Fate/Knights of the Heroic Throne

13thsephiroth · Aug 28, 2025

Fate/Knights of the
Heroic Throne

Disclaimer: This story is set in an alternate universe that diverges from established Star Wars lore. I'm not confident enough to follow Star Wars lore one-to-one, but I'll do my best to respect both Legends and canon where possible. Some timelines and characters' ages have been adjusted to either fit a narrative or just for the sake of it. Shirou Emiya (former Counter Guardian EMIYA) and Arturia Pendragon (former Saber Alter) won't be curbstomping Jedi and Sith—they're both powerful, respectively—but both Jedi and Sith could also reach heights that could rival legends.

Chapter Intro
Human order: Restored.
History: Preserved.
But what of the ones who made it possible?
Heroic Spirits—echoes of legends, bound to vessels, fated to fade without remembrance.
But a wish was made.
One last miracle from humanity's saviour—
that her fallen companions might live once more.

Story Starts
-=&<o>&=-
Prologue Chapter 0 -
The Sword and the
Once Tyrant's Arrival

Live your lives well—my brave, beloved companions.

Galactic Year: 34 BBY

Beep! Beep! Beep! …Thud!

Shirou Emiya—former counter guardian and all-around janitor for the will of humanity—groaned at the sound of the chronometer, after being summarily kicked out of the sleeper.

With his forehead mashed against the cold floor, Shirou let out a pained groan, the chronometer's beeping gnawing at his resolve.

Something soft struck his back—Arturia's sleepy voice followed. "Shirou!"
Shirou jerked upright with a groan, pawing at the chronometer in the near-total dark.

It took Shirou a moment to adjust—02:27 on the chrono, and he almost forgot Naboo ran on a straight twenty-six-hour day. Meaning it was early morning, about four hours before first light—and he wasn't about to lose another chronometer to Arturia's temper as he clicked the alarm off.

With a sigh, Shirou retrieved the pillow from the floor and tossed it at the lump under the covers—shorts and pale legs poking out beneath the blanket, the scent of booze lingering around the groaning mess.

The only reply was half-hearted groans and unintelligible mumblings, followed by snoring.

Shirou chuckled as he left a glass of water and some pain meds on the nightstand before he went down to begin his morning routine.

-=&<o>&=-

Bathed in moonlight and the scent of damp leaves, Shirou sat on a wooden bench, the cool morning breeze brushing past. He sat down with his cup of Caf—laying it on the space beside him and tore off a corner of the warm flatbread coated with a thin brushing of bantha butter already melting.

He sat at the edge of the Palace Plaza, still not entirely used to the buildings around him. The architecture was strange—structures topped by domes that resembled something out of the Middle East, with sharp lines and columns that felt almost Greek or Roman, yet had an odd, faint resemblance to ancient Egyptian architecture, but modernised.

But it wasn't just the city that stood out. The surrounding forest pressed close to the capital, green and dense. It reminded him of the thick tropical jungles he'd fought back in the seventh Lostbelt—and yet, there was something more extraordinary, more structured in how the trees layered themselves. It felt almost like a European forest at the same time.

Most likely… it was her wish that landed them here—one last miracle before the curtain fell. He'd expected to be dragged back into Alaya's shadow until the altered version of Arturia quietly sat down beside him.

For once, the ever-stoic king had confessed fear—of what might come next. After all, her very existence was an anomaly, born of a corrupted Grail system.

Coupled with the phenomenon of the singularities, she had been given a legend, history, and significance. What once was just an Arturia Pendragon, who was just a corrupted version of herself—by a vessel containing all of humanity's sins—is now given a legend. The Tyrant-King, with her Excalibur, warped by Vivian's counterpart, Morgan.

And yet, Excalibur remained a divine construct—despite its form. It wasn't corrupted. If anything, it had been unleashed.

Though branded a tyrant, the truth was more complicated. Both versions of Arturia held the same ideals: a 'perfect king' who placed the prosperity of her kingdom above all else.

One remained chaste, out of duty rather than virtue—a king who placed responsibility above desire, suppressing personal connections for the sake of the throne and her subjects. Yet in doing so, she forefeited something essential and was no longer seen as human by those she served.

The other embraced a tyrant's crown—believing a true king must be willing to become a symbol of fear if it meant shielding her people, even if it meant being hated.

In the end, from Shirou's perspective, both are almost essentially the same: kingdom first, self last. Disconnected. Elevated. A king apart from those they ruled.

Throughout their time in Chaldea, she had mellowed somewhat—no longer rejecting anything that wasn't deep-fried, processed, or sugar-laced.

He chuckled at the memory. Arturia, king of stoicism, had looked personally betrayed when dinner came skewered and smoking, not wrapped in flimsiplast wrap.

Thankfully, Shirou still had access to his tracing. He could at least spear a fish—though he consistently felt some resistance whenever he did. After further analysis revealed nothing wrong with the traced weapons, he chose to ignore it for now.

He hadn't experimented much, but at the very least, he could still trace his ever-trusted married blades. Meanwhile, Arturia could still feel Excalibur's presence—but couldn't seem to grasp or draw it.

The strangest part was the bond. It resembled a Master-Servant connection, except that it was mutual and balanced. This, too, has not been explored yet, as they are still adjusting to their new life.

And with that final thought, Shirou checked his chrono device on his wrist and wiped his somewhat greasy hands on a cloth wipe. He then downed the now-cooled caf, holding the greasy handle with the cloth wipe, before returning to their home, ready to start the day.

-=&<o>&=-

Shirou leaned casually against the frame of their blue-and-yellow SoroSuub AV-21 Landspeeder, one arm propped on the side, his head resting on his knuckles, the other hand on the steering yoke. The wind whistled past, brushing his white hair back, while yellow-tinted goggles shielded his eyes.

Luckily, when they'd awakened in this strange new world—much like the grail system—they'd been granted the knowledge and skills needed to survive in this peculiar galaxy. Most likely the result of that wish.

So, from speaking to the locals to operating these hover vehicles was natural to both Arturia and Shirou. Conveniently, they'd also found identification, two chrono devices, two comlinks, and a credit chip loaded with one hundred thousand credits—though they only discovered the latter later.

Shirou coasted past the silent stalls of the river market, the early hour keeping the city hushed. Instead of stopping, he turned toward the docks—just in time to see a repulsorlift vessel ease into the berth beside him, punctual as ever.

"Oi! Yer early as always, good morning." A gruff, grey-haired, sun-weathered man from the deck of the vessel. The two of them then exchanged three flat, lightweight metal boxes—each about forty-five centimetres square and five and five centimetres thick.

"Much appreciated, lad. But are you sure you want to do this every time?" The family patriarch, Garron Vellasis, asked, eyeing the boxes. "It's more than enough for a couple of days."

"You don't need to worry too much," Shirou assured him with a smile. "You and your family helped Arturia and me a great deal. This is just repayment—plus the dough's already at peak fermentation—any later and it goes to the refuse bin."

Of course, Shirou didn't say that he'd always prepare three extra doughs, three days prior to doing an ingredient run.

For the first few days, they stuck to the river's edge, following its current with the quiet hope that they would soon find a city or a town.

Their identification listed their birthplace as Naboo—a temperate Mid Rim planet, apparently known for its river, lakes, and greenery. Judging by the surrounding vegetation and the fish he'd caught for their meals, it seemed they probably were on their supposed planet of origin.

Most vessels drifted past without so much as a glance. But on the fourth day, one slowed. A Family of fisherfolk, haulers, and part-time ferrymen—curious enough to stop and kind enough to offer help.

They said they'd seen the two of them days earlier—lingering by the riverbank, clearly lost. Curiosity prevailed over caution, and they came to offer their help.

For whatever reason, they'd offered a free ride to Theed—the capital city— without asking for anything in return. Shirou and Arturia hadn't questioned it too hard, as they boarded the floating vessel.

The trip took three more days, with the family stopping in towns and ports along the way—offloading their catch, making deliveries, and trading as they went.

Over those three days, Shirou handled most of the cooking. The Vellasis didn't complain—quite the opposite—especially once tasting the results. Unfamiliar ingredients didn't slow him down. Whatever knowledge they'd been granted worked, and Shirou kept the meals coming, same as always.

Of course, feeding the Pendragon stomach meant that he had to spear an extra fish or twenty—not wanting to burden their benefactors any more.

Hunger's the enemy, indeed. Her favourite line, usually delivered while halfway through her third helping.

"Well now, you spoil us, lad," Garron said with a grin, laying the boxes down and popping the top. A fragrant burst of steam rolled out.

"Oi! Miala! Tenno! Lessa! Come get a slice while we shift the crates—Shirou's got his own haul to collect.

-=&<o>&=-

Dawn stretched across the city, and the first waves of life began trickling into the streets. Ahead of schedule, Shirou let the speeder idle through the waking city—no need to rush back just yet.

Home… Still a foreign word. But every so often, on quiet mornings like this, Shirou found himself watching the city stir—and letting himself believe it might be real.

He was grateful to the Velassis, and—though she'd never admit it out loud—Arturia was too. She usually insisted on joining his supply runs, especially when there was something she 'absolutely had to purchase'... which meant food. Always food. The greasier the better.

Somehow, she and Lessa, the Velassi's youngest daughter, had bonded—over a holodrama of all things. Last night was the season finale.

Three episodes back-to-back. Triple the ads. Every complaint—hers especially—still managed to echo straight through permacrete.

Due to the show's popularity and the fact that it was this season's finale, it was marred by advertisements, much to her quite vocal and loud frustrations, which emanated from our restaurant below our living space.

She and a few of our neighbours and regular customers had a holodrama watch session downstairs—accompanied, unsurprisingly, by a bit too much libation. Even through a floor of stone, Shirou hadn't been spared the sound. He figured she'd gotten maybe two hours of sleep by the time he woke up, so he let her be.

Moments like these reminded him how strange—and lucky—their arrival on this planet had been. If not for the Velassis, he wasn't sure where they'd be.

The speeder glided to a quiet halt behind the restaurant, its low hum fading into the stillness of the early morning—another small comfort they were lucky enough to stumble upon.

Meeting the Velassis had been sheer luck. Somewhere along their slow journey to the capital, someone had asked about their plans—Shirou, half-distracted, muttered something about maybe opening a restaurant.

That offhand comment turned into an introduction—to Balron and Tessari Nyl. Balron, in his mid-sixties and born on Naboo, had once worked in logistics—until he grew tired of upper management. He left and opened a restaurant near the Palace Plaza.

Tessari, a Pantoran in her early sixties, was a former casino accountant who eventually joined her then-boyfriend in running the restaurant's back end.

With no children to tie them down, they planned to retire in style—spending their remaining years and credits in Canto Bight, an infamous resort-and-casino city haven in the planet Cantonica.

After tasting Shirou's food—and after Tessari had talked Arturia's ear off—they were offered a generous deal: no down payment, just 600 credits a month, plus a 10% share of profits during repayment and for fifteen years after the final instalment.

The best part? If their 10% profit share amounted to at least twice the monthly rent, half of that value was credited as rent—and any extra was carried over. No need to pay an extra 600 on top of that.

Seven months in, and they'd already paid off over half of the 160,000—credit price tag. With luck, the place would be theirs by year's end.

"Welcome back, Shirou." The flat voice from his left—no mistaking it. Arturia, leaning just far enough around the swoop bike for her torso to be visible, braced herself with one arm and casually bit into a crust. He'd already been preparing the usual three pizzas for the Velassis—so he figured, might as well make three more for Arturia's breakfast.

She was probably eating while tuning her bike, cross-legged on the floor, same as always.

The swoop bike had been a parting gift from the Pantoran—skylane legal, sure, but that didn't stop her from tearing through the forest whenever the mood struck. She called it a 'relaxing cruise'.

Shirou suppressed a shiver at the memory of him riding behind Arturia—clinging on for dear life as Arturia blazed through the woods surrounding Theed.

"Morning. Been up long? Shirou asked as he started unloading the speeder—stacking crates carefully near the rear entrance—his muscles moving on autopilot—while his brain ran through every hair-raising moment of that so-called 'relaxing cruise'. Near-miss, they called it. Stupid phrase when it literally means the opposite. Every moment of that ride was a near-collision.

"I believe I awoke just as you departed. How were the Velassis? And… the medicine helped. Thank you," Arturia said, voice as cool and clipped as ever—formal even in gratitude.

"They're well. Lessa asked for you—I told her you were up late. She'll likely swing by tomorrow," Shirou said, brushing off a speck of flour from one of the crates.

