“One for All…”
Aggy

Prologue

It is a dark time for the Rebel Alliance….

For thousands of years, the Jedi were the protectors
of the Republic. Guardians of justice and peace, they
allowed the Republic to flourish to a grandeur few had
thought possible. It was a golden age that was
shattered all too soon. Shattered by the manipulative
evil of Cardinal Palpatine. Slowly, insidiously,
Palpatine took over the great Senate, turning a court
of fair rule into a tyranny.

His forces, headed by Darth Vader, scoured the galaxy
of the Jedi. Hunting them down like animals of prey.
Slaughtering them and any that harbored the noble
warriors. Within a decade, the word Jedi was only
spoken in hushed tones. They became a legend that
many thought would never live again.

But not all gave into Palpatine rule gracefully. A
small group of Senators protested his rule. Fought
against the tyranny that was perpetrated in the name
of “justice.” Their leader, the wise Queen, Mon
Mothma and her Heir, Princess Leia Organa fought the
darkness that was steadily devouring the galaxy.

Their forces, meager but determined, harried the
Empire, striking minor victories but were never able
to gain enough strength to execute a killing blow…It
was thought that all hope was lost. That without the
Jedi, the golden age of the Galaxy would never again
be achieved…

Then, like a prayer answered by the Force, a young
farm boy took up the mantle of the lost religion. His
destiny blazed like fire across the imagination,
fueling dreams that few had dared to hold. But like
all fires, his flame was soon extinguished…

The hopes that the Jedi would rise again to their
former glory were shattered when Darth Vader destroyed
Luke Skywalker. During the great battle both
combatants were killed, but the death of the last of
the Jedi was a crippling blow for the freedom
fighters.

Sure that their forces would soon be destroyed, the
Rebellion took flight in an effort to preserve the
meager resources left to their cause. During this
desperate escape, the Princess Organa was captured and
forced into fostership on Coruscant. A prisoner in
everything but name, the heir endured a role in court
that she despised, puppet for the all-powerful
Cardinal.

It was believed that the death of the last Jedi would
bring an end to the Alliance, that Palpatine’s
“guardianship” of the Princess would halt all attempts
of freeing the Galaxy of his darkness. But the
Cardinal did not anticipate another group to take up
the mantle of protectors of justice.

From the depths of the shattered Alliance came a group
of intensely loyal individuals willing to sacrifice
their lives for the imprisoned Heir. In front of the
great court of Coruscant, they offered themselves to
Princess Organa as her guards, her Rogues.

She accepted their offer most enthusiastically…

Unable to deny her these protectors for fear of
showing the entire galaxy that she was not a willing
guest of the Empire, Palpatine grudgingly accepted the
presence of the Rogues in Coruscant.

But the Rogues became far more than the honor guard
that the Cardinal had anticipated.
Their orange uniforms blazed through the court, a
symbol of Leia’s subtle attempts to free herself from
the Empire’s grasp. The orange became the color of
the glowing ember of hope that was slowly spreading
through the Galaxy. A hope that could quickly turn
into another rebellion against the Empire.

Infuriated by the catalytic effects of her loyal
fighters, Palpatine quickly organized his forces
against the Rogues. He created a guard of his own to
“protect” Princess Organa, headed by Ysanne Isard.
She and her troops, simply called the 181st, harried
the Rogues, quietly but efficiently eliminating them
from Leia’s presence.

Isard’s efforts, combined with the subtle
manipulations of Cardinal Palpatine, forced the Rogues
into hiding. Their ranks slowly became disheartened
by the constant harassment by the Cardinal’s troops
only three of the Rogues remained on Coruscant. Their
presence brought hope to the imprisoned Heir but it
seemed that Palpatine was unstoppable. That it was
impossible to break the Empire and restore the Galaxy
to its proper guardianship.

But what was not anticipated was the arrival of a new
player to this world of political intrigue and
intimidation. A young man foolish enough to believe
in the honor of Heir’s Guard, but wise enough to know
that danger lingered in every shadow. A young man
with the heritage of the Jedi, and the arrogance of a
Rogue.

A man who had never forgotten that for the Rogues, the
impossible is their stock in trade, and success is
what they always deliver…

Chapter 1

A young gallant stood outside of Rogue Squadron
Headquarters, an anxious wanderer filled with dreams
of justice and honor. A few months ago, such a sight
would not stir interest. Dozens of young men would
hover near the doors, hoping that one of their ranks
would be given a chance to join the legendary group of
fighters.

