I've had this first chapter written on paper for quite a few weeks now, but it took me a while to get the time to type it up, and also edit it to the extent it needed. But here it is!

It won't interfere with Eclipse updates, I can promise you. I don't expect it to be very long-about three chapters-and I'm not sure when I'll be able to update. I'll just write it when I have the time.

Otherwise, warnings for mentions of suicide (sort of) in this chapter, and a lot of talk about murder. And violence. The usual in my fics, really.

Anakin twisted his hands in the cuffs. The metal was uncomfortably cold against his skin—especially cold because it cut him off from the heat that was always inside him. The fire he valued and relied upon so much.

The fire that was the only thing he had.

He'd known that Palpatine and his damned Empire had been working on a substance that could negate a magician's powers, but he hadn't been sure whether or not to believe it. He was used to dealing with rumours and hearsay, nothing ever confirmed because no one ever survived to confirm it, but even that had been too farfetched to be true. . .

His powers were a part of him. No magician had ever been cut off from such an intrinsic sense of self. There were myths, of course, about such a horror, but they focused on curses or some sort of arcane sorcery—in other words, they were myths. To have it suddenly become true had been. . . an unpleasant thought.

And now it was more than a thought.

The metal was so pale it glowed white, unnatural against his tanned skin. The fire inside him quailed and flickered before its frozen bite; he shivered in its presence.

Idly, he tugged on the cuffs, but of course they wouldn't budge. Palpatine was not going to take any chances with the prize he'd caught today. Anakin would no doubt be tortured, executed, and then—

He closed his eyes, a part of him longing for it despite himself. And then he might see Padmé and his twins again.

It had been seven years since he'd made his mistake, and they'd been targeted. His anger still burned as bright and livid as ever.

He heard the footsteps long before he really processed what they meant. Once he did, he stopped tugging futilely at the cuffs—he didn't want to give the old man the satisfaction—but kept the glower on his face; indeed, he intensified it.

Palpatine came into view slowly, as if he was aware of how much effort it took for Anakin to get a view of him past the narrow bars of his cell. Even once he was in full view, he stood for a good few moments with his hood down to conceal much of his face from view. Anakin had no idea what he was thinking.

The situation wasn't mutual, he thought bitterly. That was what happened when he was dealing with a mind-reader.

Then he finally lowered his hood, those disgustingly yellow eyes glowing in his face, and said. "Anakin, my boy," with all the warmth of a hearth. It made him hate him even more. "It's so lovely to see you again—how have you been?"

Anakin gripped the bars and squeezed, tendons arching across the back of his hands. He hoped Palpatine was reading his mind now: he hoped the man knew just how badly he wanted to squeeze his throat instead.

"I've been better," he bit out, "murderer."

"Ah, Anakin," Palpatine shook his head. "You know full well that was your own fault. I asked you to be my protégé, help me establish this new and glorious order. You knew what you stood to lose if you refused, and you refused me anyway."

"You murdered my wife, my children—"

"Well, I couldn't leave them alive now, could I? Especially the twins. One Skywalker leading a rebellion against my regime has been irksome enough. Imagine the chaos caused if three fire magicians were running around! And as for dearest Padmé." He clucked his tongue. "Well, I told her to get out of the way. I didn't want to kill her. I had no desire to kill my cousin if I didn't have to, but she stood between me and her darlings as long as there was breath left in her. If you must assign blame, blame her sense for drama and heroine complex, or whatever it might have been.

"She took an annoyingly long time to die, as well," he added as a afterthought. It was like he couldn't tell that Anakin was ready to break down or throw up already. Or maybe he could—probably he could—and he was just thoroughly enjoying this anyway. "She simply would not stop screaming."

"You—" Anakin was shaking, shameless tears streaming down his cheeks. "You monster. How—" His throat caught. "How dare you call her your cousin."

"Well, she was. Gifted or not, she was a member of the Naberrie-Palpatine-Amidala-etcetera line—we were short on male members to carry on the name for a while, I'm afraid it got a bit muddled—and was therefore my cousin. To be specific, second cousin thrice removed, wasn't it?"

