Her quarry had already vanished—retreated into the back, likely to finalise her order.

She straightened her back, expression level, eyes meeting the approach of the waitress who had returned after quickly clearing a table and tending to an elderly lady at the counter.

The woman's face remained unreadable, yet in those golden eyes, Tsabin swore there flickered a glint of amusement.

Their brief staring contest broke when a baritone voice sounded—Shirou Emiya, now fully identified. Tsabin assumed Emiya was his family name. Unless Shirou was, and Arturia simply chose to use it, which seemed unlikely.

"Your orders are done," he said crisply, wiping his hands with a towel.

His silver-grey eyes shifted to his partner, "Would you care to escort our guest back to the speeder?"

"Our guest here ordered three thermocrates' worth of food—I would think that would be an inconvenient walk back to their speeder," he explained dryly.

"I'm fine with that," Arturia replied, her hand gesturing with quiet poise toward Tsabin. "However, our guest also wishes to book the restaurant for private use after hours."

"Oh, really." His brow arched while he set the towel down with exacting neatness on the plasteel counter.

Their eyes locked in wordless exchange—Tsabin felt as though she were intruding on a private moment.

However, this brief moment of silent exchange—a testament to how much they know each other, or at least that's what Tsabin assumed—was broken when Arturia directed her gaze to Tsabin.

"I'm fine with it. We can have our break next week instead. It would be remiss to squander an opportunity; idleness is the enemy," she declared.

"We do seem to collect enemies, don't we? Isn't hunger one of them? Perhaps this is your ploy to upsell the 'Beat the Sarlacc challenge.' I already placed limits on it, lest you become Chunkturia."

Tsabin almost winced at the tension—Arturia's glare could have cut durastell, though the effect was undercut by the faintly puffed cheek she was pouting with.

"I do not appreciate any perversion of my name, nor am I to be likened to an anthropomorphised sarlacc," she intoned, arms crossing with a faint stamp of her foot.

"Furthermore, we maintain rigorous nightly sparring. Two 'Empty the Pantry Challenges' in one day is of little consequence," Arturia proclaimed, her voice cutting cleanly across the room.

Tsabin's cheeks flared instantly, the room going quiet at the innuendo no one missed. Emiya's face shifted from frozen disbelief to the long-suffering look of a man used to this. His raised eyebrow hooked at Tsabin like a dare—as though he knew of the images now circling her overwrought mind: the petite woman at her side and the tall, dark, undeniably handsome man locked in a sweaty, passionate 'spar.'

"Ahem." Emiya's cough cracked the silence, his eyes sweeping the room like a teacher catching out unruly students. Chairs scraped as conversations sputtered back to life, a few patrons seizing the chance to settle their bills with a quick tap of their credit chips.

"What is this 'Beat the Sarlacc Challenge'?" Tsabin asked. Emiya's grin was all triumph, while Tsabin squirmed under the tempered glare of the thoroughly teased 'sparring' aficionado.

And on that note, plans for the night's revelry took shape fast—loudly punctuated by Arturia's indignant protest that it was the 'Empty the Pantry Challenge,' not whatever else people were calling it. It ended with Emiya volunteering her to haul the three heavy thermocrates to their apartments, since she'd be heading out on a supply run anyway.
Despite warnings—from Mr Tall-Dark-and-Sarcastic—Tsabin had allowed Arturia the controls of her speeder. She had wanted to see what the fuss was about, slaving their speeder to hers. But as soon as both speeders lifted into the air, any trace of sleepiness left her body—burned away by terror as she clung white-knuckled all the way back home.

-=&<o>&=-

Padmé cruised the skyline on the way to the parking bay, having just dropped off Rabbine, Sasha and Mara—Veyra, Ryn, and Kaela, she corrected in her mind. She sighed, fighting Tsabin's careless habits that Su Yan had begun to mirror. Serin, Nive, she repeated aloud, the sound grounding her resolve.

When she landed in front of the closed establishment, the plasteel shopfront shutter was pulled down and locked, yet she could see light bleeding through the thin gap between the shutter and the floor.

Serin and Nive greeted her as they were standing at the closed shopfront waiting for her, dressed in the same uniform as the so-called "demon driver"—Serin's nickname for the petite co-owner.

Padmé's gaze lingered on the uniform, a faint heat rising in her chest.

'Perhaps I could convince them to let her keep it?' She thought hopefully—the dress suited her best friend far too well.

Serin—Padmé, reminding herself firmly of the pseudonym, easing into the habit before the event—offered to park her speeder. She explained the owner had already ridden ahead on a speeder bike to save her the walk.

Padmé's mind betrayed her for a moment, the name Tsabin almost rising to her lips. She then shook her head in refusal, preferring a little more peace before the night's rhythm began.

Serin instead passed her the bay number and, oddly, wished her to enjoy.

-=&<o>&=-

Padmé eased her vehicle into the parking bay, steering toward the assigned number. A man sat idly on his speeder, his back a dark silhouette against the sky. The moonlight left her with nothing but his shadowed outline.

She noted the breadth of his shoulders, the cropped cut of his hair, and the lazy way he leaned back while eating—likely a piece of fruit.

As she drew closer, her headlights struck him as he turned to face her approaching vehicle—revealing his white hair and sun-touched skin.

He raised an arm against the glare until she eased the lights down. With a flick of his wrist, the fruit core sailed into the refuse bin, neat as if he'd aimed. Padmé's gaze lingered, catching the subtle shape of his lips—frustratingly silent behind the transparisteel.

With a tap, the transparisteel hatch lowered, the speeder shifting to idle as its thrumming sank to a soft rhythmic hum.

"Padmé—though I suppose Liora is the name I should use, isn't it?"

Her stomach dropped. 'Tsabin!' The thought flared like a spark; her face, no doubt, betrayed the frustration twisting in her chest. The man's amused chuckle confirmed that her face currently reflects her feelings.

"Don't worry," he said, the words carrying a calm assurance. "Serin and Nive already swore us to secrecy. They're…a—"

"Handful." Padmé finished for him, voice flat.

The quiet laugh that followed was disarmingly warm. He turned back to his controls, attitude control thrusters firing in short bursts, his speeder gliding aside with practised ease.

Encouragement wasn't needed. She guided the speeder neatly into the bay and powered it down. The repulsors' hum dwindled to silence, ending in a soft thud as the craft touched down on the duracrete.

He closed the distance in a few strides, one arm offered in a deliberate steadying gesture as she rose from her seat.

"Emiya. One of the owners of The Empty Pantry. I hope you enjoy tonight's festivities."

-=&<o>&=-
END
Next Chapter Update: Same Story
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13thsephiroth · Oct 28, 2025

Fate/Knights of the
Heroic Throne

Chapter Intro
Human order: Restored.
History: Preserved.
But what of the ones who made it possible?
Heroic Spirits—echoes of legends, bound to vessels, fated to fade without remembrance.
But a wish was made.
One last miracle from humanity's saviour—
that her fallen companions might live once more.

Quick AN (Pseudonym Guide):
Real Name - Current Pseudonym - Future Name/Handmaiden Name
Padmé Nabberie - Liora - Queen Amidala/Padmé
Tsabin Vareli - Serin - Sabé
Mara Solune - Kaela - Riané
Eirtama Ballory - Train - Eirtaé
Su Yan Calris - Niva - Yané
Sasha Malvern - Ryn - Saché
Rabbine Ondel - Veyra - Rabé

Story Starts
-=&<o>&=-
Chapter 4.3 -
The Future Queen
and the Decree to Empty the Pantry

"Emiya. One of the owners of The Empty Pantry. I hope you enjoy tonight's festivities."

The now-identified Emiya—Mr Tall-Dark-and-Handsome, as Serin had dubbed him—released her hand and offered her a helmet, and Padmé reminded herself to keep their pseudonyms straight for the night.

At this distance, she found herself craning upwards; even when facing forward, her vision barely reached the line of his chin, the disparity in their height unmistakable.

Brown eyes met grey. His hair—short, white, brushed back by the wind—framed a face of sharp lines, softened only by the quiet ease with which he carried himself.

She cleared her throat, accepting the helmet with a slight nod. "Thank you. Yes—it's Liora, on behalf of Tsabin… well, Serin tonight. Apologies for the last-minute booking.

Turning back to her speeder, she placed the helmet with care, her reflection faintly visible on the transparisteel hatch. "If I am not mistaken, you were to close early this evening—your first true rest day since the restaurant's doors opened."

He chuckled in amusement. In the reflection of her speeder's hatch, Padmé noticed his gaze trail over her before shifting to his own vehicle, a slight frown creasing his features.

A faint frown touched Padmé's face. She had been told the owner was respectful, yet she had just caught him plainly looking her over.

"It's not a problem. The previous owners—Balron and Tessari—told us to seize opportunities. We're simply following their advice."

She fussed with the helmet, tucking her hair so it wouldn't whip across her face once the speeder picked up. In the reflection, he leaned sideways, resting a forearm lazily against his hip while his other hand lifted to his chin in thought.

"Hmm…" His gaze lingered. "Perhaps my speeder would serve us better—the dress may make the ride… problematic.

When she turned back, his eyes weren't on her face but lower. A moment later, she understood—he hadn't been ogling at all. He was puzzling over her dress.

She nearly laughed at herself. "It's fine. I've ridden like this before—I'll just sit side-saddle and hang onto you, if you don't mind?"

Then the memory of Tsabin and Su Yan's earlier gossip hit her.

"I apologise. Such familiarity may not be proper. Your wife might object, and I would not wish to put you in an awkward—"

Her hurried words were cut short by his low, easy chuckle. "Don't worry, Arturia is certainly not my wife. I only hesitated so as not to presume or be too familiar. If you do not mind, I certainly would not."

His words concluded, he stepped to the vehicle and drew up a comlink headset, the slender mouthpiece settling against his jaw. Extending a hand, he beckoned.

"Come on—the event is about to start."

Padmé gathered the long folds of her gown, placed her hand in his—noting the rough, calloused texture of his fingers—and mounted the speeder sideways. The craft dipped at once beneath her, only to level smoothly as the repulsorlift held its balance.

"Take this handle with your left—yes, just so. Place your foot there—perfect. Ah… like you said, not your first rodeo with a speeder bike."

She tilted her head, puzzled by the unfamiliar word rodeo—clearly a colloquialism from some distant world.

He drew up the goggles that hung from the controls and fastened them with care before touching the side of his comlink headset, the indicator glowing blue; he did the same with the side of her helmet.

"Testing. Does my voice reach you through the helmet?"

Lifting her gaze, Padmé gave her assent as he swung onto the craft.

Her eyes lingered on his back—broad, framed by a red duster of tanned hide. She drew closer, warmth bleeding through the leather as her side rested lightly against him.

Carefully, she slipped an arm around his waist, though her hand could not meet the far side.

Padmé jolted when he caught her forearm, shifting her hand to grip his coat instead. A reassuring pat followed. "Feel secure?" he asked, the speeder's engines thrumming to life beneath them.

Padmé then tightened her hold, checked her footing on the side rail, and answered in the affirmative with quiet confidence.

At her word, the speeder descended through the tiers of the parking bay before rising again into open air. Padmé let her head rest lightly against his back—taking care not to dig in as the helmet might not be comfortable against him—as the craft soared into the Naboo sky.

"So, about the pseudonyms—mind if I ask?"

His voice crackled through her helmet, snapping her from her thoughts.

She sighed. "We began using them when we grew more active in pushing for regime change. It is a small defence, so our public actions do not spill into our private lives and make our families political targets."

"Hmm." The faintest note of doubt reached her through the comlink.

"Our allies within the government have backdated our assumed identities and consigned our true names to the Chommell Sector's Privacy Register. Within this Sector, privacy is more than a custom—it is law and civic value. Even our senate representative is known to the galaxy only as Palpatine, as are many figures of note throughout the Sector. It's not nearly as easy to pierce that veil as you'd think."

"Hmm—interesting. Still, if the holonews is to be believed, he has successfully ordered political assassinations. A pseudonym means little if your face is on display." Emiya observed. Padmé acknowledged the truth of it, though she wondered that this, above all, concerned him.

"So—your opinion—" Padmé began, but the speeder dipped before she could finish, steep yet controlled. The palace plaza rose swiftly to meet them before he guided them smoothly into a side street.

"What was it you wished to ask?" Emiya asked, Padmé blinked, startled to find both arms wrapped around him. It hadn't been frightening, nothing like Tsabin's tale of her horror-ride—relatively gentle—but the dip still flipped her insides.

'Wait, I think he asked a question?'

"Padmé! You're back." Tsabin emerged with a grin far too knowing, brows wagging.

"Shouldn't she be called Liora?" Emiya remarked dryly, "And you could let go now. I apologise if the dive made you feel uncomfortable."

Heat rushed to Padmé's face. She froze, still clinging to him as Tsabin was joined by Su Yan, Mara, Eirtama, Sasha, and Rabbine.

'Serin, Nive, Kaela, Tarin, Ryn, and Veyra,' she admonished herself, hastening to release him and dismount—helmet left on to conceal her cheeks.

Padmé caught a glimpse of Emiya, shaking his head in amusement, before ducking through the back entrance, swiftly falling in step with Tsabin.

'Kriff—it's Serin.'

Padmé stood before the group, the plasteel shopfront shuttered behind her. As this was a private event, all entry was through the back; the front of the shop remained firmly closed.

With a deep breath, she confirmed the datapad in her hand, a microphone held aloft in the other. The room buzzed with conversation—heat crept up her neck as she glanced down at herself.

Serin had insisted they all wear the shop's uniform—a so-called maid outfit. Padmé fidgeted in it, the chest window far too revealing for her taste, while the chill air traced the exposed skin between her skirt's hem and the top of her stockings.

But with a firm exhale, she pushed down her embarrassment as she surveyed the restaurant.

A short tour before the gathering had shown her how The Marble Kettle had been transformed—now refitted into a restaurant, doubling as the owners' home.

Within the dining hall, few alterations were evident—the walls, the marbled floor, and the bar counter all stood as before, unchanged in their familiar order.

She remembered Balron and Tessari—the old owners, always sneaking her and Tsabin extra pastries when they dropped by the café—who'd apparently taken to the couple. Still, Padmé wasn't sure what their relationship or arrangement truly was.

Changing in their private quarters—a single-room suite where the bed, kitchen, and sitting area all shared the same space, modest in size yet comfortably lived in—she could not help but notice the solitary bed in the corner, plainly made for two. Arturia had also been present, sprawled across it during her break, lazily scrolling the holoscreen for something to watch.

In any case, the retirees had liked the pair enough to offer them a generous arrangement for the premises. Padmé had caught Serin and Nive pestering Arturia for gossip, but they got only flat, deadpan answers—her regal air blunted when off duty.

Arturia Pendragon and Shirou Emiya—the pair was quite curious indeed. Tsa—Serin and Nive, giggling as they traded fantastical theories, had claimed that Arturia might hail from a noble house of the Hapes Consortium, with Emiya serving as her attendant.

Supposedly, the pair had fallen in love and eloped in protest against the Consortium's traditions. Yet Padmé herself noted—their names did not match those of that region of the galaxy.

'Well, the pair's names are too—'

Her datapad blinked—one dot from Serin. Padmé frowned, glancing up at Serin perched beside Arturia, who sat motionless, regal aura dialled up to full. Nive was there too, along with their newest hire, Veyra—Rabbine.

Serin's impish smile caught her eye, followed by a subtle flick toward the rear kitchen door. The narrow gap revealed Emiya for a heartbeat, brows lifted, thumb raised, before he disappeared once more.

She almost dropped the microphone as lively music trickled through the sound system. "Good evening—thank you for coming to this last-minute event." Padmé stood rooted as every eye turned to her.

Padmé caught sight of Kaela pushing through—elbow braced against the kitchen door, tray balanced high in her other hand. Behind her came Emiya, Tarin, and Ryn, in a quick blur of motion, setting platters in neat rows across the bar. From there, they fanned out—delivering a large set to each of the three opposing tables arranged in the middle of the dining area and placing others along the wall counters, spaced evenly around the room.

"This last-minute gathering is modest, but meaningful," Padmé started as she locked eyes with her companions in these trying times. "These past months have weighed heavily on us all as we've struggled to build support."

Padmé let her warm smile soften the words, and the crowd responded with approving cheers.

"Tonight we welcome the Merchant Guild—whose pledge of support makes this celebration possible."

Raucous cheering followed—people raising cups, stamping their feet, and calling out in celebration.

"Our demonstration has been granted a greater stage: a booth and time upon the platform at the Festival of Merchant's Boon, two weeks hence."

Padmé paused as applause once again swelled, her team turning to face the members of the Merchant Guild in gratitude.

Her smile brightened as it now bore a more teasing quality. "Now, you might be wondering about the platters of scrumptious offerings prepared by our last-minute host—The Empty Pantry."

Her gaze swept the room: three groups seated at round tables set in opposition, while the other guests formed a loose circle around them.

"To start tonight's revelry, we shall offer you a task so daunting, an uphill battle few have ever glimpsed the peak of. Tonight, I set upon you a challenge—a challenge to… Empty. The. Pantry!"

The room shook in reply. Participants roared, cutlery slamming the tables in thunderous rhythm until the sound rolled like a drumbeat through the room.

-=&<o>&=-
END
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13thsephiroth · Dec 25, 2025

Fate/Knights of the
Heroic Throne

Chapter Intro
Human order: Restored.
History: Preserved.
But what of the ones who made it possible?
Heroic Spirits—echoes of legends, bound to vessels, fated to fade without remembrance.
But a wish was made.
One last miracle from humanity's saviour—
that her fallen companions might live once more.

Story Starts
-=&<o>&=-
Chapter 5.1 -
One Must Not
Feed Strays After Hours

A twitch. A breath. The faint hiss of oil answered him.

Twitch. Shirou Emiya—former Counter Guardian, once a hound of Alaya, one among the many heroes of Chaldea, stood before the burner hub, a customised rectangular pan balanced in one hand, long wooden chopsticks in the other. The weight of the pan felt reassuring against his palm; its warmth radiated through the handle like a heartbeat beneath wood and steel.

Twitch. A flick of the wrist, measured, unhurried. Under his guidance, the omelette folded neatly upon itself, each motion clean and deliberate, another golden layer settling into place. Steam rose in whispered columns, carrying the rich, earthy perfume of eggs kissed by oil—deepened by the faint brine of broth made from reconstituted dried seaweed, a humble echo of the traditional Japanese dashi. The burner hub murmured beneath it all—a bright, metallic hiss tempered by a hollow, bell-like undertone, like an engine's breath softened by flame.

Twitch. He caught up a small, bunched piece of flimsi soaked in oil and swept it across the pan in light, circular strokes. The metal sang softly where it met the fat, a note of work and warmth. He pushed the rolled omelette forward with practised precision, spread another veil of oil across the cleared space, and set the flimsi back into its bowl.

Twitch. Another pour followed. The beaten egg spread in a thin, pale layer, its edges trembling before catching in the heat. He lifted the roll just enough to let the liquid slip beneath, piercing the bubbles that swelled with trapped steam, before starting the process all over again.

"Shirou?"

Twitch.

"Shirou?"

"Yes, Padmé?" he said, releasing a long, measured sigh, trying to hide the flicker of irritation he'd been feeling this morning.

"Do you need any help?" she asked, her dark eyes following the rolled golden egg as he flipped it with practised ease, the surface gleaming with a faint sheen of oil that caught the kitchen's warm lighting.

"Hey, Shirou, how long before breakfast? We're already hungry," the familiar, melodious voice of Tsabin drifted from behind him—he didn't need to turn, for she was almost certainly standing at the access door to the dining area. Her tone carried that teasing impatience over genuine hunger he'd somehow grown used to each morning.

Twitch. He gently laid the rolled egg into the wooden mat, its rough weave scratching softly against his fingertips as he enclosed the warm cylinder within, pressing and shaping it into a uniform form.

"Shirou, I think you need more potassium. Your eye has been twitching for the past twenty seconds," Padmé said, worry threading her voice as she leaned closer until he caught the subtle fragrance of the soap she favoured—floral and understated—a reminder of his early morning pickup at the Palace Plaza before a supply run, the scent of dew in the air mirroring her own. Her breath warmed his cheek as she studied his face with disarming focus.

"Shirou, our comrades require nourishment; one must hasten—Su Yan and Mara have yet to partake in anything since yesterday afternoon." Arturia's imperious tone carried cleanly from the dining area of the restaurant, each word crisp and precisely enunciated, cutting through the kitchen's ambient sounds like a blade through silk.

Twitch. 'One must not feed strays after hours,' Shirou thought, bitterly amused. He let the breath out through his nose, then turned to face Padmé properly. "If you could help me push that cart and start setting the table, that would be helpful. And thank you for the concern, but I think I'm fine."

Padmé's expression stayed sceptical, her brow furrowing as if weighing whether to press the matter or not. "If you're sure," she said at last, choosing instead to let it go as she moved to the wheeled cart.The metal rattled softly beneath her hands, the sound pairing with the clink of ceramic and the gentle slosh of soup beneath its lid.

The cart bore the morning's fare: a carefully arranged selection of vegetable side dishes in small porcelain bowls, colours bright and inviting; various pickles gleaming with vinegar; grilled fish with skin still crackling from the heat; miso sending up wisps of savoury steam; and a large food warmer filled with perfectly seasoned rice, each grain distinct and glistening. Earthy, salty, sweet, and umami aromas rose in a quiet symphony—traditional Japanese breakfast fare, prepared with meticulous care.

"Yes, and thank you, I'll follow shortly with the eggs," he said, turning back to retrieve the bamboo-wrapped cylinder, its warmth pulsing through the woven fibres into his palms.

Shirou set all three shaped omelettes on a wooden board, aligning the trio with care. He sliced them into equal portions and arrayed the pieces, cut-side up—each delicate layer still moist and glistening—on a rectangular ceramic plate. Then, as always, he cleared everything—board, mat, knife, and pan—into the autowasher, his motions fluid, unthinking, and sure.

By the time he stepped toward the dining area, the warm murmur of conversation and the gentle clink of chopsticks against ceramic bowls told him that everyone had already started with their meal. The rich aroma of miso and grilled fish mingled with satisfied sighs of appreciation.

"…!"

Shirou paused mid-stride as something tugged at the back of his mind—a familiar weight of responsibility that made his chest tighten with mild panic. Arturia's breakfast. He placed the plate of rolled omelettes carefully on the polished bar counter, the ceramic making a soft tap against the wood.

"Sasha, could you take this? I forgot something rather important," Shirou asked, his voice carrying a note of sheepish urgency as he addressed the quietest—relatively speaking—member of Padmé's entourage. She sat nearest to the counter, her dark hair catching the morning light filtering through the windows.

Sasha glanced up from her bowl, steam still rising from the amber broth, and took one last deliberate sip of the miso soup. The liquid warmed her throat as she savoured the salty, earthy depth before setting the bowl down with a gentle clink. She stood gracefully, her movements unhurried despite Shirou's evident haste.

Shirou was already turning back toward the kitchen, his mind focused on the oversight. Approaching the food warmer with quick, purposeful steps, he could feel the residual heat radiating from its surface.

He opened the plasteel-framed glass door, releasing a fresh wave of savoury steam, and carefully extracted a plate stacked high with Arturia's favourite indulgent offerings: glistening sausages with their casings slightly split from cooking, strips of bacon still crackling faintly, thick slices of ham with caramelised edges, and roasted mushrooms that glistened with rendered fat and herbs.

Quickly returning to the dining area, he slipped into the empty seat between Padmé—who presided at the head of the table as if she were the matriarch of the house—and Tsabin, the rice warmer settling neatly on the cart Padmé had rolled in, pulling it towards his right side for easy access. The hot platter found its place at the centre, and spoons, forks, and chopsticks immediately reached for the glistening offerings—save for one hand.