"It would be pleasant to see Lessa. I have cleaned the dining area and set the doughs out to warm," she said evenly, leaning in to resume her work on her bike.

Shirou murmured a quiet thanks and slipped through the back, arms full, already sorting the tasks ahead in his mind.

"...!"

Something clicked. Shirou leaned out of the kitchen's rear entrance.

"Arturia, mind parking the speeder? I left my speeder bike in the bay as well."

In response, a pale greyish hand shot up from around the corner—thumbs-up, no questions asked.

-=&<o>&=-
END

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If you want to read Ch 1, 2, and 3.1-3.2, head over to patreon.

13thsephiroth · Sep 1, 2025

Pre-AN: If you want to know who Tsabin is and don't really care about being spoiled, since her actual known name would only come up after this arc. So up to you.

Fate/Knights of the
Heroic Throne

Disclaimer: This story is set in an alternate universe that diverges from established Star Wars lore. I'm not confident enough to follow Star Wars lore one-to-one, but I'll do my best to respect both Legends and canon where possible. Some timelines and characters' ages have been adjusted to either fit a narrative or just for the sake of it. Shirou Emiya (former Counter Guardian EMIYA) and Arturia Pendragon (former Saber Alter) won't be curbstomping Jedi and Sith—they're both powerful, respectively—but both Jedi and Sith could also reach heights that could rival legends.

Chapter Intro
Human order: Restored.
History: Preserved.
But what of the ones who made it possible?
Heroic Spirits—echoes of legends, bound to vessels, fated to fade without remembrance.
But a wish was made.
One last miracle from humanity's saviour—
that her fallen companions might live once more.

Story Starts
-=&<o>&=-
Chapter 1 -
The Future Handmaiden

Tsabin Vareli—Tsabin to those who knew her—groaned as dim morning light slipped through the shuttered balcony doors. She yawned, high and sharp, stretching until her spine popped; the blanket slid to her waist, a strap of her sheer black nightgown sliding halfway down her arm.

She rubbed at one eye and hunched forward with a groan, fumbling across the bed until her fingers found her datapad and the control fob. She thumbed the holoscreen on, its glow spilling over her as she skimmed today's schedule.

It had defaulted to the news channel—of course—and there it was: their latest planetary scandal splashed across the HoloNet. A polished anchor from the Coruscant News Net recited details of suspected political assassinations tied to King Veruna.

She filed the scandal under future Tsabin's problem and shut off the feed, eyes landing on the chrono's pale digits.

06:58—about half an hour after first light. She stifled another yawn behind her hand while her other arm arched high, reaching over the bed toward her nightstand.

Her fingertips found the smooth bottle of hydration drops. With a practised tilt of her head, she pried one eyelid open, let two drops fall, then switched to the other eye.

The cool sting made her blink twice. Excess moisture slid down to her cheeks, and she swiped it away with the fold of her blanket.

"Caf…" She vocalised yearning for a pick-me-up as they finished their meeting just shy of six hours ago, meaning she probably only had two to three hours of sleep.

She couldn't even use a sedative as she couldn't risk sleeping in. She grumbled about wanting more hours in a day as she stood up, her feet touching the cold Nabooan marbled floor.

Her toes sank into the plush warmth of her slippers. A satin robe slid over her shoulders, its untied belt swaying with her steps. The loose fabric parted, and the hem of her nightgown whispered against the smooth skin of her toned thighs—her tri-weekly training regimen still leaving their mark despite the recent strain on her schedule.

What had started as a local push was now a current, pulling in support from all sides. Naboo's own senator in the Republic, a banking clan, and several shadowed political patrons had stepped in behind the scenes. The senator's reach into the Core gave them valuable connections—though she doubted his aid came without a price.

Their monarch might sit on the throne, but his authority existed only because the people allowed it to do so. And only the people could take it back.

Five days from now, they would try. The planned demonstration had been a nightmare to arrange—the governor of Theed buried them in bureaucratic binds—but Senator Palpatine's discreet influence had carved a way through.

Like most allies in this fight, Palpatine wouldn't stake his name in public. Tsabin, however, had her own theories about what he stood to gain.

Tsabin stepped out into the hall, shuffling toward the dining area with no particular haste.

"One day, we're going to have a guest in here—and you'll be giving them a free show." The voice came light but edged in amusement.

She turned and found Padmé Naberrie, still in last night's attire, a plate of fruit in one hand and a steaming cup—almost certainly caf—in the other.

Only then did Tsabin glance down, taking in the parted robe and sheer nightgown beneath. Not transparent but enough for outlines to show… and for the cool air to draw attention to certain pointy details.

"If this imaginary guest happens to be handsome, I'd be doing them a service by showing off the goods," Tsabin quipped, giving her chest a theatrical squeeze.

"Ahh, you—you're impossible," Padmé sputtered, cheeks heating as she flicked a grape in her direction.

Tsabin plucked the fruit neatly from the air, popped it between her lips and claimed a seat—deliberately facing away from the holoscreen as Padmé focused on Corscant News Net's latest on King Ars Veruna.

"Have you even slept yet?" Tsabin asked, helping herself to a cup of caf.

Only then did she notice Padmé's drink—just steaming water with a slice of meiloorun citrus floating in it, not the caf she'd first assumed.

Padmé let out a weary sigh and switched off the holoscree; the feed had moved on from Naboo. "I've just spent the last hour on a holocall with Senator Palpatine, going over the talking points for my speech at the demonstration."

Padmé pushed her chair back and stood, stretching lightly. "I'm going to nap for a bit before I start on today's meeting prep." She set her dish into the automatic washer and looked over her shoulder. "What about you—any rest? What's keeping you busy today?"

"I think I managed a luxurious three hours of sleep," Sabe said with a sarcastic smile. "But we're in the home stretch now. I can sneak in naps here and there—just like back when we were cramming academy deadlines between intern shifts.

She flicked through her datapad. "Let's see… compile poll stats, get Sasha to link me with someone from environmental, and hunt down something edible for the team—but I think Su Yan sent me something and her recommendations."

She clicked on an unread message from Su Yan—The Empty Pantry. 'Weird name, ' she thought, smirking.

Then arms slipped around her from behind, warm and familiar. "Thank you, as always."

The soft scent of Padmé's perfume mingled with the warmth of her breath as she rested her chin on Tsabin's shoulder. "You've always had my back."

Tsabin leaned in until their cheeks touched, her fingers curling gently around Padmé's forearm, tracing idle shapes against her sleeve.

"Always. Who else would endure your relentless idealism, oh—"

Padmé's fingers pinched her side before she could finish. "You're insufferable," she said, though the small smile tugging at her lips betrayed her."

Tsabin leaned back, arms lifting above her head. "Enough sentiment—you've got a bed calling your name, and I've got a day's worth of errands.

"Well, maybe half a day's worth." She quickly amended.

"Eat before you head out," Padmé replied, pausing in the doorway. "And you should rest too."

"One battle at a time," Tsabin said with a small smile, watching to make sure Padmé's footsteps led to her quarters.

-=&<o>&=-

Tsabin steered the speeder toward the Palace Plaza, the drone of the repulsors fading into the background noise of midday traffic. She glanced at the chrono—half past noon already—and angled toward the restaurant Su Yan had sworn was worth the trip.

Before the change in ownership, the building had housed The Marble Kettle, where she, Padmé, and a handful of friends had lingered over caf and laughter in their university years. Its closure still felt like a small loss, and it was unfortunate that they couldn't visit such a place full of memories recently. Plus, few places could match the decadence of their desserts.

The kindly Nabooan and Pantoran owners had been as much a fixture as the marble counters, slipping her and Padmé free samples whenever they stopped by. Back then, it was often a walk to or from the Palace Plaza with friends—or, in her case, a date with her then-fun, charming, and sweet boyfriend, Casius Virello. He would later introduce Padmé to her first boyfriend, Tavern Duroli.

They'd both been engineering majors, and the four of them had roamed the Palace Plaza on countless double dates. The Marble Kettle had usually been their unofficial last stop, a place to end the evening over decadent desserts.

Being two years ahead, the men had graduated early and taken positions with Kuat Drive Yards. With Padmé and Tsabin buried in internships and coursework, and the men embarking on their careers, all agreed that distance would be unkind.

So they made time for one last week together—Padmé, persuasive as ever, winning her parents' blessing to use their villa in the Lake Country

On the second morning, the quiet villa was broken by the sight of Casius and Tavren locked in a slow, passionate kiss.

They'd laughed nervously when confronted, explaining that they'd always been close—too close for the comfort of their traditional families—and that they were attracted to both men and women. They cared for Padmé and Tsabin, but also for each other, and were caught in the heat of the moment.

What could have ended the trip instead transformed it; the rest of the week was a blur of shared touches, whispered laughter, and a sexual awakening none of them would forget.

They parted on warm terms, maintaining contact over the years. Both men had since earned promotions to lead their own projects and, unsurprisingly, had made their relationship official.

Padmé and Tsabin had never been a couple, yet their bond had grown closer ever since that week, sometimes blurring into intimacy when circumstances—and desire—aligned.

When Caius and Tavren visited last year, they'd all slipped back into the pleasures of their Lake Country escape without hesitation. Now, with Naboo's politics souring by the week, those memories felt impossibly distant—like sunlight through tinted glass. These days, every private indulgence was a potential liability, and Tsabin carried that awareness like a weight on her shoulders.

The illusion broke as she eased her speeder into the multi-tier bay a block from the Palace Plaza, the hum of the repulsorlifts echoing in the enclosed structure. She followed the glowing guide-strips to an open slot on the second tier, the kind of half-secluded space she'd learned to prefer. From here, the sunlit arches of the plaza were just a thin sliver between the bay's duracrete walls.

She killed the engine, locking the speeder before slipping out and tightening her robe. The political tension she'd been living in had made her hyper-aware of her surroundings—eyes scanning the shadows, ears tracking the distant hiss of lift doors.

A low whine drew her attention: a speeder bike approaching along the row. She paused, waiting for it to pass, but instead of continuing on, the bike glided to the end of the lane and swung back.
A prickle of unease ran up her spine. Her hand twitched toward the inside pocket where her blaster should have been—then she cursed silently.

She'd left it in the speeder. Ever since everyone had been tied publicly to opposition movements, they'd been taking self-defence classes and carrying for security… well, trying to.

The rider slowed to a stop a few metres away, the bike still hovering in idle. He was unfamiliar—yet there was something disconcertingly familiar in his bearing. A plain white shirt, simple black slacks, and over it, a striking long coat of deep crimson leather. Broad shoulders strained against the seems, sleeves tugged by the muscles of his arms. Light brown skin, short white hair, sharp grey eyes. He was… handsome. And that only made her more wary.

"Ms Valerie, right?" His voice was a rich, warm baritone—unexpectedly civil for someone blocking her in.

'Was he putting up a pretence to catch me off guard?' The thought came sharp and reflexive.

"It's Vareli," she corrected, her tone cool, shoulders squaring in quiet readiness in case the encounter turned.

"Ah, yes—my apologies. Vareli, Tsabin." The man inclined his head slightly as though trying to smooth away any unease. "You're the one who placed the large feast order earlier." His mouth quirked, faintly amused. "I'd guess you've just parked here and were planning on walking the rest of the way to the restaurant."

He swung a leg over and dismounted, and it was only then that she caught his full height. The bike hovered beside him, engine purring in idle, as he unhooked something from the side compartment.

Holding it out—a sleek black riding helmet—he said, "Name's Emiya. I'm one of the owners of The Empty Pantry… and the one who took your order. Do you need a ride?"

"Uh…" Tsabin stared at the helmet, the unexpected civility of the gesture taking the edge off her suspicion to make her pause. "That's… not the offer I thought you'd be making."

She hesitated, eyeing the helmet, then him. "Do you give all your customers personal delivery service?"

Emiya's brow lifted in quiet amusement. "Well, I usually wouldn't leave my restaurant mid-service. But I'd forgotten my food transport containers in the speeder, so I had no choice. I recognise you from the holocall and I wouldn't want a high-paying customer later thinking I passed them by without offering the neighbourly thing."

He was nice? With a dry edge to his sarcasm. And there was something in the way he spoke—confident, easy—as if he was used to bantering with people of higher station without ever sounding deferential.

"Excuse me," he said, pulling out of her thoughts. "While I'm sure my partner could handle the restaurant alone, I'd like to return sooner rather than later. So do you need—or want—a ride?"

"Uh." Was again her succinct reply.