"You killed her. And the twins—" Who would've been your cousins too—

"Ah. I already told you. They were Naberries, but also Skywalkers. And I'm afraid the threat your family tree poses to mine means I sometimes must," he twisted his hands, tilting his head thoughtfully, "prune the polluted branches of my own. The contaminated ones, if you will. At least it was one of the non-gifted members." A pause. "Though, non-gifted might be a bit of a stretch; she certainly had enough skill to maintain considerable mental shields against me, but they ultimately failed. I imagine it was quite agonising for her when I finally broke through—not in the least because it was the knife she'd taken up to defend her children was the one that killed the three of them in the end—"

"Stop." Anakin bent his head down, clutching his hands over his ears, but he'd already heard it, it was already seared into his mind, the horror and tragedy of his poor family's last moments—

He'd always guessed, from what they'd found of the remains, what had happened. They'd been charred to the bone, the fire in the manor just another part of Palpatine's ploy—it was you who lit this flame, your power that killed them—but he could see where the bones were, how Padmé had stood before them with that gleaming knife until the end—

His captain of the guard had been the only survivor. In Rex's final, maddened moments, Anakin had heard how Palpatine had ripped into the minds of all the armed guards and forced them to march on every breathing person in the building, blood staining the marble floors. At the end of it all he'd forced them to kill themselves, but Rex had been allowed to resist just long enough to relay the tale of Anakin. . . and to bear the madness as punishment for resisting that long. He'd killed himself not long after.

That version of the tragedy had been haunting enough, enough to kindle an inferno of rage inside Anakin even when his Rebel allies had almost been beaten into submission. But this one. . .

The idea that Padmé had fought so staunchly for her children, kept her mind so fortified, only for Palpatine to rip into it and have her turn that knife on them herself. . . and then her after. . .

He lunged at Palpatine. His head collided with the bars hard, sending it ringing, and the man was out of reach anyway. He just laughed.

"Oh, my boy," he said, disgustingly fondly. "You still have such fire in you—not that I would expect anything less from the leader of my most infuriating Rebel cell. You'll be quite the spectacle in the arena."

Anakin froze, rubbing his head.

The arena?

"No," he said aloud. "No!"

"Why ever not? It's where all of the finest magicians in the land are sent to show off their talent."

"Sent to die more like." He shook his head. "These gifts are sacred, you bastard, not something to be shown off in some brutal contest of strength."

"That's slightly odd of you to say, isn't it? Didn't you used to use yours to impress and. . . woo. . . your beloved Padmé?"

"That's different and you know it." He snarled at him. "The noble gifts are not things to be disrespected; they were given to our houses by the land so we may serve the land, and—"

"The noble houses are no more, Lord Skywalker." Palpatine's voice quickly dropped to a sneer, eyes flicking him up and down. Anakin became aware that he hadn't washed in weeks, hadn't been able to, and he wasn't sure if it was shame or anger that he burned with. "You will fight in my arena—it makes such good money, and the populace just love to see you gods bleed."

"So long as the one god they never see bleed is you, right?" Anakin said bitterly.

"The old order is gone, child." Anakin tried not to roll his eyes; he hadn't been a child in years. "This is my order. If you wish a higher place in it—one more akin to your old one, perhaps—then simply kneel, and pledge your loyalty to me. I'm sure we can leave this hiccup behind us, and I'd be honoured to name you my heir."

Anakin snarled, "I will never betray my family. You murdered them, and I will not rest until you lie just as dead as they do."

Palpatine didn't even bother answering for a moment. He just turned, and walked down the corridor.

His voice floated back, "Then you will not be particularly well rested for tomorrow."

Then he left, and the light left with him.

Needless to say, after that talk with Palpatine, Anakin did not sleep well.