"Careful, that plate's hot," Shirou warned.

For a moment, Tsabin froze—caught halfway between sense and mischief—as she shot Shirou a challenging quirk of her brow. Her fingers moved again, inching towards the gleaming ceramic, taking his warning as a challenge.

Shirou's eyes followed the motion, half amused, as if he were watching a car crash about to happen—well, speeder wreck if he puts it into context. She covered over the platter's glossy surface, reaching not for the food but for the heated ceramic instead.

She yanked her hand back with a sharp hiss, fingertips flying to her lips as her eyes crinkled with mischief. She earned a chorus of snorts from the table as if this were typical behaviour for her.

"I thought it wouldn't be too hot since you brought it in bare-handed," she said, her tongue darting out in mock defiance.

Twitch.

"You're the sort who'd press the 'Do Not Touch' button just to see what happens," he said to Tsabin, half a smile ghosting across his face—earning an affirmative hum from his right.

His gaze swept the table—platters crowding every available surface, steam rising from bowls, the gentle clink of utensils against ceramic like a soft percussion beneath the chatter.

Five days. Five days since this invasion had begun, with Padmé and her retinue appearing for breakfast, dinner, sometimes both. They had claimed the private corners of the restaurant as if by right: lingering in the kitchen during restaurant hours, transforming the rooftop garden into their meeting space, even sprawling across the small studio apartment above as though it were common ground.

The memory of feeding them after hours that first night flickered through his mind—a moment of weakness that had snowballed into a full-scale occupation. He'd even whipped out some late-night hotpot to go with the crate of bottled wine Arturia had produced.

It didn't help that they had even discovered the bath upstairs—a spacious area customised to his Japanese ideals as a kind of makeshift onsen. The sound of running water and muffled voices drifting down through the floorboards had become a nightly soundtrack.

Steam carried hints of lavender bath salts he'd never purchased, yet somehow they appeared in his supplies. Their bath almost got daily use from the retinue of reformists, Arturia joining them for some 'naked friendship'—a term she'd probably picked up from Ritsuka or one of the many Japanese Servants in Chaldea.

Arturia extended her empty chawan towards him, the gesture as natural as breathing, her pale fingers steady despite the way her golden eyes tracked the conversations around them with quiet interest. Around them, the conversation flowed like a gentle current—snippets of schedules, campaigning for grassroots support, and strategy blending with the soft clink of utensils against ceramic, underscored by the day's news playing live in the background through the holoscreen.

Seven extra mouths to feed, seven more plates to wash—or rather, seven more to be loaded into the autowasher.

While he was the one who offered breakfast the first night they stayed, the one who had encouraged all of this chaos was none other than his partner, who had taken an immediate and inexplicable liking to the reformist group and continuously invited them after hours for some libation—her golden eyes lighting up whenever Padmé's entourage arrived.

Anyone who stayed over for breakfast earned an extension of the invitation to those who hadn't stayed the night as well, Arturia's sense of hospitality proving as relentless as her former reign. Still, Shirou admitted with a mixture of resignation and genuine warmth, the place felt livelier these days—even if his workload had increased and the constant hum of voices had replaced the restaurant's former quiet evenings.

Like clockwork, he wordlessly took the empty chawan from Arturia's fingers, the ceramic still warm from the rice it had held. The familiar weight of it in his palm brought a strange comfort as he filled it high with a neat, perfectly shaped mound of rice—each grain catching the overhead light—before handing it back to her still-outstretched hand. A soft, almost melodic sound of gratitude followed the exchange, the kind of contented murmur that spoke of genuine appreciation rather than mere politeness.

He couldn't help but trace this particular brand of chaos back to where it had all begun, his memory picking through the threads like unravelling a complex weave.

His gaze swept across the table and beyond, past the gentle steam rising from countless dishes. He recalled with vivid clarity the sight of them everywhere—lounging in the restaurant's corners with the easy confidence of regular patrons; turning the rooftop garden into a makeshift command centre; drifting through his once-pristine kitchen with casual familiarity; their enthusiastic use of the upstairs bath—no doubt increasing the utilities—and even invading the small studio apartment above with notebooks and datapads scattered across every surface. All of it was done with the languid confidence of well-fed cats that had claimed their territory and deemed it satisfactory.

'Truly, you shouldn't feed strays after hours.'

-=&<o>&=-

Five days ago, the night Tsabin organised a private event at The Empty Pantry…

Tsabin Vareli—or rather Serin for the night—stood alongside Padmé at the back entrance of The Empty Pantry, the cool morning air brushing over her skin and making her shiver as a sudden gust of wind stirred her cloak.

Mr Emiya flanked Padmé's other side, his quiet presence a reassuring anchor amidst the controlled chaos of departure. The three formed an impromptu receiving line, their courteous voices blending in the soft rhythm of farewells and gratitude as guests trickled out in pairs and clusters, some lingering for one last word before stepping into the pre-dawn dark.

She inwardly winced, realising she had once again thought Padmé instead of Liora. If she ever slipped aloud, she would never hear the end of it.

Inside, Tarin and Veyra worked with the brisk precision of professionals long past exhaustion, packing the evening's bounty into gleaming plastoid containers. Each one was sealed, labelled, and arranged neatly across a repurposed prep table now stationed by the exit.

The entire setup resembled a miniature relief operation—a quiet, orderly dance of motion and purpose.

Sasha—Ryn for the night—stood sentinel beside the neat rows, her datapad casting a steady white glow over the steel counter. Every departing guest paused at her station, datapads chirping softly as they connected. The bureaucratic hum of liability waivers ensured that no complaint could reach The Empty Pantry if improperly stored, reheated leftovers turned against the eater later.

Meanwhile, Nive and Arturia managed the last lingering guests, trading light conversation while clearing tables and setting the dining area back to its tidy, peaceful state.

"Ah, Mr Emiya!"

The cheerful greeting rang through the cool air, followed by the firm, measured steps of Sio Bibble and the Head of the Merchant Guild, Cedor Parnell, emerged from The Empty Pantry's warm glow. The governor's voice carried that precise timbre of satisfaction that came after good food, good drink, and the pleasure of being seen enjoying both.

Tsabin noted, not without irritation, how he greeted Emiya alone, deliberately excluding her and Liora from his attention.

Sio Bibble extended his hand—palm angled upward in a consciously open gesture that projected warmth without conceding authority. To Tsabin, well-versed in Naboo's political theatre, the gesture was almost artful in its calculation.

In his other hand, Bibble carried two steaming plastoid containers, their lids fogged and venting tiny tendrils of heat that curled like pale smoke against the morning chill. The sight was faintly absurd—the dignified governor of Theed clutching takeaway boxes like a man guarding treasure.

Emiya accepted the handshake with his usual calm composure, unhurried but firm.

"Excellent evening," Bibble declared with the self-satisfaction of one well entertained. "The food was remarkable—unique, in fact! And all this arranged at the last minute?"

His praise sounded genuine enough, though Tsabin could see the deliberate way his gaze slid past both her and Liora—two women rendered invisible through the governor's lens.

"Yes, Governor," Shirou replied evenly. "Though Arturia and I had considerable help from Serin, Liora, and their team." His polite deflection was effortless—warm, professional, and quietly corrective. His amber eyes briefly met theirs—a small, deliberate moment of acknowledgement that the governor had so pointedly withheld.

'At least someone remembers to use the aliases,' Tsabin thought wryly, humour tinged with complaint. Emiya switched between real and false names as naturally as breathing, while she still stumbled over them—even in her own head.

Tsabin felt the familiar spark of irritation at Sio Bibble's predictable behaviour. Like clockwork, the governor's expression shifted as his gaze swept over them. He ignored Padmé entirely, as if she were invisible, while offering Tsabin nothing more than a perfunctory nod—neutral at best, coldly dismissive at worst. The contrast with his effusive warmth toward Emiya was stark enough to be almost comical.

"Oh, and modest as well," Bibble declared with theatrical appreciation, his jubilant expression returning full force now that his attention was safely focused away from the women.

"My office will undoubtedly be a frequent customer if the quality of the food persists," Bibble declared with theatrical appreciation. "I'm sure my wife will love what I'm bringing home tonight—though she'll probably taste it in the morning." He released Shirou's hand before giving him two hearty thumps on the shoulders, the gesture almost paternal in its approval.

"Where are my manners?" Bibble asked rhetorically, his voice swelling with self-importance.

Tsabin's lips twitched at the predictable display, her thoughts laced with dry irritation. 'Yeah, where indeed are your manners?'

"This is Cedor Parnell—Head of the Merchant Guild of Naboo," he continued, turning with a flourish to introduce the broad-shouldered man who had accompanied him. Parnell's sun-browned skin and dark auburn hair, streaked with early grey, caught the faint lamplight as he stepped forward.

Tsabin knew from his record that he was well into his sixties, though careful gene and skin therapies kept him looking closer to his mid-forties. Anyone with enough credits could afford rejuvenation treatments to preserve youth—even the elderly governor of Theed, whose long face, neatly trimmed grey-white beard, sharp blue-grey eyes, and swept-back silver hair made him look remarkably spry. Bibble was scarcely a decade older than Parnell, and the whitening of their hair, Serin mused, was likely more the result of stress than time—a professional hazard shared by men in power.

Parnell's square jaw and neatly kept beard lent him the practical solidity of a craftsman rather than the polish of a court official. The forest-green and bronze of his guild robes complemented his colouring, and unlike Bibble's performative warmth, his manner seemed genuinely open. He inclined his head politely toward both Liora and Serin before turning to Shirou, his gesture marked by the kind of natural respect the governor always seemed to lack.

Bibble, beaming with renewed enthusiasm now that the attention had safely returned to male company, clapped his hands together. "Cedor, this is Shirou Emiya, co-owner of this lovely establishment. He has been a gracious host and entertained me thoroughly this evening."

Parnell extended his arm in greeting, his own plastoid container balanced carefully in the other hand. Emiya accepted the handshake with calm precision; as Tsabin had noticed earlier, he spoke with the effortless composure of someone long accustomed to those in power—courteous without ever being deferential.

"He has expressed an interest in opening a stall by our river market as well," Bibble added with enthusiasm, giving Emiya two more thumps on the shoulder, "and I think their business would be an excellent addition to our Festival of the Merchant's Boon, don't you think?"

"Oh, is this true? Are you planning on hiring additional staff?" Parnell asked, his brown eyes keen with the interest of a man who understood the practicalities of business expansion.

"Yes, Mr Parnell, we're planning to expand operations to handle deliveries, and we do need more staff so we can start having regular rest days. It'll also let us take advantage of new opportunities, just as our generous sponsor Tessari Nyl suggested," Shirou replied smoothly. His tone remained conversational—professional without a hint of obsequiousness. "In fact, our first batch of interviews happens tomorrow."

"Ah, Tessari Nyl—how is that crafty old schemer?" Parnell asked with genuine fondness, reaching for his datapad. He attempted to balance the device on his already-occupied left hand, the containers threatening to slip, but Shirou smoothly offered to hold them while Parnell navigated his datapad.
"I'm sure she and Balron are enjoying their time on Cantonica; it's barely been a month since their last visit," Emiya said conversationally, reaching for his own datapad.

"Here—you can reach me through my assistant. I'm sure we can arrange a booth at the festival; just let us know when you'd like to open a stall at the river market. More jobs and more commerce are always welcome," Parnell said. He and Sio exchanged a satisfied nod as Emiya gently tapped his device against Parnell's to receive the contact details.

"It's already early morning, Mr Emiya," Sio observed, glancing at the chrono on his device before looking up at the starry sky, while Emiya returned the plastoid containers to the guild head. "Give my regards to both Balron and Tessari. My wife would love to see her cousin and his wife now and then. Thank you for the lovely evening."

Parnell mirrored his goodbyes with easy warmth, and both men headed toward the front of the establishment where a sleek speeder waited on the pavement. But not before Sio Bibble shot Padmé one final icy stare, pointedly ignoring Tsabin altogether.

As the telltale whine of the speeder faded into the distance, Shirou turned to them with a slightly raised eyebrow, his expression wry. "It looks like he really doesn't like you, Liora—and only barely tolerates you, Serin."

Padmé could only manage a pained yet exhausted sigh, the weight of the evening's diplomatic tightrope walk evident in the slump of her shoulders. Tsabin shrugged with deliberate nonchalance, though her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Well, you could drop the aliases now—that was the last of the guests. And it's quite a long story."

For the second time this very early morning, another jubilant voice called out through the night air. "Shirou!" Arturia appeared, clutching a case of bottled wines as if it weighed nothing, flanked by Su Yan, whose own cheeks bore the telltale flush of an evening well-spent. "The night is still young; let us partake in some more libations and forge bonds of friendship!"

Tsabin couldn't help but grin at the sight of Arturia, whose normally composed demeanour had been softened by the evening's festivities. A delicate shade of pink coloured the blonde woman's cheeks—she had clearly accepted several offered drinks throughout the night, as had most of the hosts. After all, this event hadn't been merely a night of revelry but also a calculated mixer designed to connect their staff with influential members of the merchant guild.

"Hey! I don't mind that at all," Tsabin declared with enthusiasm—the prospect of extending the evening suddenly seemed far more appealing than ending it on Sio Bibble's particular sour note.

"I'm sure it'll be fun." Without waiting for objections, she grabbed Padmé's hand with playful determination. She tugged Padmé along, following Arturia and the rest of the girls toward their upper-garden retreat—leaving Shirou standing there without even the opportunity to put his two credits in.

-=&<o>&=-

With everyone still draped in their restaurant uniforms—though thankfully freed from the confines of their thigh-highs—they had gathered around a heavy, weathered wooden table. The chairs, hastily borrowed from the dining area downstairs, creaked softly under their weight as they settled into the evening's reprieve. The cool night air carried the faint scent of millaflower from the rooftop garden's planters, mingling with the rich aromas wafting from Emiya's culinary offerings.

Eirtama, cradling a bottle of chilled Nabooan white wine like a precious treasure, extended her long, slender arms with practised grace. Her slim fingers held the bottle's base with an almost lazy elegance as she poured generous helpings into each glass, the pale liquid catching the garden's ambient lighting. The soft clink of glass against glass punctuated the gentle evening breeze.

Her vivid red braids had been released from their earlier restraints, now cascading freely over her shoulders in waves that shimmered with rich lustre under the overhead lights. Her clear blue eyes, bright but tempered with the day's accumulated exhaustion, shifted towards the compact cryocooler as she methodically wedged the cork back into the emptied bottle.

Setting the spent bottle on the crate it came in, beside the humming cryocooler, she retrieved a bottle opener with practised efficiency and uncorked another bottle of white. Condensation immediately began forming delicate beads across the glass surface. The temperature differential created tiny rivulets that caught the light like scattered diamonds.

"Ey, Sasha, how is it?" Eirtama's voice carried a note of genuine curiosity as she directed her attention towards her companion.

Sasha sat with one hand threading through her nearly black, straight hair, attempting to tame the silken strands that the evening's gentle breeze kept sweeping across her face. The glossy locks seemed to have a mind of their own, catching and reflecting the garden's soft illumination. In her other hand, she cradled a small ceramic bowl—no larger than her palm—tipped delicately towards her pink lips as she savoured careful sips of the white, aromatic broth within.

Emiya, ever the consummate host despite his quietly weary demeanour, had just finished presenting his centrepiece: a wide, shallow pot filled with milky white broth that steamed invitingly in the cool air. He'd referred to it as paitan. The surface of the soup shimmered with emulsified protein and fat, creating an almost pearlescent quality that spoke to hours of rolling boil—well, that was according to Emiya.

Arranged around the communal pot with artistic precision were an array of vegetables—crisp greens and earthy mushrooms that promised textural contrast—alongside both processed and fresh meats that seemed to beckon from their carefully composed positions.

"Whoa, this is so good," Sasha breathed, setting her bowl down with a soft ceramic clink against the wooden table's surface. Her movements were fluid as she gathered her rebellious hair, securing it with an elastic band that had been wrapped around her slender wrist.

The action transformed her face, revealing the elegant line of her neck and the determined set of her jawline as she smacked her lips in appreciation.

"It's pretty rich and velvety—" She paused to take a considered sip of her wine, the pale liquid catching the light as it touched her lips. "—and it works surprisingly well with the wine. The acidity cuts through the richness beautifully."

The endorsement seemed to unlock something in the group's collective restraint. Tsabin reached for the ladle, its metal handle still warm from the steam, and served herself a modest portion of the bubbling soup. She positioned the ladle's handle towards Padmé—a subtle invitation that her closest friend recognised immediately, taking it as her cue to serve herself a portion. The gesture rippled around the table as everyone else followed suit, creating a comfortable rhythm of sharing and anticipation.

With deliberate care, Tsabin selected a silver fork and pierced a piece of pale white flesh. Tip-yip breast, she surmised, her brow crinkling slightly in concentration as she examined the meat's delicate texture. The protein looked perfectly cooked—tender and inviting without being overdone.

Beside the communal pot, Emiya had arranged three ceramic jars, each accompanied by its own small serving utensil. The containers seemed to promise different flavour journeys, their glazed surfaces reflecting the garden's gentle lighting.

The first, he'd explained with characteristic understatement, contained ponzu—a savoury and sour sauce designed for general purposes, its relatively light composition meant to enhance rather than overwhelm.

The second jar held what appeared to be a heavier sesame sauce, dark, creamy, and glossy, fragrant with garlic, herbs, and the deep, funky notes of fermented chilli paste that made Tsabin's nose tingle from this close.

The third jar, however, had captured her attention completely. According to Emiya's careful explanation, it contained citrus koushou—a potent blend of fermented citrus peels and chillies that promised surprising power despite its deceptively fresh, almost floral aroma. His warning that 'less is more' had been delivered with the kind of gentle authority that came from experience, accompanied by a slight smile that suggested he'd seen someone else learn that particular lesson.

Following Emiya's enthusiastic recommendation that the citrus would pair exceptionally well with the tip-yip, Tsabin reached for the tiny ceramic spoon. The utensil felt almost delicate in her fingers as she carefully portioned a small amount of the bright green condiment, its vibrant colour promising intensity. She dabbed it precisely onto the top of her selected piece of meat, watching as the paste clung to the protein's surface like a verdant crown.

The first bite was nothing short of revelatory. As her teeth sank through the tender meat, bright, sharp, citrusy notes exploded across her palate with an intensity that made her eyes flutter closed involuntarily. The fermented citrus brought layers of complexity—salty and slightly funky—while the chilli had little heat, yet it seemed to awaken every taste bud simultaneously as her mouth salivated. A soft, involuntary squeal escaped her throat, the sound somewhere between surprise and pure pleasure.

Without conscious thought, she followed the bite with a sip of the rich, velvety broth. The contrast was sublime—the paitan's creamy richness providing a luxurious backdrop that somehow made the citrus condiment's brightness even more pronounced. A pleasurable moan, deeper and more resonant than her initial squeal, escaped her lips before she could stop it.

"You like it that much, huh?" The amused voice from above made Tsabin freeze mid-chew, her eyes snapping open to discover the entire table's attention focused squarely on her. The realisation hit her like cold water—she'd been so lost in the sensory experience that she'd completely forgotten her audience.

Padmé's expression was caught between fond exasperation and barely contained laughter, her warm brown eyes dancing with mirth. Eirtama had paused mid-pour, the wine bottle suspended in her elegant fingers as her clear blue eyes sparkled with undisguised amusement. Sasha's steady hazel gaze held a mixture of curiosity and entertainment, while her lips curved in the slightest hint of a knowing smile.

Mara raised an eyebrow; her light-amber eyes—usually bright and warm—now appraising. Her voluminous blonde locks were tied into a messy bun. The new girl, Rabbine, who could pass as a little sister to both Padmé and Mara, gave her an awkward smile.

Su Yan, however, had adopted what could only be described as a positively foxy expression, her golden-brown eyes alight with mischievous delight as she leaned forward with predatory interest. "That was quite the orgasmic moan, Tsabin," she teased, her voice carrying just enough volume to make the comparison unmistakable. "Which combination did you try? Because I absolutely want to experience whatever just transported you to another realm!"

"Judging from the only missing piece in the hot pot and the small bits of green floating in her bowl, it was the tip-yip breast with a bit of citrus koushou," came the familiar voice from directly above her head, tinged with gentle amusement.
Tsabin jerked her head back sharply to locate the source, the sudden movement sending a shock of awareness through her neck muscles.

There, standing behind her chair with an expression of quiet satisfaction, was Emiya—his silver-grey eyes holding that particular blend of warmth and subtle humour that seemed to be his default setting.

Recognising the potential for collision between her rapidly tilting head and the chair's unforgiving backrest, Emiya smoothly placed his palm between her skull and the wooden surface, his reflexes speaking to the kind of spatial awareness typical of people who work in the service industry.

Arching an eyebrow in her direction, Emiya withdrew his palm from behind her skull as he settled into the vacant chair next to her, reaching for a pair of tongs. He selected another portion of the breast meat, held it aloft, and directed it towards Padmé, saying, "Here, let's finish the tip-yip breast; otherwise, it'll just overcook and become unpleasant. While I do recommend the koushou for the breast, any of the condiments will work as well."

With her delicate hands, Padmé raised her bowl, meeting the piece of meat halfway. He repeated the same cycle for each of the girls, even offering Tsabin another round, though she noticed him place one of the pieces in the empty bowl for Arturia.

"Ei, Arturia! Come join, come join," Su Yan enthusiastically called out, her voice cutting through the evening air with genuine warmth as Padmé, Mara, and Eirtama leaned in closer to catch every word of Rabbine's continuation of her animated recounting of her experiences in Coruscant—which had been momentarily interrupted by Tsabin's earlier moan. The younger woman was particularly vivid when describing her time at the University of Coruscant, her amber-gold eyes sparkling with remembered excitement as she gestured expressively.

Craning her neck, Tsabin caught sight of the blonde emerging from their studio apartment, no longer bound by the crisp lines of her black-and-white service uniform. Instead, Arturia had changed into something far more casual: short boxer shorts that revealed the lean musculature of her legs, and a simple white camisole that clung softly to her petite frame.

The moonlight seemed to seek her out deliberately, Tsabin mused with a mixture of admiration. Arturia's pale skin—that distinctive white with its faint grey undertone—caught the lunar glow and transformed her into something almost otherworldly. She moved with that characteristic measured grace, but in the silvery light, she appeared less like the composed restaurant waitress they all knew and more like some ethereal spectre who had wandered out of an old fairy tale.

But that ethereal impression shattered like morning frost as she dropped into the vacant spot next to Emiya, the movement fluid yet decisive. The way she draped her legs across his lap whilst declaring, "My limbs ache, Shirou, you will tend to my calves and feet," carried all the imperious authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question.

Tsabin nearly choked on her wine at the brazen display, the liquid catching in her throat as she witnessed the transformation from ethereal maiden to demanding noble in the space of a heartbeat. The casual intimacy of the gesture—those pale legs settling across Emiya's thighs as if it were the most natural thing in the world—sent an unexpected flutter through her chest that she couldn't quite name.

Emiya, without missing a beat, pushed her legs away with practised efficiency and said, "This is hardly the appropriate setting—thank you, Su Yan." He rebuked the petite, theorised, anthropomorphised sarlacc while thanking Su Yan, who immediately filled both Emiya and Arturia's glasses with wine, her golden-brown eyes dancing with barely suppressed amusement at the domestic theatre unfolding before them.

The rebuke was delivered with such matter-of-fact calm that Tsabin found herself studying Emiya's profile in the moonlight, noting the way his silver-grey eyes held that particular brand of long-suffering patience that spoke of countless similar exchanges. There was something almost endearing about his resigned composure, like a man who had grown accustomed to weathering storms of noble petulance.

