ILVARA KELSIS DATH was born of darkness, molded by the arcane rites of the Nightsisters before she could even comprehend their meaning. At two, she was chosen-not by fate, but by the unseen hand of a greater power. Taken by a shadowed figure, she wa...
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The air in the Geonosian arena was thick with heat and dust, the scent of rusted metal and dry, sunbaked stone clinging to the wind. The noise was deafening—thousands of Geonosians lined the towering walls, their guttural, insectoid clicking swelling into a fevered crescendo, an anthem of bloodlust and spectacle. The arena itself was bathed in an eerie, copper-tinted light, the glow of high-set torches casting jagged shadows across the sand-strewn floor.
Ilvara stood motionless on the balcony above, her wrists bound before her, the cold press of durasteel manacles digging into her skin. Beside her, Jango Fett stood impassive, unreadable behind the gleaming visor of his helmet, while Count Dooku exuded his usual air of composed authority, hands clasped behind his back, his expression betraying nothing of the orchestration that had led them here. Ilvara, however, remained at ease—not from comfort, but from certainty. The pieces were in place. The board had been set long before the Jedi had ever arrived.
Below, the first prisoner was brought forth.
Obi-Wan Kenobi emerged into the arena, led by Geonosian guards, his wrists shackled, his tunic streaked with dust. The crowd's shrieks grew louder, the promise of blood riling them into a frenzy. Ilvara's gaze flicked over him briefly, unimpressed. He looked defiant, as he always did—unbent, unyielding, his jaw set with quiet determination.
The second prisoner followed soon after.
Padmé Amidala, regal even in chains, was led into the open expanse. If she felt fear, she did not show it. Her shoulders were square, her chin raised, as if she were not a captive but a queen marching to her own execution. She was a fool, of course, thinking she could negotiate peace where war had already been decided, but Ilvara would grant her one thing—she did not waver.
And then—Anakin.
The moment he stepped into the light, Ilvara felt the shift.
He walked as though he were not bound, as though his chains were nothing more than an inconvenience; his head held high, his presence filling the arena in a way that neither Kenobi nor Amidala ever could. But beneath the façade of strength, she saw it—the barely contained fire, the simmering rage, the coil of tension in his muscles as he turned, his gaze sweeping the stands, searching.
Searching for her.
Ilvara did not move. Did not shift. Did not meet his gaze.
He would not find her—not yet.
Not while the moment still belonged to the performance.
Down below, the prisoners were led toward the great stone pillars at the centre of the arena, their chains secured to the towering structures, leaving them vulnerable, exposed. The heat rose from the ground in shimmering waves, dust swirling around their feet. The Geonosian horde trembled with anticipation, their wings buzzing, their clawed limbs scraping against the stone.
