=== Abeloth ===
The warp was never meant to have a horizon, yet Abeloth stood upon one all the same, a vast and impossible expanse of screaming color and fractured reality stretching beneath her feet like a shattered mirror. The ground was not ground at all but coagulated thought and hatred, continents formed from madness, seas boiling with raw emotion, skies layered with writhing storms of unreality. She loomed above it all, no longer merely a presence but a principle made flesh, her form towering and shifting, beautiful and monstrous in equal measure, crowned in living light and shadow as obsession, betrayal, and insanity braided themselves into her being. This was not a birth so much as a claiming, the warp itself screaming in protest as it reshaped around her will.
They had come for her in numbers incomprehensible. Daemons poured across the battlefield in tides, lesser things first, clawing and shrieking, burning away as they reached her aura, then greater horrors following in their wake, brass and rot and excess and change given terrible form. They hurled themselves at her with a fervor that was almost reverent, as if destruction at her hands would grant them absolution. She barely noticed them. Each gesture, each idle flick of her attention, erased thousands, their essences unraveling into nothing as her power passed through them like a gale through ash. Pure and cruel lightning arced from her limbs, strands of annihilation that rewrote whatever they touched.
Above and beyond the lesser things, the true powers pressed in. The Chaos Gods themselves leaned into the struggle, vast and terrible presences clawing at the edges of reality, their domains bleeding into the battlefield as they sought to drag her down, to cage her within the same endless game they had played since time first began. Rage thundered against her from one direction, decay gnawed from another, excess coiled and whispered, change hissed and plotted, all of them united in rare and furious accord. Abeloth laughed, the sound echoing as a distortion that cracked daemonic skulls and sent ripples through the warp itself. They were afraid, and that fear fed her almost as much as their hatred.
Even so, there was another presence that drew her eye, a pressure that did not scream or beg but simply endured. The Emperor of Mankind stood against her like a burning star, golden and relentless, his will a blade of absolute power cutting through the madness. His power was not chaotic, not indulgent; it was focused and disciplined, terrible in its restraint. Where he struck, the warp recoiled. Where his gaze fell, even Abeloth felt resistance, a grinding friction against her ascent. She bared her teeth, something ancient and feral flashing through her expression. He was not like the others. He was the one variable she had not fully accounted for, the one will in this place that could truly contest her.
And then there were his persistent and infuriating little ants. Grey-armored specks darting through the carnage, their souls bound together into a single shrieking spear of psychic defiance. The Grey Knights carved sigils into the warp with every step, their blades blazing with light, their minds locked in perfect, hateful unity. At their head strode Kaldor Draigo, a stubborn knot of refusal, hurling himself at her again and again, his blows amplified by the chorus of his brothers. Psychic force hammered against her like a storm of needles. It was irritating, persistent, and utterly beneath her notice.
"Enough," Abeloth said, and the word was not sound but command.
Her will rolled outward in a titanic wave. The battlefield simply ceased. Daemons vanished mid-scream, unmade so completely that even their echoes were erased. Warp-storms collapsed into stillness before detonating into nothing. The Grey Knights were swallowed by blinding white as their psychic lattice flexed, their defiance like a candle in a hurricane. Though that candle did not go out. Even the Chaos Gods recoiled, their pressure easing for the briefest heartbeat as the warp itself bowed under her declaration.
Yet the Emperor and his daemons remained, their light dimmed but unbroken, his attention fixed squarely upon her. Abeloth felt the strain now, the cost of pressing so hard against so many powers at once. She could win this, she knew it, but not without consequence, not without exposing herself to a blow she could not yet afford. Ascension required more than raw strength. She needed a single moment where the greatest threat looked elsewhere.
She turned her awareness inward, reaching along the threads that bound her to another reality entirely. The connection shimmered there, thin but resilient. Her home universe still brushed against her senses, distant yet intimate, and within it burned a single soul she had guided, nudged, and tormented with exquisite patience.
Anakin Skywalker.
She tasted his fear, his grief, his love twisting into something obsessive and desperate. Even now, as he floated between consciousness and nightmare, he was reaching for her comfort though unconsciousnessly. He wanted someone to tell him why the universe kept taking everything he cared for. Abeloth's smile widened, slow and knowing. He was not yet broken, but the cracks were there, glowing, ready to be pried open.
