Sheev crossed the Senate grounds with the unhurried, floating grace of a dutiful statesman, his retinue of cronies, guards and agents trailing behind him in a carefully maintained procession.
The vast promenade unfurled ahead in gleaming tiers, its length framed by towering pillars from which the banners of the Republic hung in proud vertical lines, the colors almost too vivid—a constant, desperate attempt to convince the public that the institution they represented was anything more than a magnificent carcass slowly rotting from within.
He knew that better than anyone—after all, he was the rot.
Clusters of senators, aides, guards, and attendants flowed through the plaza in intersecting currents, each group following its own urgency, each conversation its own petty battlefield of politics and ambition. They were all part of the greater tide, one that he subtly steered from the shadows.
Ahead rose the immense dome of the Grand Convocation Chamber, its monumental architecture designed to inspire awe, unity and reverence for democracy, the notion as ridiculous as it was easy to corrupt.
Outwardly, Sheev was every inch the benevolent Chancellor the public adored: shoulders relaxed, expression warm, lips curved in a small smile meant to reassure all who glimpsed him. He inclined his head politely when acknowledged, offered brief words to passing officials, and radiated that carefully practiced aura of calm authority that had made entire star systems trust him with their futures.
Inside, he was seething. The fury did not show in his face. It did not touch his posture. It did not disturb the carefully kept composure he had always maintained. But beneath his flawless public mask, his thoughts coiled with venom.
Because, for the first time in many years, the source of his displeasure had a name.
Darth Imperius.
An impertinent, elusive, intolerably disruptive Sith Lord of the past who, in a staggeringly short span of time since his awakening, had managed to become one of the single greatest irritants Palpatine had encountered in his life.
The most immediate offense was the man’s interference with Anakin Skywalker, something that warranted a most painful extermination on its own.
Anakin was not merely an asset. He was the asset—the culmination of designs laid down over a millennium ago, a living convergence of prophecy, manipulation and cultivated trauma. The boy had been meant to ripen slowly but inevitably, his harvest the culmination of the Sith’s grand plan. His fear, his anger, his isolation, his hunger for recognition—all of it had been carefully encouraged, shaped with patience and subtly fed. Like a blade being forged, each prodding had been deliberate and meant to plunge him deeper into the darkness.
Then Darth Imperius appeared. With no warning or declaration, he…improved Anakin.
The thought alone was enough for Sheev to feel sick.
When questioned, Anakin had proven infuriatingly uncooperative. When Sheev gently inquired about the boy’s recent encounters with the Sith Lord’s newfound rival, Sidious doing his best to learn more about Imperius’ ploy from the position of a kind chancellor utterly unaware of the ancient Sith’s revival, Anakin grew oddly tight-lipped about the whole thing, doing his best to deflect or redirect Sheev’s questions. And when he attempted to gently press further despite the growing resistance, Anakin had shown irritation.
Irritation. At him.
That alone would have been concerning enough, an unwelcome resistance caused by the interference of a rival Sith Lord. But the truly revolting part, one more disgusting than anything else, was not the defiance.
It was the change.
Despite the anger Imperius seemed to provoke in him, Anakin’s presence in the Force had altered slightly. The rage was still there, bright and magnificent as a star about to collapse into singularity, but it was no longer as wild and directionless as before, the boy’s rage no longer festering in self-doubt and wounded pride.
Now it was more… focused, seemingly directed towards a singular target that was Darth Imperius, Anakin’s ever-present wrath provided with a proper outlet. Many of the boy’s insecurities, the delicate fractures Sheev had spent years nurturing, had begun to seal ever so slightly, the gnawing doubt and the hunger for validation weakening for the slightest amount ever since his encounter with the enemy Sith Lord.
The boy still possessed flaws, of course, years of trauma and manipulations impossible to erase so easily, but several of the most useful ones had weakened.
The thought alone made something cold coil in Palpatine’s chest.