But now, his presence was more oddity than
familiarity. The great hall that had housed the
Rogues had been silenced. The transparasteel windows
boarded up. Its proud walls defaced by graffiti and
filth. Deserted after Cardinal Palatine had all but
disbanded the Rogues, setting the 181st on the loyal
bodyguards like rabid hounds.

One by one, the noble warriors were murdered or driven
off-planet, leaving Princess Organa alone in a sea of
enemies. It was rumored that a few of the Rogues
remained, hidden so well that even Captain Isard's
spies could not find them. But it seemed likely that
this story was wrought to give comfort to the besieged
Heir.

He reluctantly pulled his attention away from Rogue
Headquarters, scanning the crowed that rushed past the
foot of the tattered steps. Few people noted his
presence. The few that did he watched carefully. It
was impossible to be unobserved in a city housing
billions. All he could hope for was that the 181st did
not notice him. He knew it was futile to hope that
the Cardinal's spies were not busy telling their
master of the rough-worn traveler that was so
fascinated with the Rogues abandoned base.

A few did take vague interest in the shabby warrior
who seemed so intent on Rogue Headquarters. He was a
curiosity to the beings of this oppressed world. A
strange mix of contradictions that drew the eye but
did not draw undue attention.

The battered haversack slung over his shoulder marked
him as a humble, weary traveler. The white shirt he
wore was of fine the finest quality, but had been
fashionable years ago. A brown leather vest defined a
set of broad shoulders that tapered down to a narrow
waist. His trousers were of heavy cloth that had been
woven for utility not elegance. His worn, run down at
the heel boots were a visible reminder of kilometers
hard traveled, battles hard won. The blaster riding
his right hip was worn for a cross draw, giving the
man a rakish appearance that was emphasized by long
black hair pulled back with a dark green ribbon that
matched his watchful eyes.

A handsome young man, a poor caviler who had traveled
to Coruscant to find his glory. Just like the
thousands that poured into the city-planet each week.
Unremarkable, forgettable, if not for the weapon he
carried.

The sword he wore proudly, defiantly, marked him as a
gentleman of a quality rarely seen on Coruscant since
Cardinal Palpatine's rise to power.

If he had come of age ten years ago, the weapon on his
belt would have been a lightsaber, not a blade of
metal. But while Darth Vader had been destroying the
last of the Jedi, his abilities had been kept hidden.
Keeping a frightened boy safe so he could grow to
become an honorable man.

Now his Jedi heritage was all but forgotten. The use
of the Force seen more as a weakness than a strength.
After all, the Jedi had been slaughtered because of
those abilities. Why bring such a fate upon himself
when he could use more mundane skills and get the same
results?

Finally at ease with the mad rush of beings that
flowed past the foot of the steps like floodwaters,
the caviler pushed the doors and entered hall of
outlawed heroes.

Chapter 2

A beam of dim sunlight spilled through the open door,
creating a weak puddle of light that seemed to ripple
across the floor as the cavalier entered Rogue
Headquarters. Quickly he moved to one side, staying
near the only source of illumination, but keeping
himself from being silhouetted in the doorway. He
could not afford to expose himself in such a manner.
None of the 181st had been visible when he entered the
structure, but that did not mean that the Cardinal’s
spies and assassins were not guarding the keep.

Squinting into the darkness, the cavalier found the
light sensor, but when he palmed the device to
activate it, he was sorely disappointed. Sliding the
pack from his shoulder, he rummaged through its
contents until he found a glow rod. He thumbed the
power switch, causing a strong beam of bluish light to
wash across the entry hall. The light was powerful,
but the shadows that lingered throughout the huge
space were too thick for the glow rod to obliterate.
Contenting himself with this meager source of light,
he again settled the pack onto his shoulder and began
exploring the ruined sanctuary.

# # #

Rogue Headquarters reminded the gallant of a tomb.
Silent and empty, waiting to be occupied by the ghosts
of lost warriors. His footsteps echoed hollowly
through the deserted corridors, a haunting companion
for the tattered wanderer.

He only searched what rooms that were unlocked, never
forcing open the doors that had been bolted in an
effort to keep Cardinal Palpatine’s men at bay. He
knew that this place had been defiled far too often by
the 181st, he could not add to the insults performed
against this great monument.

