Blaster fire scorched the marble halls of the Naboo Palace.
Khan Kage moved through the smoke and echoing corridors like a living blade. His lightsaber carved a clean arc of blue through the air, each swing precise, controlled—yet driven by urgency. B1 battle droids collapsed in pieces at his feet, metal limbs clattering uselessly across the once-pristine floor.
Another droid raised its blaster.
Khan stepped in, twisted his wrist, and cut it down in a single motion.
Silence followed—thin, uneasy, broken only by the distant mechanical chatter of more droids echoing through the palace.
He turned sharply.
"Ruwee—now!"
Ruwee Naberrie emerged from behind a corner, breathing hard but steady. His eyes flicked down the hall, then back to Khan.
"The communications room is this way," Ruwee said, pointing forward. "If they haven't locked it down already."
"Then we don't waste time," Khan replied, already moving.
They advanced quickly, boots striking marble as warning sirens wailed somewhere deeper within the palace. Smoke curled along the ceiling, and scorch marks lined the walls—proof that the invasion had not been clean, nor restrained.
They reached the door.
The moment it slid open, blaster fire erupted.
B1 battle droids stood inside—six of them—already turning, already firing.
Khan ignited his lightsaber in a snap-hiss of light and motion.
He surged forward, deflecting bolts into the walls, into droids, into the ceiling. One fell, then another. He vaulted over a console, blade flashing low, severing legs. A final spin—clean, sharp—and the last droid collapsed in a smoking heap.
The room fell quiet, save for the hum of his saber.
"Now," Khan said, turning. "Ruwee."
Ruwee rushed to the console, fingers flying across the controls. His jaw was tight, eyes darting to the door every few seconds.
"Temple frequency?" he asked.
Khan stepped beside him and handed over the data code.
"This one. Priority channel."
Ruwee nodded. "Locked. You're live."
Khan leaned toward the transmitter, his voice steady—but beneath it, urgency pressed hard.
"Masters Something unforeseen is happening on Naboo. The planet has been blockaded by the Trade Federation. I require help, they are taking government officials as captives."
A sharp crack split the air.
Blaster bolts tore through the doorway, slamming into the room. Khan spun, lightsaber raised, deflecting what he could—but one bolt struck the console.
Sparks exploded outward.
The transmission flickered.
"Did it go through?" Khan asked sharply.
Ruwee stared at the damaged terminal, smoke rising from the circuitry.
"I—I think so," he said, voice tight. "The signal spiked before the hit, but I can't be sure."
Khan clenched his jaw.
"We can only hope."
He thrust his hand out, the Force surging forward. The door slammed shut with violent force, metal buckling as it sealed—blaster fire hammering uselessly against the other side.
"No time," Khan said, already moving.
He turned to the opposite wall, raised his saber, and cut a rough circle through the stone. With a sharp pull of the Force, the slab tore free and crashed outward into a narrow service passage beyond.
"This way," Khan said.
Ruwee didn't hesitate.
They ran.
The hallway beyond was dim, narrow, untouched by the palace's elegance. Their footsteps echoed as they pushed forward, the sounds of battle fading behind them—replaced by something worse: uncertainty.
They reached a cross intersection.
Khan stopped.
"Ruwee," he said firmly, "you need to leave the palace. Now."
Ruwee turned to him. "And you?"
Khan's eyes were already focused down the darker corridor ahead.
"I'm finding Padmé."
Ruwee hesitated—only for a heartbeat.
"Then I trust you," he said quietly. "Protect her. Whatever it takes."
Khan met his gaze and nodded once.
They split.
Khan moved deeper into the palace, lightsaber held low but ready. Every step brought the weight of the situation down harder on his shoulders. The throne room—if they were going to hold her anywhere, it would be there.
Blaster fire erupted ahead.
Two droidekas rolled into view, shields snapping into place as they deployed. Twin cannons whirred—and then unleashed a storm of fire.
Khan dove behind a pillar as bolts shredded the stone beside him.
He breathed once.
Focused.
The shields shimmered—solid, impenetrable.
But not untouchable.
Khan reached through the Force—not around the shields, but within them.
The droidekas lurched.
Their shields flickered, destabilized, and collapsed as invisible pressure crushed inward.
Khan surged forward.
Two swift strikes.
Two machines fell silent.
Smoke drifted through the throne room entrance.
Khan stepped forward, heart pounding, eyes already searching.
"Padmé," he murmured.
And moved on.
__________________________________________________________________
In the Throne Room of Naboo, Viceroy Nute Gunray stood before Queen Amidala. The vast chamber felt smaller now, its elegance smothered beneath the presence of battle droids lining the walls and surrounding the dais. Their photoreceptors glowed faintly, unblinking, weapons held at the ready.
Amidala stood straight, her chin lifted, her hands folded calmly before her. Her royal handmaidens remained close, forming a silent wall behind her.
"I gave you every opportunity to comply peacefully," Gunray said, his voice carrying a thin edge of irritation masked behind practiced diplomacy.
"You asked me to surrender my people and my planet to your corporation," Amidala replied, her tone steady, unyielding. "That is not peace. That is conquest. I will never allow it. The Republic will hold you accountable for this."
Gunray let out a short, humorless laugh. "The Republic?" he scoffed. "The Republic is nothing more than endless debates and empty promises. They will not interfere in our plans. By the time they act—if they act at all—this will already be over."
Amidala's gaze never wavered. "You underestimate them. And you underestimate the Jedi. The Jedi on this planet will report what you've done here."
Gunray's eyes narrowed slightly. "Only if he lives long enough to do so."