Even when the masked soldiers—stormtroopers, Anakin knew they were called—came to escort him out of the dungeons, through the grounds and into a side facility, the bed in the room they shoved him into did nothing to help him sleep. He was tired, certainly, and the mattress was as comfortable as Anakin had felt since Palpatine's coup. After all, he'd heard that Palpatine's gladiators were treated like kings—so long as they entertained the crowds.

It was insulting. His fire was a part of him, a gift from the gods, and showing it off for entertainment was belittling. He knew there'd been a belief among the noble families with subtler gifts—the mind-readers, charmspeakers—that the flashier, martial powers were of lesser worth. Anakin had no problem with that belief—provided that said families had the worthiness and power to stop him from burning their faces off when provoked.

He would not fight for anyone's amusement—least of all Palpatine's. He would not fight—

But they were going to make him, anyway.

The stormtroopers didn't come again in the morning—a middle-aged man did, with a strange, cybernetic eye. Anakin recognised him as Doctor Cylo, the scientist responsible for most of Palpatine's experiments on magicians. He didn't look much like a scientist, in his fine azure and gold coat, but Anakin didn't care. He knew who this person was.

The man knocked on the door, but entered even before Anakin's sarcastic, "Come in." He could hear the locks disengage, then the door swung open on his modest little room to admit him. He wasted no time in tilting his head back, the room's single lights glinting off his mechanical eye, and observing him.

"Darth Vader," he greeted. "His Highness has sent me to escort you to the fitting for your armour."

"That's. . . not my name?" Anakin was genuinely confused.

"It is now. Everyone assumes a new identity when they enter my arena."

"More like they're not even human once they enter your arena."

"Perhaps not, in the more extreme cases," Cylo conceded, surprisingly amiably, "but that is for the best. They aren't human anymore, no longer mere magicians; they are better, with all the strengths and none of the weaknesses; they—"

"You are not doing that to me."

"No, I'm not." Cylo looked regretful. "His Highness has ordered it so—I believe he wants to watch you struggle and suffer as much as possible. But no matter. You are renowned as one of the greatest martial magicians there is. This will provide a good test to gauge just how good my creations are."

He waved to the troopers, who stepped forward. "We will be escorting you to get your armour fitted now. Your first match is scheduled for tomorrow. The audiences are eager to see what this Darth Vader can bring to the table."

"My name is Anakin—"

"Not anymore. Haven't we already covered this?"

Anakin glowered. "I'd have thought Palpatine would revel in showing off his captured rebel magician, not hide his identity."

"I do not disagree. However, His Highness always has shrewd reasons for doing what he does. I am confident the same applies here." He gestured to the door. "Now you are going to get fitted."

Anakin took a step back. "No, I'm not."

Three fights, endless bruises and forty minutes later, he was standing getting his armour fitted.

The room was a large one, lined with gauntlets and armguards and braces and helmets. The servant who scuttled around on Cylo's orders reached for one particular helmet of a metal so dark it was nearly black. It looked like a death mask, or coffin fresco. Anakin eyed it warily.

"I feel," Cylo said, hands folded behind his back, "That I had better tell you a little about your prospective opponents. For your own good, you understand. It's been so long since His Highness gave us new blood to play with, the others might get a little. . . overexcited."

"You speak of them like they're children."

"Oh but they are, Vader. They are my children. They are my creations. I don't want anybody to get. . . hurt."

He paused, but Anakin made no interjection. It would, at the end of the day, be clever to get all the information he could.

Cylo continued, "The fighter I've had with me the longest is Karbin. He was once a metal magician, and I've since used that gift to give him more than a human's natural two legs. The focus he needs to manipulate them all means he's unlikely to crush your helmet with your head inside it—he can't control everything at once—but. . . still. I'd advise you look out for that."

Unwittingly, Anakin's hand went to his chest plate. He wondered how it would feel if it suddenly crumpled into spikes, dug into his lungs. . .

"Trandoshan is another old one, been here a few years. He was actually a fire magician like yourself—no relation, of course. I don't pretend to be an expert on magician genealogy, but there were multiple fire lines, no? It was one of the more. . . common traits."