His explorations took him through the quarters of
Rogues. The cavalier did not enter these rooms, only
peeking inside to see what damage had been inflicted
against their personal quarters. Their occupants had
efficiently emptied most. But others had the look of
spaces hastily departed. While others seemed to be
the scene of violence. Beds torn apart, clothes
strewn from one corner of the room to the other. The
rooms had been shredded by some malevolent force.
Shuddering at the destruction of the warriors’ private
sanctuary, the wanderer moved deeper into the deserted
keep.

He expected more signs of violence, but none could be
found. Only broken tokens from hasty retreats or
impatient searches. Once, while searching the hanger
that had housed the starfighters the Rogues had flown
before becoming bodyguards, he knelt down next to the
dark stain that marred the ferrocrete. He expected
the worst, but it was nothing more ominous than
hydraulic fluid.

Eventually he made his way to the circular room where
the Rogues had prepped for missions. He expected to
find the space as hollow as all the other rooms he had
visited, but instead, the cavalier found signs of
habitation.

As he entered the room, recessed glow panels slowly
faded to life, casting a soft light over the scavenged
furniture that seemed to sulk inside the space.
Shadows inhabited the corners, drifting over the
remains of the tables and chairs had been destroyed in
the frenzied searches the 181st had performed. One of
the tables had been pieced together from bits of
furniture. Two ragged chairs sat across from each
other.

As the gallant moved towards the broken podium that at
one time dominated the room, he saw more evidence of
habitation. A heating unit sat in the corner, its
coils a fading from dark orange to dull gray, showing
that the device had been used in the past few hours.
On the table, forgotten scraps and dirty plates showed
that someone was truly using this place as shelter.

But who was hiding in the nearly forgotten keep? Some
homeless being looking for somewhere dry to sleep or…

The caviler moved towards the table, hoping to find
some clue of the identity of whoever was hidden inside
the deserted halls.

The sound of metal sliding against leather stopped
him. Forced him to stand statue-still as the shadows
in front of him materialized into a man. Broad
shouldered and walking with a distinctive swagger, the
being stepped towards the cavalier. But the young
warrior had been sure that he heard a sword being
drawn from a scabbard. Which meant…Behind him,
footsteps, signaling that the being stepping towards
him wasn’t alone.

“Kill him.” The being behind him snapped. The being
that the young man was sure was carrying naked steel.

The man dark-haired man chuckled. “Really, Tycho.
You should have better manners.”

The men slowly circled around the gallant. “Tycho”
stepping forward as the broad shouldered one walked
behind the silent warrior. “Why should I act civil to
a thief?”

“Because there is no proof that he is a thief.”

“And there is no proof that he is NOT a thief. And
that is not the point, Wes. He has intruded on our
sanctuary and he should pay for that indiscretion.”

“Let the fool have a chance to speak.”

The blond stood before the cavalier, ice blue eyes
thoughtful. The tip of his sword touched the young
man’s throat. “Tell us who you are and why you’re
here or I will slit your throat.”

The cavalier held Tycho’s gaze for a long moment,
barely registering that “Wes” had moved beside the
blond holding the sword. “My name is Corran Horn.”

“Another Corellian.” Wes rolled his eyes
dramatically, “You would think Corellia was the only
habitable planet in the galaxy.”

“You wouldn’t be complying if he was female,” Tycho
reminded.

“Too true,” Wes replied, eyeing their captive
thoughtfully. “He doesn’t look like one of the
Hounds.”

“Would the Cardinal send a man that LOOKED like a
Hound if he meant to spy on us?”

“No,” Wes conceded, “But he would send the Hounds if
he wished to rout us out of here.” His hand drifted
to the sword at his hip, fingering the grip gently.
“He could be nothing more than a young fool wanting a
souvenir from the lost and yet to be lamented Rogues.”

“Actually,” Corran interrupted. “I came here to
become a Rogue.”

At that comment, Wes laughed while Tycho scowled at
the young man. “Then you’re twice the fool I took you
for. The Cardinal disbanded us months ago and put a
price on our heads. You have to be either stupid or
suicidal to want to join with us now.”

# # #

To Wes, this brash Corellian was neither suicidal nor
stupid. There was a keen edge to the cavalier’s
green eyes that could not feign stupidity. And the
careful way he moved around Tycho, making sure the
Rogue never questions motives, was an obvious sign
that suicide was not what Corran desired.