Tsabin could feel a sudden pressure building behind her temples as she thought about Emiya's earlier explanation of some of Arturia's fans' theories about her bottomless stomach. She chalked it up to the day's tiredness and the potent vintage Su Yan kept pouring, watching as Arturia puffed her cheeks into a pout that transformed her regal features into something almost childishly endearing.

The moonlight caught the slight flush across Arturia's pale cheeks, whether from wine or indignation, Tsabin couldn't tell. But there was something utterly captivating about the way Arturia could shift so seamlessly between imperial authority and petulant charm, her golden eyes flashing with wounded pride even as her lower lip jutted out in obvious displeasure.

"I could give you a massage before we sleep," Emiya acquiesced, not looking at Arturia directly, his voice carrying that particular tone of someone who had learned when to pick his battles. The words hung in the warm night air as Tsabin took a large sip of the wine, feeling the rich liquid coat her throat as she watched their interplay between the couple with growing fascination.

Arturia's pout transformed instantly into a face of pure delight, her golden eyes lighting up with triumph as she nodded to herself in satisfaction, the movement causing her blonde hair to catch the moonlight like spun silk. Then, with the air of someone bestowing a great favour, she turned to address the table: "Do any of you want to have a massage before we sleep? Shirou here has amazing hands."

The casual offer dropped into the conversation like a stone into still water, sending ripples of surprise and intrigue across the gathered faces. Tsabin felt heat creep up her neck at the innocent yet loaded suggestion, her mind immediately conjuring images that had no business forming at a friendly dinner gathering.

Emiya, who began methodically dividing more of the aromatic meat and vegetables from the pot into individual bowls—the steam rising from the freshly served portions carrying the rich scents of herbs and spices—froze mid-motion at the sudden offer. His hands stilled over the communal dish, a piece of tender meat wedged between the teeth of a serving tong as if time itself had paused.

The silence stretched for a heartbeat, broken only by the gentle bubbling of the remaining broth and the distant sounds of the city settling into the night. Everyone appeared momentarily wrong-footed by the offer, with expressions ranging from startled surprise to dawning interest. However, Su Yan quirked an eyebrow at the suggestion, her amber-gold eyes sparkling with mischief as she leaned forward slightly, clearly intrigued by this unexpected development.

"What? Are you not staying the night?" Arturia continued, her tone suggesting that the answer should be evident to anyone with sense. "You might as well. Everyone here has already had at least a bottle of wine in them, and despite the automated flight capabilities of speeders, it is still not recommended; you'd need someone sober behind the control yoke of your vehicle." She punctuated her practical argument by downing her glass in one smooth motion, the pale column of her throat working as she swallowed.

Tsabin found herself mesmerised by the casual elegance of even that simple action, the way Arturia's head tilted back just enough to reveal the delicate line of her neck, the soft sound of satisfaction that escaped her lips as she set the empty glass down with a decisive click against the table.

"You might as well experience Shirou's full hospitali—ow!" The words cut off abruptly as Arturia's hand flew to her ear, her golden eyes widening in indignant surprise.

Shirou had reached over with lightning precision to flick her ear, the sharp sound of contact echoing in the sudden quiet. "Hey, why are you suddenly volunteering me?" he demanded, his amber eyes flashing with a mixture of exasperation and embarrassment. "Plus, I think it's quite an inappropriate offer, especially when we just met everyone today."

Emiya turned to face the rest of them, his expression shifting into formal contrition as he tilted his head in a proper bow. "I apologise for the inappropriate offer," he said with sincere regret colouring his voice. "If you do decide to stay the night, I can easily set up a sleeping bag and rest in the dining area. I wouldn't want to impose or make anyone uncomfortable."

The formal politeness was so at odds with the domestic bickering that had preceded it that Tsabin had to bite back a smile. There was something endearingly old-fashioned about his courtesy, the way he automatically took responsibility for his partner's boldness whilst offering practical solutions.

Su Yan suddenly interjected, her delicate hand raised as she gave a coy smile that transformed her already pretty features into something genuinely captivating. "Hey, I already know you lot through Uncle Balron," she said, her voice carrying a note of playful innocence that didn't quite match the spark in her golden-brown eyes. "Could I get that massage as well?"

The request hung in the air like incense, sweet and intoxicating. Tsabin watched Emiya's face go through a series of micro-expressions—surprise, realisation, and what looked distinctly like the dawning comprehension of a man who had suddenly found himself in much deeper waters than anticipated.
Emiya palmed his face with the gesture of someone who could smell blood in the water, his shoulders sagging slightly as he no doubt contemplated how a simple evening had spiralled so completely out of his control.

Seizing the moment with predatory glee, Tsabin cut in, her voice rich with amusement as she leaned forward. "Ooh, if Su Yan is getting one, I want one as well." She turned her attention to Padmé with exaggerated concern, noting how her friend's shoulders carried the tension of their recent late nights. "Padmé, didn't you complain about pains due to our late nights? Go ask for one as well."

"Yes, but—" Padmé began, her cheeks flushing pink in the moonlight as she clearly struggled between propriety and the very real appeal of the offer.

"And about sleeping in the dining area," Tsabin continued, looking around the table with a grin that she knew made her look like a cat who had discovered an unguarded bowl of cream, "we are all grown adults here." She paused to take a deliberate sip of her wine, letting the moment stretch as Su Yan made her rounds, topping up dangerously low glasses with the dedication of someone enabling chaos. "I'm sure you'll be the perfect gentleman, right, Ms Arturia?"

The question was loaded with implications and mischief, and Tsabin felt a thrill of satisfaction at the way it seemed to catch everyone's attention, the various expressions around the table ranging from scandalised to intrigued.

"You may call me Arturia," came the immediate response, delivered with regal authority that brooked no argument. "You might as well call Shirou here by his first name as well. It would be going against our camaraderie if one of us is referred to with their family name whilst the others are not."

The declaration was made with such imperial certainty that Tsabin found herself nodding automatically, caught up in the force of personality that could transform a simple dinner party into a royal court with nothing more than tone and bearing.

Arturia then turned to Shirou with a grin that was pure mischief, her normally imperious golden eyes now alight with devilish intent that made Tsabin's pulse quicken with anticipation. "Regarding Shirou here being a gentleman," she continued, her voice carrying the silky promise of revelations to come, "I would have to disagree, as he definitely is a pervert."

The accusation landed like a bomb in the peaceful evening, causing several people to choke on their drinks whilst others leaned forward with undisguised interest.

"I am not!" Shirou protested, his voice cracking slightly with indignation as colour flooded his cheeks. The moonlight made his white hair seem to glow with ethereal light, even as his face burned with very human embarrassment.

"Yes, you are!" Arturia shot back with triumphant glee, clearly delighting in his discomfort as she settled more comfortably in her seat, preparing to elaborate on her scandalous claims.

"What are you even talking about?" Shirou demanded, crossing his arms defensively as he turned to face her fully, his amber eyes flashing with a mixture of mortification and growing suspicion. "Is this payback for my earlier comments about the sarlacc thing?"

"I do not know what you're talking about," Arturia rebuked with such perfect innocence that it was obviously feigned, before turning to address their captive audience with the air of someone about to reveal state secrets. "Did you know Shirou designed this maid uniform, and it originally had a backless desi—"

The revelation was cut short as Shirou lunged forward with desperate speed, covering Arturia's mouth with his palm to prevent whatever mortifying detail she was about to share with their new friends. But Arturia, far from being silenced, simply bit down on his hand in retaliation, the action accompanied by a distinctly feline 'mokkyu' sound that somehow managed to be both adorable and threatening.

Tsabin and everyone else watched with growing amusement as the pair descended into what could only be described as dignified bickering, their obvious affection for each other shining through even their most heated exchanges. Su Yan continued her dedicated mission of keeping everyone's glasses filled, clearly viewing the domestic entertainment as the perfect accompaniment to their already exceptional late-night feast.

The sight of them—Shirou's mortified protests muffled by Arturia's continued attempts to share embarrassing stories, her golden eyes sparkling with mischief even as she maintained her grip on his hand.

Tsabin found herself exchanging a meaningful glance with Padmé; the look lingered longer than strictly necessary, both women silently wondering whether their own carefully undefined closeness mirrored the affectionate chaos unfolding before them.

Sasha, their generally meek and quiet friend who'd transform into a passionate orator only when conservation topics arose, suddenly cleared her throat with surprising authority. The sound cut through the comfortable atmosphere like a blade through silk. "Um, excuse me," she said, her voice carrying an unusual note of determination that made everyone pause mid-motion.

The bickering pair—who had been locked in their battle of wills, Arturia's teeth still threatening Shirou's captured hand whilst her golden eyes danced with unrepentant mischief—suddenly directed their full attention towards their friend. Their gazes, still gleaming with the remnants of their conflict, fixed on Sasha with laser-like intensity. The abrupt shift in focus was almost palpable, like stage lights suddenly swivelling to illuminate a new performer.

"What?" both asked in perfect unison, their voices creating an unconscious harmony that only served to emphasise their synchronicity.

"I've been curious since the start," Sasha began, her words measured but tinged with genuine interest, "what exactly is your relationship with each other?" She carefully avoided making direct eye contact with the pair, instead focusing on a spot somewhere between their shoulders, as though the intensity of their combined attention might overwhelm her usual composure.

The question hung in the air like incense, heavy and intoxicating. Tsabin could practically feel the collective held breath of their group, everyone leaning forward almost imperceptibly. This was something that everyone had probably wondered about from the moment they'd met the duo—the way they always referred to each other as 'partners'—a word vague enough to be businesslike yet suggestive of something romantic, especially given there was only one bed in their small apartment.

"Ooh, Sasha, are you interested?" Eirtama suddenly interjected with a teasing lilt that cut through the tension like a blade through butter, her clear blue eyes sparkling with mischief that rivalled Su Yan's and probably her own.

"Ah… no—" Sasha suddenly panicked, her previous composure cracking like ice under pressure as she stuttered her reply, colour flooding her cheeks in a way that made her denial entirely unconvincing. Her hands fluttered nervously, seeking purchase on her glass.

But despite the sidebar drama, all eyes inevitably fell upon the couple at the centre of attention, drawn like moths to flame. The weight of collective curiosity settled over Shirou and Arturia like a blanket, expectant and warm.

"Oh, Shirou here is my partner!" Arturia declared with the kind of pride typically reserved for announcing military victories, her voice ringing clear and strong through the restaurant's intimate space.

"My comrade-in-arms," she continued, before her expression shifted back to that familiar mischievous cast, golden eyes glinting with dangerous amusement as she added, "Or were you asking if we are involved carnally? Well, I certainly wouldn't mind sharing such details. We did have that rather memorable night with Ritsuka in Shibu—hey, ow!"

The sharp intake of breath around the table was audible, Su Yan nearly dropping her bottle of wine, whilst Tsabin felt her own eyebrows climbing towards her hairline in fascination and horror in equal measure.

Shirou, moving with the reflexes of someone long practised in damage control, suddenly held Arturia firmly by the ear, his grip gentle but unmistakably authoritative. His baritone voice cut through the air with the precision of a well-honed blade as he addressed their captivated audience: "If you're asking whether we are a couple in the traditional sense, Miss Sasha, that would be a rather complicated thing to explain without some context."

Arturia managed to slip free from Shirou's restraining fingers. She straightened with dignity intact, smoothing down her uniform with unconscious precision.

"Which is precisely why we have tonight's early morning revelry," she announced, her voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to addressing troops before battle. "We are now comrades in arms, having fought through gruelling service together and entertained guests as one united front."

Rising to her feet with ceremonial gravity, Arturia lifted her glass towards the ceiling, the liquid within catching the light like liquid amber. Her voice carried across the space with regal authority: "As we are now comrades bound by shared trials and mutual respect, let us toast this night's revelry and pledge to deepen our newly forged friendship through honest companionship and good cheer."

The words seemed to resonate in the warm air, carrying weight beyond their simple meaning. Everyone raised their glasses in response—even Shirou, though his participation came with a distinctly begrudging air that suggested he was already anticipating whatever embarrassing revelation might come next.

"Didn't you start tonight's service sitting down whilst indulging in what could only be described as shameless gluttony?" Shirou's voice cut through the night air with surgical precision, delivering one final, sarcastic rebuke.

-=&<o>&=-
END

Glossary:
Chawan - Japanese Rice Bowl
Paitan - Means white soup, basically tonkotsu, but a more general term, as the ton in tonkotsu means pork.

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13thsephiroth · Thursday at 5:54 AM

Fate/Knights of the
Heroic Throne

Chapter Intro
Human order: Restored.
History: Preserved.
But what of the ones who made it possible?
Heroic Spirits—echoes of legends, bound to vessels, fated to fade without remembrance.
But a wish was made.
One last miracle from humanity's saviour—
that her fallen companions might live once more.

Story Starts
-=&<o>&=-
Chapter 5.2 -
One Must Not
Feed Strays After Hours

The atmosphere had settled into tranquillity as Shirou made his way back, carrying a vessel of prepared rice. The heated plasteel container warmed his hands through the casing. He acknowledged Mara with a brief nod as she appeared from the refresher. She offered him a particularly gentle smile before matching his pace, the two of them completing their walk to rejoin the others without exchanging words.

Shirou could see loose pairings and trios as conversations drifted into random topics. The soft murmur of voices created a gentle background hum, punctuated by the occasional laugh or the clink of utensils against bowls. Both he and Mara sat down as he scraped the bottom of the pan with methodical precision using a wooden spatula. The tool moved smoothly against the metal surface, mixing the rice with the remaining broth, leftover meat, and vegetables—each ingredient melding together in a way that would waste nothing of what had been prepared.
"Now that we're all here," Padmé announced, her voice carrying that measured warmth he'd noticed earlier as she attempted to draw everyone's focus. The gentle tap-tap-tap of her fingernails against her glass created a delicate percussion that somehow commanded attention without demanding it. "As Arturia mentioned, we've laboured diligently this evening, yet we still haven't properly made introductions."

"Why don't we start with our side?" Tsabin interjected. She tapped her finger thoughtfully against her lips, her legs crossed as she leaned forward into her knees, a mischievous grin spreading across her features that suggested she was already enjoying whatever dynamic was about to unfold. "Let's go by order of seniority, then circle back to me, then Padmé?"

"Uh… should have known," the Eirtama sighed, tossing Tsabin a dirty look—only to get a pointed, childish tongue in return.

"Well, the last time we made introductions, it took several minutes of staring before anyone started, and a few more between each turn," Sasha interjected softly, spooning herself a small portion of the porridge-like concoction—her eyes lighting up as she tasted it.

A small smile touched Shirou's face as he pushed the sesame sauce towards the dark-haired reformist.

"I hereby propose that this be our default introduction order. Aye?" Su Yan suddenly declared, hand raised as if she were in a classroom.

Everyone—minus Rabbine, Arturia, and him—quickly chorused, "Aye!", arms half-heartedly raised.

She shook her head, grabbed the stem of her wine glass, and leant back, swirling the last of the wine before downing it in one go. Then she reached into the cryocooler for another bottle.

"Let me—you've been refilling our drinks all night," Arturia said, taking the bottle—but then handing it straight to Shirou, who only shook his head.

"You know, you should probably learn to open wine bottles eventually. What happens if there are no open ones and no one's available?" Shirou said dryly, reaching across the table for the wine opener. "Oh—my bad, Eirtama, go ahead."

Arturia shot him a smug look as Eirtama glanced up from her empty glass, setting it down. Her slim fingers tapped lazily against the table before she gave them a bright, pointed smile.

"Eirtama Ballory," she said, her voice carrying that warm-but-pointed tone that came naturally. "Though for most of the night, I've been called Tarin—my supposed public pseudonym."

Again, everyone—minus Rabbine, Arturia, him, and this time Su Yan, who was innocently whistling at the side—shot Tsabin a deadpan stare.

"What?" Tsabin asked, instinctively crossing her arms in defence.

"Well, most of our name leaks come from you. We use pseudonyms for a reason," Eirtama said, turning suddenly to Shirou and Arturia. "Not that we're calling you two untrustworthy."

"That is well. In your case, to be known is to be vulnerable, and exposure is your enemy," Arturia said solemnly. The formal cadence of her words settled over the table like a veil as Shirou passed her the now-opened wine bottle.
She started refilling each person's glass with practised precision, her short stature forcing her to stand and lean over gracefully to reach the far end of the table. Her movements were deliberate, almost ceremonial—each pour measured perfectly, not a drop spilt despite the awkward angle.

"Be that as it may, Su Yan has already been talking about your group since Balron introduced us," Arturia continued, tone casual, as though remarking on the weather. Shirou, quite amusedly, suspected she hadn't noticed she'd just passed one hot potato—well, tuber—from Tsabin to Su Yan. "We would likely have connected your names with your pseudonyms either way, given her enthusiasm."

Su Yan flinched visibly at everyone's collective stare, her shoulders hunching slightly as if she could make herself smaller. Her eyes darted frantically around the garden—to the bright moon of Ohma Dun, the plants, anywhere but the faces now turned her way—whilst she continued her innocent whistling. However, the tune had become notably more off-key and strained.

Both Shirou and Padmé caught the subtle movement of Tsabin's triumphant fist pump beneath the table, her barely concealed glee at the sudden shift in everyone's ire almost palpable.

The leader of their group and the former Counter Guardian exchanged a look across the table—understanding passing between them like a shared secret, followed by twin exasperated sighs that spoke of long experience with the antics of those around them. The soft exhales were lost amidst the gentle clatter of cutlery and the muffled sounds of conversation, unnoticed by both the smug Tsabin and the methodically wine-pouring Arturia.

"Ahem—anyway, let's just be mindful of our pseudonyms in the future… please," Padmé said in mediation, but not before giving both Su Yan and Tsabin a pointed look. The pair donned sheepish smiles at the admonishment.

"Ah, yes—where was I?" Eirtama's voice carried the crisp precision of someone accustomed to boardroom presentations, though her tone remained warmly conversational. "Eirtama Ballory. I mainly handle our group's finances. I, too, am the primary connection to the finance sector of Naboo when it comes to garnering support for our little endeavour." Her long legs stretched forwards beneath the table in a display of casual elegance, yet folded gracefully over one another, the soft rustle of fabric from the maid's uniform skirt accompanying the movement.

From Shirou's experience during the night's service—and from what he had observed so far throughout the gathering—Eirtama struck him as a more tempered version of Tsabin in many respects. Where Tsabin's wit was sharp, unpredictable, and occasionally cutting, Eirtama seemed to favour light teasing and playful banter in her interactions with the other women who had helped that night.

She was also earnest in her responsibilities; not once during the service did she need to be prompted before acting. She would either ask if there was anything she could do or move to assist someone the moment it looked like they needed help. Yet despite her tall, athletic frame, she was deceptively weak—Shirou, or Arturia, had to help her with several of the wine crates throughout the evening.

"Outside of spreadsheets, late-night budget recalculations, and a certain someone trying to sneak in Bespin Sparkle as a business expense, I listen to a lot of holonovels—well, not outside, since I listen to them even whilst working," she amended with a shrug and a grin. "I think that's a pretty succinct summary of me. Let me just say, Mr Shirou—"

Shirou raised an eyebrow at the mention of Bespin Sparkle, as he already had an inkling of who that was, and he interrupted Eirtama. "You may drop the mister; that goes for everyone, since Arturia here—ever the mouthpiece–has given everyone permission. You can just call me Shirou."

"Ah, yes, Shirou, the night was truly amazing, and the food—" She paused, her clear blue eyes brightening with genuine appreciation as she gestured towards the steaming porridge between them. "I think there was nothing brought out that I didn't like. Even this hot pot was something I hadn't tried before, yet it was equally moreish." Her voice carried a note of pleasant surprise as she inhaled the fragrant steam rising from the ceramic vessel. Around the table, heads bobbed in agreement, the soft murmur of satisfaction rippling through the gathered group.

"It's such a shame that there wasn't dessert in tonight's offerings. Shirou here offered me this afternoon a slice of cake and some pastries that were just divine," Tsabin added excitedly. "You lot should try it later—oh, my bad, you're closed today, right? Maybe tomorrow. What was it called again, Shirou?"

At the sound of sweets, more than half of the table perked up, their eyes suddenly laser-focused on Shirou with an intensity that made him acutely uncomfortable. The collective gaze held such naked want—the kind of look he'd seen on faces during food shortages, though thankfully far less desperate—that he instinctively wanted to step back and perhaps find somewhere to hide.

'This is what happens when you mention dessert to a group of ladies,' he thought wryly, noting how even the most composed amongst them had developed that telltale gleam of culinary interest.

"Uh—it was the kaaf cream cheese cake and the zeppole," he managed, feeling oddly like he was confessing to some sort of crime rather than simply naming baked goods.

The reaction was immediate and telling. He could practically see the mental notes being taken, the silent vows to return being made around the table. Shirou had the sinking—or perhaps rising—feeling that he had just gained another group of regulars, and he should probably start thinking about rotating or adding more desserts to the menu.

'At this rate, our quiet little establishment is going to need a proper pastry case,' he mused—but left that problem for another day.

Arturia's eyes gleamed with excitement as she likely guessed where his mind had drifted—and the fact that, should he make additional pastries, anything unsold by closing would meet its end in the refuse bin—ahem, Arturia's stomach, ahem.

"I guess it's my turn," Su Yan said excitedly, bouncing in her seat. "As everyone here already knows—name's Su Yan Calris, thank you," she added, nodding to Arturia for the top-up before sipping half the glass in one go.

She gestured with her wine glass in a casual toast to no one in particular.

"I coordinate youth civic engagement programmes around Theed—teaching kids about leadership, community service, how to actually participate in their own futures instead of just... waiting for adults to maybe fix things." Her voice carried genuine warmth when talking about the work. "Did my practicum with the University Dean, so I've got the whole educational theory background—but honestly? Most of what works is just making sure kids feel like their voices actually matter."

"As you may have surmised, I'm this group's liaison with Naboo's education sector—though the dean has been hesitant about more of their students becoming vocal under the current regime, which is quite understandable given our king's reputation. But we do have their quiet support," she said, giving Padmé a sheepish smile.

"Like I said previously, I already know Shirou and Arturia through my Uncle Balron and Aunt Tessari—the previous owners of this lovely establishment," she said, raising her glass slightly in their direction.

Both Arturia and Shirou raised their own glasses in return. The familiar weight of the crystal stemware reminded Shirou of Tessari's—and by extension, Su Yan's—extravagant taste.

Even their everyday glassware had been imported from Coruscant's finer districts, which fortunately came with the establishment—glassware he always reinforced before service for fear of increasing costs should the expensive crystalware break.

"I was also the one who recommended your amazing establishment to Tsabin, which led to tonight's festivities. So I'm expecting more extra service in the future," she said with bubbling enthusiasm, her golden-brown eyes sparkling with mischief as she gave Shirou a deliberate wink.

The playful challenge in her voice was unmistakable, and Shirou found himself caught between amusement and exasperation.

"Isn't this already extra service?" Shirou deadpanned, his silver-grey eyes taking in the scene before him with practised assessment. The gesture he made encompassed not just the carefully selected wines now gracing their table, but the hot pot that had transformed into something resembling rich, savoury porridge. "I also specially stock Bespin Sparkle for you, and don't I already give you an additional slice of cake every time you order a bottle?"

His tone carried that familiar dry humour, tinged with the faintest hint of resignation that seemed to characterise most of his interactions with their more regular—and demanding—clientele... and Arturia.

Before Su Yan could reply, a voice interrupted.

"Umm, my name's Sasha—Sasha Malvern. I joined this group not long after watching one of Padmé's speeches at the University of Theed. I'm a distant cousin of Su Yan," Sasha said, her voice wavering at first but finding steadiness by the end as she idly swirled her wine. Her gaze flicked to Su Yan, who met it with a small, reassuring smile.