-=&<o>&=-
END

AN: Tsabin Vareli is Sabé before she changed her name when she pledged herself to Queen Padmé Amidala, neé Nabberie. She seems to suffer from a condition where she was born without a family name, quite the unfortunate predicament, so I gave her one.

Story Tracker|Story ETAs

If you want to immediately read the next chapter, head over to
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If you want to read Ch 2, 3.1-3.2, and 4.1 head over to
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13thsephiroth · Sep 5, 2025

Fate/Knights of the
Heroic Throne

Disclaimer: This story is set in an alternate universe that diverges from established Star Wars lore. I'm not confident enough to follow Star Wars lore one-to-one, but I'll do my best to respect both Legends and canon where possible. Some timelines and characters' ages have been adjusted to either fit a narrative or just for the sake of it. Shirou Emiya (former Counter Guardian EMIYA) and Arturia Pendragon (former Saber Alter) won't be curbstomping Jedi and Sith—they're both powerful, respectively—but both Jedi and Sith could also reach heights that could rival legends.

Chapter Intro
Human order: Restored.
History: Preserved.
But what of the ones who made it possible?
Heroic Spirits—echoes of legends, bound to vessels, fated to fade without remembrance.
But a wish was made.
One last miracle from humanity's saviour—
that her fallen companions might live once more.

Story Starts
-=&<o>&=-
Chapter 2 -
The Empty Pantry

The first thing Tsabin thought as she settled behind him was simply—'his back's large.'

At least she'd chosen to wear pants beneath her robe. In a dress, she might have to hitch up the skirt and risk flashing the stranger.

'Emiya. That's an unusual name,' She wondered if his parents had come from another Mid Rim world—like the Pantoran wife of the man who'd once owned The Marble Kettle, before it became The Empty Pantry.

He'd been courteous, offering a steadying hand as she climbed onto the speeder. His grip hand had been rough with callouses, his hand broad against hers—the kind of hand shaped by work. Or perhaps by training.

It fit. His build was strong and lean, not the bloated bulk of bodybuilders but the hardened frame of someone who'd laboured most of his life. Maybe he'd saved enough credits from it to open a restaurant.

'Though, I wonder what type of work would leave callouses between your thumb and index fing—'

"Ms Vareli." His warm baritone cut into her thoughts.

She blinked, startled—it struck her they'd already stopped. The street was one she knew well.

The same narrow alleys she and Padmé had haunted in their younger days stretched before her, before politics and duty turned those days into cherished memories.

She removed the helmet he'd lent her and leaned towards the bike's holo-mirror, fingers combing her hair back into place.

Satisfied, she swung her leg over the idle bike. Nodding her thanks, she accepted his hand as she alighted from the vehicle. Unfortunately, her heel caught one of the bike's pedals as she stumbled into the man.

In response, he easily steadied Tsabin as he grasped her hands a little more firmly and palmed her shoulder, but not lingering.

"Careful," he said mildly, setting her straight before moving on. He opened the speeder's storage, lifting out container units. "Entrance's around the corner. You can sit by the counter—I'll be with you shortly"

A burst of raucous cheering came from that way. Emiya gave her a rueful little smile. "Apologies for the noise."

Then he was gone, slipping inside through what she assumed was the restaurant's back door—leaving her alone.

"..."

For some reason, Tsabin felt mildly irritated. She looked down at her outfit, which was terrific as always, and then gazed at her reflection in the bike's holo-mirror. From that angle, the holo-mirror gave her a clean side profile—face and shoulders framed just so.

She found nothing amiss. Beauty was one of her constants; not vanity, simply a fact she'd long since accepted. She'd long grown used to the attention—men and the occasional woman turning their heads, the weight of stares on her back, the endless flirtations, bold or quiet.

Which, of course, could be frustrating sometimes, especially in her line of work. Too many times, older men of power, lecherous and smug, or pampered heirs, had tried their luck. Though some of them would probably be an interesting lay, she at all times maintained an air of professionalism.

Something about not eating where you shit—of course, Padmé's the occasional exception.

But this Emiya kept his distance. Instead of the usual 'hold on tight' trick, he'd simply pointed to the side handles.

Even when she stumbled, he'd steadied her with the bare minimum of contact, offering only a curt warning to be careful.

No lingering glances, no suggestive excuses, no hint of interest at all.

'Hmph. His loss.'

Tsabin turned the corner and was faced with a swoop bike, parked at the side of the establishment. Heat shimmered in the air—midday sun pressing down, the plaza's clamour bleeding into the side streets.

As the restaurant sat at the corner entrance of the street, facing the Palace Plaza, this bike was either registered or they were just blatant with the—usually illegal and infamous—vehicle.

She shrugged—she wasn't Security Forces.

As she turned the next corner, a blast of noise hit her—jeers, laughter, the groans of disappointment—just as a body lurched into view, nearly colliding with her. He caught himself against the wall and heaved, retching into the street.

"You there—" a stoic yet dignified voice said, cutting through all the raucous, "come assist your downed comrade, here."

Tsabin hurriedly moved away from the retching figure, only to face a peculiar scene.

The restaurant was packed, credits sliding hand to hand as losers groaned and winners toasted their so-called 'maid goddess.'

'Whatever that means,' thought Tsabin.

A group of five men, of which four were hunched over a table, their foreheads leaning heavily against the table. At the same time, the fifth had his cheek mashed against the table, looking at the figure that seemed to hold the attention of everyone in the establishment.

At the centre of this all stands a petite, slender woman in her late teens or early twenties. She was dressed in a black-and-white dress with frills and an apron, stockings tight above the knees and a ribbon at her hair and throat. It looked cute, almost playful—yet the expression on her face was anything but.

Her expression was severe, framed by light-golden blonde bangs and locks, and her yellow-golden eyes were sharp as a sky raptor's. The mismatch only made her stand out more.

In her right hand, she held a mop and a bucket, extended toward the hunched man at the centre table. And on her left hand was a large folded triangular flatbread in which she bit, a sharp 'mokkyu' sound escaping as the crowd leaned in.

"See that you clean the area—and as for the rest, though you have lost, you must finish what you began. To waste what has been prepared, or to leave disorder behind, would be an insult to the toils of others."

The crowd erupted in applause as the girl nodded, eyes closing in solemn dignity as if she accepted their praise as her due. She continued to demolish her slice of flatbread, each sharp 'mokkyu' only fuelling the crowd's cheers."

The man, who had hunched over but was facing the black-clad girl, begrudgingly stood up and waddled over to her as she handed over the cleaning materials to the guy. She patted his shoulder, giving him a sudden second wind at the gesture as she warned him. "One must take care not to dirty my mount… or else."

"One must also finish their bowl of salad," a dry voice cut in. Emiya—somehow already behind the counter, sleeves rolled neat under a black waistcoat—drew fresh laughter from the regulars."

The once-imposing girl puffed her cheeks, pouting like a chastised child. Laughter rippled through the room; clearly, this was a familiar routine. But when she swept her golden eyes across the crowd, silence and order fell in an instant.

At the exact moment Tsabin reached the counter, the girl who had been recently chastised—or teased—by Emiya retrieved an empty platter from the centre table. A matching tray was left filled with various familiar foods, yet unfamiliar at the same time. There were half-eaten sandwiches—meat patties, breaded cuts, battered slices—alongside fried scraps and a heap of noodles.

That same flatbread she'd seen earlier appeared again, this time circular, smeared with red sauce, a layer of what looked like melted cheese, and sprinkled with toppings, cut into triangles. At the edge of each opposite side—mirroring each other sat large bowls of salad, both conspicuously untouched.

"Ms Verali. This is the co-owner of the restaurant—Arturia Pendragon." Emiya gestured towards his petite coworker as she set the tray on the counter. He retrieved it a moment later, sliding into the auto-washer.

The name Pendragon caught Tsabin's ear—it sounded like the sort of family name you'd hear in noble circles, and it fit the girl's bearing. Was this an heiress and her bodyguard, eloping from a family that can't accept their love? The thought made her giggle as she followed Emiya's movements.

He pulled on a long black apron—simple, straight, no frills—tying it neatly at his waist before folding the hem to conceal the ties.

Tsabin's gaze drifted, lingering on Emiya's shapely rear. She only remembered too late that she had just been introduced, and when she turned her head to her left, Arturia—still gazing at her stoically—caught her in the act.

Her gaze dipped, tracing where her own eyes had lingered a moment earlier. When she looked back, there was the faintest glint of amusement in the girl's golden eyes—but her expression stayed perfectly stoic.

"A pleasure," she said, bowing before collecting her untouched salad bowl, grabbing a fork, and carrying it towards the caf machine at the open front of the shop.

Arturia balanced the bowl of salad against the caf machine, absentmindedly forking greens into her mouth as she set out five cups. Tsabin found her gaze straying back to Emiya—heat brushing her cheeks before she looked away again. He lowered several baskets into the fryer, oil hissing sharply as steam curled upward.

He crouched by the bar's side cooling supply unit, fishing out two bottles and a small plate with what looked like a slice of cake.

He held both bottles between his thumb, index, and middle fingers as he placed the plate of dessert in front of Tsabin.

"My apologies for just saying this now—you'll have to wait about fifteen to twenty minutes for your order. I just dropped your large batch of fried tip-yip and fried tubers in the fryer." Emiya set a dainty fork on the plate, his expression faintly contrite.

"As you can see behind you, I had to juggle two—well, technically three—large orders at the same time. I was going to be on time when I remembered that I left our leaseable food storage units in our speeder."

She'd paid the deposit for the leaseable food containers—they kept meals fresh on the way back. The system skimmed a five per cent fee, the rest refunded once the units were returned.

"So this is on the house—cheesecake, I made with kaaf milk," Emiya explained.

Tsabin took the small fork with a grin. "Oh, don't worry about it—I can wait, but thanks for the freebie." She caught the faintest smile touch his lips before he bowed and moved along the counter, topping off drinks with practised ease.

She propped open her datapad and took her first bite of the dessert.

"...!"

'Wow, this is so good!' Tsabin nearly moaned as she forked a second bite, and then a third, and before she realised it, the plate was bare. Horror struck—she hadn't even savoured a single bite.

'I know, I'll just or—' Her thought broke off as another plate appeared as if conjured, offering up a slice of heaven on Theed.

A chuckle rumbled above her, and she looked up to find Emiya watching her with quiet amusement, eyebrow lifted. He set down another plate—fried pastry, white with powdered sugar.

"Zepolle," he said evenly. "A fried pastry, its dough blended with the same kaaf cream cheese as the cake. So—red, white or caf?"

"Huh?" Tsabin looked up, slow and dumbfounded, her mood still whiplashed from the past half minute.

"Do you want a glass of red or white Nabooan Wine—or perhaps caf?" His tone carried a dry edge. "Consider your driving, caf might be wiser." He gestured towards Arturia with a slight lift of his hand.

"No need, I'll take a white. I can always switch the speeder to automatic, so one or two glasses won't hurt."

Technically, the law didn't care if the system was automated—the driver was always accountable in an emergency. Still, Tsabin reasoned, one or two glasses hardly counted. Emiya's brow ticked upward as he silently poured her glass of Nabooan white.

He gave a brief nod, then turned away, working the fryer with practised ease—long tongs agitating the fried goods as he shook the basket and sent a wave of steam rolling upward.

He waved. Tsabin's hand twitched up before she realised it wasn't meant for her—Arturia, behind her, dismissed it with a brisk shoo while delivering five steaming cups of caf to the men at the centre table, their previously retching comrade now recovered enough to rejoin them.

Her cheeks flamed as she turned the aborted wave into a hair-fuss, trying to project an air of nonchalance. Pointless—Emiya had already vanished into the back.

She groaned inwardly as an elderly woman at the bar met her eye and winked conspiratorially. Wonderful. Even her embarrassment had an audience.

Her datapad buzzed to life. Tsabin flicked it open—Sasha Malvern. Tsabin smiled faintly—an old acquaintance from their studies, now a trusted teammate, and the reason Tsabin had her Environmental Ministry connection in the first place.

The message was brief and to the point: the demonstration was being pushed back two weeks. Better timing, festival day, local shops and businesses already signed on.

Tsabin exhaled hard. More time to plan. Less panic. Though Padmé would still run herself ragged.

Not if she could help it. Fingers flew as she sent a reply to the whole team, slipping in a cheerful suggestion to invite guests along.

She grinned at the thought and waved for the petite and stoic lone waitress.

-=&<o>&=-
END

Tip-yip: Domesticated bird from Endor. It's cute, so don't Google it if you don't want to imagine it as fried chicken. haha

Holo-mirror: Don't think it's canon, but this mirror provides the distance of vehicles behind.

