Night had fallen over the open desert, bringing with it an oppressive cold that seeped into every crevice. The campfire had long since died, leaving the barren dunes bathed only in the pale light of Tatooine's moons. Next to a jagged rock, Shmi and Anakin lay huddled together beneath their threadbare blanket. The icy wind howled across the sands, but they clung to each other for warmth, their breaths shallow and synchronized. For a moment, it seemed that the night might pass without incident.
A few meters away, the mercenaries were scattered across the camp. The human and Rodian lay inside rugged thermal survival pods, their weapons within arm's reach. The Nikto, ever vigilant, sat upright, clutching his vibroblade. His sharp eyes scanned the horizon, his instincts honed by years of survival in hostile environments. Yet even he felt unsettled. The silence of the night was unnatural—thick, suffocating.
Then it happened.
A deafening crack pierced the air, loud as lightning. The Nikto jerked violently, his chest exploding in a spray of blood as the bullet tore through him. He crumpled to the sand, clutching at the wound with trembling hands. "Tuskens!" he bellowed, his voice a wet rasp.
The shout jolted the camp awake. The human and Rodian leapt from their pods, their blasters already in hand. Years of combat had taught them to sleep lightly, and their movements were swift and practiced. "Minc! Are you hit?", "Where is the enemy" the human shouted, his voice sharp with urgency.
The Nikto writhed on the ground, his breath ragged. "Damn it… west! Low dune, near that busted moisture collector. Saw the flash... 150 meters." His words came out in pained gasps.
The human and Rodian didn't wait. They dove behind the nearest rocks and opened fire, their orange blaster bolts streaking across the night toward the moisture collector. The air crackled with energy as the bolts struck the sand, sending up plumes of dust.
Under their blanket, Shmi clutched Anakin tightly. Her arms encircled him protectively, her body shielding his from the chaos erupting around them. She felt his small frame trembling against hers, and her heart ached with both fear and determination.
"It's going to be okay, Ani," she whispered, her voice soft but strained. "The mercenaries will protect us. Everything will be fine. I promise."
Anakin didn't respond. His wide blue eyes stared at the glowing blaster fire illuminating the camp. The primal cries of the Sand People echoed across the dunes, sending shivers down his spine. He remembered Wald stories about tuskens: "The Tuskens don't just kill. They take. And what they do to their prisoners is worse than death."
"Stay with me, Ani," Shmi urged, cupping his face in her hands. "We'll get through this. Together."
But Anakin's thoughts were consumed by terror. 'If they take us, they'll kill us. Or worse. I can't let them take her. I can't let them take my mom.' Ignoring her pleas, he crawled out from under the blanket, driven by a mix of fear and curiosity.
The Rodian crouched low behind his cover, firing rapid bursts toward the dunes. The human grinned as he rose from his position, squinting toward the moisture collector. "I think I got one!" he shouted triumphantly.
The second shot came from behind. The bullet punched through the human's skull, blood and brain matter spraying against the rock he had used for cover. His body collapsed in a grotesque heap, his blaster clattering uselessly to the ground.
"Damn it!" the Rodian cursed, spinning to face the direction of the shot. The primal war cries of the Tuskens grew louder, closer. From the shadows, dozens of robed figures emerged, their guttural howls reverberating through the camp. They charged with terrifying speed, wielding gaffi sticks adorned with spikes and serrated edges.
Anakin froze, his small body trembling as the chaos unfolded. His heart pounded so loudly he could barely hear the sounds of blasters and screams around him. 'This is it,' he thought, his mind racing. 'We're going to die.'
But then his gaze fell on the Nikto, still writhing on the ground, blood pooling beneath him. The mercenary's vibroblade lay just out of reach, its polished edge glinting in the moonlight. Anakin felt something cold and unnatural stir within him, a force that beckoned him toward the weapon.
"What the fuck are you doing, kid?!" the Nikto rasped, his voice raw with pain as he saw Anakin reach for the blade.
Anakin didn't answer. His small hands closed around the hilt, the weapon's weight almost too much for him to bear. The cold presence within him steadied his grip, guiding his trembling hands.
The first Tusken reached the camp, his gaffi stick raised high. The Rodian managed to fire off a shot, hitting one of the charging warriors, but a second Tusken struck him with a brutal swing. The Rodian crumpled to the sand, his blaster slipping from his grasp.
The third Tusken barreled toward Anakin and Shmi, his spiked weapon poised to strike. As the Tusken swung down, Anakin's world seemed to slow. His movements, clumsy and untrained, were guided by some unseen force. He sidestepped the blow and swung the vibroblade in a wide arc, the weapon slicing cleanly through the Tusken's chest. The warrior let out a guttural cry before collapsing, his lifeblood spilling onto the sand.
Anakin stood frozen, his chest heaving as he stared at the body. The vibroblade felt impossibly heavy in his hands. Blood dripped from its edge, pooling at his feet. 'I killed him,' he thought, his face pale. 'I killed him.'
His hands trembled, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Although he had often imagined killing those who oppressed him and his mother, this was the first time he had actually taken a life. The reality of it was suffocating.
"Anakin! Watch out!" Shmi's desperate scream cut through the chaos, pulling him back to reality.
He turned toward the sound of her voice, but the movement was too slow, his young body unable to react in time. The Tusken's gaffi stick descended, its jagged, weighted end hurtling toward his skull. Anakin froze, his wide, terrified eyes fixed on the weapon. 'This is it,' he thought, dread squeezing his chest. 'This is how it ends.'