"Oh, are you from Tessari's side of the family?" Arturia asked, her golden eyes bright with genuine curiosity as she leaned forwards slightly in her chair.
The question cut through the atmosphere like a guillotine, and Shirou immediately felt the subtle shift. The easy warmth that had been building around their table seemed to evaporate, replaced by something colder and more complicated. He noticed shoulders tensing almost imperceptibly, smiles becoming fixed, and members of their retinue exchanging awkward glances.

Rabbine's amber eyes swept the table, her confidence faltering as she struggled to read the sudden tension. Arturia, for her part, easily understood that the tension stemmed from an uncomfortable topic—one she'd unknowingly raised—so she quickly apologised for her faux pas.

Su Yan's reaction was immediate and telling—her hand moved to scratch at her jaw in a gesture that screamed discomfort, her usual bright energy dimming. The playful mischief that had danced in her golden-brown eyes moments before was gone.

"I... sorry, I didn't mean to bring the mood down," Sasha mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper as she seemed to shrink into herself. Her fingers tightened around her wine glass, knuckles white against the pale amber liquid within.

Shirou was glad he reinforced the glasses regularly; otherwise, some of them might have cracked under how tightly everyone was holding theirs.
"If it's something sensitive, I think it's best we move on," he said, offering Sasha what he hoped was a disarming smile—the kind that said 'no judgement here'.

But even as he spoke, he couldn't help but notice the way Padmé and Tsabin had gone very still, their expressions settling into something he recognised all too well. It was the same controlled mask they'd worn when Sio Bibble was in the immediate vicinity or blatantly giving them icy glares—the look of people who knew exactly what they were dealing with and didn't like it one bit.

'Probably another one of their powerful detractors,' Shirou thought, watching the subtle interplay of tension ripple across the table. Of course, any movement against the status quo would eventually face opposition.

'Balron and Tessari did say that they had extensive family connections,' Shirou thought wryly, pieces clicking into place with the sort of clarity that only came with hindsight. 'How else could Tessari casually gift Arturia a skylane-legal swoop bike on a planet like Naboo? The ease with which that was approved meant connections.'

"No, umm… It's okay, right, Padmé? Sasha? They regularly meet up with Balron and Tessari—let's just nip it in the bud," Su Yan offered, her voice far from its usual bright tone. Everyone nodded in reluctant agreement, the gesture heavy with resignation.

"Okay, Sasha, do you want me to rip the bacta patch off quickly or do you want to?" Su Yan asked, giving her apparent distant cousin a reassuring smile—the same warm, patient expression Shirou had seen once before, when one of her students from the volunteer programme had visited the restaurant.

Sasha hesitated for a moment, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her short sleeves. Shirou noticed the shallow rise and fall of her breath. But then, as if a switch had flipped inside her, she steeled herself. Her posture straightened, her chin lifted, and the uncertain young woman vanished—replaced by someone who looked capable of commanding a room.

"I'm Governor Sio Bibble's niece through his cousin, while Su Yan is through his wife's sister," she announced, her voice clear and steady enough to make Shirou blink.

Realisation dawned on him with a near-audible click. "Ah, yes—the governor did ask me to extend an invitation to Balron and Tessari to visit his wife. That slipped my mind." The words felt strange even as he said them. 'How did I forget that?' It had been just over an hour ago. Blaming it on the long day and the alcohol, Shirou shrugged the thought away.
"Shirou." That single word from Arturia carried the weight of a dozen unspoken questions. Her golden eyes met his, steady and expectant, and he could almost hear the request behind them.

He looked to Padmé and Tsabin, catching the subtle nods they shared—a silent exchange of permission in the careful language of diplomats. The taste of necessity lingered bitter on his tongue.

Turning to Arturia, he said evenly, "The governor isn't a big fan of these two." The words came out flat and matter-of-fact, accompanied by a deliberately casual gesture towards the pair—no need to add drama to what was already delicate.

"I understand," was Arturia's equally succinct reply, delivered with that particular brand of regal composure that conveyed acceptance without need for further context. Her expression remained perfectly neutral.

Snort, snort, cough, spit. The sound erupted from someone at the table—Shirou thought it might have been Eirtama, though in the sudden burst of surprised laughter that followed, it was hard to tell. The ridiculous, undignified noise cut through the tension like a blade through silk, and suddenly the whole table was dissolving into giggles and chuckles. The relief was palpable, washing over them like a cool breeze after a suffocating day.

"Yeah, to put it lightly," Tsabin said, rolling her eyes with the kind of dramatic flair that suggested this was a well-worn source of frustration. Her voice carried that particular mix of exasperation and dark humour.

Arturia stood up with fluid grace, her movement drawing everyone's attention as effectively as if she'd called the room to order. She moved with purpose, the soft sound of liquid against glass accompanying her as she topped up everyone's drinks.

Lifting her glass, the amber liquid catching the warm light from the overhead fixtures, she declared, "To detractors—and may their disdain empower our success." Her voice carried that particular blend of dignity and defiance that he'd come to associate with her more regal moments—not quite the King of Knights, but definitely someone who understood the weight of words spoken in ceremony.

With that inspiring toast, everyone rose as one, the scrape of chairs against the floor mixing with the musical chime of glass touching glass as they clinked their drinks together in solidarity.

-=&<o>&=-

Following Arturia's rousing declaration, she swiftly recovered by proposing to plunder the leftover portions of cheesecake Shirou had tucked away in one of the cooling units near the bar counter.

She was accompanied by Rabbine, who immediately volunteered to help, as well as Eirtama—who offered to carry the remaining porridge; at the very least, she could manage that without much trouble—and Sasha.

Just before they left, Sasha quickly finished her introduction, explaining that she was their liaison with Naboo's environmental sector and that she didn't have many hobbies other than casually reading holojournals and documents related to environmental science.

This earned her a round of teasing from Eirtama and Tsabin—apparently, she did get into heated arguments or discussions when it came to the environment.

Shirou nursed his glass of wine whilst the remaining four talked about random things.

"Shi—"

"Shiro—"

A hand clasped his shoulder. "Shirou?"

A sharp prod yanked him from his musings as he glanced leftwards, discovering a perfectly groomed finger extended from the hand gripping his shoulder—jabbing at his cheek.

It was Su Yan with her typical fox-like smile, her golden-brown eyes sparkling with mischief as her finger lingered against his cheek. "Serves you right for ignoring such beautiful and innocent maidens."

The emphasis she placed on 'innocent' was so deliberately theatrical that Shirou could practically feel the air quotes around the word. She poked his cheek several more times whilst he could sense the barely contained laughter bubbling beneath her tone.

Turning his gaze towards Mara, Padmé, and Tsabin, Shirou dipped his head slightly in a small bow as he said, "My apologies, ladies."

"Hey! Why wasn't I included in that?" Su Yan complained, releasing his shoulder to plant her hands firmly on her hips, her voice pitching higher in mock offence as her brow furrowed and a pout formed.

The other three were covering their mouths as they quietly laughed at the quick gag, their shoulders shaking with barely restrained giggles. Padmé's eyes crinkled at the corners, whilst Tsabin's smirk threatened to break through her composed façade entirely.

"Friends, our plunder was successful. I even found something that was hidden in the larger cooler units," Arturia announced proudly as she emerged from the staircase leading to the kitchen area, her voice carrying the satisfaction of a conqueror returning with spoils. Behind her, Rabbine held a large circular platter of cheesecake with both hands. Sasha followed closely, carefully carrying a plasteel pan.

Shirou groaned as they found the pan from his first attempt at making tiramisu—the distinct aroma of kaff wafting downwind towards the group as they perked up at the smell.

"Arturia, you do know that the tiramisu has caf in it, right?" Shirou deadpanned.

"Which is why we are balancing it out with this," Arturia said proudly, holding a bottle aloft like a trophy whilst balancing a tray of lowball glasses with practised ease.

A squeal erupted from Shirou's left—high-pitched and filled with pure delight—as Su Yan leapt from her seat like a spring had been released. She practically bounced across the small space towards Arturia.

"I didn't know you stocked the good stuff! And it's aged as well," Su Yan breathed reverently as she gently extracted the bottle from Arturia's grasp, cradling it against her chest like a precious artefact. Her fingers traced the label with evident appreciation, and she actually nuzzled the bottle of eighteen-year-old Corellian whisky against her cheek.

"Argh, fine. Is everyone still up for more? Make sure you drink water as well," Shirou said, gesturing towards the water dispenser that could double as an ice maker, on the other side of the cryocooler. "I can only get hold of that particular whisky once every month, so if Balron and Tessari come back early, you'd better explain why their favourite drink was unavailable."

"Yes, Mother," Su Yan and Arturia chorused in perfect unison, their voices blending into a single mocking tone. The moment the words left their lips, both women burst into delighted giggles at their sudden synchronicity, sharing a conspiratorial glance of spontaneous rebellion against Shirou's nagging.

Shirou groaned as others joined in whilst they laid out the desserts—Arturia distributing the lowball glasses whilst Eirtama handed out the small plates and forks she'd been carrying.

The moment the desserts touched the table, eager hands reached forwards with barely restrained enthusiasm. Forks clinked against plates as everyone simultaneously abandoned any pretence of restraint, diving into the sweet offerings with the fervour of diners who had discovered treasure.

-=&<o>&=-

As the group found their places, cradling their whisky glasses—several chose to take it neat like Shirou, Arturia, Tsabin, Su Yan, and Eirtama, whilst the others diluted theirs with water and ice. Following their first portion—during which everything abruptly disappeared from their vantage point, though from Shirou's perspective, it was simply them messily devouring everything after that opening taste.

It was Su Yan, Arturia, and Tsabin who lectured the rest about savouring the dessert as if they were mountain sages imparting wisdom upon the common masses. Shirou just shook his head at their antics, inwardly grumbling at Arturia and Su Yan's description of his apparent mother-henning.

He smiled at the sight. He'd allowed Arturia's extension of hospitality towards the group, hoping it would help her find more friends. Other than her usual circle of holodrama watchers—primarily composed of aunties—her only other friend in her age group was Lessa, the daughter of Garron Velassis, who'd been the first to extend a hand to the displaced Heroic Spirits now inhabiting mortal bodies.

'Well, roughly her age group,' Shirou mentally amended, remembering Arturia had perished sometime in her thirties; her perpetual youth stemmed from the enchantments woven into Caliburn and subsequently Excalibur—Avalon hadn't helped either. This was in contrast to her alternate selves, who'd selected Rhongomyniad over the Holy Swords, and who consequently possessed considerably more developed physiques.

Golden-yellow eyes entered his vision as he was suddenly caught ogling, her gaze narrowing as he involuntarily checked out Arturia's physical features whilst remembering the developed bodies of her alternate selves. He tried not to show andy weakness—physically, at least—given that the Excali-chests did have some insecurities when compared to the Rhongo-busts of Chaldea.
Shirou inclined his head, giving Arturia an innocent smile as he raised his glass and clinked it against hers. Her eyes narrowed further in suspicion.
'Can our connection send thoughts or intentions through our link?' Shirou wondered.

'Rhongo-haves versus the Excali-have-nots,' Shirou tested, and a tic formed on Arturia's temple.

"Oh, I'd forgotten—I suppose it's my turn." A sweet, melodic voice thankfully stayed Shirou's potential execution as Mara sipped her whisky, a sound of contentment following as she took another spoonful of the tiramisu and pressed her cheek with a smile.

"As you already know, name's Mara Solune," she said, giving everyone a sweet and bright smile.

"I handle community outreach—mostly in the lower districts and around the hospital network." She paused, taking another sip of her whisky, a slight red glow already forming on her cheeks. "I did my practicum under the director at Theed General, so that means I'm the group's liaison with Naboo's health department, private and public hospitals, and community outreach programmes."

Her eyes lifted upwards as if thinking, raising her glass level with her face, elbow dug into the chair's armrest, ice clinking against the glass. "I don't know what else to say about me other than I also coordinate charity visits and help connect families to resources when the official systems fail them. Oh—I also love listening to holonovels and holodramas."

This, of course, caught Arturia's attention, and she suddenly brought up her favourite holodrama. Everyone joined in—it was mainstream media, after all—as they discussed their theories on what the protagonist would do now that he had already admitted to himself his love for the heiress of the conglomerate he'd vowed to topple.

Shirou winced as Arturia violently pinched his side, some vague sense of him deserving it floating at the back of his thoughts.

-=&<o>&=-

"How can he abandon his vow for vengeance when it was because of her family that his mother and father perished!" Sasha declared, her voice rising as she gripped a glass half-full of neat whisky. The amber liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim as she gestured emphatically.

"Yeah, how could he do that?" Tsabin interjected, grinning widely as she looked at the trio. She smoothly plucked the glass from Sasha's hand and took a sip, settling in to watch the chaos she and Su Yan had orchestrated.
"No, the best revenge is to live—embrace Celestine, embrace love…"

"Could we sit here?"

Shirou looked up to see Padmé and Rabbine—likely returned from the fresher—gesturing towards the empty seats. He nodded, and they sat flanking him. Looking back at the now-standing trio, he realised their introductions had devolved into a forum on Arturia's current favourite holodrama—which had, inevitably, escalated into heated debate.

"Oh—they're still at it," Padmé said, voice warm with recognition as she settled left.

"…his vow and achieving justice—whilst simultaneously maintaining his relationship with Celestine, who, if I recall correctly, has herself expressed distaste for her family's more... questionable business practices," Arturia emphatically said, as she took another swig of her whisky.

"Yeah, why not both?" Su Yan nodded her support as she grinned, winking at Tsabin and Eirtama. Tsabin looked like a cat playing with their prey, whilst Eirtama just shook her head as she slowly nursed her drink.

"I thought those two were the quietest of your group?" Shirou asked, turning his head to Padmé and then Rabbine.

"Oh, don't look at me," Rabbine said, waving her hands in front of her. "I'm new here—in fact, I only arrived today… err, I meant yesterday." She pressed one hand theatrically to her chest as she gave Shirou a cutesy smile before standing to reach for the whisky bottle. Her skirt lifted dangerously as she stretched, prompting Shirou to avert his eyes.

"Technically, they are the quiet ones—relative to this lot," Padmé offered. "But they're also the most stubborn when they dig in."

"…not just 'some pretty heiress,'" Mara protested, her cheeks flushed pink as she leaned forwards earnestly. "It's Celestine! The woman he loves! The whole point is that revenge won't fix what was broken—it'll just break him too. The best revenge against the conglomerate is to refuse to let them destroy his capacity for love!"

They shared a warm laugh at their friends, the sound knowing and comfortable between them. The familiar rhythm of Arturia, Sasha, and Mara's debate created a pleasant backdrop—their cyclical argument had already completed its third lap by Shirou's count, each revolution bringing the same passionate points with slightly different inflections. He found himself oddly charmed by the predictability of it, as if he were witnessing an endearing trainwreck—except the train had somehow managed to derail onto the same track three times in a row.

The scent of aged whisky drifted between them as Rabbine shifted closer. "Here, do you want more? Padmé? Mr Shirou?" she asked, her head tilted at an endearing angle as she held the bottle poised over Padmé's glass, the cork resting in her other hand.

"I think I'm good for the night," Padmé said, standing to reach for her glass of water. Like Rabbine before her, her skirt lifted dangerously high, and Shirou once again averted his eyes—only to find himself facing a grinning Rabbine, who had clearly witnessed his reaction.

Coughing into his hand, Shirou simply said, "Yeah, I'll have some more."
Her grin softened into something sweeter as she poured the amber liquid—three fingers into each tumbler. Lifting her own glass, she waited for the others to join her toast. The three vessels met with a gentle chime—Shirou and Rabbine with their whisky, Padmé with her water—before each took measured sips.

"There's something I've been wondering," Shirou said as he placed his glass back on the table. The question had been nagging at him since their first meeting, and the whisky had finally loosened his tongue enough to voice it. "Are you and Tsabin related somehow, Padmé?"

Both women laughed at Shirou's question, their amusement harmonising warmly. Padmé wiped at the corner of her eye with an elegant finger, her mirth genuine and unguarded. "That was the very same thing Eirtama asked when Rabbine first introduced herself yesterday," she managed between residual chuckles. "Word for word, actually. We should probably prepare a standard response."

"Not related—just similar-looking," Rabbine confirmed, tucking dark hair behind her ear in unconscious echo of Padmé's earlier gesture. "My family's been on Coruscant for generations. Pure coincidence. With only so many ways faces arrange themselves and trillions of humans in the galaxy, lookalikes are bound to happen."

Shirou kept his eyes carefully neutral. Lookalikes or not, Rabbine had inherited certain proportions her counterparts distinctly lacked.

"Oh—I heard you talking about it earlier," Shirou said, his curiosity piqued despite himself. The conversation had drifted past him in fragments whilst he'd been focused on other things, but now he found himself genuinely interested. "What's it like living on a city-planet?" He paused, searching for the proper terminology he'd heard in passing. 'An ecumenopolis—wasn't that the word?'

"…that's naive romanticism!" Sasha shot back across the rooftop, nearly knocking over her glass in her enthusiasm. Tsabin swiftly grabbed it before the whisky could spill, taking another swig for her trouble.

"In plenty of ways, Coruscant is an amazing place," Rabbine began, her amber eyes lighting up with genuine enthusiasm. "Endless amenities and conveniences, a true melting pot of the galaxy where you can find cuisine from a thousand worlds on a single level. Every layer has its own distinct history, its own culture. You could spend a lifetime exploring and never see it all."

But as quickly as the brightness had appeared, it dimmed, shadows creeping across her expression. "Though it's far from perfect," she continued, her voice taking on a more measured tone. "Certain sectors run rampant with crime. CorSec either avoids those areas entirely or turns a deliberate blind eye. The deeper you go, the more lawless it becomes."

The shift in her demeanour was subtle but noticeable—the way her shoulders tensed slightly, how her gaze flickered downwards before meeting their eyes again.

"Which is why I'm so grateful to be here," Rabbine said, her voice brightening again with what seemed like genuine relief. Her eyes darted meaningfully towards Padmé, a gesture that didn't escape Shirou's notice. "Grateful to be noticed by... well, noticed by one of the movement's silent supporters." There was something carefully calculated in how she phrased it, as if she'd rehearsed the words.

"Good—at least you're not picking up bad habits from Tsabin," Padmé said with obvious fondness, causing a delicate blush to bloom across Rabbine's cheeks.

The young woman fidgeted under their combined attention, her hands clasping and unclasping in her lap. "Well, it's only my first day here," she admitted with a self-deprecating laugh. "But yes—as I mentioned earlier, I'm truly grateful that someone noticed my work on Coruscant and recommended me for your group. The competition there could be absolutely toxic. Cutthroat, even."

She paused, gazing out towards the view from the rooftop garden where Naboo's gentle landscape lay shrouded in night. "Naboo is such a beautiful planet," she said softly, genuine appreciation warming her voice. "Lush forests, pristine lakes, architecture that actually breathes with the landscape rather than consuming it. It's such a shame that the current monarch is so... problematic." Her tone grew more pointed, the political awareness beneath her youthful exterior surfacing.

"…not how it works!" Sasha insisted, her hands gesturing wildly. "The moment he starts tearing down her family's empire, she'll hate him! It doesn't matter if she agrees with him in principle—that's her name, her legacy!"

"Then perhaps her legacy deserves to burn," Arturia replied coolly.

"Ooh, spicy," Su Yan commented from the side-lines, reaching over for the bottle refilling Sasha's glass—which was currently being used by both the dark-haired girl and Tsabin—with obvious glee.

She faced Padmé again, intent. "What made you start this movement? I want to understand where it all began."

Padmé's gaze grew distant, though something more complex flickered behind her eyes—Shirou caught the subtle tightening around her temples, the way her breathing shifted to something more controlled.

"It wasn't just one moment—it was a series of events," she said quietly, her voice carrying the careful cadence of someone who'd told this story before but still felt its barbs. "Trade route negotiations that somehow always favoured off-world interests. Infrastructure projects announced with great fanfare that never quite materialised—promises of new schools, improved transit systems, upgraded medical facilities." Her fingers pressed against the table's edge. "Royal appointments going to cronies rather than qualified candidates, watching competent administrators replaced by sycophants who wouldn't question orders."

The evening breeze stirred around them, carrying the faint scent of night-blooming flowers. Shirou noticed how the wind caught stray strands of Padmé's hair, sending them dancing across her face as her expression grew more haunted. "I suppose the tipping point was a labour dispute a year and a half ago at one of the plasma refineries—workers asking for basic safety improvements after three deaths in as many months."

The memory seemed to settle over her like a shroud. Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and Shirou could see the effort it took to keep her voice level. "Veruna sent security forces to 'maintain order.' Tsabin and I went to observe, to document what was happening." She paused, and in that silence Shirou heard the echo of helpless rage. "We watched royal guards—meant to protect Naboo's citizens—break up a peaceful gathering with shock batons and threats. Families torn apart, workers beaten for asking not to die for their wages."

Her fingers traced the rim of her water glass with unconscious precision, the gesture absent and contemplative, but Shirou noticed the slight tremor in her hand. The cool night air carried voices from the streets below—early risers like Shirou preparing for the day, workers returning from night watch, groups stumbling home after a night of revelry—distant sounds that seemed to mock the gravity of her words. "Veruna seemed different at first. Reformist, even. I campaigned for him, believed in his promises of transparency and accountability." Her voice grew bitter.

"But power has a way of revealing character rather than changing it. The scandals, the corruption, the casual brutality—they were just symptoms. The disease was deeper—a system that allowed one person to hollow out our institutions for personal gain whilst everyone looked the other way, too comfortable or too frightened to speak."

"But all it takes is one whisper, right, Padmé?" Tsabin suddenly interrupted as she, alongside Su Yan, Eirtama, and the holodrama debate team, approached the trio.

"For it to echo into the people's hearts," Su Yan finished, hands clasping Tsabin's shoulder.

Padmé smiled at the pair, raising her glass of water in acknowledgement.

Shirou turned to the group of six, eyebrow lifted, and deadpanned, "So who won the debate?"

Mara and Sasha seemed to blush in embarrassment, involuntarily stepping behind the smaller Arturia.

"Oh, they turned their debate into a bet," Eirtama deadpanned.

"How about you—which swoop bike will you back?" Su Yan asked Padmé and Rabbine, her eyes gleaming with mischievous anticipation. The question hung in the air like a challenge, and Shirou could practically feel the trap being set.

"Yeah, come on—join in solidarity," Tsabin cajoled, her voice carrying that particular tone that meant trouble was brewing. As she spoke, Shirou noticed Eirtama frantically shaking her head whilst crossing both index fingers into an 'X' behind the duo's backs, her blue eyes wide with warning. The accountant's pale complexion had gone even paler, and she was mouthing 'no' with the desperation of someone watching a speeder hurtle towards a cliff.

"Which one will the holodrama end with?" Tsabin continued, warming to her theme with theatrical flourish. "Will Kael Torven give up his plans for revenge and fully devote himself to his love for Celestine? Will it end with him burning everything for the sake of his pledge, even if it hurts the one he loves in the process? Or finally, will it end with Celestine betraying her family as she helps Kael destroy the conglomerate root and stem?" She paused dramatically, savouring the moment. "Any ending closest to these three scenarios shall be accepted as the winner."

Both Su Yan and Tsabin stepped forwards in unison, their combined presence towering over the seated Padmé and Rabbine. The movement was clearly choreographed, blocking the two women's sight lines from Eirtama's increasingly frantic warning gestures. Su Yan's golden-brown eyes sparkled with barely contained glee, whilst Tsabin wore that particular smirk that meant she was thoroughly enjoying herself at someone else's expense.

Eirtama, seeing that her silent warnings were pointless against the duo's determined enthusiasm, sighed in defeat. Her shoulders sagged as she locked eyes with Shirou, and he offered her a commiserating smile.

