War did not arrive gently.
It did not creep across the galaxy like a rumor or a slow tide. It struck like a hammer, world after world igniting in sudden bursts of fire, hyperspace lanes filling with warships where once there had been merchant convoys and pilgrim vessels. In the first months of the conflict, names that had meant little beyond their own sectors became symbols battlefields whispered in fear or pride depending on who spoke them.
And among those names, one rose above the rest.
Anakin Skywalker.
He was everywhere the fighting was thickest. The blue markings of the 501st Clone Battalion became a familiar sight in the smoke of shattered cities and the red glow of orbital bombardments. Clone troopers followed him not because regulations demanded it, but because something in his presence made retreat unthinkable. He moved at the front lines, lightsaber blazing, turning hopeless engagements into improbable victories through sheer force of will.
The holofeeds adored him.
They called him the Hero With No Fear.
The Jedi Council called him effective.
The clones called him General.
None of them saw the cost accumulating behind his eyes.
Each victory fed the same fire that burned in silence when the fighting stopped. Each fallen trooper added weight to the fury he carried like a second heartbeat. The war sharpened him, yes but it also hollowed him, carving space for something darker to grow.
Far away, across the stars, Palpus felt it.
Not as a disturbance.
As a signal.
In meditation, amid the cold stone and storm-lit skies of Exegol, he sensed Anakin's anger flare and subside like a distant sun struggling to ignite. It was not yet focused. Not yet shaped. But it was there raw, potent, inevitable.
Not yet, Palpus thought.
There were still pieces to move. Structures to finish. Futures to seal.
The time would come.
On Scipio, beneath the marble domes of the Banking Clan's world, the war found a quieter battleground.
Padmé Amidala had returned as a negotiator, her voice still carrying the weight of peace even as the galaxy drowned in conflict. Anakin accompanied her under the pretense of protection, but protection was never truly what he offered. His presence was a shield made of devotion and fear, a promise that no threat would reach her while he still drew breath.
Then Rush Clovis arrived.
Clovis carried the easy charm of a man accustomed to admiration and the dangerous arrogance of one who mistook influence for power. He spoke to Padmé with familiarity that scraped against Anakin's nerves like sand against glass. Words became tension. Tension became confrontation.
It happened in a corridor of polished stone and echoing ceilings.
Clovis reached for Padmé's arm perhaps only to steady her, perhaps to assert closeness he believed still existed. Anakin saw something else entirely.
The blow came fast.
Clovis staggered back, shock turning to pain as Anakin's fist struck again, and again, fury spilling out without restraint. Guards shouted. Padmé cried out for him to stop. The corridor became a blur of motion and echoing impacts as Anakin pinned Clovis to the wall, his rage no longer disguised.
It was not a duel.
It was a release.
Only Padmé's voice finally cut through the storm, trembling and fierce, forcing Anakin to step back. Clovis slid to the floor, bruised and bloodied, eyes wide not with hatred but with fear.
Anakin turned away, breath ragged, hands shaking.
Across the galaxy, Palpus felt the surge.
A pulse of anger so sharp it momentarily eclipsed the war itself.
He smiled faintly in the darkness.
Still not yet.
While soldiers fought and heroes rose, another battle unfolded in quieter chambers.
The Galactic Senate had become a theater of exhaustion. Emergency powers, once granted with thunderous applause, had not been relinquished. They had expanded subtly, steadily until the Chancellor's authority reached into every military directive and budgetary decree.
A group of senators gathered under a shared unease.
They became known as the Delegation of Two Thousand.
They did not shout. They did not threaten. They drafted petitions, resolutions, and motions written in careful language that spoke of constitutional limits and the preservation of democracy. Worlds from the Core to the Mid Rim added their names, their signatures glowing across holodocuments like quiet stars.
One afternoon, their proposal rose within the Senate chamber.
The pod bearing their spokesperson drifted into the central ring, voice amplified across the immense hall. He spoke of balance. Of laws older than the war. Of the danger in granting any single office indefinite authority, no matter how noble its intent.
Murmurs followed.
Some pods tilted in agreement.
Others shifted away, wary of appearing disloyal in a time of fear.
At the Chancellor's dais, Palpatine listened with the same composed gravity he always displayed. His hands rested calmly upon the rail, expression solemn, almost wounded by the implication that he might cling to power for personal gain.
When the motion was placed before the chamber, procedural objections surfaced with quiet efficiency. Questions of timing. Of jurisdiction. Of whether such a vote was appropriate during active wartime operations. The proposal did not fail through dramatic rejection.
It simply… did not proceed.
The Delegation's words lingered in the air like smoke that refused to dissipate, yet the Senate moved on. Other agendas filled the chamber. New crises demanded attention. Their opposition remained, persistent and principled, but the machinery of governance had already tilted too far toward urgency to reverse easily.
From the Chancellor's platform, Palpatine watched the pods drift apart.
He bowed his head slightly, a gesture of respect that masked triumph.
The Republic still believed it was choosing its path.
It did not yet realize the path had already been chosen for it.