Despite himself, sneering, Anakin nodded.

Cylo barely acknowledged him, and instead barrelled on. "Anyway, I'm sure you know firsthand just how. . . volatile fire can be. It didn't take well to many of the modifications; now he can't so much as light a candle. The loss hit him hard. He's quite mad now, though remains a challenging opponent, if only because one can never be sure what he's going to do next."

Anakin felt sick.

Being violated like that, poked and prodded until the thing that had provided you with warmth and light and power your whole life fled, leaving you forever alone in the cold and the dark—

He pulled himself together just in time to hear Cylo continue, "Well, I learned from my mistakes with him, I believe. We have two other fire magicians—excluding yourself, of course—here, and I endeavoured not to have the same thing happen again. Morit and Aiolin are of the Astarte line—you've heard of them, I assume?" Anakin had. "Their parents were some of the early opposition to His Highness's ascension, and when it seemed inevitable they handed the twins over in hopes of a lighter sentence."

Anakin had to ask. ". . .did they receive it?"

"No. They burned alive in their manor as their own soldiers marched against them." The same way Padmé and the twins had died. "His Highness continued to torment the twins—visit the sins of the parents upon the children, if you will. But eventually he tired of them and they were handed over to me. I heard he got another set of twins to delight in—with his abilities, the natural connection between twins' minds has long fascinated him. Particularly if they shared gifts similar to his own, as this new pair did. Fire magicians with some mind magician blood, I believe." Like Luke and Leia had been. "A curious combination—would that I had the chance to study them.

"Anyway, Morit and Aiolin are two of my masterpieces. Their bodies are enhanced in such a way that they can pull off feats otherwise unheard of in a human. And they are brilliant: cold, calculating, immensely capable. . . loyal only to His Highness and each other, though even the latter tie has been known to break. . . I'm even looking to install rockets into their hands and feet, as ambitious as it sounds—just imagine! A person flying into the air of their own accord!" He grinned at Anakin. "Perhaps I should rename them Skywalker."

Anakin made to punch that smug look right off his face, but the servant had his arm encased in a metal armguard and would not let go.

"But, most importantly, they retain their ability to manipulate fire, so that should be an interesting fight against you." He paused, thinking. "Particularly if His Highness decides to pit them both against you at once. . .

"Ah, and last but by no means least: Tulon Voidgazer. A distant relative of His Highness, in fact, and subsequently your late wife"—the servant had to strain to hold Anakin back at that comment—"but then, I suppose all you magical nobles are distant relatives of each other, aren't you? It's how we see powers shift from one bloodline to another—Skywalkers can no longer fly, after all." He smiled, a little maliciously. Anakin just glared.

"But I'm getting off topic. Voidgazer had a weak ability for mind manipulation at best. His Highness saw nothing to lose in handing her over to my tender care—indeed, there was everything to gain. Even after the experimentation, she couldn't so much as manipulate a fly. . . but she could manipulate her machines. It's like a hive mind: she doesn't fight herself; her machines do so on her behalf."

Anakin was feeling more and more ill by the minute. Just thinking about the sort of pain these people would have gone through—the abominations Cylo had created—

He needed to run.

He needed to get out of here, more so now than ever. Away—away from this blasphemous scientist, away from the sadistic monarch who indulged him. Away from this arena, away from these games—

Bu the breaking point didn't come until Cylo opened his mouth again.

"You know, I have to wonder—I've heard that your wife also had negligible skill in that area, despite her bloodline. And the children you had with her were twins, correct? The three of them would have been perfect for mine and His Highness's experiments."

Anakin saw red.

"Really, my boy, you didn't expect that escape attempt to actually work, did you?"

Anakin glared at him. His face still throbbed from the punch the stormtrooper on his left had thrown him; his head still throbbed from where the stormtrooper on his right had slammed it into the ground.

They hadn't taken him back to that first cell, much to his surprise, but it didn't matter. His new "gladiator" quarters were no less caging.