Padmé and Rabbine exchanged uncertain glances, their expressions caught between curiosity and wariness. The bright light of the setting Ohma Dun caught Padmé's features, highlighting the slight furrow of her brow as she processed whatever machinations were at work. Rabbine's amber eyes darted between the two instigators.

Finally, worn down by persistent badgering and perhaps sensing that resistance was futile, both women acquiesced. They chose the third option.

"Excellent!" The pair celebrated with infectious enthusiasm, Su Yan clapping her hands together whilst Tsabin pumped her fist in the air. "So that means Eirtama, Arturia, Padmé, and Rabbine have all opted for the love-and-vengeance ending!" Su Yan announced with the air of someone declaring planetary election results.

"Meanwhile, Tsabin backed Mara, who's on team pure-love, whilst I backed my dear distant cousin Sasha, who's firmly in team vengeance-above-all!"

Shirou felt a chill that had nothing to do with temperature.

"Good—no take-backs!" Su Yan declared, grinning with the satisfaction of a predator who'd successfully cornered her prey. She produced her datapad with a flourish, the screen's glow casting her features in sharp relief. "Losers shall serve Shirou here as thanks for tonight's hospitality—for one whole weekend, dressed as a Twi'lek dancer!"

The image on her datapad made a tic form on Shirou's temple, whilst the tricked pair gasped beside him. It showed a graceful Twi'lek dancer posed elegantly, but her outfit was... minimal, to put it kindly. The costume consisted of what he could only describe as a golden metal bikini top that provided barely adequate coverage, connected by delicate chains to matching bottoms. A translucent pelvic curtain of gossamer fabric hung from a jewelled belt, offering no illusion of modesty, revealing far more than it concealed. Golden armlets and anklets completed the ensemble, along with a collar that seemed more ornamental than functional.

Shirou felt his face flush crimson as the implications crashed over him like a tidal wave, the evening air suddenly feeling stifling against his heated skin, and he could feel his pulse thundering in his ears. 'Of all the ridiculous—how did I become the centre of this madness?'

"Don't worry—I was assured by Arturia here that this also suits Shirou's perverted proclivities," Su Yan added with a wicked grin, her voice dripping with mock innocence as she gestured theatrically towards his partner.

'The betrayal cut deep,' Shirou thought sarcastically, his eye twitched as he slowly turned his gaze towards Arturia, who had suddenly developed an intense fascination with the terrace stonework. The weight of six expectant stares pressed against him like a physical force, and he could smell the lingering sweetness of dessert wine mixing with the night-blooming jasmine from the gardens below—a combination that now seemed almost mocking.

"Starting two days from now, Su Yan is banned from The Empty Pantry, and no more food challenges for a whole month," Shirou declared, his voice cutting through the night air with crystalline precision. His face assumed the mask of stoic composure he'd perfected over countless battles, arms crossing with military precision despite the chaos raging in his thoughts.

"Hey! Why isn't Tsabin included? This was all her idea!" Su Yan protested, her voice climbing an octave as panic crept in.

Arturia's dramatic wail of "No!" pierced the air, her golden eyes wide the horror as if she learnt that it was the end of the world.

"Fine. Tsabin is banned as well," Shirou added with the inexorable finality of a judge passing sentence.

"For kriff's sake, Su Yan!" Tsabin cursed, her voice thick with exasperated disbelief.

Within moments, all three conspirators had dropped to their knees before him, hands clasped in supplication, their previous mischief replaced by genuine remorse. The sight was so absurd—these formidable women reduced to pleading—that Shirou felt his anger for a brief moment begin to crack around the edges, warmth seeping back into his chest despite himself.

But that was just for a moment.

-=&<o>&=-

Everything had wound down, night settling into that peaceful quiet following a successful gathering. Cool morning air carried lingering wine scents—fermented grapes on the breeze with rich, fruity notes of shared laughter and raised glasses. Beneath lay whisky's subtle bitterness, complex and warming, aged character recalling charred Vweliu wood and master distillers who knew some things cannot be rushed.

After considerable grovelling, cajoling, and shoulder massage—Tsabin still felt the surprising tension knotted beneath his shirt—plus steady drink refills whilst Arturia produced another wine case with that quietly pleased expression, they'd finally negotiated Shirou down from his month-long ban.

Mara's suggestion, the massage, delivered with a knowing smile. Watching Shirou's resolve dissolve under combined apology and touch was entertainment itself. Protests weakening with each careful press until he melted beneath their ministrations.

Everyone knew the game—Shirou was merely pouting. Silver brows furrowed in mock severity, arms crossed with theatrical indignation, whilst fighting his smile, betraying everything.

'He does have a cute side,' Tsabin confirmed, giggling to herself as she sat alone on the rooftop garden, nursing the final sips of her now-ambient wine. The liquid had lost its crisp chill half an hour ago, but the deep, fruity notes still danced across her tongue with each measured sip. Her skin felt pleasantly warm from the alcohol, a gentle flush that started in her chest and radiated outward to her fingertips.

The rooftop garden offered a perfect view of Theed's sleeping districts, the soft glow of scattered lights creating a tapestry of gold against the dark stone buildings. A gentle breeze rustled through the carefully tended herbs and vegetables, carrying with it the green scent of growing things and the distant sound of a lone speeder humming through the night streets.

It was about an hour before first light, and Shirou, together with Rabbine—who could surprisingly hold her alcohol well, maintaining her sweet composure even as her amber eyes grew bright with wine—Padmé, and Su Yan, had helped carry Eirtama and Mara. Poor Mara had been slipping into giggly incoherence midway through the second crate of white wine, her usual composed warmth dissolving into endearing rambles about her latest holodrama obsessions. Eirtama, meanwhile, had simply announced she was at an 'economic decline' and promptly passed out against Su Yan's shoulder with a soft snore.

Arturia's offer stood: sleepover at the studio apartment. Extra bedding for the floor. She was retrieving bedding from their early days, when the dining area doubled as a bedroom.

Finishing her drink, Tsabin grinned, a mischievous glint shining in her eyes. She spied Padmé heading towards the fresher, her best friend moving with that particular careful grace of someone who was definitely feeling the wine but refused to show it, each step measured and deliberate. The sight of Padmé in the restaurant's uniform—something Tsabin had been trying not to focus on all evening—sent a familiar warmth curling through her stomach that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

She stood up, her own balance slightly unsteady as the wine made her limbs feel loose and warm, and followed her longtime best friend.
Entering the small outhouse separate from the baths, which had three separate, very private stalls—it was quite a thoughtful design, offering real privacy rather than the cramped, barely-enclosed spaces most establishments provided.

Whistling as she waited, Tsabin felt her pulse quicken. Wine had loosened her usual restraints, replacing careful composure with something primal and honest. After the telltale flush, the door clicked open. Padmé emerged.
Their eyes locked.

Tsabin wiggled her eyebrows whilst drinking in the sight of Padmé in the restaurant uniform. Black dress with crisp white frills hugged curves in ways that dried her mouth—sweetheart neckline framing modest cleavage, short skirt showing smooth bare legs, fitted bodice emphasising narrow waist. White apron tied in a neat bow completed the effect: innocent and utterly enticing.

'I should probably never tease Shirou about his supposed perverted proclivities,' Tsabin mused, her own thoughts turning decidedly appreciative as she drank in the sight of her best friend looking thoroughly dishevelled and beautiful.

Desire lit up in both their eyes as they met midway, their lips crashing together with the desperate hunger of wine-loosened inhibitions and long-suppressed want. Tsabin could taste the sweet residue of white wine on Padmé's lips, could feel the soft warmth of her breath as their mouths moved together. Their hands found the backs of each other's heads simultaneously, fingers tangling in hair as they pulled each other closer with gentle desperation.

The kiss was messy, urgent, all tongues and soft gasps as Tsabin pushed Padmé back into the stall she'd just vacated. She could feel Padmé's heartbeat against her chest—or maybe that was hers—rapid and fluttering, matching the rhythm of her own pulse that thundered in her ears. The small space enclosed them in intimate privacy, the walls close enough that Tsabin could brace one hand against the smooth surface whilst the other remained buried in Padmé's hair.

Closing the fresher lid with her free hand, Tsabin switched positions with practised ease, settling herself down and pulling Padmé onto her lap. Padmé went willingly, settling sideways across Tsabin's thighs with a soft exhale—relief and want equally measured. Tsabin's hand found smooth thigh, palm sliding against fever-warm, incredibly soft skin.

Padmé's arms wrapped around Tsabin's shoulders as she leaned in, deepening the kiss, fingers finding that sensitive nape-spot that always made her shiver. Wine and want filled the space between them, creating a private world where only they existed, where politics and responsibility dissolved into simple, honest need.

Tsabin's fingers worked with practised efficiency, quickly loosening the crisp white blouse that had been driving her to distraction all evening. The fabric yielded under her touch, and she tugged it down with perhaps more haste than grace, freeing Padmé's breasts to the warm, golden light filtering through the stall's ventilation slats. The sight sent a jolt of pure want through her—Padmé's skin was flushed and responsive, the stiff peaks catching the amber glow like precious gems. Tsabin could smell Padmé's body wash mingling with the musk of arousal, creating an intoxicating perfume that made her head spin.

Her free hand mapped the familiar territory of Padmé's thigh, fingers trailing upwards with deliberate slowness until she found the heated core that awaited her touch. Padmé's sharp intake of breath was music to her ears, the sound vibrating through the small space as her best friend's body responded with immediate, honest need. The slick warmth beneath her fingertips was evidence of just how much Padmé had wanted this, had been thinking about this even as they'd sat through tedious committee meetings and policy discussions.

Padmé's own hands weren't idle—they freed Tsabin's breasts from their confined frames, cupping and massaging, fingers finding the sensitive peaks and rolling them with a touch that sent sparks shooting down her spine. The sensation made Tsabin's breath catch, her vision momentarily blurring with the intensity of it all.

With trembling fingers, Padmé bunched up her own skirt, her lust-darkened eyes fixed on Tsabin's face as she watched her best friend's digits slide deeper into her centre. Her moans were stifled but desperate, each sound making Tsabin's own arousal spike higher. The scent of want filled the air between them.

"Kriff, I'm going to ask Shirou and Arturia if I could buy one of their uniforms," Tsabin declared breathlessly, her voice thick with desire as she gazed up at Padmé's flushed face. The sight was too tempting to resist—she leaned forward and captured a nipple between her lips, revelling in Padmé's immediate response, the way her friend's back arched and a proper moan escaped despite her attempts at quiet.

"Oh—fuck, sorry!" A warm baritone voice suddenly cut through their heated morning encounter, the words carrying genuine mortification and surprise.
Both women froze instantly, their eyes snapping towards the now-open door where Shirou stood, his own body rigid with shock at the tableau before him.

Tsabin became acutely aware of their compromising position—Padmé's exposed breast still glistening from her attention, her own fingers buried deep inside her friend's core, the evidence of their passion written across both their faces in flush and dishevelment.

Looking back up at Shirou, whose silver-grey eyes had already politely averted, Tsabin watched him raise his eyebrows and shake his head in what could only be described as exasperation mixed with embarrassment. His movements were quick and efficient as he pulled the door shut, though his muted voice carried clearly through the thin barrier.
"Lock the door next time, you two."

The mortification lasted exactly three seconds before Tsabin felt a wicked grin spread across her face. She looked up at Padmé, whose cheeks were burning crimson but whose eyes held a spark of mischief that matched her own.
"Looks like that was tacit permission for me to ravage you this morning, Ms Naberrie," she purred, her voice dropping to that husky register that always made Padmé shiver.

Shirou's voice drifted through the door again, this time carrying an unmistakably teasing tone despite the muffled quality. "And oh yeah—I can refer you to the tailor who customised this uniform, if you're serious about that request."

Pausing another moment until they heard the stall two doors down close with a decisive thud, Tsabin pressed her palm more firmly against Padmé's slick heat, sliding another digit deep inside her. The sensation of Padmé's inner walls clenching around her fingers sent a thrill through her own core, the intimate connection sparking fresh desire along her nerve endings. She captured Padmé's lips again in passionate hunger, tasting the salt of exertion and the sweetness that was uniquely hers. Padmé's hips rose to meet each deliberate thrust, her breath hitching against Tsabin's mouth as pleasure built between them like a gathering storm—

"Oh—it appears I might have interrupted something," a stoic voice cut through their heated moment for the second time, though this interruption carried an entirely different energy than Shirou's flustered retreat.

Tsabin's head snapped up to find Arturia standing in the doorway, her golden eyes taking in the compromising scene with what could only be described as regal composure. The blonde's expression remained perfectly controlled—that mask of noble dignity firmly in place—yet Tsabin caught the unmistakable glint of mischief dancing behind those amber depths. There was something almost predatory in the way Arturia's gaze lingered on their entwined forms, an appreciation that made heat coil low in Tsabin's belly despite the awkwardness of being discovered yet again.

"As you will," Arturia pronounced with deliberate formality, inclining her head in a gesture that somehow managed to be both dismissive and encouraging. Her voice carried that particular cadence of royal permission, as though she were granting them leave to continue their private congress. "Though you probably should lock the door."

Before they could resume their intimate congress, muted voices drifted through the still-unlocked door—a pointed reminder of their continued lack of privacy. The familiar cadence of Shirou's dry observation carried clearly through the thin barrier: "Ah, you interrupted them as well. Did they still not lock the door?"

Both women flushed crimson at the comment, recognising the deliberate volume as one of Shirou's constant indulgences in sarcasm—allowing his pointed remark to be heard by its intended targets. The mortification was exquisite, made worse by the knowledge that their lack of foresight had now become a running jest between the pair beyond their door.

"Indeed," came Arturia's measured response, her voice pitched with that particular blend of regal authority and barely concealed amusement, making it impossible to determine whether she felt disapproval or entertainment. "One might suggest that political strategists possess superior planning skills in all endeavours. Though perhaps passion renders even the most meticulous minds... momentarily scattered."

Elegant delivery of the barb—just enough formality maintaining plausible deniability whilst ensuring maximum impact—sent fresh embarrassment waves through both women.

"Now, do wait for me, as Su Yan and I were promised massages just before bed," Arturia continued with the imperious tone of someone accustomed to having her desires fulfilled without question.

They could practically hear the resigned sigh and the gentle shake of Shirou's head in weary acquiescence to his partner's demands—a sound that spoke of countless similar surrenders to her particular brand of benevolent tyranny. The soft shuffle of footsteps moving away from their door finally granted them the privacy they should have secured from the beginning, as Tsabin finally reached forward to lock the door.

-=&<o>&=-
End

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13thsephiroth · Thursday at 5:55 AM

Fate/Knights of the
Heroic Throne

Chapter Intro
Human order: Restored.
History: Preserved.
But what of the ones who made it possible?
Heroic Spirits—echoes of legends, bound to vessels, fated to fade without remembrance.
But a wish was made.
One last miracle from humanity's saviour—
that her fallen companions might live once more.

Story Starts
-=&<o>&=-
Chapter 6.1 -
The Tyrant's Last Festival

Shink. Clink. Swoosh. The familiar symphony of steel sang through the night air as Arturia landed on her feet, the soft thud of her boots against the forest floor barely audible beneath the whisper of wind through ancient branches. She adopted a low stance, knee lunging forwards whilst her other leg extended back in perfect balance, muscles coiled like springs beneath her training attire. The cool night air kissed her bare arms, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with anticipation.

She lowered her sword until its tip hovered inches from damp earth, blade catching starlight through the canopy. Her posture appeared relaxed—a deliberate façade masking the predatory tension thrumming through her. The weapon's weight felt familiar as breathing.

It was just tit-for-tat, after all. The thought flickered through her mind with dark amusement as she regarded her opponent across the small clearing they'd claimed as their own. Shirou held an equally foolish guard: Kanshou low and to the front, angled downwards—oh-so-tempting bait that made her fingers itch to close the distance—whilst Bakuya lay parallel to his leg, blade positioned forwards for a quick riposte. She could practically taste the challenge in the air between them, metallic and sharp like a well-honed edge. Well, both blades were blunted.

But even blunted blades could still tear flesh if one wasn't careful.

He'd abandoned his usual wide stance tonight. That posture was only meant for opponents who fought him for the first time and didn't know about his near-suicidal yet seemingly clairvoyant style. Such trickery was rendered moot when this was a nightly routine—especially with new staff helping at the restaurant—so such formalities were unnecessary.

New moon shadow draped everything in velvet black. Their eyes had adjusted, pupils drinking available starlight. This deep in the forest, the canopy swallowed sound. No curious ears would intrude on their steel-song tryst, where restraint could be abandoned.

Loam and decay filled her nostrils, mingling with crisp air and the metallic kiss of their weapons. Distant raptor-cry echoed through darkness, then silence.

Arturia's smirk issued a clear invitation: lead this dance. Golden eyes gleamed, predator waiting to strike.

And so he acquiesced.

Shirou dashed forwards, both arms crossed over his chest in an 'X' formation, the backs of his blades flanking his face like gleaming shields. The starlight caught the metal surfaces, sending brief flashes across the forest floor. Then, with fluid precision, he suddenly hurled the pair through the darkness.

The twin blades carved through the night air with an eerie whistle, their rotation creating a hypnotic spiral that momentarily obscured her view of the fast-approaching former Counter Guardian.

Arturia's muscles coiled as she batted the spinning projectiles away with practised ease, her blade meeting theirs with sharp metallic chimes that echoed through the silent canopy.

But the thrown weapons had served their purpose. Even as the last reverberations faded, Shirou had already planted his back foot firmly against the soft earth, his forward leg angled inwards in perfect form. A familiar long blade materialised in his grasp—far longer than practicality suggested, so much so that its original owner had christened it the laundry-drying pole. He held it at eye level, tip pointing directly at Arturia's heart like an accusation.
The forest held its breath.

"Hiken," Shirou intoned, his voice carrying the weight of countless battles, the syllables rolling off his tongue with ritualistic precision as he pushed his front foot forward, closing the distance between them.

"Tsubame gae—oh fuck!" The technique dissolved into very modern profanity as Arturia's instincts overrode any sense of fair play. She had recognised the stance, knew what devastating technique was coming, and refused to let him complete it.

In one fluid motion, she had entered his space like a striking viper, slipping past his extended blade and jamming the pommel of her sword directly into his throat. The impact sent shockwaves up her arms—solid, satisfying contact. Shirou's planned attack crumbled as his airway compressed, reducing his deadly technique to a strangled cough.

Using his momentum against him, Arturia's free hand found her own blade in a half-sword grip. The crossguard hooked his neck as she twisted, using the sword as a lever whilst her leg swept through his stance. Metal and muscle worked in concert, leveraging him off-balance. Gravity claimed him, sending the former hero tumbling to the forest floor with a muffled thud against the carpet of fallen leaves.

Victory tasted sweet on her tongue as she followed him down, her blade's point finding the vulnerable hollow of his throat whilst he was still hacking and wheezing. "Yield," she declared, golden eyes gleaming with triumph in the starlight.

But even as the word left her lips, she felt the cold kiss of steel against her neck. Despite his compromised position—sprawled on his back, throat still working to draw proper breath—Shirou had managed to trace a fresh Kanshou, its familiar weight now pressed against her jugular in silent threat.
A draw, then.

-=&<o>&=-

Padmé settled at the foot of the sleeper, her datapad casting a soft blue glow across her face as she reviewed tomorrow's speech for what felt like the hundredth time. The words blurred together—unity, reform, our shared future—but she forced herself to focus, knowing that every phrase would be scrutinised by both supporters and detractors alike. The weight of tomorrow's demonstration pressed against her shoulders like a physical burden, and she found herself unconsciously tensing as she scrolled through her carefully crafted arguments.

Behind her, Rabbine's gentle touch was a welcome contrast to the anxiety threading through her thoughts. The newest member of their circle worked with quiet diligence, the sonic dryer humming softly as warm air flowed through Padmé's hair. Rabbine's fingers were surprisingly skilled as she wielded both the dryer and brush, sectioning and smoothing with the kind of methodical care that spoke of practice.

"Your hair's so lovely, Padmé," Rabbine murmured, her voice carrying that eager-to-please warmth that had quickly endeared her to them all.

Padmé hummed in contentment as she thanked Rabbine.

"You know, you should probably stop stressing about your speech tomorrow," Tsabin said from behind her, right beside Rabbine.

Beside them, Arturia sat with characteristic poise despite the domestic setting, her own datapad balanced in her lap whilst Tsabin worked behind her with practised efficiency. The blonde's golden eyes moved rapidly across her screen, and Padmé couldn't help but notice the increasingly sharp taps of Arturia's thumbs against the device. The telltale signs were unmistakable—Arturia had found herself embroiled in yet another heated forum debate, her regal composure barely containing what was clearly becoming a rather spirited exchange of views.

Su Yan and Mara were back at their apartment, volunteering to finalise things for tomorrow. Padmé felt a pang of guilt knowing how much work they were shouldering whilst she sat here being pampered. 'They're probably exhausted,' she thought, imagining Mara's gentle but persistent way of triple-checking everything, her warm voice likely strained from coordinating with volunteers all evening.

Mara would be methodically working through her lists—double-checking their equipment for the medical station, confirming with volunteers who might have last-minute questions or concerns, verifying first aid supplies with the kind of thorough attention that made everyone feel safer. Padmé could picture her friend's amber eyes growing tired as she cross-referenced inventory sheets.

Meanwhile, Su Yan would be channelling her boundless energy into the technical preparations—setting up all of their presentation materials in the holoprojectors, testing equipment with that infectious enthusiasm that made even mundane tasks seem exciting, finalising the datacards to be distributed to attendees. But she'd also taken on coordinating security arrangements, which meant dealing with logistics that required her to tone down her natural playfulness for more serious conversations. 'She's probably bouncing between her usual bright energy and forcing herself to sound authoritative,' Padmé mused, knowing how Su Yan struggled when she couldn't just be herself.

'Maybe I could arrange for Shirou to give them one of those amazing massages,' she chuckled softly at the thought. The previous evening flooded back to her—everyone growing increasingly concerned as her stress levels spiralled, their worried glances and gentle suggestions finally culminating in them physically having to drag her into accepting a massage session from Shirou.

She could still feel the phantom sensation of it: his hands working methodically along her shoulders, finding knots of tension she hadn't even realised were there. The scent of the warming oils he'd used—something with jinsol extract and aleudrupe essence—had filled the room with calm. Her muscles had been so rigid from weeks of hunching over planning documents that she'd nearly gasped when he'd first applied pressure to her neck. But then, gradually, wonderfully, she'd felt each band of stress begin to dissolve under his patient, skilled touch.

The way he'd worked down her spine, firm but never painful, drawing out tension that had been building for months. Her breathing had deepened without her realising it, the constant hum of anxiety in her mind finally quieting as warmth spread through her limbs. By the end, she'd felt boneless, her thoughts clearer than they'd been in weeks—as if someone had lifted a weight she'd forgotten she'd been carrying.

'But then again, Su Yan does take advantage of that privilege,' Padmé thought wryly, her lips quirking upwards as she recalled how their foxy member seemed to have an uncanny ability to time her 'exhaustion' with Shirou's availability. The girl would appear at The Empty Pantry with dramatically slumped shoulders and an exaggerated sigh, claiming the weight of organising youth programmes had left her utterly spent. Within minutes, she'd somehow manoeuvred the conversation towards therapeutic massage, batting those golden-brown eyes with such innocent determination.

An involuntary smile decorated Padmé's face as she looked back on the past two weeks, warmth spreading through her chest at the memories. The Empty Pantry—which was apparently a reference to Arturia's ravenous diet, something that had made them all laugh when Shirou had explained it with that characteristic dry humour of his—had become a second home to their little group.