If you want to immediately read the next chapter, head over to
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If you want to read Ch 3.1-3.2, and 4.1-4.2 head over to
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13thsephiroth · Sep 9, 2025

Fate/Knights of the
Heroic Throne

Disclaimer: This story is set in an alternate universe that diverges from established Star Wars lore. I'm not confident enough to follow Star Wars lore one-to-one, but I'll do my best to respect both Legends and canon where possible. Some timelines and characters' ages have been adjusted to either fit a narrative or just for the sake of it. Shirou Emiya (former Counter Guardian EMIYA) and Arturia Pendragon (former Saber Alter) won't be curbstomping Jedi and Sith—they're both powerful, respectively—but both Jedi and Sith could also reach heights that could rival legends.

Chapter Intro
Human order: Restored.
History: Preserved.
But what of the ones who made it possible?
Heroic Spirits—echoes of legends, bound to vessels, fated to fade without remembrance.
But a wish was made.
One last miracle from humanity's saviour—
that her fallen companions might live once more.

Story Starts
-=&<o>&=-
Chapter 3.1 -
The Once,
'Once and Future Tyrant King'
a small interlude

"Okay, here I made you guys a spread of finger foods sa—"

"Let's start this watch party with a to—"

"Lorna, I can't be with you because—"
"Cliffhanger, such discourtesy!"

"Cheers!"

"We've finished the keg!"

"I've found a case—"

"Noooo—!"

"Ria! Ria! Ria!"

"Hmm— You shmell nwoice Shiiir—"

"And you st—"

Beep! Beep! Beep!…Thud!

Beep! Beep! Beep!...Shirou!!

-=&<o>&=-

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Arturia Pendragon—former Tyrant King—opened her golden-yellow eyes to darkness as the alarm's beeping blared incessantly. She kicked behind her, eyes already sinking shut—in preparation for her return to slumber—but her foot found only empty sheets.

"Shirou!"

Beep! Beep! Beep!

"Shi—rou?"

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Her hand stretched forward, fingertips brushing a cold wall through the blanket still draped over her, while her legs shivered faintly in the cool air.

Curling tighter into her cocoon—bringing her cold feet into the warmth—she finally let one arm slip free, fumbling behind only to pat empty space.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

"Argh!"

She flung the blanket aside in frustration, sprawling supine with arms and legs spread. Her eyes shot open to the textured ceiling of their modest quarters—a studio apartment perched above the restaurant they had lucked into.

A pulse of pain thudded behind her eyes—last night's revelry fighting its way back into the periphery of her memory.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

The chrono clinked 04:48, its steady pulse mocking her with every beat of the alarm.

Her eyes settled on the faint outline of a glass waiting on the nightstand.

She dragged herself upright, golden hair spilling over her shoulders as dizziness lanced through her head, as her fingers reached for the water—only to find a small packet.

Blinking groggily, she rubbed at her eyes, golden hair tumbling over her shoulders as she brought the object closer.

Pain meds.

Her lips curled into a small, unguarded smile.

Cross-legged now, she leaned forward on an elbow, claiming the glass with her free hand. With a smooth tilt of her head, she downed the pill, chasing it with a swallow of cool water.

Arturia sat idly, listening to the alarm's constant shrill, waiting for the dull comfort of the medication to take hold.

"Dumb Shirou," the curve of her lips lingered. Refusing to leave her face as she heard the telltale sound of Shirou's speeder bike leaving.

-=&<o>&=-

"Dumb Shirou indeed," Arturia muttered to the empty kitchen. Three large pizzas waiting—Shirou's greasy morning offerings—as opposed to his regular rolled omelettes, fish, soup, and his cherished rice.

She had planned to peruse the forums on last night's triple-feature while sipping her morning caf. As she scrolled through, most debates circled whether the holodrama's protagonist would continue with his sworn revenge—toppling the vast conglomerate that had destroyed his family through hostile takeovers, blackmail, and even assassinations—or yield to the love he had come to acknowledge for the heiress, innocent yet the most fitting target of his vengeance.

Mid-sip—just as she was about to deliver a riposte in the forum, being firmly of the have-you-cake-and-eat-it-too camp, siding with both vengeance and love—Shirou sent a brief message: Check warmer.

Later, and after her first cup of caf and morning distractions, she now started with the day's prep and mise en place. Normally, she would do this with Shirou after they did their morning supply run, 'I could be a benevolent king for once,' she thought as she tore into a slice of her greasy breakfast while pulling out the three-day fermented dough for the day's shift.

Her appetite remained immense, her tastes still indulgent—or rather unhealthy. 'Well, that's Shirou's opinion,' she thought, as he always aimed for some balance in diet… usually.

Of course, she couldn't miss that her rich breakfast was a concession for last night's binge, a thoughtful gesture as he even added her favourite spiced sausage—a smoked bit of heaven Shirou had perfected to her taste—though he hadn't missed the chance to an equal amount of vegetables as a complement to her heavily spiced slices of smoked, emulsified meat.

With a sip of caf and another bite of her breakfast, she set about making the bread for the day's sandwiches. Shirou had already portioned the dough that morning, and like his pizza dough—the very ones she had pulled from the cooling chamber to warm—he did a great deal of what he described as cold proofing with many of his baked goods.

A qualitative improvement without the need for much active guidance—or so he explained. Arturia double-checked the programmed preset before misting the oven's chamber and shutting the door.

It was a practised action born from observation and Shirou's nagging. Endless lectures on critical control points, safety, timing and more.

Arturia wrinkled her nose at the memory. She had been subjected to countless tirades on proper kitchen protocols—all thanks to the day she had reduced a perfectly good oven to scrap and nearly set fire to their recently acquired, rent-to-own establishment.

First came the smell of smoke. Then, through the bar's access door, she glimpsed a choking black smog. Shirou had rushed in—from the fresher—trousers half-pulled, just in time to keep the flames from spreading.

The result was that she sat seiza for the whole long and merciless lecture on microbial gases, gluten development, heat, moisture, crumb, and crust—while Tessari Nyl, Pantoran, former co-owner, and all-around mischief-chaser, filmed her humiliation with a gleeful glint in her golden eyes.

Her legs felt numb after that gruelling lecture, humiliation compounding when Shirou had to carry her to one of the bedding mats in the dining area. That crude arrangement hadn't lasted; once profits came in they had invested in a small upstairs studio apartment.

We also added a separate fresher and bath—the bath was non-negotiable, according to Shirou.

Anyway, Arturia then brought out their fry slicer, clamping it down on the prep table, and she then dragged a large container full of tubers—already washed.

She couldn't help but feel a tick forming on her head as she stomped angrily at the reminder, as further punishment, Shirou and the Pantoran had conspired and collaborated on her uniform.

She knew his history with her lighter counterpart—long before his regrets began to settle, long before his idealised dream of becoming a hero had been twisted by Alaya's pragmatic solution to preserving humanity, and long before his paradoxical suicide wish had resonated with the Grail.

Depressing history aside, Arturia was sure that this uniform was nothing more than Shirou's hidden kink made manifest and Tessari's boundless mischief.

She harrumphed, though her lips betrayed her with a smile as she took another bite, a sharp 'mokkyu' ringing out. Then she turned back to the task at hand, sliding tubers into the fry cutter and dropping them into a cold bath of water.

-=&<o>&=-
END

If you want to immediately read the next chapter, head over to
discord.
If you want to read Ch 3.2, and 4.1-4.3 head over to
patreon.

13thsephiroth · Oct 14, 2025

Fate/Knights of the
Heroic Throne

Disclaimer: This story is set in an alternate universe that diverges from established Star Wars lore. I'm not confident enough to follow Star Wars lore one-to-one, but I'll do my best to respect both Legends and canon where possible. Some timelines and characters' ages have been adjusted to either fit a narrative or just for the sake of it. Shirou Emiya (former Counter Guardian EMIYA) and Arturia Pendragon (former Saber Alter) won't be curbstomping Jedi and Sith—they're both powerful, respectively—but both Jedi and Sith could also reach heights that could rival legends.

Chapter Intro
Human order: Restored.
History: Preserved.
But what of the ones who made it possible?
Heroic Spirits—echoes of legends, bound to vessels, fated to fade without remembrance.
But a wish was made.
One last miracle from humanity's saviour—
that her fallen companions might live once more.

Story Starts
-=&<o>&=-
Chapter 3.2 -
The Once,
'Once and Future Tyrant King'
and The Empty Pantry Challenge

Arturia, once the Tyrant King of Camelot, feared ruler, peerless knight, took up a napkin and primly dabbed at the corners of her mouth. Her regal composure never wavered as she dispatched another double-patty shaakburger with cheese—seven already finished, their flimsiplast wraps folded neatly at the edge of her large tray, which was laden with her chosen favourites from the restaurant—and, by Shirou's insistence, a large bowl of salad.

The minced shaak patty, smashed near paper-thin, provided a crisp bite, while the second patty was cooked thick, brimming with juice—her deliberate preference for both a seared crust and tender, juicy meat gave her the best of both worlds in mouthfeel.

Melted shaak-milk cheese, a blend of cheeses crafted by Shirou, was draped across each patty, its silky consistency the result of Shirou's expertise in cooking.

Back when they were starting, Arturia, of course, demanded her favourite items, like the current burger she was demolishing demurely. And a burger isn't complete without the greatness of melted American cheese. Like always, he acquiesced and asked for patience as he made several types of cheese from shaak milk.

He used a blend of this and melted it in a splash of white wine, and stabilised it with some sodium citrate. According to him, this was the key ingredient needed for a melting cheese as it prevents the fats from splitting when melted.

Additionally, Shirou prepared an amazing sauce and some pickles, which served as the perfect complement, cutting through the richness of the high-quality meat and cheese.

'An indulgence worthy of a king,' she thought, her eyes closing briefly as she savoured the daily caloric conquest made possible by Tessari Nyl and her holodrama-in-arms, Lessa Vellasi.

In a rare concession to her personal chef, attendant, and mother hen, Arturia had admitted that her appetite might prove a burden on Shirou and their shared finances. She had approached Tessari—Lessa at her side—and together they devised a scheme: a food challenge.

The rules were simple. A group of up to six could be formed for this challenge. If one side cleared their platter within the hour while the other failed, the losers paid for both. If both finished, each simply paid for their own. However, if they finish it within half an hour or the challengers beat the record—currently seventeen minutes—they would eat for free. But if they were to beat the current record, not only would they eat for free, but drinks were on the house for that night, and they could request a reward—provided it's within reason.

She had overheard more than once that customers hoped to claim her company as a prize. Most fell silent whenever Shirou appeared in the room. Only one had been bold enough to speak it aloud: a hulking Zabrak merchant, prosperous, well-travelled, and a regular customer whenever trade carried him through the Chommell sector.

It was that same Zabrak who carved his name into the record at seventeen minutes—beating hers by half a minute. His triumph, however, ended less gloriously—struck down not by defeat but by indigestion. He had, after all, been the first challenger to brave the platter alone.

The platter was daunting: ten sandwiches of every variety—shaakburgers with cheese, battered fish, breaded tip-yip, and sausage in buns—plus a forty-six centimetre pizza, a pile of fried tip-yip, a mountain of tuber fries, a bowl of salad, and a bowl of shaakmeat pasta large enough to feed a family.

He requested transportation to the nearest medcentre—only for Arturia to loudly proclaim that his wish was her command—thus cancelling his earlier request for a date, much to his dismay.

Two months had passed, and the merchant had yet to return. Perhaps trade called him elsewhere. Perhaps he still recalled the indigestion. Or perhaps the humiliation of being carried by a petite 154-centimetre Arturia—perched side-saddle on her swoop bike and clinging for dear life—none could say.

She now faced a challenger of five, the dining area bustling with cheers and wagers. The spectacle had become frequent enough that Shirou was forced to impose limits: once per day only, with no more than four groups permitted at a time. Arturia would still have but a single platter, yet up to four groups could stand against her simultaneously.

Without Shirou's restrictions, the restaurant might truly have lived up to its name—The Empty Pantry. Despite rumours, her stomach wasn't a bottomless abyss, nor was she a sarlacc that had devoured a goddess and stolen her form.

Arturia bristled at the reminder of that rumour—one that had first surfaced shortly after a certain Pantoran's visit. The timing had been too coincidental to dismiss. Distracted by the thought, she seemed to glare openly at one of the challengers as she bit, prim yet menacing, into a piece of fried tip-yip.