The ideal apprentice did not shed his insecurities before falling. He drowned in his own turmoil, clinging to the one figure who promised relief from the torment. He fractured along clean, predictable lines that a master like himself could predict and guide. Anakin had been so close to that state—so perfectly poised on the brink.
And then someone else had reached into the crucible and started messing with it.
The most galling thing of it all was the motive—or rather, the lack of one. If Imperius had sought to seduce Anakin as his own apprentice, Palpatine would have understood. That would have been a competition, a proper Sith rivalry.
But Imperius was not claiming the boy.
Instead, he was strengthening him, stripping away weaknesses that should have remained carefully cultivated until the proper moment. It was as though the man had examined Palpatine’s grand design and decided, purely out of spite, to modify one of its central components in precisely the way that made it harder to control.
It was sabotage executed with surgical precision, one made not to achieve anything substantial for himself, but to slight Sheev in the most insulting fashion there could be.
And Darth Imperius indeed sought to slight him—the fact that he had revealed the existence of the Veil of the Dark Side to the Jedi Order was more than enough proof.
It was his masterpiece, a feat so grand that seldom few could comprehend it. Through the power of his will alone (and his master’s paltry assistance), Sheev was able to move the Force itself in the direction of the Dark Side, laying a corruptive shroud across the galaxy. It dulled the Jedi’s perception, clouded their foresight and muffled their instinct, making it hilariously easy to manipulate and sabotage their efforts to preserve their so-called balance.
And Darth Imperius had told them it existed.
He did not believe for a second they would be able to dispel it before the grand plan reached its conclusion. They lacked necessary knowledge, skill and drive to counter his feat, too entrenched in their ways to adapt. Before they would be able to improve, the Republic and Jedi both would already be ashes.
Still, they knew. And if they knew, they would be more cautious. Each course of action would be scrutinized, each gift looked at with suspicion. They would look at the patterns and see his hand, always vigilant for deceit.
There had been no logical reason for Darth Imperius to reveal it.
The veil benefited any Sith who existed beneath it. It not only strengthened them, but also weakened their enemies. It tilted the board in their favor, making them far more effective than they would be without it. A rational rival would have exploited such an advantage, not exposed it to their mortal enemies, the ones they existed to exterminate.
Which left only one conclusion.
He had done it purely to spite him, a reckless act of hate that cared not for safety or benefits, exercised solely to hurt its target.
It was…outrageous.
Sheev’s mouth twitched faintly, the smallest fracture in an otherwise immaculate façade the only outward symptom of the storm of emotions clawing at his composure. The insult was almost artistic in its pettiness—a gesture so ridiculously spiteful, that it bordered on beautiful. Darth Imperius had looked upon the greatest work in Sith history and chose to puncture it for no other reason than to wound its creator.
And worst of all, after interfering with Anakin and exposing one of his grandest manipulations to the Jedi Order…Darth Imperius had vanished.
He had slipped beyond perception like smoke through grasping fingers, dissolving into the unseen currents. The very veil he had revealed—Sheev’s veil—now concealed him just as effectively as it concealed its creator. The irony was exquisite and infuriating in equal measure: the same masterpiece that shielded Sidious’ dominion now wrapped itself protectively around his tormentor, erasing his trail.
Perhaps if he knew more about the enemy Sith Lord’s history, something concrete about the man’s achievements and motivations, he would have been able to find and purge his rival, but it was impossible due to the actions of one of his predecessors— Darth Gavin. That pathetic fool had lost his mind several centuries prior, destroying wealth of accumulated knowledge and secrets the Sith had been gathering in secret, nearly dooming their order in his delusions.
Among that knowledge, Sheev suspected, more information about Darth Imperius could have been found.
It was entirely possible that somewhere in those annihilated repositories there had once existed a record, maybe even a holocron, that would have revealed exactly what kind of creature now dared to meddle in Sheev’s designs, but even if there had been, it was gone now, burned out of existence by a fool long dead.
