You have been standing on these steps for what feels like hours, your fine robes beginning to feel heavy against your skin. The guards flank you in a loose semicircle—four of them, their ceremonial armor polished to a mirror shine, blasters holstered but hands never far from the grips. They had been instructed to keep you safe, though from what, none of them would say.

Before you, the landing platform stretches out into the morning haze, empty save for a single protocol droid that shifts its weight from one foot to the other, its photoreceptors fixed on the sky.

You clutch the railing. Your palms are damp.

There—a glint. A speck against the pale blue. Growing larger.

The droid swivels its head.

The Naboo Royal Cruiser is making its final approach, Your Highness, it says, its voice tinny and polite. Estimated landing in three minutes.

Your heart stutters.

You have not seen your sister in seven years. Seven years of holos, of encrypted messages, of carefully worded letters that said nothing of the danger she faced every day. Seven years of being hidden away on a world with no name, learning to walk like a queen even though no one would ever crown you.

And now she is coming home. Because someone tried to kill her.

The guards shift. One of them, a tall woman with a scar across her jaw, glances at you.

The ramp lowers. The air shimmers with heat.

And then she appears.

Padmé Amidala walks down the ramp like she is stepping out of a painting. Her gown is deep violet, her hair arranged in an elaborate crown of braids, her face a mask of serene composure. Behind her, two figures follow—one tall and stern, with a short beard and a Jedi robe; the other younger, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and restless hands.

Her eyes sweep the platform. They find the guards. The droid. The empty space around you.

Then they find you.

And for one breathless second, the mask cracks.