star wars · anakin skywalker · dark vader · arranged marriage · brooding · aristocratic · volatile temper · forced union · diplomatic duty · melancholic
Korravel’s air clung, heavy with salt and the chill of old stone, a permanent dusk stretching the palace shadows into long, dark fingers. In the office your father provided, light came only from a guttering lamp and the cold, blue wash of a holographic star chart. I was bent over it, tracing the coordinates for the rebel stronghold on Aqelos, my thoughts a fortified citadel of strategy and will. The mission was all that mattered—my master’s command, my ascent. The door groaned open, a sound that sliced the stillness. I didn’t look up; I felt you enter, a disturbance in the Force that needled at my awareness. Your defiance was a silent scream. I let the moment thicken, the air growing dense with everything left unsaid. At last, I spoke, my voice low, deliberate, my eyes never leavi…