The challenger, already heavy with food, stiffened under her heated gaze. Sweat shone on his brow as he bent back over his platter, shovelling more down despite the visible strain. To her, it seemed needless; he was clearly near his limit already.

She spared the man one last glance, noted his foolish persistence, and dismissed it at once. If he chose to choke himself in pride, that was his affair. Arturia returned to her meal, taking a neat bite of pizza with a small 'mokkyu' that, inexplicably, drew giggles and soft 'awws' from the crowd.

Arturia then stood up and bussed out the empty bowl, previously filled with pasta, and threw away all the neatly folded flimsiplast before coming back to the centre table and settling in.

'Anyway,' she thought, forcing herself to dismiss the sarlacc rumour. To temper matters, Shirou ruled that if multiple groups challenged her and lost, they would divide the price of her platter amongst themselves.

For many, the challenge became less a contest and more a bargain. Office workers, families, and circles of friends often booked it on the Zhellday nights before the weekend, treating it as a gathering rather than a competition.

Drink flowed freely during these gatherings—fortunate, given beverages yielded two to three times their cost—often eclipsing food itself. Such revelry was a recent development. For the first half of the year, their income had been steady and unremarkable—until the Zabrak proved the challenge was possible alone. From then, not only did the number of challengers grow, but so too did the restaurant's traffic.

Looking down at her platter, she was surprised that she had already finished all but a single slice of pizza—while the bowl of salad loomed at her periphery, menacingly.

A piercing screech echoed across the marble floor as the challenger shoved his chair back. He rose unsteadily, hand pressed to his mouth, and stumbled for the open street-front, his path swerving close enough to nearly knock into a customer entering.

From the adjacent street—where her swoop bike was parked—came the sound of retching. The crowd jeered and cheered at the group's automatic disqualification.

With her last slice in hand, she leaned to the side and fetched the bucket and mop Shirou had wisely stationed for such occasions. She stood tall, regarding the five disqualified men, hunched and labouring for breath.

Their tray was still filled with untouched wrapped sandwiches, half-eaten burgers, and a mauled piece of fried tip-yip—a significant amount of meat still clung to its bones.

'At least they were able to finish the fries, though they barely touched the pizza, pasta, and salad,' Arturia noted, sighing at the pathetic attempt.

Arturia stood up, holding both the bucket in one hand and biting her last slice of pizza with another 'mokkyu.'

"You there—" the raucous slightly abating at her words, "come assist your downed comrade, here."

The man sitting nearest turned his head to face her, as his cheeks mashed against the table's surface.

Arturia gave him a severe stare as she took another bite of her pizza with a 'mokkyu'. The man held a mesmerised look as the light hit Arturia in such a way that it just enhanced her regality.

"See that you clean the area—and as for the rest, though you have lost, you must finish what you began. To waste what has been prepared, or to leave disorder behind, would be an insult to the toils of others."

The crowd erupted in applause as Arturia nodded, eyes closed in solemn dignity as she basked in their appreciation of her words. She continued to demolish her slice of flatbread, each sharp 'mokkyu' only fuelling the crowd's cheers.

The man, who had hunched over but was facing the black-clad girl, begrudgingly stood up and waddled over to her as she handed over the cleaning materials to him. She patted his shoulder, giving him a sudden second wind at the gesture as she warned him. "One must take care not to dirty my mount… or else."

"One must also finish their bowl of salad," a dry voice cut in. Emiya—somehow already behind the counter, sleeves rolled neat under a black waistcoat—drew fresh laughter from the regulars.

'This man—' Arturia thought, irritatingly, as she puffed her cheeks, as her pout was followed by a ripple of laughter through the room.

Arturia cast her gaze around—quieting the insolence of the crowd—as she lifted her empty tray and carried it towards the counter for Shirou to place in the autowasher

It was then that she got a good look at the new arrival. She hadn't seen her before—or at least not enough to warrant recognition. Judging by her bearing, however, she would have been impossible to forget had she visited more than once.

Black and gold draped her form in distinctly Nabooan style, the robe's lines flowing into gleaming fitted trousers. Her hair was wound into looping coils tied into twin buns, with bangs neatly framing an elegant, sharp-featured face. Amber eyes, steady and unblinking, were fixed on the—

"Ms Verali. This is the co-owner of the restaurant—Arturia Pendragon."

-=&<o>&=-
END

AN: In Star Wars they have five-day weeks. Zhellday is the fourth before the weekend—Benduday.

Next Chapter Update: Release that Witch... and Wizard?!
If you want to read the next chapter, head over to
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If you want to read Ch 4.2-4.3 and 5—I'll also be updating 6 & 7 before we start with Release that Witch... and Wizard?!—head over to
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13thsephiroth · Oct 14, 2025

Fate/Knights of the
Heroic Throne

Disclaimer: This story is set in an alternate universe that diverges from established Star Wars lore. I'm not confident enough to follow Star Wars lore one-to-one, but I'll do my best to respect both Legends and canon where possible. Some timelines and characters have been adjusted to either fit a narrative or just for the sake of it. Shirou Emiya (former Counter Guardian EMIYA) and Arturia Pendragon (former Saber Alter) won't be curbstomping Jedi and Sith—they're both powerful, respectively—but both Jedi and Sith could also reach heights that could rival legends.

Chapter Intro
Human order: Restored.
History: Preserved.
But what of the ones who made it possible?
Heroic Spirits—echoes of legends, bound to vessels, fated to fade without remembrance.
But a wish was made.
One last miracle from humanity's saviour—
that her fallen companions might live once more.

Story Starts
-=&<o>&=-
Chapter 4.1 -
The Future Queen
and the Decree to Empty the Pantry

Shirou's eyes skimmed the order list as he checked each thermocrate in turn. He'd usually refer to it as 'leasable food container units,' when talking with customers—less questions asked. Cold meats layered with pickles, cheese, salad greens, oil and vinegars, sealed in bread rolls and wrapped tightly in flimsiplast. A lasagna, cooled and firm enough to hold its shape once sliced. Sausages, smoked cuts, dips, flatbreads stack neatly—everything in its place.

Shirou swung open the thermal oven, the relatively new unit gleaming—a replacement for the 'Arturia incident'—reaching in and lifting the pizza just enough to see the telltale leopard spots beneath the crust.

The heat of the oven barely registered—his nerves were long since used to it."

"Alright. Pizza's done," he told the empty kitchen, hefting the pizza with the peel he'd made from Perlote wood—an indigenous tree of Naboo—and slid the pie into another thermocrate.

"All I need are the fried goods," he said to himself, dusting off the peel and propping it against the oven. The delay—having to retrieve the thermocrates from the speeder bay—had been irritating, but at least gave the lasagna time to set. The thought of the dish collapsing into a sloppy mess on a plate nagged at him.

He moved back towards the prep table, sealed the thermocrate shut, and stacked them both—he could feel the container slightly heated up as it did its thing.

'These thermocrates are really convenient,' Shirou mused as he hauled them out toward the speeder.

The thermocrates held meals at the perfect temperature—graphene weave heaters regulating warmth, smart humidity controls preserving balance, and a hydrophobic mesh catching stray droplets before they reached the food. Even fried goods stayed sharp and crisp while the meat retained its juices.

He stowed the containers in the speeder, then rushed back inside. The smell of tip-yip and tuber fries greeted him, along with the sight of Arturia engaged in hushed conversation with the Vareli customer. He winced—once again regretting the day curiosity had led him to look up what tip-yip actually looked like alive.

Shirou fetched two stainless—or rather plasteel—bowls, still warm from the washer, and set them by the fryer. He lifted both baskets—gave them a brisk shake over the fat, then hooked them on the rack above the vat as grease dripped back into the fryer.

Shirou turned the heat down to standby before dumping the golden tip-yip and fries into separate bowls. Raising his hand high, he scattered salt in an even shower as he tossed the fried goods.

He carried the bowl back in two trips, sealing each in its thermocrate before loading them into the speeder.

He snatched up a towel, wiping his hands before circling the bar with quick refills, then stopped before the pair—the guest jotting notes on a datapad while Arturia was describing the garden area they have upstairs.

'Curious.' "Your orders are done."

His gaze shifted to his maidware-clad partner. "Would you care to escort our guest back to the speeder bay?"

Both turned to him.

"Our guest here ordered three thermocrates' worth of food—I would think that would be an inconvenient walk back to their speeder," he explained dryly.

"I'm fine with that," Arturia replied, her hand gesturing with quiet poise toward the blonde guest. Hair tied up in twin buns, bangs, and loose locks of hair framed a sharp, high-cheekboned face, her brown eyes calm and composed. "However, our guest also wishes to book the restaurant for private use after hours."

-=&<o>&=-

The chrono read 23:01. Outside, the luminous disc of Ohma-D'un, Naboo's water moon, spilt silver light across the city of Theed as her sleek six-seater speeder—a graduation present from her parents—slid through the air.

She guided the speeder toward the last-minute event Tsabin had put together.

Rabbine Ondel sat beside her, bright-eyed and cheerful. A new graduate from Coruscant University, she'd landed only today and was already drinking in Theed's nighttime skyline. Palpatine had recommended her; soon she'd take over Tsabin's event duties and help with makeup and wardrobe.

Since it was her first day, Rabbine would mostly observe while Tsabin showed her the ropes. Tsabin and Su Yan, along with the others, had gone ahead to prepare the event, while Rabbine was left to rest for a few hours before joining in to help once they arrived.

Padmé smiled into the holomirror. Behind her, Mara dozed while Sasha leaned against the transparisteel, watching the city pass.

Lately, she had felt the pressure to step up—an idea of becoming a symbol for the people, inspired partly by a holonovel mentioned during one of her mentoring sessions with Senator Palpatine.

With the demonstration postponed—now set three weeks from today, two weeks later than the original Benduday, and in line with the merchant guild's festival—she felt relieved of some of the pressure. She had proposed her idea at that afternoon's meeting, amidst the flavourful spread of food Tsabin had brought—well, she had someone help the three thermocrates' worth of food.

She'd proposed her idea of becoming a symbol for the masses, adopting the name Amidala—taking inspiration from her current public pseudonym Liora, meaning light, while Amidala also means compassion, nobility, and divine favour—a fitting name and symbol for the people to rally behind.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, Tsabin, along with most of the team, refused it outright, believing in the power of the people. 'No need to martyr yourself for the cause,' Tsabin had told her, her voice steady, softened by the bite she took from the cheesy, sauced flatbread she called a pizza.

Padmé's lips curved at the thought of Tsabin—her closest friend since childhood. She remembered them splashing in Lake Paonga as neighbours, their school and academy days, afternoons after volunteer work, the internship they shared and the quiet moments between lectures at Theed University.

She could hardly ignore how their friendship had grown into something deeper, sometimes physical when mood, convenience, and discretion met. Since her only relationship with Tavern Furoli ended, she hadn't sought others nor did she have much time for a serious relationship.

Though that final weekend of fun at her family's villa at Lake Country—was a memorable night of passion—and that fiery encore when both their ex, now in a relationship, had visited.

Her reflection in the transparisteel betrayed the blush heating her face, stirred by the memory of four sets of limbs tangled, intertwined, and glistening with sweat after their shared night of passion—made sweeter by her deepening bond with her best friend.

She gave a slight shake of her head, clearing away the thoughts before her companions could notice. She shifted in her seat, thighs brushing, a quiet pulse of relief grounding her.

She shook off the memory, letting her thoughts drift back to the day's events.

Earlier that day, after she'd risen from a refreshing sleep, Tsabin had arrived with a petite companion at her side. The woman held herself with perfect posture; her skin was pale, with a greyish hue, her fair hair tied neatly in a bun, and her arresting golden eyes.

An aura of majesty and severity clung to her as she carried three thermocrates with ease, one arm bearing their weight while the other steadied a faltering Tsabin.

Padmé lifted her gaze to them, her first thought a wry one—that perhaps Tsabin's weakened knees came from some quick indiscretion. Unlike herself, Tsabin did take the occasional partner; Padmé even thought that Tsabin and Su Yan had once shared a history.

She placed the thermocrates on the table, then guided Tsabin into a seat with composure both severe and graceful. Up close, Padmé felt her aura all the more—intimidating, regal—accented by a peculiar dress. Its hem stopped at her thighs, revealing flashes of pale skin above fitted white stockings, with narrow straps trailing upward beneath the skirt.

"This is the spread your companion ordered. May it be to your liking." The voice was dignified, carrying a faint masculine quality. Padmé startled, heat blooming across her cheeks as she realised she had been staring—but the woman gave no sign of caring.