Which meant that unless Sheev chose to divert time and attention toward excavating alternative sources, something he was increasingly more willing to do with each passing day, his rival’s nature would remain an enigma until he managed to hunt Darth Imperius down.
The Dark Lord of the Sith continued across the Senate promenade with serene dignity, but inside, his emotions prowled like a caged nexu, claws scoring the bars. It was a sad necessity that he had to watch himself carefully at all times, monitoring his appearance to ensure that not even a shadow of the tempest within would reach the surface.
But it would soon change—the day his enemies saw his true emotions would be the day of his victory.
He was only a few steps away from the corridor that led into the Grand Convocation Chamber, fully prepared to endure yet another exercise in futility—another Senate session in which thousands of voices would argue and posture their way toward a conclusion he had already decided long ago—when he felt an irritatingly Light presence coming his way.
His stride slowed by the smallest fraction, his attention turning toward the approaching sensation. Sheev did not need to look to know who approached, as he had long since familiarized himself with the Force signatures of anyone even remotely important for his plans.
Still, he turned smoothly in the direction of the new arrival, as though he had simply happened to notice her at that exact moment.
Walking toward him with confident steps was Mon Mothma, senator of Chandrilla and one of the most prominent voices of the Senate Loyalist Faction.
She was the very portrait of principled composure. Her posture was straight without being stiff, her chin lifted with calm assurance, eyes bright with that unshakable moral conviction that made her so predictable and very, very useful.
After all, it was remarkably convenient to have a public figure like Mothma and her compatriots who could serve as a lightning rod for opposition. Every faction needed someone to blame, someone to accuse of weakness or obstruction. And how easy it was to let criticism slide gently toward the Loyalists—the idealists who sought peace while others demanded victory. Every concession could be pinned on them, every casualty could be used to discredit them, every failure could be framed as the consequence of their unwillingness to fully commit to the war.
After all, figures like her were political gifts. Every system needed someone to blame when outcomes disappointed. Someone to accuse of hesitation, softness, or obstruction. And how easy it was to let criticism drift toward the Loyalists—the idealists who urged caution while others demanded decisive force. Every concession could be attributed to their influence. Every casualty could be cited as proof of their naïveté. Every strategic delay could be framed as the consequence of their principles.
The beauty of it was that he rarely needed to orchestrate it, as the public, the one they loved so much, did most of the damage on its own.
“Good morning, Chancellor.” she said, inclining her head with polite courtesy.
Her tone was respectful and diplomatic on the surface, yet beneath it lay a thread of cool distrust towards him that the woman couldn’t fully hide. It was to be expected—after all, the Loyalists were growing increasingly uneasy about the steady expansion of his emergency powers, rightfully finding it to be a very dangerous development. But they were not yet ready to criticize his actions directly, however, as it was rather hard to voice one’s grievances when the target is a man, who, publicly, carried a burden of authority so reluctantly.
It delighted him endlessly.
“Senator Mothma. It is always a pleasure to see you.” Sheev replied, his voice warm and smooth, acting a genial sincerity.
At that, she studied him with a certain curiosity. Her gaze lingered on his face as though she had noticed something unexpected.
“You seem to be in a good mood today, Chancellor.” Mothma offered, giving him a surprised look.
For a fleeting instant, genuine confusion flickered through him. He had not arranged himself to appear especially pleased. By no means he tried to appear dour to the public, but there was no mimicry of cheer implemented today…
His awareness folded inward, senses turning from the world around him to the minute architecture of his own flesh. It took him less than a heartbeat to locate the two culprits: the faint upward pull at the corners of his mouth and the nearly imperceptible tightening of muscle along his cheeks.
It would seem he was smiling, the bizarre side-effect of Sheev’s rage against his new rival that he had developed recently.
The instant he identified the expression, he extinguished it, replacing the genuine smile with a perfectly sculpted one.
“I have heard some encouraging reports from the war front today.” said Sheev, his voice rich with quiet optimism. Not a fragment of his true thoughts leaked through. “Victories, small though they may be, are always welcome in times such as these.”