Slowly, almost acting as if he ignored the presence of
Tycho’s sword, the gallant told the Rogues of his
quest to become one of the Heir’s bodyguards. Corran
himself was an outlaw with a price on his head. But
his crimes were not the distasteful ones Tycho accused
him of. Instead, the young man had been forced to
leave Corellia because of his relentless search for
his father’s murderer. A search that ended when he
had accused the dictat of his homeworld of conspiring
to kill a CorSec officer whose crime was exposing the
corruption that was devouring the government he had
pledged his service to.

Corran had been his father’s partner, a CorSec agent
of impeccable record until Kirtan Loor had tainted it
with charges of murder. Loor marked him as kinslayer,
a man who had murdered his own father.

Knowing that he could not fight such odds, Horn had
escaped Corellia. During his exhaustive travels, the
gallant had watched the Rebellion crumble until the
Rogues were the only visible reminders of the cause so
many had died for.

And the Rogues became his ideal. He had been an agent
of justice while working for CorSec and without that
role, Corran had been completely lost. An aimless
wanderer that would soon sink into a malaise that
there would be no escaping from. To save himself from
this darkness, the young man had focused on the
shining example of the Rogues.

Becoming one of those bodyguards became his obsession.
And as Wes listened to the man’s words, the Rogue
realized there would be no dissuading this warrior
from his task. Either he would become a Rogue or
Corran would die trying.

It was a madness that Wes could understand and
respect. There was something almost feverish about
the man. A strange trait that made Wes feel better
for having worn the orange. For so long, he had
remained hidden, pretending that he had never picked
up a sword until he almost wished that he had never
pledged himself to the beleaguered Princess. Then, by
the mere presence of this electrifying young man, Wes
again felt as if he were a vital part of the shattered
Rebellion.

The Rogue eyed his friend, but the blond seemed immune
to the gallant’s charm. Tycho, it seemed, wanted
nothing to do with this brazen Corellian with more
guts than sense. “Listen, boy. We’re telling you
that the Rogues are dead.” Tycho paused, eyeing his
comrade. “Or are as good as dead.”

“Thank you for targeting me when you said that,” Wes
groused.

“If YOU were not so fond of barroom brawls, it would
be more difficult for the Hounds to find us.”

Wes wisely chose to remain silent.

Tycho finally sheathed his blade, pacing before the
warrior who had stumbled into their sanctuary. “We
are outlaws. Any who side with us will also be an
outlaw. You will be a criminal.”

Corran let out a harsh bark of laughter. “I am
already a criminal. My supposed crimes are far worse
than any the two of you have performed. I am
kinslayer.”

Tycho’s pale eyes narrowed. “Do not trivialize my
past, BOY,” he spat. “I have been to hell and I can
easily arrange for you to stay there permanently.”
The blond Rogue took a shuddering breath. Wes watched
patiently, knowing that no words would ease the pain
that wracked his friend’s soul. When Tycho spoke
again, his voice was smooth as ice. “I do not believe
that you understand the gravity of the situation.”

Turning on his heel, the Rogue stalked towards the
door, gesturing for the cavalier to follow. “There is
something I need to show you.”

Corran glanced at Wes who shrugged helplessly. “After
you,” Corran offered.

Wes chuckled, then gestured for the gallant to follow
Tycho. “I haven’t lived this long without learning
caution.” Then he placed a hand on his chest
dramatically. “And what sort of example would I set
if I did not offer a guest first chance through the
door.”

Tycho led them to a shadowed hall that seemed to have
at one time been an area that housed many of the
Rogue’s celebrations. The floors were dressed in
granite. The remains of furniture that littered the
space were of an opulence that was rarely seen outside
Palpitine’s courts. The walls were paneled in a rich
golden wood that must have been imported onto the
city-planet. All walls, that is, save one.

One wall showcased the greatest artwork Corran had
ever seen. It ran the length of the celebration hall.
The mural was a wonder that he had never expected to
see in the finest of palace rooms, let alone in the
keep housing a band of rough warriors.

The center of the wall was dominated by the red and
blue ensignia of Rogue Squadron; a symbol that had
been kept even after the group gave up its x-wings. A
memory of their past; beneath this reminder, the
Rogue’s motto had been carefully calligraphied in
golden text. “All for One. One for All.”

On the left side of the emblem was the painted
representation of the Squadron’s past. Starting from
Skywalker’s successful flight against the first Death
Star, the various dogfights and battles faded one to
the next until the horrible defeat at Endor.