It also didn't help that the food and their bathing facilities were absolutely top-notch. The thought of Shirou's carefully prepared meals made her stomach rumble softly—dishes that somehow managed to be both comforting and sophisticated. But it was Arturia who had introduced the term she called 'naked friendship'—a concept that had initially made Padmé's cheeks flame crimson with embarrassment. The former king had explained it with such matter-of-fact dignity that it had somehow transformed from scandalous to sacred: everyone, minus Shirou of course, bathing together as some sort of bonding ritual—especially when washing each other's backs.

Plus, it also helped that their heated tub could fit everyone comfortably, the warm water and rising steam creating an intimate sanctuary where conversations flowed as freely as the valia blossom bath oils.

Though Padmé felt a persistent knot of guilt tightening in her stomach as she observed that Shirou took on a much greater burden accommodating them all—the way his shoulders would set with quiet determination as he prepared extra meals, maintained additional linens, and ensured their comfort without ever voicing complaint—she and the girls had offered to contribute to utility and food costs as well. The relief in his silver-grey eyes when they'd insisted had been worth every credit.

They'd also embraced the term which Shirou had introduced, apparently originating from his own country on the planet they'd previously resided on: 'touban'. This person would be responsible for helping Shirou maintain the facilities for a certain number of hours on a designated day.

Her thoughts, of course, drifted to their first night here. A blush formed as she was reminded of Shirou, then Arturia, walking in on Tsabin and her in a very compromising position. Her eyes drifted towards the lounging Arturia, who had revealed that she was a King—not a queen—but a King back in their home—

"Shirou! What happened to you?" Eirtama gasped.

Padmé's thoughts were interrupted as she looked up to see Shirou in his usual restwear bottoms and a loose white shirt. She could hear Rabbine gulp behind her; even though Shirou's shirt was loose, it still emphasised his fit body.

He was towel-drying his short white hair, which lay flat due to dampness, and there was quite a sizeable bruise on his neck.

"Shirou!" Padmé stood up, and both she and Eirtama approached the tall, dark-skinned restaurant owner as he awkwardly rubbed at his neck, shooting a dirty look at Arturia, who averted her eyes when everyone turned to her.

"Tsch… He was about to cheat," she grumbled quietly, but the defensiveness left no doubt about who was the culprit.

"I wasn't—that was a perfectly legitimate technique, and you could have punched or kneed me in the gut… not driven the pommel of your sword into my throat."

Everyone's heads turned between the two during their back-and-forth—another spat that would probably lead to nothing, just another night at The Empty Pantry residence.

-=&<o>&=-

Padmé looked up to the ceiling of The Empty Pantry's humble residence, a small studio apartment meant for two. Lately, their band of seven had been welcomed—typically through Arturia's grace—with such consistency that the gesture itself had transformed into simple courtesy.

About five days into their constant presence—at this point, Eirtama had already pragmatically proposed they should contribute to the mounting expenses by the third day, as it certainly wasn't economical to accommodate seven hungry souls daily, adding to Arturia's already formidable appetite and less than ideal palate—Shirou's left eye had developed a persistent twitch. The telltale muscle spasm accompanied his increasingly frequent muttered complaints about 'feeding strays after operating hours.'

Cost alone would have been manageable, Padmé knew, observing subtle tension in his shoulders as he moved through the kitchen space. But the true burden lay in accumulating responsibilities: endless meal preparation cycle, perpetual tidying of makeshift communal space. Most daunting: bathroom cleaning, where hair had become a problem—with eight women using it almost daily. Even soaps left residue that, uncleaned daily, would harden, stain, and accumulate on their otherwise pristine artificial hot spring—as they called it.

After working hours, she'd organised an impromptu council meeting with their entire ragtag group—including their gracious hosts. Simple proposal: if they were to remain regular guests in this haven, they should shoulder a fair share of domestic responsibilities. Morning meal preparation, evening clean-up duties, occasional late-night refreshments when study sessions stretched into darkness—thus began the 'touban' rotation system.

Of course, they took into account that everyone had their own lives and that each has their own career in addition to their reformist movement. So, they were able to slot in rotational duties divided by eight as Arturia joined in on the schedule. It wasn't really that problematic, as most of these were ten-minute tasks, like putting the clothes and linen into the autowasher, cleaning an assigned section of the bathing area, occasionally tending the garden, and dusting and cleaning the common areas.

Shirou was so happy with the help that one day he just purchased a far larger sleeper—this one taking up the whole width of the studio apartment, enough space for everyone to sleep comfortably instead of doing rotations between the sleeper and the mattresses on the floor.

Padmé could still recall the way his cheeks had reddened when Eirtama had teased him about 'domestic upgrades,' and Su Yan had asked him if this was him officially asking them to 'move in.' Tsabin had piled on, asking if Arturia was the first wife, who would be the second? Third? Up until the eighth?

It also didn't help that Arturia had said that, if anything, Shirou would be the king's consort—or the queen—whilst the others would be her maidens-in-waiting. Much to Shirou's consternation, this led to all the girls calling Shirou 'my queen' for two days, during which his eye began to twitch again.

Teasing aside, he was also already planning on purchasing cleaning droids to reduce everyone's workload—as his was already far reduced now that they had hired staff.

She turned left to see the two people occupying her thoughts, keeping her awake, mind too restless to surrender despite the late hour. Soft ambient glow cast gentle shadows across peaceful faces, and she found herself studying subtle details rarely observed during bustling daylight hours.

Shirou was currently sleeping supine, his body straight and disciplined even in rest, though one of his arms was curved around Arturia, who had migrated during sleep to use his shoulder as her personal pillow. She was snoring quite cutely—soft, rhythmic sounds that somehow managed to be both endearing and utterly at odds with her regal bearing when awake. A thin trail of saliva had escaped the corner of her mouth, openly flowing down to soak into Shirou's sleep shirt.

His neck still sported a bruise from their earlier altercation—purpled skin that had made several of them wince in sympathy—but, true to his previous reassurance that he healed quickly and that it would probably be gone by tomorrow, the discolouration was already fading to a yellowish-brown at the edges.

Their previous fight was already forgotten, as that sort of spirited exchange was just one facet of their dynamic that she had observed over these weeks of close quarters. Shirou would grumble sarcastically whilst Arturia traded barbs. Still, everyone could see the glint of amusement in their eyes, the way their mouths quirked at the corners despite their stern expressions, revealing it wasn't really serious at all.

Which brought her back to her current reason for being awake: the sneaking suspicion that she and the girls had already surmised—that the reason Senator Palpatine was silently backing them was so he could position her as the next monarch of Naboo, should King Veruna be ousted.

The very thought sent a chill through her limbs, despite the warmth radiating from the bodies sleeping nearby. Her fingers unconsciously tightened around the edge of her blanket as the weight of potential responsibility settled like lead in her chest. A planet's worth of burdens—about half a billion lives hanging in the balance of her decisions, each choice rippling outwards through generations she'd never meet.

The question gnawed at her with relentless persistence: would she be up to such a monumental task? Her heart hammered against her ribs as doubt crept in like poison through her veins. She'd witnessed firsthand how the machinery of politics consumed even the most well-intentioned souls, grinding them down until they became mere shadows of their former selves. Would she be able to stay true to herself—to the idealistic young woman who still believed change was possible—or would she inevitably become another cog absorbed into the very system she was fighting to reform?

The bitter irony wasn't lost on her: in trying to save Naboo from corruption, she might lose herself entirely. Which led her thoughts to that first night in the rooftop garden of The Empty Pantry—the night Arturia had revealed that she was previously a king, how her kingdom had eventually fallen, and how later she had taken up arms to rid their world of an organisation so vile that it just wanted to see the world burn.

-=&<o>&=-

Flashback…

"So, is it safe to assume that the two of you aren't originally from Naboo?" Tsabin asked Shirou, who was currently enduring her massage of his shoulders. He was presently flanked by both Su Yan and Arturia, who each held a hand as they gave him a palm massage—which, judging from his face, was quite the pleasurable experience. Unless you counted Tsabin's imitation of a clawed crustacean pinching at his shoulders as pleasurable?

"Hmm—what makes you say that?" Shirou asked, the question rolling off his tongue with careful consideration. He'd said they could use his first name, Padmé reminded herself, though the formality of addressing him properly still felt strange on her lips. "Was it the accent or the different style of cooking that gave it away?" His tone carried clear amusement, warmth crinkling the corners of his silver-grey eyes, but she caught the subtle exchange of glances between him and Arturia—a silent communication that spoke of shared secrets and mutual understanding.

"Well, it's all of the above," Su Yan chirped from his side, her hands still working with eager precision along his palms, fingertips pressing into the worn calluses that spoke of years of labour. "While Arturia's accent may pass as Nabooan, it also sounds a lot more regal—like someone from Alderaan or even Serenno. There's this crisp precision to her vowels that's almost aristocratic." She paused, tilting her head thoughtfully. "But then again, we haven't seen or eaten your particular style of food anywhere else. The spices, herbs, and ingredients are familiar, but the composition and combinations—completely foreign."

"Well, we are not doubting your legitimacy with how you became a citizen of Naboo, by the way," Padmé added quickly, her words tumbling out faster than intended. "You wouldn't be able to start this business through the proper legal routes so easily if there were any irregularities."

Shirou just chuckled in return, the sound low and genuine. But then his expression shifted slightly, becoming more thoughtful. "Well, we came from a planet in the area your Republic would classify as the Unknown Regions."

Padmé felt her eyes widen at that revelation. The Unknown Regions—vast stretches of space beyond the edges of known star charts, far beyond even Wild Space. She saw the same surprise reflected in everyone else's faces: Su Yan's hands momentarily stilling their massage, Tsabin's eyebrows shooting upward.

"We call our planet Earth—which just translates to 'dirt' in Basic," Shirou continued with a slight shrug, seemingly unbothered by the weight of his revelation. "Apparently, our world was discovered a few thousand years ago by Republic scouts—we were even given a name: Caelus Minor. Well, at least that's where we think our planet was when we looked at the star charts of mapped areas in that region."

He shifted slightly, adjusting his position. "Anyway, contact was never established—our planet hadn't developed any space-faring capabilities at the time, and there was a strict non-interference policy back then. We were just about at the border, but sadly, natural events sealed our region. Gravitational anomalies, unstable hyperspace routes, ion storms, black holes—the works."

Releasing his hands from both Su Yan and Arturia, he reached forward for his glass of whisky and took a sip. "Our little blue planet had about two hundred nations within it, and I came from an island nation called Japan. Though a lot of the food I cook at The Empty Pantry is mostly inspired by food from another nation—Italy."

"So how were you able to somehow reach Naboo?" Sasha asked, her voice carrying that rare clarity that emerged when she encountered something genuinely fascinating.

Both Shirou and Arturia released simultaneous sighs—though whether from exasperation or resignation, Padmé couldn't quite tell.

"Well, there's a short version and a long version," Arturia replied with characteristic stoicism.

Padmé felt her instincts engage, sensing the delicate nature of whatever revelation was about to unfold. These weren't just travellers with an interesting origin story.

"How about we start with the short version first, then we branch out from that?" she suggested diplomatically, her voice carrying the careful neutrality she'd perfected in countless political negotiations. She leaned forward slightly, offering them the gift of her full attention whilst maintaining enough distance to let them control the pace of their revelation.

"Well, human order was finally restored after defeating a nameless organisation that wanted to destabilise our whole world," Arturia began matter-of-factly. "But sadly, due to the destabilisation, a lot of facilities weren't working—satellite stations, radar systems, telescopes. Critical infrastructure was unmanned rather than compromised."

"So we were blindsided by a large asteroid that destroyed our planet," Arturia continued in the same measured tone, as if discussing a particularly inconvenient weather pattern. "We were lucky we managed to escape through one of the rare starships that entered our planet at random—probably some space pirates trying to hide from authorities."

Padmé felt her breath catch. Planetary destruction, delivered so casually? She exchanged glances with the others—Tsabin's face had gone pale, Eirtama's eyes were wide with horror. Yet Shirou and Arturia seemed almost... unbothered?

"Our spaceship wasn't really restored properly, so we entered hyperspace randomly," Arturia added with a slight shrug. "Which was quite lucky, since apparently hyperspace travel in our region is next to impossible due to all those gravitational anomalies Shirou mentioned."

The blonde took a sip of her water, completely composed. Padmé found herself struggling to reconcile the magnitude of what was being described with the casual delivery. Had they simply processed their grief? Or…

"Finally, we were picked up by a random bastard named Zelretch," Arturia continued, and for the first time, genuine irritation crept into her voice—more emotion for this mysterious benefactor than for the loss of her entire world. "Who taught us all about the Republic in exchange for helping him with his research for about two years. Then he randomly deposited us into the middle of the bloody Naboo forest, tossed us our identification documents, a credit chip with quite a substantial sum, and some datapads with basic galactic information and left without as much as a 'by your leave.'"

It was Mara who broke first, her gentle voice wavering slightly. "Your entire planet...?" She couldn't seem to finish the sentence, one hand pressed against her chest as if physically holding back the weight of empathy threatening to spill over.

"Yes, that was really unfortunate and quite ironic, since we'd just defeated the blight of our world," Arturia confirmed, pouring the final drops of whisky into her lowball glass.

"Unfortunate? Ironic?" Tsabin echoed faintly, her usual sharp wit seeming to have abandoned her entirely. She'd stopped her aggressive shoulder massage, hands now hovering uselessly above Shirou's shoulders. "You're describing the end of your world as 'unfortunate and ironic.'"

"I'll get another crate of wine," Arturia declared after shrugging in return to Tsabin's statement, standing up as she walked towards the staircase leading to the restaurant's kitchen area.

"But—" Eirtama's voice cracked slightly, her usual boardroom composure crumbling. "Everyone? Your families, your friends, your—" She gestured helplessly, trying to encompass the enormity of it. "Everything?"

Shirou exhaled a weary sigh. "At this point, what was left of the planet was our paramilitary organisation called Chaldea—and maybe a few pockets of leftover civilisation. We're not really making light of it; it's just that we've already moved on from this. The number of lives destroyed by the asteroid was far eclipsed by the devastation our enemy caused. Six billion lives reduced to a few pockets of civilisation and a paramilitary organisation."

He paused, his expression softening slightly. "While a lot of our friends from Chaldea also probably escaped—we saw many of them boarding their own spaceships—we think we were the only ones who escaped the Unknown Regions. For us, knowing that they're probably alive somewhere is enough. Years of fighting were exhausting, so we're actually a little glad that we found peace on this beautiful planet of yours."

"Wait, you guys were military?" Su Yan suddenly asked.

"Oh, Shirou here was a wandering mercenary who'd help people in war-torn areas before Chaldea hired him," Arturia suddenly interjected, holding a case of bottled wine balanced on her shoulders. She placed the case next to the cryocooler and put a few bottles inside.

"And Arturia here was a King before she—"

"A King?!!"

"King?!"

"Not a queen?"

A chorus of questions suddenly burst forth, though Padmé saw both Tsabin's and Su Yan's eyes dip. As she followed their line of sight towards Arturia's crotch—

"Hey! I'm all woman," an indignant Arturia said, stomping her foot. "Tell them, Shirou!"

Grinning, Shirou leaned in conspiratorially, urging them to lean closer as he whispered quite loudly, "She's twice my length and triple my girth."

"I do not! If I'm twice your length, that's about forty-five centimetres, which would just dangle past my ski—" Shirou's face morphed into horror as Arturia unwittingly began revealing things. He stood up quickly, covering Arturia's mouth as she struggled and stomped on his foot. "Disturbing images aside—umm, best we move on. Do you guys want another glass of wine?" Shirou offered, involuntarily hiding behind Arturia as everyone's eyes followed him—hip level.

Taking one of the bottles that had been immediately chilled by the cryocooler, Arturia moved to sit beside Padmé. The cool glass felt pleasantly smooth against her fingertips as she handed it to Eirtama—who had clearly remembered that the petite co-owner of the establishment couldn't manage corked bottles, judging by Shirou's sheepish, apologetic smile and the way he rubbed the back of his neck.

The lingering awkwardness from Shirou's unfortunate revelation hung in the air like morning mist, but Padmé found herself caught in deeper currents of thought. The word 'King' echoed in her mind, carrying weight she hadn't expected. Her pulse quickened slightly as curiosity wrestled with politeness.

"Umm—Arturia, may I ask something?" The words escaped before she could second-guess herself, her voice softer than intended.

Arturia turned towards Padmé with measured grace, her golden eyes catching the warm light from the overhead fixtures. Eirtama's efficient hands already topped up her glass, the wine catching glints of golden amber. She inclined her head—a gesture that somehow managed to be both regal and encouraging—for Padmé to continue.

The rooftop garden had grown quieter, conversations tapering as Padmé gathered her courage. She could feel everyone's attention focus on her like a spotlight.

"What was it like? Being a king?" The question tumbled out hesitantly, each word carefully chosen yet still feeling inadequate. She could feel her cheeks warm slightly, her question drawing everyone's full attention like ferrous filings to a magnet.

But before Arturia could respond, Shirou's concerned voice cut through the moment like a gentle blade. "Padmé, that might—"

"No, Shirou." Arturia's voice carried quiet authority, though her tone remained gentle. "It's fine."

The blonde set down her wine glass with deliberate care, her golden eyes taking on a distant quality—not lost in memory, but hardened by it. When she spoke again, the warmth had drained from her voice, replaced by something cold and matter-of-fact. "I was a tyrant. All I cared for was my people's prosperity—it didn't matter whether or not I was a hated king."

Padmé watched, transfixed, as something shifted in Arturia's bearing. Despite her petite frame, despite the domestic setting, the woman before her suddenly radiated an authority that made the air feel heavier. This was someone who had commanded armies, who had held the power of life and death, who had worn a crown not as decoration but as burden and weapon both.

"But how could a tyrant—" Padmé began, confusion colouring her voice.

Arturia's dry laugh cut her off, sharp and humourless. "How could a tyrant make a country prosper?" She leaned forward slightly, and Padmé found herself unable to look away from those golden eyes that had gone cold as winter frost. "Easy. By cutting away all the weeds that prevented the plant from fruiting."

She ticked off points on her fingers with the precision of someone reciting a military report. "My people were able to eat full meals every day. They could tend to their fields or pursue whatever profession they chose without interference. They could safely raise families without the fear of adding another mouth to feed during famine. Corruption was slain from root to stem—" Her voice took on a harder edge. "—and I do mean slain. Our enemies at the borders feared us. Trade routes were secure. Crime was virtually non-existent."

"But handling your enemies, even the corrupt ones within your kingdom—do they not have rights?" Padmé asked, her lips quivering, her hands shaking at the revelation.

"Rights? The cretins who would gladly sacrifice a whole town for their own enrichment, for their own greed? I've seen your current monarch, who's openly corrupt. He has rights—but where are the rights of those innocents he trampled on? You told us about those miners—where were their rights then? From what I see here, a centralised government is not far from how I handled my kingdom, but why are the corrupt not punished? Why are they still here? Thousands and thousands of years of republican rule, and the weeds still flourish." Arturia locked eyes with Padmé as she gave her a tired smile.

"I saw my rule as a duty to my people. I didn't care how I was viewed. I stuck to my beliefs and I didn't let anyone cast me astray—it is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both, and I was feared."

The words hung in the air like a pronouncement of judgment, and Padmé felt something cold settle in her stomach.

"And I was both right and wrong," Arturia continued, her expression shifting to something more complex—not regret, but weary wisdom.

"I don't understand," Padmé admitted quietly.

"I was right in my rule." Arturia's voice carried absolute conviction. "I have no regrets cutting out corruption my way. I have no regrets giving my subjects good lives, full bellies, safe homes. By every measure that matters—prosperity, security, justice—I succeeded."

Her golden eyes hardened. "But in the end, I was a lone king atop a mountain. No one understood me. Or rather—" She paused, choosing her words with care. "—I never made sure those I trusted could understand me. I should have worked on being loved as well as feared. I should have inspired people, made them understand why I did things the way I did, brought them into my confidence instead of simply issuing commands from on high."

The blonde's jaw tightened, old pain flickering across her features. "Maybe then they wouldn't have turned on me when the true threat came. My knights, my most trusted companions—" Her voice went flat. "—abandoned by even Merlin, my advisor. When outside forces began manipulating events, sowing discord, my kingdom tore itself apart from within because there was no... connection. No shared understanding. Just obedience that crumbled the moment it was tested by something beyond my ken."

"—mé?"

"—dmé?"

"Padmé?"

She startled, blinking. The rooftop garden dissolved, replaced by the dim interior of The Empty Pantry's studio apartment. Arturia had shifted beside Shirou, no longer using his shoulder as a pillow. Golden eyes gleamed in the darkness, alert and concerned.

The blonde was half-propped up, rubbing at her eyes—still groggy, yawning.
"Don't you—argh…" Arturia yawned, the sound stretching long and feline. "Have something today? Why are you still up?"

The question hung in the air, and Padmé felt her chest tighten. She could taste the metallic edge of exhaustion on her tongue, feel the gritty burn behind her eyes that spoke of too many hours wrestling with impossible decisions. How to explain the burden that had been crushing down on her shoulders?

"We've already had an inkling for a while, but the Senator for the Chommell sector just told us that he wants me to run for the next monarch of Naboo, once the current King has been ousted."

The words felt strange in her mouth—too large, too consequential. They seemed to echo in the intimate space, bouncing off the warm walls with their soft lighting. She could hear her own heartbeat in her ears, rapid and unsteady.

"…"

"Oh… was that it?" Arturia said flippantly, then fell back onto Shirou's shoulder with a soft thump, pulling the blankets up to her chin like a cocoon. The casual dismissal should have stung, but there was something oddly comforting about it—as if the enormity of her situation was just another Centaxday evening conversation. "Yo…sh'll be fine," she said, almost back to sleep, her words slurring together like honey.

"Unlike… my—pashelf. You. are… not… alone," her voice trailing off until it was replaced again by her soft, cooing snores, a gentle rhythm that seemed to slow Padmé's racing pulse.

And with that sleepy declaration, the knot in her chest loosened. She looked to her right at her team—Eirtama with her sharp practical wit, Rabbine with her eager energy, Sasha with her quiet strength, and Tsabin with her unwavering loyalty. She could see their faces in the dim light, each one familiar and trusted. The warmth of their presence, the knowledge that she wouldn't have to face tomorrow's challenges alone, settled over her like a blanket.

And with Su Yan and Mara back at their apartment, probably curled up together discussing youth programmes or escaping into holodramas, she had something Arturia had lacked—connection. Understanding. People who would tell her when she was wrong, who would stand with her when she was right, who would keep her anchored to the ground instead of floating alone on some untouchable mountaintop.

The soft sounds of breathing around her, the gentle warmth radiating from the group, the lingering scents of good food and friendship—it all combined to finally quiet the voices in her head. And with that thought, with the reassurance of not being alone, Padmé Naberrie finally found sleep.

-=&<o>&=-

For the first time in a while, silence settled over The Empty Pantry like a comfortable blanket. The familiar hum of the cooling units provided a gentle backdrop as Arturia moved through her morning preparations, the stone composite floors coated with epoxy resin squeaking lightly beneath her dragging foot.

It was about half an hour before opening, and they weren't really expecting many customers in the restaurant proper today, given that the Festival of the Merchant's Boon would draw crowds to the Palace Plaza. Still, Shirou had arranged with the assistant of Cedor Parnell, the head of the Merchant Guild of Naboo, for them to secure a booth at the festival itself.

At this very moment, Shirou was at the Palace Plaza—just about a three-minute walk from the Pantry—with their relatively new employees, setting up that booth amidst the controlled pandemonium of festival preparation. They would mostly be selling pizza slices—simple, portable, and utterly irresistible when served hot from their thermocrates, which could double as a display whilst keeping the food at the right temperature. Burgers and fried tubers would round out the offering, practical choices for festival-goers who wanted something substantial they could eat whilst walking.