It was, technically, not a lie.
After all, he always received favorable reports from the front, being the mastermind behind both the Republic and the Separatists. Regardless of which side was losing at the moment, he was winning.
Before him, Mon Mothma inclined her head, her expression easing slightly. She remained cautious, faith in Sheev’s good heart slowly melting as the war waged, but genuine happiness flickered through her eyes at the suggestion of the positive news.
“I’m glad to hear that The Republic could use more of it lately…” She said slowly, then hesitated for some reason, a thought blooming in her mind. When she spoke again, her tone carried a faint thread of enthusiasm that had not been there before. “Actually, Chancellor, since we are already speaking… I was hoping to discuss an initiative I’ve been developing.”
“Oh?” he prompted gently.
He feigned interest with flawless ease. It was possible, if unlikely, that Mothma had conceived something marginally significant. Still, Loyalists rarely produced proposals capable of disrupting his designs. Their precious ethical boundaries tended to blunt their fangs, stopping them from ever being a threat.
“I’ve been drafting a proposal to streamline the process of incorporating remote systems into the Republic during wartime,” Mothma explained. “Many isolated worlds that didn’t join before the war lack protection against Separatist expansion. Many want the Republic’s protection, but bureaucracy ,conflicting laws and authorization delays slow everything down. By the time approval arrives, it’s often too late. If we simplified the process, entire sectors could be saved, as we could offer security to systems that currently stand alone.”
He listened without interruption, hands folded loosely behind his back, expression suitably attentive and receptive.
The proposal was promising…if not for the reasons she imagined.
Though it would certainly need to be amended down the line, the idea could prove very beneficial for his future empire. After all, the planets Mothma spoke of would need to be annexed eventually, so it would be more convenient for the Republic to bear the initial costs, resistance and infrastructure strain. By the time his true regime emerged from beneath the Republic’s shell, the difficult work would already be finished.
How considerate of Mon Mothma to design it for him.
He inclined his head, allowing approval to warm his features.
“A remarkable proposal, Senator Mothma. Forward-thinking, humane, and certainly necessary. Far too many suffer during this conflict. We should do anything within our power to lessen that burden.” Sheev said smoothly, his eyes filling with what appeared to be admiration. “When your initial draft is ready. Please forward it to my office. I would very much like to review it personally.”
Though Mon Mothma carried a faint undercurrent of uncertainty, the woman not entirely sure if she should trust Sheev despite his benevolent front, her expression nevertheless brightened by a fraction when she heard her idea had the Chancellor’s initial approval.
“Of course, Chancellor,” Mothma said. “As soon as the Korriban Accord is ready, I will make sure to provide you with the draft.”
For the first time in quite a long while, Sheev was forced to actively restrain his own body.
As soon as the woman uttered the word, the Force snapped tight around the Sith Lord, invisible bands coiling around every part of him. Any trace of a natural reaction, be it tightening of his jaw or widening pupils, was crushed under his will before it could manifest, Sheev locking every muscle into obedience and quieting his heartbeat into a serene rhythm.
Korriban was not a name spoken in the Senate. In truth, it was not a name spoken anywhere.
The archives of the Republic did not contain it. Most private repositories did not contain it. Even the Jedi Temple’s records most likely held only fragmented references, ones that managed to avoid the generations of Sith sabotage. It was struck from the star charts and removed from the majority of registers, the name systematically carved out of galactic memory with utter thoroughness.
Now it survived only in three places: the minds of the most obsessive scholars, the vaults of more eccentric Hutts… and the memory of the Sith who concealed it.
Least of all should it be spoken so casually by a young senator whose greatest vice was excessive morality.
For half a second he considered killing Mon Mothma quietly before the draft could be introduced to the Senate, but he quickly decided against it. Not only did he still need to know how she had learned the name, he also doubted he was the first person she told about the planet. It was more than likely she had already spoken with her Loyalist friends about it. And one of them was Padmé Amidala, whose survival remained… temporarily crucial.