If the Emperor's gaze could be drawn elsewhere, even for a heartbeat, she could complete her ascent unopposed. What better distraction than a chosen one teetering on the brink, a tragedy unfolding in another galaxy that would demand his attention? She began to weave, her power splitting and coiling with delicate precision even as she held the others at bay. Visions sharpened, whispers aligned, coincidences nudged into place. Pain, love, fear, betrayal, she had domains over all of them now.
"Struggle," she murmured, her voice threading itself through the immaterium and beyond, slipping toward a young man waking in a tank of healing fluid. "Fight it. Fear it. Let it consume you."
Around her, the warp howled anew as the Chaos Gods surged back, as the Emperor pressed forward, sensing something shift. Abeloth did not look away. Her attention was already divided, already executing the next movement of her design. Soon, very soon, all eyes would turn elsewhere, and in that stolen instant, she would finish becoming what even the gods feared.
=== Anakin ===
Anakin's first clear breath outside the bacta tank hurt, thin and sharp in his lungs. The medical droid guided him forward carefully, its spindled arms steadying him as his bare feet touched the cool floor. His body felt heavier than he remembered, not weaker exactly, but altered, as though gravity itself had learned new ways to press against him. When the droid angled a tall mirror into place, Anakin hesitated for half a heartbeat before lifting his eyes to meet his reflection.
The face that looked back at him was still his, unmistakably so, but the explosion had left its mark. Thin, pale scars traced along his cheek and jaw, not grotesque, but permanent, lines that caught the light differently than the rest of his skin. His left arm and leg were worse, bandaged and partially encased in protective synthweave that hummed faintly. He flexed his fingers experimentally, watching the way the glove shifted with him, feeling the tug of damaged flesh beneath. "I look… different," he said quietly, his voice rough, as if he hadn't used it in years.
Palpatine stood just behind him, hands folded before him, his expression a careful blend of concern and reassurance. "You were very close to death, my boy," the Chancellor said gently. "The blast burned you badly, especially on your left side. Much of the flesh was damaged beyond what bacta alone could restore. The glove and supports will protect the injured tissue while it heals. You were fortunate… extraordinarily fortunate, that you did not lose any limbs." His eyes flicked to Anakin's reflection. "Many others were not so lucky."
Anakin nodded slowly, absorbing that, his gaze still fixed on the mirror as if it might suddenly show him something worse if he looked away. Before he could speak again, the door slid open behind them.
"Anakin."
He turned just in time to catch Padmé as she rushed across the room. She collided with him with far more force than the med-droid would have approved of, her arms wrapping around him as she buried her face against his chest. She was shaking, openly sobbing, one hand instinctively cradling her swollen belly as if to shield it from the entire galaxy. "I thought I lost you," she choked. "They told me you were alive, but I didn't, Anakin, I didn't know if—"
"I'm here," he said immediately, wrapping his good arm around her, holding her as tightly as he dared. "Padmé, I'm here. I'm okay. I promise." He pulled back just enough to look at her face, to see that she was real, unhurt, alive. "Are you? Are you and the babies—?"
"We're alive," she said, nodding quickly, tears streaking down her cheeks. She pressed her forehead to his. "I felt something was wrong. I knew it."
Anakin closed his eyes for a moment, breathing her in, grounding himself in the simple, overwhelming truth that she was here. The vision, the fire, the screaming, all of it receded, dulled by the warmth of her presence. When he opened his eyes again, he became aware once more of Palpatine standing nearby, patiently giving them a moment before clearing his throat.
"My dear Padmé," the Chancellor said softly, "it gladdens me beyond words to see you reunited." He inclined his head, a grandfatherly smile touching his lips. "You've both been through an ordeal no one should have to endure. But… there is something important I must show you. Something that concerns both of you, and the future you now share."
Padmé drew back slightly, her expression tightening with unease, while Anakin felt a familiar chill trace its way up his spine. He exchanged a glance with her, fingers lacing with hers instinctively. "What is it?" Anakin asked.
Palpatine's smile remained, calm and reassuring, even as something unreadable flickered behind his eyes. "Come," he said. "It's time you understood the full truth of what is happening around you.