The blow never connected.
Instead, the sickening crunch of bone and flesh erupted in front of him. Shmi threw herself between Anakin and the Tusken, her frail form absorbing the full force of the strike. The gaffi stick's spike punched through her skull with a wet, grotesque squelch, the jagged metal emerging from the other side slick with blood and bits of tissue.
Her body hung suspended for a moment, impaled on the weapon, before crumpling to the ground in a lifeless heap. Blood pooled rapidly beneath her, staining the sand a deep, unnatural crimson. Her lifeless eyes stared upward, still filled with the love and desperation that had driven her final, selfless act.
"Mom!" Anakin screamed, his voice raw and guttural, tearing through the chaos like a feral animal's cry. His knees buckled, and he collapsed beside her body. The vibroblade slipped from his small trembling hands. "No! No, no, no! You said we'd stay together! You said you'd never leave me! WHY?!"
The Tusken ripped his gaffi stick free from Shmi's skull with a brutal yank, sending a fresh spray of blood across the sand and Anakin's face. The boy didn't flinch, his gaze locked on his mother's lifeless form, his sobs turning into heaving, gasping wails of anguish.
Grief gave way to rage.
A cold, suffocating energy clawed its way to the surface of Anakin's being, pulling at something raw and primal within him. The air around him grew heavy, charged with a dark and malevolent force. His cries deepened, resonating with unnatural power, each sound vibrating through the camp like a distant explosion.
The Tusken raised his gaffi stick again, but the weapon froze mid-swing. An invisible pressure gripped the warrior, his limbs trembling as though caught in an unrelenting vice. A wet, crunching sound followed as his body twisted violently to the side, his spine snapping like a dry twig. He crumpled to the ground, blood spilling from his mouth, lifeless.
The other Tuskens hesitated, their guttural war cries faltering as an overpowering wave of fear washed over them. One warrior took a step forward, but the ripple of energy emanating from the boy exploded outward. The warrior's skull caved inward with a horrifying crack, blood and brain matter spraying outward like a grotesque flower blooming in the moonlight.
The remaining Tuskens broke ranks, their survival instincts overriding their bloodlust. They turned and fled, their primal howls fading into the night as they vanished into the dunes.
Anakin didn't move. His hands clutched at Shmi's body, her blood warm and slick against his fingers. His tears fell freely, mingling with the crimson stains spreading across the sand.
"Why?" he whispered, his voice trembling and hollow. "Why did you do this? Why did you leave me? You promised..."
The boy's body shook uncontrollably, his sobs growing quieter, replaced by shallow, ragged breaths. Inside, something fragile and vital shattered. The weight of what had just happened, crushed him.
As the energy dissipated, exhaustion swept over him like a tide. Darkness crept into the edges of his vision, swallowing the horrors around him. He collapsed against his mother's bloodied form, unconscious, the sand beneath them soaked in grief and carnage.
Far away, on Coruscant, Grandmaster of the Jedi order, Yoda sat deep in meditation within the Jedi Temple. His eyes snapped open as the ripples of a great disturbance reached him. "Hmm," he murmured, his voice heavy with concern. "A great suffering I feel."
At the same time, night had settled over the quiet, moonlit plains of Naboo, the soft rustling of leaves punctuated by the occasional chirp of nocturnal creatures. In a grand gazebo overlooking the rolling hills, King Veruna sat across from Hego Damask and Senator Palpatine. The intricate carvings of the gazebo's columns glinted in the moonlight, a testament to Naboo's artistry even in moments of crisis.
The king leaned forward, his posture stiff, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair as though the weight of the galaxy rested on his shoulders. "Sir Damask," Veruna began, his tone a mix of urgency and weariness. "The attacks on our caravans grow bolder with each passing week. We're losing valuable shipments, and the people demand action. We need more funding for the N-1 starfighter project. If the project fails other houses will use it against us."
Damask nodded slowly, his expression inscrutable as he steepled his fingers. Before he could respond, Palpatine, seated to his right, subtly shifted in his chair, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. He closed his eyes, as if pondering the discussion, but his true focus lay elsewhere.
Something stirred within the Force—a ripple, distant yet potent. The sensation crawled through his consciousness, cold and sharp, like a blade pressing against his mind. A faint smile touched his lips, the kind that never reached his eyes. The darkness he felt was unmistakable, its raw power electrifying, even from such a great distance. His suspicions, long nurtured, were now confirmed.
He opened his eyes, glancing briefly at his master. Damask, engrossed in the king's plea, appeared oblivious to the disturbance. The smile on Palpatine's face deepened, satisfaction flickering behind his calm demeanor. "The backlash from that ritual," he thought, his gaze lingering on Damask. "It rendered you deaf to the Force, didn't it, my master? And now, this presence... another Sith? Intriguing. But there is only one place for the Sith, and it belongs to me."
He suppressed the urge to close his eyes again, to probe further into the disturbance. It was too faint, too distant for him to pinpoint its location or source, but its existence was undeniable. The presence of such unbridled darkness sparked a mixture of curiosity and territoriality. For now, though, he would bide his time. Revealing his interest prematurely could jeopardize his carefully constructed plans.
Damask's voice pulled him back to the conversation. "I understand your concerns, Your Majesty. Naboo's prosperity hinges on secure trade, and the N-1 project is a worthy investment. However, the funding you require must be justified with—"
Palpatine allowed the conversation to fade into background noise as he gazed out across the moonlit plains.