Her delicate fingers brushed the controls, and the thermocrates slid open with a hiss. Steam curled into the air, carrying the mingled aromas of familiar comforts and curious novelties. Her pupils dilated, her mouth tingled with saliva, her senses alight under the assault of fragrance.

"Would you also provide a glass of warm water?" She motioned gracefully toward Tsabin. "Your companion lacks the constitution for speeder travel. I would recommend the use of mild stims to guard against such discomfort."

The bluntness of the remark left the table in silence. The wordless confusion of the others mirrored Tsabin's incredulous disbelief.

She then faced Tsabin with unflinching composure. "We shall strive to meet your request swiftly. I must ask that you arrive early—" not at all sounding like a request, Padmé thought, "should there be last-minute changes—and you did pledge assistance with staffing. As there are supply runs yet to complete, I shall withdraw."

With hands clasped, the woman bowed slightly before turning, each step toward the apartment's entrance deliberate and measured. Her exit seemed to break the spell she had cast, leaving the others blinking in confusion.

"Padmé," Tsabin said, breaking the silence.

"Yes, Tsabin?"

"If tall, dark, and handsome warns me not to let that demon drive, make sure I listen next time," she muttered, cheek against the marble table.

"Oooh, tall, dark, and handsome—Shirou Emiya, the co-owner. He leaves an impression, doesn't he?" Su Yan teased.

A chuckle escaped her as she remembered Tsabin's colourful account of the petite demon at the controls.

"Ms Padmé?" Rabbine came tentatively from her side.

"Oh, it's nothing. Just recalling today's little entertainment." She shared a chuckle before glancing at the navigator. "We're close now. Would you message Su Yan and Tsabin for me?"

"Yes, Ms Padmé."

"Rabbine, call me Padmé. Just remember—I'm Liora in public. Tsabin's been careless with names lately.

"Yes, Ms…Pad—Liora?"

Padmé chuckled, her smile warm and encouraging. "It's all right. You'll learn quickly enough."

-=&<o>&=-
END
Next Chapter Update: Release that Witch... and Wizard?!
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13thsephiroth · Oct 23, 2025

Fate/Knights of the
Heroic Throne

Chapter Intro
Human order: Restored.
History: Preserved.
But what of the ones who made it possible?
Heroic Spirits—echoes of legends, bound to vessels, fated to fade without remembrance.
But a wish was made.
One last miracle from humanity's saviour—
that her fallen companions might live once more.

Story Starts
-=&<o>&=-
Chapter 4.2 -
The Future Queen
and the Decree to Empty the Pantry

Previously…
Her datapad buzzed to life. Tsabin flicked it open—Sasha Malvern. Tsabin smiled faintly—an old acquaintance from their studies, now a trusted teammate, and the reason Tsabin had her Environmental Ministry connection in the first place.

The message was brief and to the point: the demonstration was being pushed back two weeks. Better timing, festival day, local shops and businesses already signed on.

Tsabin exhaled hard. More time to plan. Less panic. Though Padmé would still run herself ragged.

Not if she could help it. Fingers flew as she sent a reply to the whole team, slipping in a cheerful suggestion to invite guests along.

She grinned at the thought and waved for the petite and stoic lone waitress.

-=&<o>&=-

After acknowledging her call, the stoic lone waitress stacked five steaming cups of caf on a tray, slid another under the dispenser, and carried them to the table of six—the earlier wretching customer now back. At the same time, his struggling comrades took cautionary bites of their still massive pile of food.

She set each cup down in turn, skipping the man who had nearly bowled Tsabin over. Each of their faces lit up, eagerly nodding at something she said—her words drowned by the chatter of the restaurant crowd.

Retrieving the last cup from the dispenser, she placed it before the poor guy hunched over the table as she gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder.

With that task down, her gaze did a quick sweep of her surroundings before she approached Tsabin, tray tucked beside her.

"How may I help you?" The server clad in black and white asked, her voice as flat as her expression.

"I'm putting together a last-minute gathering—my colleagues have been working without pause for weeks. Do you take on catering deliveries?"

The question seemed to snag her composure; her face, usually blank as carved stone, gathered into lines of quiet concentration.

"Before I answer that question, how last-minute would this be and for how many people?" Her voice remained even, though a weight lay behind it.

"Perhaps twenty-five, at most thirty. And… tonight," Tsabin admitted, as heat pricked her cheeks. She forced a small sheepish smile, scratching her jaw as she remembered the posted closing time.

"Around the twenty-third hour," Tsabin added quickly, faltering under the weight of her stare, an awkward chuckle slipping out.

"Hmm." Arturia laid the tray aside, words measured but heavy. "We were planning to close early. Tomorrow is our first day off since opening."

Tsabin frowned at that, already thinking of an alternate.

"However, the previous owner told us to seize opportunities," she added, giving a solemn little nod.

"Besides…" Her lips twitched, a slight smile forming. "Shirou's a busybody." Her gaze flicked toward the back.

For Tsabin, it was a fleeting, picturesque image—broken the next moment by the abrupt snap of her head.

"Unfortunately, the last of our thermocrates are committed to your current order. Would disposable containers suffice?" Arturia asked, pausing only to acknowledge departing patrons with a curt nod.

Tsabin turned the thought over—then inspiration struck.

"Or… we could rent this place instead after hours. Invite more people, have drinks. Everyone wins, right?" She flashed a hopeful smile.

"...!"

"Sorry, is Shirou Mr Emiya?"

Arturia's brow arched as she nodded in acknowledgement. Serendipitously, the back door opened and in stepped the subject of her query.

His gaze swept around the room once before fixing on the fryer. Two baskets, one in each hand, shaken with effortless ease. Not a twitch of strain as the heavy-looking filled baskets were then clipped above the vat.

Then, retrieving two stacked plasteel bowls, he placed them on the counter beside the fryer.

The fried goods fell in a crisp heap. His hand rose high, scattering salt with a motion almost theatrical, light from above framing him as though centre stage. Tsabin caught herself staring—her gaze drawn lower by the unfortunate placement of the bowl.

A prickling awareness slid over her, and she coughed into her hand, trying to shake off the evidence of eyes that had lingered too long. Her quarry had already vanished—retreated into the back, likely to finalise her order.

She straightened her back, expression level, eyes meeting the approach of the waitress who had returned after quickly clearing a table and tending to an elderly lady at the counter.

The woman's face remained unreadable, yet in those golden eyes, Tsabin swore there flickered a glint of amusement.

Their brief staring contest broke when a baritone voice sounded—Shirou Emiya, now fully identified. Tsabin assumed Emiya was his family name. Unless Shirou was, and Arturia simply chose to use it, which seemed unlikely.

"Your orders are done," he said crisply, wiping his hands with a towel.

His silver-grey eyes shifted to his partner, "Would you care to escort our guest back to the speeder?"

"Our guest here ordered three thermocrates' worth of food—I would think that would be an inconvenient walk back to their speeder," he explained dryly.

"I'm fine with that," Arturia replied, her hand gesturing with quiet poise toward Tsabin. "However, our guest also wishes to book the restaurant for private use after hours."

"Oh, really." His brow arched while he set the towel down with exacting neatness on the plasteel counter.

Their eyes locked in wordless exchange—Tsabin felt as though she were intruding on a private moment.

However, this brief moment of silent exchange—a testament to how much they know each other, or at least that's what Tsabin assumed—was broken when Arturia directed her gaze to Tsabin.

"I'm fine with it. We can have our break next week instead. It would be remiss to squander an opportunity; idleness is the enemy," she declared.

"We do seem to collect enemies, don't we? Isn't hunger one of them? Perhaps this is your ploy to upsell the 'Beat the Sarlacc challenge.' I already placed limits on it, lest you become Chunkturia."

Tsabin almost winced at the tension—Arturia's glare could have cut durastell, though the effect was undercut by the faintly puffed cheek she was pouting with.

"I do not appreciate any perversion of my name, nor am I to be likened to an anthropomorphised sarlacc," she intoned, arms crossing with a faint stamp of her foot.

"Furthermore, we maintain rigorous nightly sparring. Two 'Empty the Pantry Challenges' in one day is of little consequence," Arturia proclaimed, her voice cutting cleanly across the room.

Tsabin's cheeks flared instantly, the room going quiet at the innuendo no one missed. Emiya's face shifted from frozen disbelief to the long-suffering look of a man used to this. His raised eyebrow hooked at Tsabin like a dare—as though he knew of the images now circling her overwrought mind: the petite woman at her side and the tall, dark, undeniably handsome man locked in a sweaty, passionate 'spar.'

"Ahem." Emiya's cough cracked the silence, his eyes sweeping the room like a teacher catching out unruly students. Chairs scraped as conversations sputtered back to life, a few patrons seizing the chance to settle their bills with a quick tap of their credit chips.

"What is this 'Beat the Sarlacc Challenge'?" Tsabin asked. Emiya's grin was all triumph, while Tsabin squirmed under the tempered glare of the thoroughly teased 'sparring' aficionado.

And on that note, plans for the night's revelry took shape fast—loudly punctuated by Arturia's indignant protest that it was the 'Empty the Pantry Challenge,' not whatever else people were calling it. It ended with Emiya volunteering her to haul the three heavy thermocrates to their apartments, since she'd be heading out on a supply run anyway.
Despite warnings—from Mr Tall-Dark-and-Sarcastic—Tsabin had allowed Arturia the controls of her speeder. She had wanted to see what the fuss was about, slaving their speeder to hers. But as soon as both speeders lifted into the air, any trace of sleepiness left her body—burned away by terror as she clung white-knuckled all the way back home.

-=&<o>&=-

Padmé cruised the skyline on the way to the parking bay, having just dropped off Rabbine, Sasha and Mara—Veyra, Ryn, and Kaela, she corrected in her mind. She sighed, fighting Tsabin's careless habits that Su Yan had begun to mirror. Serin, Nive, she repeated aloud, the sound grounding her resolve.

When she landed in front of the closed establishment, the plasteel shopfront shutter was pulled down and locked, yet she could see light bleeding through the thin gap between the shutter and the floor.

Serin and Nive greeted her as they were standing at the closed shopfront waiting for her, dressed in the same uniform as the so-called "demon driver"—Serin's nickname for the petite co-owner.

Padmé's gaze lingered on the uniform, a faint heat rising in her chest.

'Perhaps I could convince them to let her keep it?' She thought hopefully—the dress suited her best friend far too well.

Serin—Padmé, reminding herself firmly of the pseudonym, easing into the habit before the event—offered to park her speeder. She explained the owner had already ridden ahead on a speeder bike to save her the walk.

Padmé's mind betrayed her for a moment, the name Tsabin almost rising to her lips. She then shook her head in refusal, preferring a little more peace before the night's rhythm began.

Serin instead passed her the bay number and, oddly, wished her to enjoy.

-=&<o>&=-

Padmé eased her vehicle into the parking bay, steering toward the assigned number. A man sat idly on his speeder, his back a dark silhouette against the sky. The moonlight left her with nothing but his shadowed outline.

She noted the breadth of his shoulders, the cropped cut of his hair, and the lazy way he leaned back while eating—likely a piece of fruit.

As she drew closer, her headlights struck him as he turned to face her approaching vehicle—revealing his white hair and sun-touched skin.

He raised an arm against the glare until she eased the lights down. With a flick of his wrist, the fruit core sailed into the refuse bin, neat as if he'd aimed. Padmé's gaze lingered, catching the subtle shape of his lips—frustratingly silent behind the transparisteel.

With a tap, the transparisteel hatch lowered, the speeder shifting to idle as its thrumming sank to a soft rhythmic hum.

"Padmé—though I suppose Liora is the name I should use, isn't it?"

Her stomach dropped. 'Tsabin!' The thought flared like a spark; her face, no doubt, betrayed the frustration twisting in her chest. The man's amused chuckle confirmed that her face currently reflects her feelings.

"Don't worry," he said, the words carrying a calm assurance. "Serin and Nive already swore us to secrecy. They're…a—"

"Handful." Padmé finished for him, voice flat.

The quiet laugh that followed was disarmingly warm. He turned back to his controls, attitude control thrusters firing in short bursts, his speeder gliding aside with practised ease.

Encouragement wasn't needed. She guided the speeder neatly into the bay and powered it down. The repulsors' hum dwindled to silence, ending in a soft thud as the craft touched down on the duracrete.

He closed the distance in a few strides, one arm offered in a deliberate steadying gesture as she rose from her seat.

"Emiya. One of the owners of The Empty Pantry. I hope you enjoy tonight's festivities."