===
Anakin stepped off the transport and into the broken heart of the Jedi Temple, the familiar halls now cordoned off by hastily erected barriers and Republic security personnel who looked far too small and far too shaken to be standing guard over a place that had once felt eternal. The air still smelled wrong, thick with scorched stone, burned metal, and something far worse beneath it, a coppery tang that clung to the back of his throat.. Ahsoka walked beside him, her steps uneven, her injuries still fresh despite the bandages and brace, while Padmé followed close behind with one hand resting protectively on her swollen stomach, her other gripping Anakin's sleeve as if letting go might cause him to vanish again. Palpatine led them onward in silence, his expression solemn, hands folded behind his back as if he were escorting mourners through a graveyard.
"This place…" Ahsoka whispered, her voice breaking as they passed shattered columns and scorched walls. "It feels empty. Like the Force itself doesn't want to be here anymore."
Anakin didn't answer. He couldn't. He remembered laughing younglings running through these corridors, masters debating philosophy beneath high arches, the quiet hum of meditation rooms that had once soothed his restless mind. Now there were deep gouges torn into stone by weapons that had no place in this world, and bodies… so many bodies, covered hastily with cloth or left where they had fallen because there hadn't been enough time, or enough hands, to move them all.
When they entered the great hall, Ahsoka stopped dead.
"Oh… Force," she breathed.
The chamber where the Council had made their last stand was almost unrecognizable. The floor was cracked and cratered, sections of it collapsed inward as if something impossibly heavy had struck again and again without mercy. Dried blood smeared the stone in long, chaotic arcs, and shattered lightsabers lay scattered like broken promises. Anakin's gaze was drawn, against his will, to a familiar shape lying near the center of the hall.
"No…" he said softly, stepping forward.
Ki-Adi-Mundi's body lay twisted at an unnatural angle, his elongated skull caved in so thoroughly it barely resembled the man Anakin had once argued with in council sessions. The sight punched the air from his lungs. A few steps farther lay Pong Krell, or what remained of him, his massive body sprawled across the floor, all four arms torn from their sockets and flung aside like discarded weapons, his head reduced to a ruin of shattered bone and flesh. It was brutality beyond anything Anakin had seen, beyond battle, beyond war.
Ahsoka staggered, her legs giving way as she dropped to her knees beside the bodies. "They didn't deserve this," she sobbed, tears streaming freely down her face. "No one does. Masters, knights… younglings… Anakin, they butchered them."
He knelt beside her and pulled her into his arms, holding her as she shook, his own jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He stroked what remained of her lekku gently, his touch careful, even as his heart burned with something dark and furious. "I know," he murmured. "I know, Snips. I've got you. You're not alone."
Behind them, Padmé turned away, pressing a hand to her mouth as she fought back tears, her breathing shallow as she leaned against a cracked pillar for support. Palpatine watched it all with carefully measured sorrow, letting the silence stretch until it became unbearable before finally speaking.
"This," he said quietly, "is what we face now."
Anakin looked up at him, eyes blazing. "You said the Imperium was dangerous," he snapped. "But this? This isn't war. This is slaughter."
Palpatine inclined his head, his voice heavy with regret. "I know, my boy. And I wish with every fiber of my being that I could have spared you from seeing this. But you needed to understand the scope of what we are dealing with. These enemies do not seek negotiation. They do not seek balance. They seek dominance, and they will destroy everything in their path to achieve it."
Ahsoka lifted her head slightly, her voice raw. "They took everything from us."
"Yes," Palpatine agreed softly. "And they will continue to do so unless we act decisively."
Anakin rose slowly to his feet, helping Ahsoka stand as well, his gaze sweeping across the ruined hall one last time before settling on the Chancellor. "You said there were survivors."
"There are," Palpatine confirmed. "Scattered and in hiding."
Anakin's hands curled into fists at his sides. "If I find them," he said, his voice low and steady, "I'll tell you. Because if they're still alive… then they'll want justice. They'll want to strike back."
Palpatine's lips curved into a faint, approving smile. "I was hoping you would say that."
As they stood amid the wreckage of the Jedi Order, surrounded by the echoes of a past that would never return, Anakin felt something irreversible settle into place within him. Grief was still there, and horror, and loss, but beneath it all, something sharper was taking shape. An obsessive purpose to protect what was his, and to kill anything that got in his way.
===
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