They had planned to add some of their signature shaak cheesecake as well, but the extra display case Shirou had ordered remained frustratingly absent. The vendor had promised delivery three days ago, leaving them scrambling to adjust their offerings. Such was the nature of business—adaptation in the face of disappointment.

Currently, she found herself tending to the tuber buns for the shaak burgers, though she was idle for the moment as she monitored their progress through the transparisteel. The heat of the ovens radiated warmth through the kitchen—

"Hey! Look who I ran into," Shirou's voice rang out from the restaurant's back entrance, carrying that particular note of pleased surprise that made Arturia's heart lift slightly. The door's familiar squeak announced their arrival, followed by the light patter of footsteps on the threshold.

In came a cheery girl whose presence seemed to brighten the very air around her. Lessa's turquoise hair caught the kitchen's bright overhead lighting, creating an almost ethereal nimbus around her head. Her eyes, that same dazzling aquamarine that never failed to remind Arturia of shallow tropical waters, sparkled with unmistakable mischief. Her skin bore just the right amount of sun-kissed warmth, speaking of hours spent outdoors beneath Naboo's generous sun, and her athletic build moved with the easy confidence of youth and vitality.

She wore a simple sundress that reached mid-thigh, the fabric light and airy in deference to the day's promised warmth. The garment's cheerful pattern seemed to dance with each step she took. In her hands, she carried a hat woven from dried straw.

"Lessa!" Arturia's face transformed with genuine delight, the careful composure she typically maintained dissolving into something far more natural and warm. Her voice carried a note of surprised pleasure as the two met halfway across the restaurant's kitchen floor, arms opening instinctively for an embrace.

Their hug was enthusiastic and unguarded. Arturia felt the familiar comfort of Lessa's presence, that easy camaraderie that had developed between them over countless shared evenings watching holodramas and their shared obsession with perusing the forums.

"Oh, what's this hard thing?" Arturia inquired with innocent curiosity, her brow furrowing slightly as she felt something solid and unfamiliar pressing against her leg during their embrace. The unexpected object seemed oddly positioned and distinctly metallic.

Across the restaurant, their employees moved with quiet efficiency as they prepared for opening. Tirsa Calven and Isar Pellan, their stalwart full-time staff, worked with the smooth coordination despite it only being their second week. Meanwhile, Lirenne Marisi and Ronan Deyvar—their student part-timers who had applied together and maintained an easy friendship—chattered quietly whilst the sounds of tables and chairs being arranged rang through the access door to the dining area.

Lessa's response was characteristically direct as she began to lift her skirt with casual unconcern—

"Hey, Lessa, you might not want to start flashing people as there are others here," Shirou's voice cut through the moment with dry amusement. He continued his work at the plasteel prep tables, placing freshly baked tuber buns on cooling racks with methodical precision.

"So it's fine if it's just you and Arturia?" Lessa shot back with characteristic cheekiness, her voice dancing with barely contained laughter.

Despite Shirou's mild protest, she proceeded to lift her skirt partially, revealing the toned muscle definition of her thighs—evidence of her active lifestyle and regular swimming excursions. Strapped securely to her right leg, positioned for easy access yet concealed beneath her dress, was a compact blaster that gleamed dully in the kitchen's bright lighting.

"Oh, it's just this little beauty," Lessa said with casual pride, deftly unfastening the weapon from its holster and presenting it to Arturia with the care one might show a prized possession. "A Kestrel-12 sidearm. Compact, reliable, and perfectly legal for civilian carry."

The blaster was indeed small, designed for concealed carry rather than intimidation. Its sleek lines spoke of quality engineering and practical design. Arturia found herself studying the weapon, turning it over, noticing that it was no larger than her petite hands.

"My father insisted I carry this during the festival," Lessa continued, her expression growing more serious as she secured the weapon back in its holster. "Tensions have been rising across Naboo recently, and there's word that things might escalate today. We've heard rumours of a planned political demonstration at the Plaza—father nearly withdrew from the booth he'd reserved at the last minute when those reports started circulating."

The change in her demeanour was subtle but noticeable, the carefree exuberance of moments before tempered by genuine concern. Her fingers lingered on the blaster's grip for a moment longer than necessary, betraying an anxiety she was trying hard not to voice.

Both Arturia and Shirou exchanged a meaningful glance across the restaurant, their expressions carefully neutral even as understanding passed between them like a silent current. They knew with uncomfortable certainty that there would indeed be a demonstration today—their quasi-roommates were at this very moment at the Palace Plaza, making final arrangements for what promised to be a significant political gathering.

-=&<o>&=-

"Here, my good sir, dear madam, would the lovely pair care for a taste?" Arturia's voice carried across the bustling festival grounds with practised elegance, her words crisp despite the ambient chatter and distant music. She held the polished plasteel tray with both hands, its surface dotted with carefully arranged sample slices that still radiated warmth through the metal. The familiar weight of her black-and-white frilled service uniform felt reassuring against her skin, the starched fabric a comforting reminder of routine amidst the festival's cheerful chaos.

"Oh, what are these?" The woman's voice sparkled with genuine interest as she approached, her yellow short-sleeved dress fluttering in the gentle breeze. Her eyes, bright with curiosity, fixed upon the tray's contents whilst what Arturia presumed was her partner lingered just behind her shoulder, his attention wandering distractedly across the festival's myriad attractions.

Arturia straightened slightly, drawing upon years of regal bearing as she began her practised explanation. "These are this hour's selection from The Empty Pantry's pizza offerings—essentially flatbread adorned with rich topato sauce and our own handcrafted shaak-cheese mozzarella." She gestured with subtle precision to each variety, her movements economical yet graceful.

"We have our foundational sauce and cheese here." Her open palm pointed to the simplest slice, its golden cheese perfectly melted—fat not separated.
"Here you'll find our proprietary sausage blend complemented by sweet roasted peppers that have been caramelised to perfection." The peppers gleamed like jewels between bits of charred skin against the melted cheese.

"Whilst this selection features cured puffer pig belly—thin-sliced and delicately seasoned—paired with earthy mushrooms that were purchased fresh this morning."

Each sample slice had been crafted as a perfect morsel—small enough to be consumed in a single, appreciative bite. The woman's fingers hovered momentarily over the offerings before selecting the sausage and pepper combination. As her teeth sank into the warm slice, Arturia observed the telltale progression: the initial surprise at the flavour's intensity, followed by the slow, dawning appreciation that always marked another victim of Shirou's exceptional cooking. The woman's eyes widened, a soft, involuntary coo of pleasure escaping her lips as she turned to her distracted companion, still holding the remaining half of the sample.

"Darin! You absolutely must try this." Her voice carried an urgency born of culinary revelation.

Without ceremony, she thrust the remaining portion directly into his mouth, catching him mid-protest. Darin's initial complaints—muffled by the unexpected intrusion of food—gradually subsided as his jaw worked mechanically. Arturia watched with quiet satisfaction as his expression transformed, the familiar pause of recognition settling over his features as he covered his mouth instinctively. His brows drew together in concentration as he processed the complex layers of flavour, whilst his partner observed with the knowing smile of someone whose opinion had been thoroughly vindicated.

"See? It's remarkably good, isn't it?" The woman's tone carried the satisfied triumph of shared discovery.

Tugging at her neck, Arturia fished out a data chip that had a polymer string attached to it. "Here's our restaurant's details. We do deliveries, catering, and sit-in dining." Arturia dangled the data chip in front of her as the man named Darin brought out his datapad, quickly inserting it into the proper receptacle, copying their restaurant's details.

"We also have a booth near the entrance of the plaza," Arturia pointed in a direction behind her, conveniently positioned near their own establishment. "We also offer sandwiches and salted fried tubers."

The pair thanked her as they quickly headed in the direction she'd pointed. Arturia moved on, walking around the bustling festival, taking care to balance her tray, offering her sample platter to anyone who caught her eye.

She caught her friend's eye—Lessa, who was currently manning their booth of items, goods, and products from around the planet—and waved back.

This morning, due to their family business picking up, she'd excitedly talked about her parents sending her to university. At the same time, her brother—Tenno—was finally able to take his first step towards becoming a pilot.

"Greetings, citizens of Naboo—"

Arturia's head snapped upward towards the podium, her trained gaze immediately assessing the figure she recognised as Padmé. The young woman stood resplendent yet solemn in what appeared to be a flowing ceremonial gown elegantly merged with elaborate wrapped robes, the rich fabrics catching the afternoon light.

The Palace Plaza faced westward—perfectly positioned to frame speakers against Naboo's famous sunsets—though the midday sun now hung high overhead, casting sharp shadows across the assembled crowd. A ceremonial half-mask adorned her face, leaving only the lower portion exposed, lending her an air of both mystery and authority that befitted the gravity of the moment.

The bustling festival atmosphere evaporated instantaneously at her greeting, as if someone had drawn a curtain across the plaza. Arturia felt the shift like a physical weight—the sudden hush of hundreds of voices, the cessation of laughter and movement. She could practically taste the tension in the air. From her position amongst the crowd, she observed the rigid set of Padmé's shoulders, the way her hands gripped the podium's edge just a fraction too tightly. The girl was steeling herself, drawing upon reserves of courage that reminded Arturia uncomfortably of her own younger self before battle.

"My name is—"

The words died as an enormous shadow swept across Palace Plaza. Arturia's blood chilled as she craned her neck skyward, her instincts screaming warnings even before her mind processed what she was seeing. An enormous freighter hung suspended above them, its bulk blotting out the sun and casting the entire festival into an ominous twilight. The acrid scent of fuel and heated metal drifted down from its engines, mixing with the lingering aromas of festival food in a nauseating cocktail.

The crowd fell into a stupefied silence, hundreds of faces turned upward in collective shock. Arturia heard someone's breathing catch, the soft thud of dropped parcels hitting the ground, the distant whimper of a child who sensed the adults' fear. Then came the mechanical grinding of the cargo bay door opening, followed by the sharp hiss of depressurising atmosphere that sent a shiver down her spine.

Before the first civilian had even begun to process the threat, Arturia's battle-honed reflexes had already catalogued the danger. Armed figures emerged at the bay opening—mandalorians clad in distinctive armour, their angular helmets and flowing capes marking them as followers of some militant sect. The sight of their raised blasters, dark muzzles trained on the helpless crowd below, sent ice through her veins.

"LIORA!" Arturia's voice cut through the stunned silence—not forgetting to use her pseudonym whilst she was publicly incognito—like a blade drawn from its sheath, her command ringing with bone-deep authority. The sound reverberated off the plaza's marble columns, carrying the weight of absolute command that brooked no hesitation. "Organise your team and guide everyone to safety!"

Her body shifted into a combat stance even as the words left her lips, every muscle coiling. The familiar weight of battle settled over her shoulders like an old cloak, and she felt her breathing steady into the measured rhythm she'd learned through years of warfare. The acrid scent of ozone and heated metal from the freighter's engines filled her nostrils, sending her mind briefly to memories of Camelot burning.

The Mandalorians opened fire without warning or mercy, their blasters spitting death in brilliant crimson streaks that painted the twilight air. The harsh crack of energy discharge split the air, followed immediately by the distinctive whine of superheated plasma cutting through the atmosphere. But just as the opening volley erupted from their weapons, a projectile whistled through the air from somewhere to Arturia's right—the familiar sound of Shirou's archery, the sharp displacement of air by projectiles flying faster than the speed of sound.

She watched with grim satisfaction as the arrow found its mark, embedding itself in the narrow gap between helmet and gorget where the lead Mandalorian's neck joint lay exposed. The warrior's body jerked once, a marionette whose strings had been abruptly severed, before toppling from the cargo bay. The metallic clatter of beskar armour striking marble echoed across the plaza like a death knell.

And with that single shot, bedlam erupted across Palace Plaza like water through a burst dam.

"Everyone, get down!" Arturia bellowed, her voice somehow cutting through the sudden cacophony of screams, blaster fire, and the thunderous rumble of repulsorlifts. The sound tore at her throat, but she forced every ounce of command into those words, willing the civilians to heed her even as panic began to take hold.

At the same time, several grapple lines unfurled from the open bay door like metallic serpents seeking prey, their durasteel cables glinting in the eerie light cast by the freighter's hull. The lines sang with tension as armed figures began their descent—humans, Rodians, Twi'leks, Niktos, Devaronians, and Zabraks dropping into the chaos below with military precision. Meanwhile, the remaining Mandalorians took to the sky on jetpack trails of blue flame, their weapons trained downward as they provided covering fire for their comrades' insertion.

Arturia could taste the acrid smoke on her tongue as she shoved a woman beside her out of the path of another volley, feeling the heat of a near-miss blaster bolt sear past her cheek.

"Everyone follow the organisers, escape in an orderly manner!" she commanded, her voice carrying the iron authority that had once rallied knights to impossible victories. "We do not want any more needless deaths and injuries—LIORA, NOW! Shirou and I shall hold them off."

Without breaking stride, Arturia grabbed the remaining food samples from her tray and shoved them into her mouth. She seized the serving tray with one hand, feeling its reassuring weight, then hurled it with all the strength her compact frame could muster. The makeshift projectile spun through the air like a discus before striking a descending Devaronian square in his horned skull.

The impact was tremendous—the alien's body went limp instantly, his deadweight pulling down the humans and Nikto sharing his grapple line. All four crashed to the plaza stones in a tangle of limbs and equipment, their weapons clattering away across the marble. Arturia allowed herself a moment of fierce satisfaction before rushing forward, her low-heeled pumps ringing against the stone.

Finally, she heard Padmé's clear voice cutting through the chaos, directing the crowd with the same calm authority she'd shown during the demonstration. "This way! Move toward the northern exits!" The security forces had formed a protective cordon, their energy-based riot shields crackling with power as they returned disciplined volleys at the attackers. The sharp reports of their blasters created a counterpoint to the more chaotic fire from above.

Unfortunately, the festival's security detail was woefully inadequate to withstand a coordinated assault. Several crimson bolts found their marks despite the shields, and Arturia winced as she heard screams of pain from the crowd.

Several more projectiles flew from Shirou's position—she could feel his presence like a calm anchor in the storm of violence. His arrows found their targets with mechanical precision, striking the freighter's weapon emplacements and forcing the airborne Mandalorians to break formation as they sought cover, throwing canisters of smoke screen to block the line of sight. The distinctive thrum of his bowstring was almost musical against the harsh discord of blaster fire.

"Arturia, catch—I'll assist the security forces!" Shirou's voice carried clearly across the battlefield, and something dark flew towards her through the smoke and chaos.

She caught the case with both hands, feeling its familiar weight—the contingency they'd prepared after Lessa's urgent warnings about rising unrest on the planet. The reinforced container absorbed several blaster bolts as she knelt behind it, the impacts sending vibrations up her arms. Her fingers found the latch by muscle memory, and the case opened to reveal Clarent nestled in its protective foam.

The blade seemed to drink in the crimson light of the blaster fire, its edge gleaming with an almost eager hunger. How ironic that this ceremonial sword of peace bore such a bloody legacy—but there was no time for philosophical musings when lives hung in the balance.

With practised efficiency, she kicked the empty case forward, watching with predatory satisfaction as it struck a charging Devaronian in the shins and sent him stumbling. In one fluid motion, she drew Clarent and brought it down in a devastating diagonal slash that caught the alien from shoulder to groin.

The blade parted flesh and bone with terrible ease, and arterial blood erupted in a crimson fountain that painted the marble stones. The metallic tang filled her nostrils as the body split in two, viscera spilling onto the plaza's floor.

A hush fell over the immediate area as friend and foe alike witnessed the petite woman's devastating display of lethality. Even the sound of distant blaster fire seemed muted in that moment of shocked silence.

"Fierfek! She's a mons—" The curse was cut short as Arturia's blade found another target, her movement so swift it seemed to blur. The second terrorist's torso separated cleanly from his hips with a wet, sliding sound that would haunt the nightmares of any who heard it.

Shirou continued his deadly harassment from the flanks, his bow singing its lethal song as sword-arrows found their marks with uncanny accuracy. The quiver at his side seemed bottomless, each projectile perfectly crafted for maximum lethality. From the corner of her eye, she saw him overturning vendor tables and reinforcing them with his structural magic, creating impromptu barriers to break the terrorists' lines of sight.

Arturia grabbed the fallen human's blaster, feeling its unfamiliar weight in her off-hand whilst she drove Clarent point-first into the still-warm corpse. Using the skewered body as a grotesque shield, she advanced on her following targets, crimson bolts spattering against flesh and bone as she returned fire with methodical precision.

"For kriff's sake, shoot her down! Shoot her down! Shoot her down!" a voice bellowed from somewhere in the smoke.

"Sir, she's hiding behind all those she killed, using them as shields!" came the panicked response.

The reek of seared flesh and spilt viscera filled her nostrils as she pressed forward, her makeshift shield growing heavier with each absorbed impact. Blood ran down the blade's fuller and onto her hands, making her grip slippery but somehow more certain.

From above her, she could see Mandalorians flying overhead as they rushed towards the escaping crowd, some falling victim to Shirou's projectiles, whilst several explosions followed.

"Kark it all, spread out then, surround—"

But that tactical decision proved fatal as another of Shirou's arrows punched through the Zabrak commander's chest plate with a sound like breaking pottery. The alien toppled backwards, his orders dying with him in a wet gurgle.

"Where are our karking backup?" someone screamed. "Why isn't the freighter firing?"

Arturia's grim smile widened into something more feral as she hurled her latest 'shield' at a cluster of enemies, the dead weight of fifty kilograms of lifeless flesh and bone crashing into their formation with a sickening thud. Bodies scattered like pins before her macabre bowling ball, limbs tangling in a grotesque heap as armoured figures stumbled and cursed. The metallic scent of blood mingled with the acrid smoke that hung heavy in the air, coating her tongue with copper and ash.

Without pause, she leapt after her grisly projectile, Clarent singing through the air as she carved a path of devastation through their scattered ranks. Each swing of her blade was accompanied by the wet, tearing sound of parting flesh and the sharp crack of breaking bone. The metallic tang of spilt blood filled her senses completely now, painting her world in shades of crimson and violence. Her low-heeled pumps squelched against the blood-slicked marble beneath her feet, each step sending small sprays of gore across the once-pristine plaza stones.

"Arturia—incoming!" Shirou's voice cut through the chaos, sharp with warning. She had barely a second to react as she crouched low, her muscles coiling like a predator's. With fluid precision, she delivered another cleaving slash, this time sweeping Clarent in a vicious arc at her enemies' feet. The blade caught legs and ankles, sending screams echoing across the plaza as bodies toppled.

A circular tabletop suddenly whistled overhead, cutting through the air with deadly purpose as it carved a swath through a group of niktos and humans bundled together. The improvised projectile embedded itself in the marble with a grinding crash, followed by several more that littered her surroundings. The tables stood like bizarre monuments to violence, their plasteel surfaces now dented and scarred, providing her with much-needed cover from the crossfire.

Perfect, she thought grimly, her tactical mind already calculating angles and approaches. The scattered furniture made it far easier for her to pick off the remaining enemies, creating chokepoints and blind spots she could exploit.

"There are more incoming from the south. I'll handle them," Shirou shouted from across the cacophony of blaster fire and screaming. His voice carried that familiar note of grim determination that she knew so well. "The freighter is shifting northward!"

The words barely registered through her battle-focus as she pressed her advantage, every instinct honed by countless conflicts driving her forward.

"Kriffing hells! This is a slave run!" someone declared from behind her, the panic evident in their voice. But Arturia was too preoccupied to assist or even look in that direction—there were still about twenty more enemies surrounding her position, their blasters spitting crimson death as they tried to pin her down behind the makeshift barricades.

She kicked one of the tabletops Shirou had sent as cover, the heavy furniture sliding across blood-slicked marble as she pushed it towards another group of attackers. Using the distraction, she swung Clarent in a devastating arc at yet another cluster of enemies, her blade finding purchase in flesh and armour alike. More victims fell to her relentless assault, their blood joining the growing pool that stained the plaza's once-beautiful stones.

"No, Serin! Veyra—" Padmé's amplified voice suddenly cut through the noise like a knife, her cry of helpless anguish ringing out across the battlefield. The sound was cut off as Padmé's struggle sounds rang out. The sound chilled her to the bone—she had heard that same tone in her own voice too many times, the desperate cry of a leader watching her people fall.

Arturia ducked behind cover, her heart hammering as she risked a glance towards the source of that tortured scream. Shirou was still preoccupied with the terrorists pressing from the south, his arrows finding their marks with mechanical precision. But from the north, another group had broken through, systematically cutting down the contingent guard with ruthless efficiency. Bodies in ceremonial blue and silver lay crumpled across the marble, their blood mixing with that of civilians and terrorists alike.

The crowd was scattering in blind panic, but many weren't fast enough. She watched in growing horror as groups were gradually captured and herded at gunpoint towards the freighter that now flew low over the plaza, its loading ramp extended and touching the ground like the tongue of some mechanical beast.

Her blood turned to ice as she spotted a familiar shock of turquoise hair in the crowd—Lessa's distinctive locks unmistakable even in the chaos. The young woman was being ushered at gunpoint towards the waiting vessel, her hands raised in surrender as armoured figures pressed blasters against her back.

'Lessa.' The name echoed in her mind with dreadful finality. Sweet, curious Lessa, who laughed at holodramas and asked endless questions about the galaxy beyond Naboo's borders—things they perused through the holonet. Now she was being herded like livestock towards a fate that made Arturia's stomach churn with rage.

'Fuck holding back,' Arturia thought, her restraint finally snapping like an overtaxed cable. The air around her seemed to grow heavy and oppressive as energy began to form around Clarent's blade, the very atmosphere crackling with barely contained power. Her golden eyes blazed with inner fire as she channelled her fury into raw magical force.

With a sound like thunder, she unleashed one sweeping mana blast that tore through the air like a scythe of pure destruction. The enemies harassing her from behind her cover were instantly vaporised, their screams cut short as the wave of energy reduced them to nothing more than ash and memory.

The sudden silence that followed felt deafening after the constant cacophony of battle. Turning back around, her blood singing with purpose and rage, Arturia rushed towards the northern part of the plaza. 'I'm coming, Lessa. Tsabin. Rabbine. Padmé. Hold on.'

Her feet pounded against blood-slicked marble as she raced to save her friends, Clarent gleaming with residual magical energy as she prepared to unleash hell upon anyone who dared stand in her way.

-=&<o>&=-

"Kriffing hells! This is a slave run!" someone shouted from behind him, their voice cracking with terror and disbelief. The words hit Shirou like a physical blow, crystallising the horror of what was unfolding around them. His hands moved with practised precision as he shot another volley of sword-arrows towards a cluster of slavers, the familiar weight of his traced weapons a comfort against the chaos erupting around him.

The sound of repulsors roared overhead as a Mandalorian suddenly jet-packed directly in front of him, the warrior's boots striking the marble with a resounding clang. The armoured figure brought out a vibro-machete, its blade humming with lethal energy, and Shirou couldn't help but raise his eyebrows at the supposed warrior. The Mandalorian's stance spoke of confidence, probably thinking Shirou wasn't suited for close combat—a fatal miscalculation that would cost him dearly.

Without hesitation, Shirou reached behind him, his movements fluid and deliberate as he seemingly pulled out Kanshou and Bakuya from behind him. In reality, he simply traced the married blades just as he had with his sword-arrows, the familiar thrum of prana—well, at least it feels like prana—flowing through his circuits. The weight of the twin swords materialised in his hands, their perfect balance a testament to countless battles fought and won. He could only hope that none of the combatants around him would notice the subtle blue glow of his magecraft, the telltale sign of weapons born from memory and will rather than forged steel—at the very least, he hopes that none who saw shall survive the day.