-=&<o>&=-
END
Next Chapter Update: Same Story
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13thsephiroth · Oct 28, 2025

Fate/Knights of the
Heroic Throne

Chapter Intro
Human order: Restored.
History: Preserved.
But what of the ones who made it possible?
Heroic Spirits—echoes of legends, bound to vessels, fated to fade without remembrance.
But a wish was made.
One last miracle from humanity's saviour—
that her fallen companions might live once more.

Quick AN (Pseudonym Guide):
Real Name - Current Pseudonym - Future Name/Handmaiden Name
Padmé Nabberie - Liora - Queen Amidala/Padmé
Tsabin Vareli - Serin - Sabé
Mara Solune - Kaela - Riané
Eirtama Ballory - Train - Eirtaé
Su Yan Calris - Niva - Yané
Sasha Malvern - Ryn - Saché
Rabbine Ondel - Veyra - Rabé

Story Starts
-=&<o>&=-
Chapter 4.3 -
The Future Queen
and the Decree to Empty the Pantry

"Emiya. One of the owners of The Empty Pantry. I hope you enjoy tonight's festivities."

The now-identified Emiya—Mr Tall-Dark-and-Handsome, as Serin had dubbed him—released her hand and offered her a helmet, and Padmé reminded herself to keep their pseudonyms straight for the night.

At this distance, she found herself craning upwards; even when facing forward, her vision barely reached the line of his chin, the disparity in their height unmistakable.

Brown eyes met grey. His hair—short, white, brushed back by the wind—framed a face of sharp lines, softened only by the quiet ease with which he carried himself.

She cleared her throat, accepting the helmet with a slight nod. "Thank you. Yes—it's Liora, on behalf of Tsabin… well, Serin tonight. Apologies for the last-minute booking.

Turning back to her speeder, she placed the helmet with care, her reflection faintly visible on the transparisteel hatch. "If I am not mistaken, you were to close early this evening—your first true rest day since the restaurant's doors opened."

He chuckled in amusement. In the reflection of her speeder's hatch, Padmé noticed his gaze trail over her before shifting to his own vehicle, a slight frown creasing his features.

A faint frown touched Padmé's face. She had been told the owner was respectful, yet she had just caught him plainly looking her over.

"It's not a problem. The previous owners—Balron and Tessari—told us to seize opportunities. We're simply following their advice."

She fussed with the helmet, tucking her hair so it wouldn't whip across her face once the speeder picked up. In the reflection, he leaned sideways, resting a forearm lazily against his hip while his other hand lifted to his chin in thought.

"Hmm…" His gaze lingered. "Perhaps my speeder would serve us better—the dress may make the ride… problematic.

When she turned back, his eyes weren't on her face but lower. A moment later, she understood—he hadn't been ogling at all. He was puzzling over her dress.

She nearly laughed at herself. "It's fine. I've ridden like this before—I'll just sit side-saddle and hang onto you, if you don't mind?"

Then the memory of Tsabin and Su Yan's earlier gossip hit her.

"I apologise. Such familiarity may not be proper. Your wife might object, and I would not wish to put you in an awkward—"

Her hurried words were cut short by his low, easy chuckle. "Don't worry, Arturia is certainly not my wife. I only hesitated so as not to presume or be too familiar. If you do not mind, I certainly would not."

His words concluded, he stepped to the vehicle and drew up a comlink headset, the slender mouthpiece settling against his jaw. Extending a hand, he beckoned.

"Come on—the event is about to start."

Padmé gathered the long folds of her gown, placed her hand in his—noting the rough, calloused texture of his fingers—and mounted the speeder sideways. The craft dipped at once beneath her, only to level smoothly as the repulsorlift held its balance.

"Take this handle with your left—yes, just so. Place your foot there—perfect. Ah… like you said, not your first rodeo with a speeder bike."

She tilted her head, puzzled by the unfamiliar word rodeo—clearly a colloquialism from some distant world.

He drew up the goggles that hung from the controls and fastened them with care before touching the side of his comlink headset, the indicator glowing blue; he did the same with the side of her helmet.

"Testing. Does my voice reach you through the helmet?"

Lifting her gaze, Padmé gave her assent as he swung onto the craft.

Her eyes lingered on his back—broad, framed by a red duster of tanned hide. She drew closer, warmth bleeding through the leather as her side rested lightly against him.

Carefully, she slipped an arm around his waist, though her hand could not meet the far side.

Padmé jolted when he caught her forearm, shifting her hand to grip his coat instead. A reassuring pat followed. "Feel secure?" he asked, the speeder's engines thrumming to life beneath them.

Padmé then tightened her hold, checked her footing on the side rail, and answered in the affirmative with quiet confidence.

At her word, the speeder descended through the tiers of the parking bay before rising again into open air. Padmé let her head rest lightly against his back—taking care not to dig in as the helmet might not be comfortable against him—as the craft soared into the Naboo sky.

"So, about the pseudonyms—mind if I ask?"

His voice crackled through her helmet, snapping her from her thoughts.

She sighed. "We began using them when we grew more active in pushing for regime change. It is a small defence, so our public actions do not spill into our private lives and make our families political targets."

"Hmm." The faintest note of doubt reached her through the comlink.

"Our allies within the government have backdated our assumed identities and consigned our true names to the Chommell Sector's Privacy Register. Within this Sector, privacy is more than a custom—it is law and civic value. Even our senate representative is known to the galaxy only as Palpatine, as are many figures of note throughout the Sector. It's not nearly as easy to pierce that veil as you'd think."

"Hmm—interesting. Still, if the holonews is to be believed, he has successfully ordered political assassinations. A pseudonym means little if your face is on display." Emiya observed. Padmé acknowledged the truth of it, though she wondered that this, above all, concerned him.

"So—your opinion—" Padmé began, but the speeder dipped before she could finish, steep yet controlled. The palace plaza rose swiftly to meet them before he guided them smoothly into a side street.

"What was it you wished to ask?" Emiya asked, Padmé blinked, startled to find both arms wrapped around him. It hadn't been frightening, nothing like Tsabin's tale of her horror-ride—relatively gentle—but the dip still flipped her insides.

'Wait, I think he asked a question?'

"Padmé! You're back." Tsabin emerged with a grin far too knowing, brows wagging.

"Shouldn't she be called Liora?" Emiya remarked dryly, "And you could let go now. I apologise if the dive made you feel uncomfortable."

Heat rushed to Padmé's face. She froze, still clinging to him as Tsabin was joined by Su Yan, Mara, Eirtama, Sasha, and Rabbine.

'Serin, Nive, Kaela, Tarin, Ryn, and Veyra,' she admonished herself, hastening to release him and dismount—helmet left on to conceal her cheeks.

Padmé caught a glimpse of Emiya, shaking his head in amusement, before ducking through the back entrance, swiftly falling in step with Tsabin.

'Kriff—it's Serin.'

Padmé stood before the group, the plasteel shopfront shuttered behind her. As this was a private event, all entry was through the back; the front of the shop remained firmly closed.

With a deep breath, she confirmed the datapad in her hand, a microphone held aloft in the other. The room buzzed with conversation—heat crept up her neck as she glanced down at herself.

Serin had insisted they all wear the shop's uniform—a so-called maid outfit. Padmé fidgeted in it, the chest window far too revealing for her taste, while the chill air traced the exposed skin between her skirt's hem and the top of her stockings.

But with a firm exhale, she pushed down her embarrassment as she surveyed the restaurant.

A short tour before the gathering had shown her how The Marble Kettle had been transformed—now refitted into a restaurant, doubling as the owners' home.

Within the dining hall, few alterations were evident—the walls, the marbled floor, and the bar counter all stood as before, unchanged in their familiar order.

She remembered Balron and Tessari—the old owners, always sneaking her and Tsabin extra pastries when they dropped by the café—who'd apparently taken to the couple. Still, Padmé wasn't sure what their relationship or arrangement truly was.

Changing in their private quarters—a single-room suite where the bed, kitchen, and sitting area all shared the same space, modest in size yet comfortably lived in—she could not help but notice the solitary bed in the corner, plainly made for two. Arturia had also been present, sprawled across it during her break, lazily scrolling the holoscreen for something to watch.

In any case, the retirees had liked the pair enough to offer them a generous arrangement for the premises. Padmé had caught Serin and Nive pestering Arturia for gossip, but they got only flat, deadpan answers—her regal air blunted when off duty.

Arturia Pendragon and Shirou Emiya—the pair was quite curious indeed. Tsa—Serin and Nive, giggling as they traded fantastical theories, had claimed that Arturia might hail from a noble house of the Hapes Consortium, with Emiya serving as her attendant.

Supposedly, the pair had fallen in love and eloped in protest against the Consortium's traditions. Yet Padmé herself noted—their names did not match those of that region of the galaxy.

'Well, the pair's names are too—'

Her datapad blinked—one dot from Serin. Padmé frowned, glancing up at Serin perched beside Arturia, who sat motionless, regal aura dialled up to full. Nive was there too, along with their newest hire, Veyra—Rabbine.

Serin's impish smile caught her eye, followed by a subtle flick toward the rear kitchen door. The narrow gap revealed Emiya for a heartbeat, brows lifted, thumb raised, before he disappeared once more.

She almost dropped the microphone as lively music trickled through the sound system. "Good evening—thank you for coming to this last-minute event." Padmé stood rooted as every eye turned to her.

Padmé caught sight of Kaela pushing through—elbow braced against the kitchen door, tray balanced high in her other hand. Behind her came Emiya, Tarin, and Ryn, in a quick blur of motion, setting platters in neat rows across the bar. From there, they fanned out—delivering a large set to each of the three opposing tables arranged in the middle of the dining area and placing others along the wall counters, spaced evenly around the room.

"This last-minute gathering is modest, but meaningful," Padmé started as she locked eyes with her companions in these trying times. "These past months have weighed heavily on us all as we've struggled to build support."

Padmé let her warm smile soften the words, and the crowd responded with approving cheers.

"Tonight we welcome the Merchant Guild—whose pledge of support makes this celebration possible."

Raucous cheering followed—people raising cups, stamping their feet, and calling out in celebration.

"Our demonstration has been granted a greater stage: a booth and time upon the platform at the Festival of Merchant's Boon, two weeks hence."

Padmé paused as applause once again swelled, her team turning to face the members of the Merchant Guild in gratitude.

Her smile brightened as it now bore a more teasing quality. "Now, you might be wondering about the platters of scrumptious offerings prepared by our last-minute host—The Empty Pantry."

Her gaze swept the room: three groups seated at round tables set in opposition, while the other guests formed a loose circle around them.

"To start tonight's revelry, we shall offer you a task so daunting, an uphill battle few have ever glimpsed the peak of. Tonight, I set upon you a challenge—a challenge to… Empty. The. Pantry!"

The room shook in reply. Participants roared, cutlery slamming the tables in thunderous rhythm until the sound rolled like a drumbeat through the room.

-=&<o>&=-
END
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13thsephiroth · 2025-12-25T00:08:45+0000

Fate/Knights of the
Heroic Throne

Chapter Intro
Human order: Restored.
History: Preserved.
But what of the ones who made it possible?
Heroic Spirits—echoes of legends, bound to vessels, fated to fade without remembrance.
But a wish was made.
One last miracle from humanity's saviour—
that her fallen companions might live once more.

Story Starts
-=&<o>&=-
Chapter 5.1 -
One Must Not
Feed Strays After Hours

A twitch. A breath. The faint hiss of oil answered him.

Twitch. Shirou Emiya—former Counter Guardian, once a hound of Alaya, one among the many heroes of Chaldea, stood before the burner hub, a customised rectangular pan balanced in one hand, long wooden chopsticks in the other. The weight of the pan felt reassuring against his palm; its warmth radiated through the handle like a heartbeat beneath wood and steel.

Twitch. A flick of the wrist, measured, unhurried. Under his guidance, the omelette folded neatly upon itself, each motion clean and deliberate, another golden layer settling into place. Steam rose in whispered columns, carrying the rich, earthy perfume of eggs kissed by oil—deepened by the faint brine of broth made from reconstituted dried seaweed, a humble echo of the traditional Japanese dashi. The burner hub murmured beneath it all—a bright, metallic hiss tempered by a hollow, bell-like undertone, like an engine's breath softened by flame.

Twitch. He caught up a small, bunched piece of flimsi soaked in oil and swept it across the pan in light, circular strokes. The metal sang softly where it met the fat, a note of work and warmth. He pushed the rolled omelette forward with practised precision, spread another veil of oil across the cleared space, and set the flimsi back into its bowl.