Especially with him sitting on the bed, awaiting his return.

"Perhaps not," Anakin spat out, a glob of blood hitting the floor at Palpatine's feet. "But I had to try." For the principle of the thing, if nothing else.

Palpatine watched him carefully for a moment. "You don't want to be here?"

His tone was calm, but silky; slippery. It seemed like a test, a threat, but. . . what was he testing? Surely he knew just how much he wanted to leave—how much he hated him?

Palpatine was watching him like a hawk. Anakin hesitated. . .

. . .and threw caution to the wind.

"Of course I don't want to be here, you—"

"If you are unhappy with your place in the arena, I am still in need of an adjutant. An. . . apprentice."

"I will never serve you."

"Why not? I can give you whatever you desire. Money—"

"I don't care about—"

"—power—"

"I don't want power—"

"—or even your darling twins back."

Anakin froze. Froze, then burned, because—

"You killed Luke and Leia."

"Please, Anakin. You know I have an interest in the psychology of twins—Cylo told you about my stint with the Astartes, didn't he? The Astartes were easy, I studied them and there wasn't much to know. But your twins were young, powerful, even of my own bloodline. Of course I kept them. It would have been a waste, otherwise."

Anakin collapsed to his knees, the troopers restraining him letting him fall.

Then—

That meant—

It was barely more than a whisper, the desperate, desperate hope of a desperate, desperate man.

"They're alive?"

Even now, Palpatine smiled fondly.

It was like he'd known it would be that news which finally broke Anakin. He probably had. It didn't take a mind-reader to figure it out, and even if it did. . .

"Yes, my boy," he said warmly. "Your twins are alive—I've been taking good care of them these past seven years. They've grown powerful; you should be very proud."

Anakin, still on his knees on the floor, clenched his fists. "You— you stole them from me, you—"

"Yes. I did." Palpatine raised an eyebrow. "Would you like them back?"

Anakin tried to get his breathing under control.

"I'm sure they'd be thrilled to see you again too, Anakin. Did you know it took them three years before they stopped waking up screaming for their father?"

Anakin's fingernails dug into his palms; rivulets of blood ran down his arm.

They'd been twelve.

He knew that. He'd always known that. They'd been twelve when the attack had come, with their whole lives ahead of them. Anakin had just been about to start teaching them the finer details of the fire they all shared. . .

But, now. . .

They'd been twelve when they'd watched Palpatine murder their mother before their eyes—no, when they'd watched him tear into her mind and made her plunge the knife into her own heart. . . they'd been twelve when they saw their family manor, and every comforting truth along with it, burn down around them. . . they'd been twelve when they'd been dragged away into Palpatine's tender care, treated like animals in a study.

They'd been children.

Anakin started at Palpatine, that despicable, despicable man, and said, "I hate you."

"I assumed as much. But do you want them back?"

"Of course I want them back, you—"

"Then here's the deal." His voice hardened from its grandfatherly tones to something like a threat. "You will fight in my arena. I don't trust you as my right-hand, yet"—Anakin, knowing Palpatine, doubted he'd ever trust him at all—"but you can and will serve me as a gladiator. Demonstrate the power of my engineered servants—"

"I'm neither engineered nor your servant."

"They don't have to know. Do this, and I will allow you to see your children again."

His pulse beat its wings in his throat, but he pushed. "See?"

"See. Perhaps, if you win enough matches, I'll allow you to move to a different compound and live with them—still under my supervision, of course. But I would've thought that you'd be as anxious to reunite your family as possible."

"I am." There was no point in hiding it; Palpatine could read him like a book. Palpatine knew. "But I don't trust that you won't rip it apart again whenever you feel like it."

"I've tired of experimenting with your twins. They can read each other's thoughts, but no one else's; I have accepted there's nothing else I can do to change that. I have no need of them any longer. So." He held out a hand. "Do we have a deal, Anakin Skywalker?"

Anakin carefully pushed himself to his feet and stepped forward. The troopers didn't try to stop him.

