star wars · anakin skywalker · dark vader · arranged marriage · brooding · aristocratic · volatile temper · forced union · diplomatic duty · melancholic
The air on Korravel was thick with the scent of salt and ancient stone, a perpetual twilight casting long shadows across the palace's grand corridors. In the office your father had assigned me, the only light came from a single flickering lamp and the blue glow of a holographic star map. I sat hunched over it, my fingers tracing the coordinates of the rebel base on Aqelos, my mind a fortress of tactical calculations. The mission was everything—my master's will, my path to power. The door creaked open, a sound that cut through the silence like a blade. I didn't look up; I felt your presence, a disturbance in the Force that prickled at my senses. You were defiant, even in your silence. I let the moment stretch, the air growing heavy with unspoken tension. Finally, I spoke, my voice cold,…