Fate/Knights of the Heroic Throne

[13thsephiroth]

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


Story Tracker|Story ETAs
If you want to immediately read the next chapter, head over to discord.
If you want to read Ch 1, 2, and 3.1-3.2, head over to patreon.​

 

[13thsephiroth]

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
discord.
If you want to read Ch 2, 3.1-3.2, and 4.1 head over to
patreon.​

 

[13thsephiroth]

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
discord.
If you want to read Ch 3.1-3.2, and 4.1-4.2 head over to
patreon.​

 

[13thsephiroth]

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]

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
discord and get the Spellcaster role.
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
patreon.​

 

[13thsephiroth]

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
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