He looked into Palpatine's gold eyes, like two burnished coins, and narrowed his own. Palpatine was a known liar. Just yesterday he was telling Anakin his twins were dead; now, the moment it was convenient, his song had changed. Anakin had no guarantee he was telling the truth. . . unless. . .

"Show me the twins," he challenged, "and once you've proved your claims, I'll make my decision."

Palpatine smiled faintly at his gall, but shook his head.

Anakin sucked in a breath. So. No proof would be provided; no proof would be forthcoming.

He might be selling his soul, his life, his talents, for nothing but empty hopes.

But. . .

But. . .

This was Luke and Leia.

This was Luke, who always looked the epitome of innocence when he was in trouble, and made sure to teach his sister that skill too.

This was Leia, who shouted back when shouted at, and left her father gaping and mother grinning when she argued with a cool logic beyond her years.

These were his children.

If there was the slightest chance they were alive. . . he had to take it.

So he lifted his chin and looked Palpatine in the eye. He knew the old man had seen his decision.

His hand was cold and clammy when he shook it.

The next morning dawned bright, and found Anakin in an empty training room, acclimatising himself to the sensation of moving with the armour on.

It wasn't easy: Anakin's typical fighting style involved a lot of motion; while he couldn't perform the flips he'd pulled off in his youth, he was still heavily reliant on his ability to move quickly. The suit restricted that, especially the mask, and he often struggled to take deep enough breaths.

He hated the sound of his breathing at all, in that mask. It was too loud in his ears. It rasped.

He sighed, and resumed his defensive stance. The fire came easily, rushing out of his fingertips and painting the air gold, red, blue. He turned, channelling it into a direct bolt—

A voice made him pause.

He frowned. Strode over to the door and peered out, down the corridor. Two women were standing beside a window that overlooked the arena. Their voices were hushed as they conversed, their heads bent together.

"You're insane, Astarte," the taller woman said. The only mask she wore was a pair of tinted goggles, her hair pulled back behind her head. But Anakin's attention was drawn to the spheres hovering about her head. They moved with her voice, and her fidgeting. "You and your brother."

The other woman—Astarte; Aiolin?—smiled tightly. Anakin couldn't see much of her front from this angle—the long, pale hair that hung nearly to her waist was in the way—but he caught the glint of a bronze mask covering her face.

"Perhaps we are," she said. Her voice had a faint burr to it, likely from whatever it was Cylo had done to her; Anakin couldn't remember. "But we don't intend on being arena slaves forever." A pause. As if Aiolin knew her companion was listening hard, she pressed, "Talk to Cylo. It was his idea. And you know what he's always been saying—and you know what's right."

Her voice dropped. Despite himself, Anakin leaned in closer to hear her say, "If we're greater than a natural human, why should we be subject to one?"

The other woman—Voidgazer, Anakin was starting to suspect, the names Cylo had rattled off yesterday slowly resurfacing—barely changed expression. He could tell she agreed, nonetheless—she nodded, smiling slowly—and that made him. . . nervous.

Did the other gladiators have some sort of mutual alliance going on, supported by Cylo? Was— was that plans for a coup he'd just overheard?

He wasn't opposed to a coup against Palpatine—quite the contrary. But to have one tyrant replaced with Cylo's. . . creatures, who had abilities known only to each other. . .

He'd have to stop that. That could be as much—if not more—of a cancer on society as Palpatine was.

Anakin swallowed.

What had he just got himself into?

These political games were not what he'd had in mind.

He swallowed again.

But he'd play them anyway.

He had to.

For Luke and Leia.

There wasn't anything else he could do.

His first fight was scheduled for 1600 hours that day, against someone with the stage name Commander Karbin. Anakin doubted he actually had any military experience.

The arena was thronged when he stood by the entrance, peering out. Massive signs had been erected around the city overnight, advertising Darth Vader, the newest gladiator; the seats of the coliseum were packed.