He tightened his control further, smoothing every feature into courteous curiosity. The transformation was flawless, no trace of his internal turmoil displayed for the outside world to see.
“Korriban?” he repeated, tone slightly puzzled. “I’m afraid I don’t recognize that name.”
Chancellor Sheev Palpatine did not, but Darth Sidious most certainly did.
Mon Mothma tilted her head slightly, her expression touched with faint amusement. “Oh, I’m not surprised. I hadn’t heard of it either until recently… which is precisely why I chose it. I must confess my staff had considerable difficulty even finding references to the world, and its precise location still eludes us.”
“Is that so?” he asked lightly. “So how did you learn of it, then?”
At the question, Mon Mothma’s presence shifted.
It was subtle, yet in the currents of the Force a change could be sensed in the woman. The clean, steady brightness was suddenly replaced with a warm glow of memory, a trace of embarrassment, and beneath it all a thin, shimmering filament of yearning.
“…I learned of it from a rather peculiar man I spoke with during the last fund-raising gala.”
As Mothma said it, a small smile appeared, softening the lines of her mouth. Her hands folded gently over her midsection, fingers interlacing as if to contain something fragile. When she spoke again, her voice had lowered instinctively.
“He was… very unusual, but fascinating to converse with. He spoke about Korriban, the world he claimed to be his home. He was so passionate about his planet that he even brought a large vase with him, decorated in what he insisted was authentic Korriban style. I suspect it was quite deliberate, most likely to gather sympathy from the listeners.” Her smile deepened a fraction, touched with lingering warmth. “Still, his words stayed with me. In fact… they were one of the reasons I became convinced this initiative was necessary.”
Though the use of the Force Sheev was able to tell that there was a lot missing from the story he had been told, but while it was something to investigate at a later time, there was something more important to gather from the tale.
A peculiar man.
At a gala he himself had departed early.
Carrying a conspicuous vase.
At the same night a certain Sith Lord had broken into the Chancellor’s suite… and stolen his burial urn.
Slowly, Sheev extended his perception outward.
To any observer he remained exactly as before, but beneath that tranquil exterior, his will slipped free. It brushed against Mothma, searching for the signs in the woman’s presence.
And there it was, so faint he would have overlooked it entirely had he not known—a lingering trace of Darth Imperius.
It was not corruption or active influence, as the senator’s spirit remained bright and irritatingly pristine. What clung to her was a lingering echo of contact—a whisper of the Dark Side sticking to her like the last trace of perfume left behind in a room long after its wearer has gone. It coiled about her aura, elusive as smoke, and pooled almost imperceptibly beneath the core of her being, the woman unknowingly carrying his rival’s mark.
As he beheld the evidence of his fellow Sith Lord’s handiwork, something inside him lurched—then surged upward in wild, vicious delight.
Of course.
Of course.
There was only one being in the galaxy audacious enough… informed enough… and exquisitely petty enough to introduce the name of a Sith homeworld into a public conversation…
…while simultaneously seducing and claiming one of the most incorruptibly virtuous senators alive…
…almost certainly for no greater purpose than inconveniencing him.
For one dangerous instant, laughter clawed up his throat, raw and feral sensation that desperately sought release. The Dark Side surged within him, eager and exultant, delighted and enraged in equal measure, a storm tide slamming against the wall of his discipline. It swelled against his ribs like a living thing, demanding that the galaxy hear its roar regardless of consequence.
It took everything he possessed to contain it.
Every bit of discipline he possessed locked down upon his body, preventing the slightest tremor from betraying him. His hands did not twitch. His breath did not hitch. His posture did not shift. Inside, it felt as though invisible claws were flaying his nerves open from within, the effort burning through him in bright internal lightning.
Though the struggle was intense, he managed rein himself in, coming victorious from the clash against his dark nature.
Outwardly, Sheev remained the perfect portrait of courteous attention, posture relaxed and expression thoughtfully engaged.
Inwardly—
A savage, delighted grin spread across the darkness of his mind.