On the right side of the emblem was a grand court
scene. This side represented the transformation of
starfighter unit to an elite group of bodyguards and
confidants. The artist had shown this change by
painting the court in its full regalia as the
specially chosen Rogues: Wedge Antilles, Wes Janson,
Tycho Celchu, and Derik “Hobbie” Kilvian stood before
the Heir and promised the service of the Rogues to
her. Promising to defend them with ‘till their dying
breath.

Wes Janson. Tycho Celchu…Dear gods, he was in the
presence of two of the men who had pledged the Rogues
to the Princess.

Before Corran could fully consider this thought, Tycho
drew his attention towards the painting. His
reverence toward the painting of the Heir was
disconcerting; He stared up at her as if she were made
of flesh, not paint. “This was painted by a young
Rogue named Gavin.” Tycho pointed to a faint curl of
gold pain that was so deeply hidden in the details of
the work that Corran would have never found the
signature without aid. Tycho let out a tired sigh,
his voice somber as he continued speaking. “Gavin
Darklighter. A more noble man never walked these
halls.”

Corran reached out to touch the mural, wanting to feel
the glossy texture of the marble so realistically
portrayed din oils. His hand hovered a centimeter
from the surface, then withdrew. He was unable to
deface such beauty with even the slightest touch.
“What happened to him?” Corran asked quietly. He
already knew the answer but felt compelled to ask.

“Murdered.” Tycho’s ice blue eyes suddenly warmed
with the fires of rage. “Murdered by the Cardinal’s
Hounds.”

“The 181st.” Corran tipped his head, absorbing the
brilliance of a work painted by a life ended far too
soon. “Why do you call them Hounds?”

Tycho kneeled down; ignoring Corran's question,
tracing the delicate curves of the signature so
beautifully hidden in the decadence of the painted
court. “Poor bastard should never have left
Tatooine.”

Wes answered for the Rogue. “We call them Hounds
because their commanding officer’s a bitch.”

“Isard,” Corran breathed, a shudder coursing down his
spine. He had heard of this deadly woman who, it was
said, fought better than any man. A woman whose
madness knew no bounds. A deadly, eager mind that
devoured all information and twisted it to her and her
master’s use.

A more dangerous woman never lived…

Suddenly, Tycho surged to his feet. “Yes, Isard,” the
Rogue snapped. “She will hunt you down like she
hunted down the rest of us. She will torture you and
then kill you slowly. Do you want that to happen to
you, BOY? DO YOU?”

Corran stared calmly at the enraged warrior. He knew
that this anger was not directed at him. It was meant
for the beings that had killed Tycho’s friends.
Towards the beings who had destroyed something
precious to him.

Corran was just a convenient target for his rage.

“I don’t care about the risks. I’m a dead man
already. The price on my head guarantees that within
the next few months, some bounty hunter will deliver
me to the Dictat. Better do die for her,” the gallant
pointed to the image that Tycho had seemed so
enraptured by. “Than be killed by some gutter scum.”

Quicker than thought, Tycho grasped two great handfuls
of the gallant’s tunic, almost lifting Corran off of
his feet. “Let me make this crystalline clear. The
Rogues are dead and your fascination with them will
end with your death. Get out of here before I do the
Cardinal a favor and kill you myself."

Chapter 3
Aggy

Princess Leia Organa stood on of the many balconies of
the Imperial Palace. Behind her the luxurious
quarters the Cardinal has so “graciously” awarded her
during her stay on Coruscant. But all in the Palace
knew that the Heir was no guest. No matter how fine
the trappings of her suites, the entire planet was a
jail for the exiled Princess.

When she looked upon the urban sprawl of Coruscant at
night, Leia could almost imagine that she was not a
prisoner. That she was living on the city-planet of
her own free will. But during the day…

During the day she could see the horrid squalor to the
world. Even hundreds of stories above Coruscant’s
warrens she could see the darkness of the Cardinal’s
oppression. If she could only break free, run far
from the evil that infected the planet to again take
up her cause. If only the Cardinal had not hunted
down her Rogues. Then, perhaps, she could escape this
cancerous world and bring about the end of Palpitine’s
reign.

But such thoughts were foolishness. The Rogues were
gone, dead or in hiding far away from Coruscant. All
chance of escape, all hope was gone. She should
resign herself to her fate, but her pride would not
let her give into Palpitine’s whims.