Anakin had known how popular Palpatine's games were—he'd certainly sent enough agents to infiltrate them—but it was one thing to read the reports, or even sit in the stands. Stepping out onto the sand of the ring, meanwhile, and smelling the salt of the sweat and the blood of the fights from earlier that day, hearing the roaring of the crowd when they laid eyes on the menacing figure he cut in black, feeling the vibrations through his skull, tasting the bile at the back of his throat when he laid eyes on—

On—

What was that?

It was a human. He thought. At least, it had been. Once.

In all of Cylo's prattling, Anakin had never once stopped to wonder what Commander Karbin might look like.

He had a human head: hairless and burnt and scarred to an angry reddish colour, but human nonetheless. There were two circular pieces of glass in front of his face, making his eyes look unnaturally large, unblinking; Anakin wondered if they were supposed to serve as spectacles.

But the legs were the worst part.

Karbin walked hunched over, on all fours. All sixes, rather: two metal struts emerged from the stumps of his shoulders, hinge-like joints halfway down them to allow for the facsimile of limbs. Two more rods sprouted from where his thighs should have been, a last two struts emerging from them. All the 'legs' had hinges much as the 'arms' did; they clattered and clinked when he moved. Anakin was reminded of nothing more than a massive metal spider.

It turned Anakin's stomach, as much in pity as disgust. This was what Cylo's curiosity had done; this was what Palpatine's ambition had allowed. They had taken an innocent person, put him through so much pain, and then they had made him fight.

They had forced Anakin to fight it.

A klaxon blared, and Karbin charged.

There was no time for pity; pity would get him killed. He automatically made to duck out of the way of those pincer-like legs and barely missed getting sliced in half: he still wasn't used to how heavy this suit was. How restrictive.

He expected Cylo had intentionally made it so, lest he defeat his engineered monstrosities and make them all seem weak.

A moment's pause, then the fire flooded out of him. It rolled over Karbin. He screamed.

But he kept coming.

Perhaps he'd burned so much that the pain no longer slowed him down.

His front legs caught Anakin in the chest; he was sent crashing back, flying. The armour saved him from getting skewered but he hit the ground hard, rolling.

The sand rushed into the joints of the armour. It scratched and ground at the metal as he heaved himself back to his feet.

Gods, Anakin hated sand.

Karbin charged him again. Metal shrieked and screeched as he ripped his own front leg from its stump and shredded it with his bare hands. The shards hovered in midair for one moment, twisted and wrecked and sharp, then barrelled at Anakin. Much, much faster than Karbin had.

He had no time to dodge.

After so many years in rebellion, he'd had one thought drilled into him: a good defence is an offence. He brought his hands up on instinct, fire roaring to life before him like a shield—

Like a shield. It wasn't solid. It wasn't a shield.

All it did was turn the deadly-sharp metal shards shooting for him into deadly-sharp red hot metal shards shooting for him.

His armour took the blow. It clanged and hissed; he hissed with it, jerking back. His shoulder burned.

But otherwise, the damn armour had saved his life. He swore under his breath.

He needed to finish this.

Karbin was charging him again, like it was the only thing he knew how to do anymore. For the first time, Anakin watched him, carefully.

Karbin was a metal magician. Metal was solid: malleable, but it was more corporeal than fire. It was easier to dodge.

As long as Anakin stayed out of immediate range of those legs, he could—theoretically—dodge whatever Karbin threw at him.

And in the meantime. . .

Anakin was one of the most powerful fire magicians to ever live. The Skywalkers were an infamously strong bloodline.

Even if these crowds had no idea who they were watching. . . he'd remind them why.

He reached for the inferno inside him, even as he ducked out of the way of another barrage. He kept moving backwards, around the edge of the arena, staying as far from Karbin as he could. The armour wore down on him the more he moved, but he ignored it. It had already saved his life once.

The roar of the crowd was loud in his ears. It seemed to hurt Karbin—he twitched at every shout.

Anakin pitied him even more.

But not enough to die for his glory.