His thoughts flickered briefly to The Empty Pantry, where he had already sent his employees racing back with urgent instructions. They would be frantically preparing sandwiches, burgers, and pizzas—anything they could manage whilst letting stragglers flood in for protection before sealing the restaurant against the violence spilling through the streets, as his body moved to intercept the Mandalorian's attack.

Not waiting for the armoured warrior to make the first move, Shirou rushed forward with the fluid grace of a seasoned combatant. Bakuya rose to meet the Mandalorian's overhand strike, the clash of blade against vibro-machete sending sparks cascading through the air. The impact reverberated up his arms, but he pressed his advantage, delivering a calculated slice at the warrior's armour with Kanshou. To his surprise, the armour held firm against the Noble Phantasm's edge—even the vibro-machete showed similar resilience. His structural analysis immediately provided the answer: Beskar, the legendary Mandalorian iron, probably composed the entirety of both weapons and armour.

"No, Serin! Veyra—" The desperate cry tore from his throat as his peripheral vision caught the nightmare unfolding behind the Mandalorian. Padmé and her contingent were being dragged bodily towards the freighter now hovering ominously low, its boarding ramps yawning wide like the maw of some mechanical beast. The slavers shoved the young women into the vessel with brutal efficiency, their hands rough and careless as they treated human beings like cargo. Other groups were being herded into a similar spacecraft that suddenly flew in from the north with the same callous disregard for their humanity.

The sight of Padmé's terrified face, of Tsabin's fierce struggle against her captors, of Rabbine's wide-eyed panic—it all crystallised into a single moment of absolute clarity. Something snapped inside Shirou's chest, a cold fury that he recognised from the darkest chapters of his past. Simultaneously, he felt the unmistakable sensation of Arturia's dragon core being unleashed somewhere in the distance, her power washing over the battlefield like a tide of barely-contained destruction.

His movements became sharper, more purposeful as he charged at the Mandalorian before him. Each slash and parry served a dual purpose—to overwhelm his opponent whilst simultaneously manoeuvring him into the perfect position. Step by calculated step, Shirou guided their deadly dance until he achieved the reversal he sought, turning his back to the north so his enhanced vision could catalogue every enemy within striking distance.

"I have created over a thousand blades," he intoned, his voice carrying the weight of countless battles and the authority of one who had walked among legends. This was something he had learned recently through painful trial and experimentation—the ability to invoke specific portions of his aria for targeted magical effects, each word a key to unlock devastating power.

The air itself seemed to shiver with anticipation as another of his sword-arrows suddenly coalesced directly in front of each visible enemy. For a split second that stretched like eternity, their minds struggled to process the impossible sight of gleaming steel materialising from nothing, hovering motionless in the air before them like a promise of swift judgement. Then the blades moved as one, rushing towards each target's exposed neck with the inevitability of falling stars, ending the lives of every slaver within sight in a single, perfectly coordinated strike.

-=&<o>&=-

The cacophony of battle died away like a candle snuffed out, leaving behind an eerie silence that seemed to press against eardrums accustomed to chaos. All eyes—slaver and civilian alike—turned toward two figures advancing with inexorable purpose through the smoke, debris, and scattered bodies.

Arturia and Shirou moved in perfect synchronisation, their footsteps creating a rhythmic counterpoint as they pushed an overturned festival table before them. The heavy plasteel surface scraped across blood-slicked marble with a grinding shriek that set teeth on edge, the sound cutting through the sudden quiet like a blade drawn across stone. Scorch marks from absorbed blaster fire scorched the table's underside, testament to its recent service as improvised armour.

Behind the makeshift shield, Clarent gleamed wetly in Arturia's grip, its blade still dripping with the lives it had claimed. Shirou's hands remained empty but ready, his stance suggesting coiled violence waiting for the perfect moment to spring. The married blades had been placed within his quiver, his bow slung upon his shoulder.

The crowd of captives—perhaps two hundred souls pressed together like cattle—had gone deathly still. A quarter of their number had already been forced into the newly arrived freighter to the north, its boarding ramp extended like an accusatory finger. The original vessel hovered to its left, its hold packed with Padmé's reformist contingent and other unfortunate festival-goers.
Between the two spacecraft, the remaining civilians huddled in terrified clusters, surrounded by armed slavers whose weapons had suddenly lost their certainty.

The slavers themselves seemed caught in collective indecision, their earlier confidence evaporating like morning mist. Those nearest to Arturia and Shirou took involuntary steps backwards, boots scraping against marble as they retreated from the approaching pair. Blasters that had been trained on cowering civilians now wavered, torn between targets.

One slaver—a Rodian with distinctive green scaling—found his voice first. "Stand down!" His Basic carried a Rodese accent thick with barely-concealed panic. "Stand down or we start executing hostages!" The barrel of his blaster swung wildly toward a Twi'lek woman clutching a young child, then to an elderly human man, then to a cluster of teenagers frozen in terror.

As if his words had broken a spell, dozens of weapons snapped into new positions with mechanical precision. No longer aimed at the two advancing figures, the slavers' blasters now formed a ring of death pointed inward at the helpless crowd. The message was brutally clear—one wrong move, and innocent blood would paint the plaza stones.

"That's right, that's right," another voice called out, this one belonging to a human male whose armour bore the scorch marks of recent combat. His blaster remained trained on a young woman in the crowd, finger resting on the trigger. "You back off, let us finish—"

The slaver's words died as Shirou, seemingly at random, brought out his bow with fluid grace and fired directly upward into the open sky. The arrow arced high, climbing towards the glaring sun above the plaza.

"Wha—what are you doing? Stop that!" The human's voice cracked with confusion and rising panic, his weapon wavering between hostage and the inexplicable threat above.

Arturia tensed beside him, clearly uncertain of his plan, while the slavers grew agitated by the seemingly pointless action. Several tracked the arrow's trajectory skyward, distracted by the curious display.

Shirou fired again. Then again. Arrow after arrow streaked upward in rapid succession, each one vanishing at its apex as he dismissed the traced projectiles mid-air. To any observer, it appeared as meaningless provocation—a warrior wasting ammunition on empty sky whilst hostages' lives hung in the balance.

But it was misdirection, sleight of hand performed in front of civilians and slavers alike.

While their eyes followed the visible arrows climbing toward the heavens, Shirou's actual work manifested unseen. High above each slaver's position, traced blades coalesced in absolute silence—hovering motionless, invisible against the sun's glare, waiting. Dozens of sword-arrows, each one positioned with geometric precision above an exposed throat, a vulnerable neck joint, an unprotected skull.

He didn't give a signal. Didn't announce his intent. The blades simply fell.

All at once, every exposed slaver dropped as if their strings had been cut. Projectiles punched through skulls, pierced necks, and found the gaps in armour with surgical accuracy. Bodies crumpled to the marble in a grotesque wave of simultaneous death, their weapons clattering uselessly from lifeless hands.

The silence that followed was absolute—broken only by the wet thud of corpses hitting stone and the terrified gasps of hostages realising they were suddenly, impossibly, free.

"Kriff!" The scream came from the northern freighter's bay door, where a Twi'lek in scarred armour clutched the entrance frame with white-knuckled terror. His earlier bravado had evaporated, replaced by the raw panic of someone who'd just watched his entire ground force die in three seconds. "Vexa, tell yours to lift off now!"

From the southern vessel's hold, a woman's voice crackled over comms: "Already on it!"

"Rynar—" The Twi'lek's voice broke into desperate screaming at his pilot. "Kark it—lift off! Lift off NOW! NOW! NOW!"

Both massive freighters' engines roared to life simultaneously, their repulsorlifts cycling from idle to emergency thrust with a deafening whine. The deck plates beneath them vibrated as tons of durasteel fought against gravity's pull. Bay doors began grinding shut with mechanical inexorability, hydraulics screaming as emergency protocols kicked in.

"Left," Shirou declared.

"Right," Arturia agreed.

Both former heroes moved as one, angling toward where the two massive freighters hovered side by side.

Arturia burst right in a mana-enhanced sprint, her low-heeled pumps barely touching marble as she rocketed toward the rightmost vessel. The vessel had barely lifted three metres off the ground and was accelerating upwards, its bay door three-quarters closed. Without breaking stride, she channeled prana through her legs and leapt.

The jump carried her impossibly high—eight metres up—her petite frame arcing through smoke-filled air like a missile. At the apex of her trajectory, Clarent blazed with dark-violet light as she channelled a precise mana blast. Not the devastating wave she'd used before, but a focused cutting edge that extended the blade's reach tenfold.

The empowered slash caught the right freighter's cockpit like a hot wire through butter. Transparisteel and durasteel parted with a shriek of tortured metal as she carved clean through the vessel's forward section. The cockpit separated from the main hull in a shower of sparks and venting atmosphere, tumbling away as the rest of the freighter lost all control and began listing dangerously.

Meanwhile, Shirou cut left, reinforcing his body with every scrap of prana he could channel, feeling his muscles and bones strengthen beyond human limits. The left freighter mirrored its twin—already eight meters up and accelerating, its bay door now just a two-metre-wide gap of light against darkness.

He ran three steps and launched himself upward with explosive force, the marble cracking beneath his final footfall from the sheer power of his jump. Wind tore at his face as he climbed—five meters, seven, ten—arms outstretched toward that shrinking rectangle of light.

Not going to make it, his mind calculated with cold precision. Too high, too fast—

His body began to descend, gravity reasserting its claim. No!

Mid-fall, Shirou traced Herakles' stone sword-axe beneath his feet—but instead of letting it simply materialise, he imparted an accelerated vector upward as it coalesced. The massive weapon shot skyward like a launched missile with Shirou balanced atop it, his reinforced legs absorbing the sudden acceleration as he rode the conjured platform higher.

Five meters became eight, then ten, then twelve—the traced blade carrying him well above the freighter's hull before he kicked off and dismissed it in the same motion. The sword-axe dissolved back into nothingness as Shirou's arc brought him alongside the rising vessel.

He traced Kanshou and Bakuya mid-flight, immediately biting down on Bakuya's handle to free one hand for what came next.

His fist clutching Kanshou slammed into the freighter's hull plating with a resounding thud, using the impact to arrest his momentum and swing his body inward. His free hand shot out, fingers hooking the cargo bay door's edge just as the hydraulics ground toward their final centimetre of closure.

Reinforced strength straining against mechanical force, Shirou wedged himself into the narrowing gap. Metal screamed in protest as his body forced through the impossible space, shoulder and hip pressing past yielding mechanisms. Then he was inside, rolling forward across the deck plating as the door finally sealed behind him with a pneumatic hiss.

Bakuya freed from his teeth as he rose. Both married blades properly gripped now, singing through the air in perfect sync—black and white arcs crossing like scissors.

Two slavers nearest the entrance never processed the impossible. Kanshou and Bakuya passed through their necks with surgical precision, sharp enough that for one heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then the heads separated. Wet finality. Bodies crumpling. Shocked expressions frozen on faces rolling across the deck plating.

The cargo hold fell into stunned silence. Corpse-thuds. Muffled hostage scream too close to the spray. Rabbine passing out from the gory scene.

"Close your eyes," Shirou called to the reformist group—separated from the others, targeted. This wasn't just a slave run. The slave run was the cover.

He didn't wait. Shirou rushed forward, blades singing.

-=&<o>&=-

Numb. Tired. Confused. And guilt—always the guilt, churning through Padmé like a relentless tide as she forced herself to maintain composure. Her hands remained steady as she sorted through donated supplies, but the tremor lived deeper, somewhere in her chest where no one could see it shake her apart from the inside.

At least they'd been able to bathe in rotation with the team. The water had run red at first, diluted blood swirling down the drain—though whether it belonged to victims or perpetrators, she couldn't say. The distinction felt meaningless when scrubbing it from beneath her fingernails.

She worked alongside Governor Sio Bibble now, and that itself felt surreal. The man who'd made his disapproval of her and Tsabin abundantly clear—his resentment over his niece Sasha and Su Yan joining their reformist group simmering beneath every stiff interaction—had shed his usual cold formality like an ill-fitting cloak discarded in crisis. His sharp blue-grey eyes, which typically regarded her with barely concealed irritation, now carried an unexpected softness as he treated her with genuine respect. His normally imperious voice had subdued to gentle efficiency, directing volounteers with the same authority he'd once used to dismiss her concerns in council chambers.

"Stack the thermal blankets separately from the standard ones," he instructed a young volunteer whose hands trembled as she worked. His tone held patience rather than his typical impatience. "The injured will need the warmth more than those in shock."

The crisis had stripped away the personal grievances, leaving only the shared purpose of helping their city recover. He didn't smile at her—that would perhaps be too much to expect—but he also didn't glare. For now, in the face of tragedy, it was enough.

The logistics of tragedy were overwhelming in their mundane necessity. While their group organised relief goods—blankets that felt too thin against Naboo's evening chill, medical supplies that seemed woefully insufficient against the scale of suffering—another team moved through the wreckage with datapads and grim determination. They were documenting the living and the dead.

The scratching of styluses against datapads created an eerily methodical soundtrack to grief. Each mark represented a life accounted for, a family that would receive notification, a person whose fate was no longer unknown. They cross-referenced names with city records, hunting for anyone who might be missing, anyone who might still need help, anyone whose absence hadn't yet been noticed in the confusion.

Mara worked tirelessly nearby, her golden hair dulled with dust and ash, the elegant waves that usually framed her face now matted and tangled. Even in exhaustion, she moved with that natural grace that drew people to her, her warm voice cutting through despair as she directed various relief efforts. Medical personnel from Theed General followed her instructions without question, responding to the quiet authority she wielded through compassion rather than command.

"We need more gauze in section three," Mara called out, her voice steady despite the strain visible in the set of her shoulders.

Right now their station was distributing food donated by The Empty Pantry. The irony wasn't lost on Padmé. Simple meals arrived in insulated containers, still warm, smelling of home and comfort in the midst of devastation. Sandwiches wrapped carefully in flimsy, pizza slices, burgers, and even cookies that someone had taken the time to package individually. Food that spoke of care, of someone understanding that small gestures of normalcy mattered.

Padmé's throat tightened as she spotted the familiar figures entering her peripheral vision.

Shirou and Arturia moved through the aftermath with solemn purpose, their movements careful and deliberate as they carried shrouded forms between them. The covered bodies of the dead, treated with dignity even in tragedy, were transported towards the makeshift morgue, a temporary tent brought in by the volounteers.

They'd been doing this for hours, she realised. Carrying the dead with the same care they'd once used to serve meals at their restaurant. Never rushing, never careless, treating each shrouded form as precious cargo rather than grim necessity.

Her guilt twisted deeper, a knife turning in her chest.

Even after Shirou had successfully saved them from the slavers—no, that phrasing was inadequate. He'd massacred his way through the freighter. Though perhaps that word was unfair, too loaded with judgment she had no right to pass, not after all hope had seemed lost as she'd felt the freighter lift off.

He'd somehow managed to enter the vessel mid-flight. He'd fought through armed criminals to save and protect them, had done what was necessary to prevent them from being sold into slavery in some distant system where no one would ever find them.

But the word still fit. Massacre.

She could still see it with perfect clarity, a memory that would probably never fade, no matter how much she wished it would. The interior of the freighter was painted in violence—blood splattered across bulkheads in arterial sprays, bodies scattered like broken dolls across the deck plating, the metallic reek of death so thick it had made her gag. And standing in the middle of it all was Shirou—his kind face transformed into something alien beneath a mask of multicoloured blood.

She remembered his approach, that careful shuffle forward with his hands partially raised in what should have been a reassuring gesture. His expression had been concerned, gentle even, as if he were approaching frightened animals rather than the people he'd just saved. She remembered him reaching out towards Tsabin, who'd been shackled closest to him, his blood-slick fingers extended to help release the magnetic binders.

And she remembered how they'd all flinched away. All of them. Even Tsabin, who never backed down from anything, who'd faced down corrupt officials and angry mobs with her chin raised in defiance—even she had recoiled from those helpful, gore-covered hands.

The hurt that had flashed across Shirou's face lasted only a moment before being quickly covered, but Padmé had seen it.

Instead of showing that hurt, he'd smiled. And Maker help her, that had been worse—that smile stretching across a face covered in other people's blood, teeth showing white against the crimson and blue and green. It was a grotesque parody of his usual warm expression, transformed into something that belonged in nightmares.

"I'm sorry," he'd said, his voice rough from exertion or emotion or both. "I'm sorry you had to see this. Let me get these off you."

His hands had been steady as he'd released each set of binders, working his way through their group with methodical efficiency even as they'd all pressed themselves back against the bulkheads, trying to maintain distance from his gore-covered form. He'd respected that unspoken request for space, never moving closer than necessary, never forcing his help upon them despite their obvious need for it.

When he'd finished, he'd bowed. Actually bowed—as though offering a formal apology for the violence he'd committed on their behalf—before turning and walking back across the deck plating towards the exit. His footsteps had left bloody prints across the metal, a trail of death following him out of the cargo hold.

Then Padmé had seen Arturia waiting outside, positioned near the boarding ramp. The blonde had been equally covered in gore, her black and white service uniform transformed into something unrecognisable beneath layers of dried blood. But her face had brightened when she'd seen them emerge safely—genuine relief and joy changing her features despite the horror coating her skin.

That expression had lasted until she'd registered their faces. Until she'd seen the way they all flinched back from her approach, the way even Padmé—who'd shared meals and conversation and comfortable silences with her—had taken an involuntary step backwards.

The hurt in Arturia's golden eyes had been profound, a wound that cut deeper than any blade. Her small frame, which had always seemed refined rather than threatening despite her strength, had somehow diminished further in that moment. She'd looked almost fragile, vulnerable in a way that contrasted grotesquely with the violence she was painted in.

Shirou had approached her then, moving with careful deliberation as he'd placed both hands on her shoulders. He'd leaned close, speaking words that Padmé couldn't hear from her position, his voice low and urgent. Whatever he'd said had made Arturia's face transform—that hurt crystallising into something harder, more resolved. She'd nodded once, sharp and decisive, before turning to give Padmé and her group a curt nod of acknowledgement.

Then they'd both turned and walked away, moving through the crowd of rescued hostages. Padmé had watched them go, noticing how the people of Naboo gave them a wide berth despite their role as saviours. Civilians who'd been freed from slavery pressed themselves back to let the blood-covered pair pass, grateful but afraid, rescued but repulsed.

Heroes and monsters, all at once. Saviours covered in the proof of their violence.

Marching steps suddenly echoed throughout the plaza, pulling Padmé out of her thoughts as everyone's hearts visibly sank. The threat mirrored the chaos from that afternoon—they were surrounded, the Royal Naboo Protection Corps and Theed Honour Guard forming a perimeter around the relief effort.

One man stepped forward, his blaster rifle secured against its strap as he fished out a datapad. His voice rang loud in the uneasy silence of the crowd.

"ATTENTION, CITIZENS OF THEED:

By order of His Majesty King Ars Veruna, Naboo is now under a state of planetary emergency. A curfew is in effect from 2000 to 0600 hours. All media communications are subject to royal oversight.

Warrants have been issued for the arrest of Shirou Emiya and Arturia Pendragon on charges including mass murder, terrorism, and conspiracy against the Crown. These individuals are responsible for the deaths of—"

The guard's voice hitched. His face went pale as he stared at the datapad, clearly struggling to process the number he was being ordered to read aloud.

"The—these individuals are responsible for the deaths of one hundred and twenty-three royal security personnel who were deployed to protect citizens during today's festivities." His eyes suddenly darted around the silent crowd, fear creeping into his voice.

"De—despite appearances, these locals are not heroes but dangerous vigilantes whose extreme violence endangered civilian lives. They are to be apprehended immediately.

Any citizen harbouring or assisting these criminals will face prosecution. A reward of fifty thousand credits is offered for information leading to their capture.

Return to your homes. Comply with all security personnel. Your safety depends upon your cooperation.

BY ORDER OF THE KING."

The tension in the air shifted—thick, electric—as the Guard's words hung over the plaza like a suffocating shroud. Padmé felt the change ripple through the crowd—a collective intake of breath, the subtle straightening of spines, the way shoulders squared despite trembling hands. She could taste the metallic tang of fear mixed with something far more dangerous: righteous fury.

A murmur began somewhere near the fountain, low and rumbling like distant thunder. Then another voice joined it, and another, until the sound swelled into something that made the stones beneath her feet seem to vibrate. These people had been there. They had seen the first volley of blaster fire tear through innocent festival-goers. They had witnessed the supposed royal guards turning their weapons on unarmed citizens without provocation or warning.

And they had also seen two strangers—these supposed "dangerous vigilantes"—throw themselves into harm's way without hesitation, asking for nothing in return. Even now, the two volunteers were still organising aid stations, still distributing food to those who had lost everything, helping carry the deceased, still tending to the wounded with supplies donated freely by neighbours who barely knew each other's names.

Padmé could feel their anger building like pressure in a sealed vessel, ready to explode. As jeers rose, the Protection Corps and Honour Guard tensed, hands tightening on their plasma rifles as the crowd began to turn.

But before anything spilt over, two individuals walked forward, arms raised in surrender.

"We submit to your authority—willingly and without resistance."

And then the floodgates opened. The crowd erupted—not in violence, but in voices. Protests rang out from every direction, a cacophony of outrage against injustice so blatant it bordered on obscene.

Two members of the Honour Guard panicked, raising their rifles toward the surging crowd. Before anyone could process the threat, Shirou and Arturia moved—faster than thought, their hands closing around the barrels of each weapon and forcing them down with inexorable strength.

The guards' eyes went wide with shock and terror. When Shirou and Arturia released the weapons, both barrels were visibly bent, warped metal testimony to strength that transcended human limits.

The crowd fell silent, not from fear, but from awe.

Arturia's golden eyes swept across the civilians with one imperious look—not threatening, but commanding in a way that brooked no argument. The anger that had been building found no outlet; instead, people straightened, nodded, recognising something primal in that gaze. She acknowledged them with a slight nod, as if they'd passed some unspoken test, before turning her attention back to the trembling guards.

Under their combined gaze, the Honour Guard clutching the arrest warrant trembled as he fumbled for binders.

"You need not bind us—we've already submitted willingly," Arturia stated, her voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "If you're afraid, have your men point their blasters at us." She paused, letting that sink in. "Now escort us to tonight's... hospitality. And you shall not separate me from my partner."

"Yes, ma'am!" The guard bowed instinctively—decades of training responding to that command presence despite the absurdity of it all.

As the pair was escorted toward the palace, Padmé watched them walk with heads held high—prisoners who somehow looked more regal than the king who'd ordered their arrest.

Her hands had stopped trembling. The guilt remained—and the trauma would not fade quickly—but something had crystallised in that moment: Arturia commanding silence with a look; Both bending steel yet choosing submission over violence.

Power wasn't about force. It was about choosing when to use it and when to yield it.

Veruna had the crown, the guards, the law's authority. But standing amid the wreckage of his lies, Padmé realised one thing: he didn't have the people—not anymore.

And on Naboo, that was going to matter.

-=&<o>&=-
End

Next Chapter Update: The World of Otome Game is a Second chance for Broken Swords
If you want to read the next chapter, head over to discord
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If you want to read chapters: 6.2 (4.1k words), 6.3 (6.9k words),
head over to patreon.

AN: Happy New Year to everyone! As you can see, I updated this story twice. I hope you enjoyed the action!

Thank you to our True Magicians: Danner Y., Malignance. Vicente; Thanks for the year-long pledge: Michael Hill, Ramon Diaz, DigiDimonLordl, fausto escobar; Thank you for the new sub and the sub renew:Bob, HugoH, Zenloa A., Ignatiusape, RicePudding ; Magus: Morfeo, Swordcollector45,

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