A hand on the sleeve of her gown drew Leia’s attention
from the forlorn world spread out before her. “My
Lady.” The voice was husky, deep for a woman but
still musical.

Leia sighed and turned to her handmaid. “Yes, Mirax?”

The woman’s brown eyes darted towards the suite. “My
Lady, the Cardinal wishes to speak with you. Winter
is entertaining him, but I doubt that she can…” Mirax
ran a hand through her short ebony hair, a nervous
gesture she would never let Palpitine see. This one
was strong, Leia mused. Stronger than any of her
other followers, except for her Rogues, of course.
But even such strength occasionally bowed to the whims
of the Cardinal. The thought allowed a chill of dread
to snake its way through the Heir.

Savagely, she quenched that fear, knowing that during
the impending confrontation, she could have no
weakness. If she had, then all would be lost.
Rubbing her forehead, Leia wished for things that the
Force had denied them all. Peace, comfort, freedom.
//Wishes do not come true. If they did, Luke would
still be here. My Rogues would still be safe.//
Shaking off her melancholy; Leia gestured to her
handmaiden. “Show him in.”

No amount of preparation could ready her for the
presence of Cardinal Palpatine. Though her knowledge
of the Force was limited, she still had enough of the
damning gift to be able to sense the evil that
entwined itself in the Cardinal’s soul. It chilled
her heart. Only sheer determination kept it from
tainting her mind. His wizen visage haunted her
nightmares. The same visage that was now studying her
intently. “Good afternoon, Leia.”

They were alone, so both could drop the facade that
she was a guest. There was no reason for him to honor
her. She was his prisoner. Nothing more, and the
possibility of being even less haunted every moment
she spent with the ruler of the Galaxy.

“Good afternoon,” she murmured, schooling her features
into passivity.

“I thought that since it was such a lovely day, you
and your entourage should go shopping.”

Imperceptibly, Leia stiffened. She knew what would be
next. They had discussed this topic many times.
“Shopping, My Lord?”

“Yes, Little One.” The pet name made her ill, but the
Princess kept her face serene. She would not let him
see how much he disturbed her. “I think it is time
that you gave up your white and chose a color more
befitting your station. A new wardrobe perhaps.”

Leia fingered the gauze cuff of her snowy gown. “Sir,
my presence already taxes your resources. I would
loathe to become more of a burden.”

Palpatine smiled and the Heir barely kept herself from
cringing. “The Galaxy is mine, Little One. The cost
of a few gowns will not shatter my coffers.”

Her mind reeled. There had to be a way to dissuade
him. Her choice of white was only partially because of
its significance as an Alderaanian color of mourning.
That was why she had first chosen the color, but as
the Rebellion had progressed, it became her standard.
When a being saw her clad in her whites, there was a
sense of hope, that mayhaps freedom could still be
won. To give up that tiny spark of hope…“My Lord, you
know I wear white as a sign of mourning. It would be
a disservice to all of Alderaan’s sons and daughters
if I should give up the signs of my grief.”

“You have grieved long enough. It is time that you
showed the Galaxy that it is time to forget old wounds
and look towards the future.”

Anger flared bright and hot. “What right do you have
to decide what period of mourning is sufficient to
honor the loss of an entire planet!”

The look in his shadowed eyes was like a blow. She
staggered away, trembling in sudden terror. “I decide
because it is I who annihilated your homeworld. Never
forget that My Lady or you may forget your place.”

Terror warred with rage, causing a curious
tranquillity to wash over her. “If I receive the
chance, I will kill you.”

The hood slipped for a moment, revealing powdery pale
features that seemed far too ancient to belong to any
mortal being. His hoarse chuckle would haunt her
dreams for many nights. “There is power in you,
Little One. The Force is strong, as it was with your
father. Perhaps someday you will take his place at my
side.”

Serenity quickly became revulsion and rage. “I would
die before I become your lapdog!”

“Believe what you wish, Princess. But someday you
will take your rightful place at my side. Either as
Lieutenant or Consort.” Gathering his robes, he
turned away from the beleaguered Heir. “You will go
shopping this afternoon. And if I do not see at least
one gown in a color other than your precious white…”

Leia swallowed hard, knowing he need not finish the
threat. The destruction of Alderaan and her Rogues
was warning enough. Bowing her head, she accepted her
loss. “As you wish, my lord.”

~tbc~