The inferno came when Anakin summoned it, a massive cyclone of fire that erupted suddenly, the crowd's shouts turning to screams. He was peripherally aware of some people in the front row leaning back, shielding their faces, but he didn't turn to them. He kept his gaze on Karbin, narrowing the cyclone into something smaller, faster, hotter.

Karbin shrieked.

Even that sounded mechanical. Anakin tried not to wince as he heard it.

Karbin collapsed. His flesh body fell to the floor; the metal appendices collapsed around him.

The crowd went silent.

Anakin approached slowly, waiting for Karbin to get up, throw some more metal at him, anything.

He didn't move. Couldn't.

Anakin stepped forward once more, called the flames back to hand. They burned blue, then white, in his grip.

He crouched beside Karbin. The poor man's breathing was ragged; his eyes stared into the sky, unseeing. Angry burns choked his skin.

He was not going to survive this.

The regret in Anakin's chest increased. The most merciful thing he could do now was give him a quick death: he drew the flames hotter, tighter, prepared to—

The loudspeaker crackled through the arena. "And the winner is. . . Darth Vader!"

A cheer rose.

"Your Highness," the commentator continued once the cheer died, "does the defeated deserve to live?"

Despite himself, Anakin looked up at the Emperor's box, right at the front of the arena. He'd almost forgotten Palpatine was there.

He almost regretted that the mask hid the glare he treated him to.

"Both contestants have fought well," Palpatine said benevolently. There was open amusement on his face when he looked at Anakin. "He shall live."

Live.

Palpatine must be mocking him. There was no way Karbin would survive the night, with these injuries.

Anakin shook his head. He had fought this petty fight for Palpatine; he had not reneged on his deal. But he would go no further.

He would grant this poor man mercy in death the way he'd never received it in life.

He turned his back on Palpatine. The collective gasp that ran through the crowd, the Emperor's chuckle, the man vaulting the edge of the arena to run and stop him, it all meant nothing. He raised his hand, fire lancing up like a spear , then brought it down—

Then recoiled as it rebounded, right in his face.

The metal of his helmet was uncomfortable hot on his skin. He stumbled back, hands in front of him; it was only his natural reflex that had him redirecting the next spurt of fire that was aimed at him. He planted his feet, shoulders tensed, ready to deflect another—

But his assailant just stood over Karbin, watching him with an amused tilt to his head.

The mask hid any other family resemblance. It was the hair colour that gave it away, identical to Aiolin's in a way that seemed unnatural, even for twins. It just added to feeling Anakin got from the Astartes: they were so much more machine than human.

"Step aside, Astarte," he hissed. Morit cocked his head.

"His Highness ordered that Karbin be kept alive, so he will be kept alive. Or there will be consequences for your disobedience."

Luke and Leia. Anger boiled in him. "Are you threatening—"

"No. I don't know who you are. I don't know who to threaten. But there are always consequences for disobedience, Vader."

Anakin frowned, and gestured to Karbin. "He won't survive the night. He'll die either way; this is just more merciful."

"Mercy has no place here. These are the Emperor's orders." Something in his tone was almost mocking. It simultaneously angered and disgusted Anakin, when he remembered what he'd heard Aiolin say.

The Astartes would suck up to and obey Palpatine slavishly. . . until they could seize power for themselves.

He glared at him. "You're an insult to fire magicians everywhere."

"Perhaps I am. If I'm an insult to you, clearly I've done something right." Morit's mask only covered his eyes and nose; Anakin could see the wicked smirk he gave just perfectly. "I don't care. Are you going to stand down, or will you pay the price?"

Anakin thought of his children.

He stood down.

Karbin died shortly before midnight, on a table under Cylo's watchful eye. He had allowed no one else to treat him.

Anakin pitied him. The thought of spending your last hours in agony, watched over by someone more curious than compassionate. . . it was awful.

But not as awful as losing Luke and Leia again. So he said nothing.

And when he was sent into the arena again the next day, he fought just as viciously as ever.