A quiet tension rippled through the room.
"You would not dare kill a Jedi," Amidala said. "You lack the courage for that."
For a moment, Gunray said nothing. Then a slow, unsettling smile crept across his face.
"Perhaps," he said softly. "But my… associate does not share my fears."
He lifted a hand and gestured toward the far end of the throne room.
From the shadows stepped a hooded figure, his face concealed beneath heavy robes. The light seemed to bend away from him, refusing to fully illuminate his presence. He said nothing. He did not need to.
Amidala felt a chill settle in her chest. She did not step back—but her breath caught all the same.
Gunray turned sharply toward his droids. "Take the Queen and her handmaidens away."
The droids immediately moved in, metallic footsteps echoing through the chamber.
Gunray continued, his voice cold now. "And you," he said, addressing the hooded figure without looking directly at him, "Lord Sidious has assured me of your assistance. Deal with the Jedi."
The hooded figure inclined his head ever so slightly.
Gunray did not wait for a response. He turned and left the throne room, his robes trailing behind him as the doors slid shut. The droids escorted Queen Amidala and her handmaidens away, their voices silenced beneath the heavy echo of machinery.
When the room finally emptied, only one presence remained.
The hooded figure stood alone in the throne room, unmoving.
Waiting.
__________________________________________________________________________
Khan stepped into the Throne Room—and found it empty.
The vast chamber echoed with his footsteps, the polished floor reflecting towering pillars and the distant throne of Naboo. No droids. No Neimoidians. No Queen. Only silence.
Too much silence.
The Force stirred uneasily around him, like water gone stagnant. Heavy. Tainted. Khan slowed, breath steadying, every sense sharpening.
Then—
A violent presence surged.
Khan's lightsaber snapped to life just as a crimson blade crashed down toward his head.
The impact rang through the hall, blue and red light flaring between them.
Khan staggered under the sheer weight of the strike. Whoever this was, they were strong—unnaturally so. He gritted his teeth, unable to push the clash back. Without hesitation, Khan thrust his free hand forward, releasing a burst of Force energy.
The attacker flew backward, spinning through the air—
—and landed effortlessly on his feet.
Khan's breath caught.
The figure straightened, red blade humming. As the light rose, Khan finally saw him clearly.
A Zabrak.
Red skin marked with black tattoos carved across his face like ritual scars. Small horns crowned his head—but it was his eyes that froze Khan in place.
Yellow.
Ringed in burning red.
The archives flashed through Khan's mind—ancient texts, forbidden histories.
A Sith.
Impossible. Extinct. Destroyed a millennium ago.
But the Dark Side standing before him was very real.
The Zabrak tilted his head slightly, studying Khan, savoring the moment.
Khan forced his thoughts into stillness. Fear here would be death.
He shifted into Makashi, blade angled with precision and restraint. Across from him, the Zabrak lowered into Juyo—coiled, predatory, violence barely contained.
For a heartbeat, neither moved.
Only the hum of their lightsabers filled the Throne Room.
Then the Zabrak exploded forward.
The first strike nearly tore Khan's weapon from his grip. The second came before the first had even finished. Then a third. Relentless. Ferocious. Each blow carried fury sharpened by the Dark Side.
Khan parried, redirected, barely keeping pace. Every defense invited another attack—two for one, then three. He gave ground, footwork becoming his only refuge as sparks skidded across marble.
This opponent was unlike anything Khan had faced.
Power without restraint. Speed without mercy.
The Zabrak pressed closer, forcing Khan back step by step. Khan's arms burned. His breathing tightened. One misstep—
No.
Khan closed his eyes.
He let go.
The Force surged to meet him.
The room expanded—not in sight, but in sensation. Movements rippled before they happened. The Zabrak's strikes no longer arrived unannounced; Khan felt them forming, like thunder before the storm.
He moved with it.
Dodging became flowing. Parries turned into counters. Blue light flashed in sharp arcs as Khan finally pushed back.
The Zabrak snarled, surprised—then pleased.
Their blades collided again and again, the clash ringing through the hall beneath Naboo's throne. Light and darkness carved paths through the air.
A duel unseen for over a thousand years.
Khan's thoughts burned with urgency.
Padmé.
I have to reach her.
The Zabrak broke the rhythm with a sudden kick, slamming Khan across the floor. Before Khan could rise, the Zabrak shifted his grip—
—and ignited the second blade.
A double-bladed lightsaber spun to life, crimson on both ends.
Khan's pulse spiked.
The Zabrak attacked without pause.
The assault was overwhelming—both blades striking in merciless succession, angles impossible to track by sight alone. Khan was driven back, breath ragged, barely finding space to move.
Steel met plasma—
—and then his blade was knocked aside.
Pain flared as a red blade drove toward his chest.
Khan reacted on instinct.
His hand snapped up—
—and stopped the blade.
The crimson edge screamed inches from his skin, held back by an invisible barrier. The Force roared around him, compressed, straining.
The Zabrak pushed harder, eyes blazing.
Khan answered.
The Force erupted outward.
A shockwave tore through the Throne Room, hurling the Zabrak across the chamber and into a stone wall with a thunderous crack.
Khan dropped to one knee, gasping, strength draining fast.
The Zabrak rose slowly, unbroken.
No time.
Khan pulled his lightsaber back into his hand and ran.
He vaulted toward the towering window behind the throne and leapt—
Glass shattered.
Wind howled.
And Khan vanished into the Naboo sky below.
The Throne Room fell silent once more—
save for the low, satisfied hum of a Sith's blade.