Twitch. Another pour followed. The beaten egg spread in a thin, pale layer, its edges trembling before catching in the heat. He lifted the roll just enough to let the liquid slip beneath, piercing the bubbles that swelled with trapped steam, before starting the process all over again.

"Shirou?"

Twitch.

"Shirou?"

"Yes, Padmé?" he said, releasing a long, measured sigh, trying to hide the flicker of irritation he'd been feeling this morning.

"Do you need any help?" she asked, her dark eyes following the rolled golden egg as he flipped it with practised ease, the surface gleaming with a faint sheen of oil that caught the kitchen's warm lighting.

"Hey, Shirou, how long before breakfast? We're already hungry," the familiar, melodious voice of Tsabin drifted from behind him—he didn't need to turn, for she was almost certainly standing at the access door to the dining area. Her tone carried that teasing impatience over genuine hunger he'd somehow grown used to each morning.

Twitch. He gently laid the rolled egg into the wooden mat, its rough weave scratching softly against his fingertips as he enclosed the warm cylinder within, pressing and shaping it into a uniform form.

"Shirou, I think you need more potassium. Your eye has been twitching for the past twenty seconds," Padmé said, worry threading her voice as she leaned closer until he caught the subtle fragrance of the soap she favoured—floral and understated—a reminder of his early morning pickup at the Palace Plaza before a supply run, the scent of dew in the air mirroring her own. Her breath warmed his cheek as she studied his face with disarming focus.

"Shirou, our comrades require nourishment; one must hasten—Su Yan and Mara have yet to partake in anything since yesterday afternoon." Arturia's imperious tone carried cleanly from the dining area of the restaurant, each word crisp and precisely enunciated, cutting through the kitchen's ambient sounds like a blade through silk.

Twitch. 'One must not feed strays after hours,' Shirou thought, bitterly amused. He let the breath out through his nose, then turned to face Padmé properly. "If you could help me push that cart and start setting the table, that would be helpful. And thank you for the concern, but I think I'm fine."

Padmé's expression stayed sceptical, her brow furrowing as if weighing whether to press the matter or not. "If you're sure," she said at last, choosing instead to let it go as she moved to the wheeled cart.The metal rattled softly beneath her hands, the sound pairing with the clink of ceramic and the gentle slosh of soup beneath its lid.

The cart bore the morning's fare: a carefully arranged selection of vegetable side dishes in small porcelain bowls, colours bright and inviting; various pickles gleaming with vinegar; grilled fish with skin still crackling from the heat; miso sending up wisps of savoury steam; and a large food warmer filled with perfectly seasoned rice, each grain distinct and glistening. Earthy, salty, sweet, and umami aromas rose in a quiet symphony—traditional Japanese breakfast fare, prepared with meticulous care.

"Yes, and thank you, I'll follow shortly with the eggs," he said, turning back to retrieve the bamboo-wrapped cylinder, its warmth pulsing through the woven fibres into his palms.

Shirou set all three shaped omelettes on a wooden board, aligning the trio with care. He sliced them into equal portions and arrayed the pieces, cut-side up—each delicate layer still moist and glistening—on a rectangular ceramic plate. Then, as always, he cleared everything—board, mat, knife, and pan—into the autowasher, his motions fluid, unthinking, and sure.

By the time he stepped toward the dining area, the warm murmur of conversation and the gentle clink of chopsticks against ceramic bowls told him that everyone had already started with their meal. The rich aroma of miso and grilled fish mingled with satisfied sighs of appreciation.

"…!"

Shirou paused mid-stride as something tugged at the back of his mind—a familiar weight of responsibility that made his chest tighten with mild panic. Arturia's breakfast. He placed the plate of rolled omelettes carefully on the polished bar counter, the ceramic making a soft tap against the wood.

"Sasha, could you take this? I forgot something rather important," Shirou asked, his voice carrying a note of sheepish urgency as he addressed the quietest—relatively speaking—member of Padmé's entourage. She sat nearest to the counter, her dark hair catching the morning light filtering through the windows.

Sasha glanced up from her bowl, steam still rising from the amber broth, and took one last deliberate sip of the miso soup. The liquid warmed her throat as she savoured the salty, earthy depth before setting the bowl down with a gentle clink. She stood gracefully, her movements unhurried despite Shirou's evident haste.

Shirou was already turning back toward the kitchen, his mind focused on the oversight. Approaching the food warmer with quick, purposeful steps, he could feel the residual heat radiating from its surface.

He opened the plasteel-framed glass door, releasing a fresh wave of savoury steam, and carefully extracted a plate stacked high with Arturia's favourite indulgent offerings: glistening sausages with their casings slightly split from cooking, strips of bacon still crackling faintly, thick slices of ham with caramelised edges, and roasted mushrooms that glistened with rendered fat and herbs.

Quickly returning to the dining area, he slipped into the empty seat between Padmé—who presided at the head of the table as if she were the matriarch of the house—and Tsabin, the rice warmer settling neatly on the cart Padmé had rolled in, pulling it towards his right side for easy access. The hot platter found its place at the centre, and spoons, forks, and chopsticks immediately reached for the glistening offerings—save for one hand.

"Careful, that plate's hot," Shirou warned.

For a moment, Tsabin froze—caught halfway between sense and mischief—as she shot Shirou a challenging quirk of her brow. Her fingers moved again, inching towards the gleaming ceramic, taking his warning as a challenge.

Shirou's eyes followed the motion, half amused, as if he were watching a car crash about to happen—well, speeder wreck if he puts it into context. She covered over the platter's glossy surface, reaching not for the food but for the heated ceramic instead.

She yanked her hand back with a sharp hiss, fingertips flying to her lips as her eyes crinkled with mischief. She earned a chorus of snorts from the table as if this were typical behaviour for her.

"I thought it wouldn't be too hot since you brought it in bare-handed," she said, her tongue darting out in mock defiance.

Twitch.

"You're the sort who'd press the 'Do Not Touch' button just to see what happens," he said to Tsabin, half a smile ghosting across his face—earning an affirmative hum from his right.

His gaze swept the table—platters crowding every available surface, steam rising from bowls, the gentle clink of utensils against ceramic like a soft percussion beneath the chatter.

Five days. Five days since this invasion had begun, with Padmé and her retinue appearing for breakfast, dinner, sometimes both. They had claimed the private corners of the restaurant as if by right: lingering in the kitchen during restaurant hours, transforming the rooftop garden into their meeting space, even sprawling across the small studio apartment above as though it were common ground.

The memory of feeding them after hours that first night flickered through his mind—a moment of weakness that had snowballed into a full-scale occupation. He'd even whipped out some late-night hotpot to go with the crate of bottled wine Arturia had produced.

It didn't help that they had even discovered the bath upstairs—a spacious area customised to his Japanese ideals as a kind of makeshift onsen. The sound of running water and muffled voices drifting down through the floorboards had become a nightly soundtrack.

Steam carried hints of lavender bath salts he'd never purchased, yet somehow they appeared in his supplies. Their bath almost got daily use from the retinue of reformists, Arturia joining them for some 'naked friendship'—a term she'd probably picked up from Ritsuka or one of the many Japanese Servants in Chaldea.

Arturia extended her empty chawan towards him, the gesture as natural as breathing, her pale fingers steady despite the way her golden eyes tracked the conversations around them with quiet interest. Around them, the conversation flowed like a gentle current—snippets of schedules, campaigning for grassroots support, and strategy blending with the soft clink of utensils against ceramic, underscored by the day's news playing live in the background through the holoscreen.

Seven extra mouths to feed, seven more plates to wash—or rather, seven more to be loaded into the autowasher.

While he was the one who offered breakfast the first night they stayed, the one who had encouraged all of this chaos was none other than his partner, who had taken an immediate and inexplicable liking to the reformist group and continuously invited them after hours for some libation—her golden eyes lighting up whenever Padmé's entourage arrived.

Anyone who stayed over for breakfast earned an extension of the invitation to those who hadn't stayed the night as well, Arturia's sense of hospitality proving as relentless as her former reign. Still, Shirou admitted with a mixture of resignation and genuine warmth, the place felt livelier these days—even if his workload had increased and the constant hum of voices had replaced the restaurant's former quiet evenings.

Like clockwork, he wordlessly took the empty chawan from Arturia's fingers, the ceramic still warm from the rice it had held. The familiar weight of it in his palm brought a strange comfort as he filled it high with a neat, perfectly shaped mound of rice—each grain catching the overhead light—before handing it back to her still-outstretched hand. A soft, almost melodic sound of gratitude followed the exchange, the kind of contented murmur that spoke of genuine appreciation rather than mere politeness.

He couldn't help but trace this particular brand of chaos back to where it had all begun, his memory picking through the threads like unravelling a complex weave.

His gaze swept across the table and beyond, past the gentle steam rising from countless dishes. He recalled with vivid clarity the sight of them everywhere—lounging in the restaurant's corners with the easy confidence of regular patrons; turning the rooftop garden into a makeshift command centre; drifting through his once-pristine kitchen with casual familiarity; their enthusiastic use of the upstairs bath—no doubt increasing the utilities—and even invading the small studio apartment above with notebooks and datapads scattered across every surface. All of it was done with the languid confidence of well-fed cats that had claimed their territory and deemed it satisfactory.

'Truly, you shouldn't feed strays after hours.'

-=&<o>&=-

Five days ago, the night Tsabin organised a private event at The Empty Pantry…

Tsabin Vareli—or rather Serin for the night—stood alongside Padmé at the back entrance of The Empty Pantry, the cool morning air brushing over her skin and making her shiver as a sudden gust of wind stirred her cloak.

Mr Emiya flanked Padmé's other side, his quiet presence a reassuring anchor amidst the controlled chaos of departure. The three formed an impromptu receiving line, their courteous voices blending in the soft rhythm of farewells and gratitude as guests trickled out in pairs and clusters, some lingering for one last word before stepping into the pre-dawn dark.

She inwardly winced, realising she had once again thought Padmé instead of Liora. If she ever slipped aloud, she would never hear the end of it.

Inside, Tarin and Veyra worked with the brisk precision of professionals long past exhaustion, packing the evening's bounty into gleaming plastoid containers. Each one was sealed, labelled, and arranged neatly across a repurposed prep table now stationed by the exit.

The entire setup resembled a miniature relief operation—a quiet, orderly dance of motion and purpose.

Sasha—Ryn for the night—stood sentinel beside the neat rows, her datapad casting a steady white glow over the steel counter. Every departing guest paused at her station, datapads chirping softly as they connected. The bureaucratic hum of liability waivers ensured that no complaint could reach The Empty Pantry if improperly stored, reheated leftovers turned against the eater later.

Meanwhile, Nive and Arturia managed the last lingering guests, trading light conversation while clearing tables and setting the dining area back to its tidy, peaceful state.

"Ah, Mr Emiya!"

The cheerful greeting rang through the cool air, followed by the firm, measured steps of Sio Bibble and the Head of the Merchant Guild, Cedor Parnell, emerged from The Empty Pantry's warm glow. The governor's voice carried that precise timbre of satisfaction that came after good food, good drink, and the pleasure of being seen enjoying both.

Tsabin noted, not without irritation, how he greeted Emiya alone, deliberately excluding her and Liora from his attention.

Sio Bibble extended his hand—palm angled upward in a consciously open gesture that projected warmth without conceding authority. To Tsabin, well-versed in Naboo's political theatre, the gesture was almost artful in its calculation.

In his other hand, Bibble carried two steaming plastoid containers, their lids fogged and venting tiny tendrils of heat that curled like pale smoke against the morning chill. The sight was faintly absurd—the dignified governor of Theed clutching takeaway boxes like a man guarding treasure.

Emiya accepted the handshake with his usual calm composure, unhurried but firm.

"Excellent evening," Bibble declared with the self-satisfaction of one well entertained. "The food was remarkable—unique, in fact! And all this arranged at the last minute?"

His praise sounded genuine enough, though Tsabin could see the deliberate way his gaze slid past both her and Liora—two women rendered invisible through the governor's lens.

"Yes, Governor," Shirou replied evenly. "Though Arturia and I had considerable help from Serin, Liora, and their team." His polite deflection was effortless—warm, professional, and quietly corrective. His amber eyes briefly met theirs—a small, deliberate moment of acknowledgement that the governor had so pointedly withheld.

'At least someone remembers to use the aliases,' Tsabin thought wryly, humour tinged with complaint. Emiya switched between real and false names as naturally as breathing, while she still stumbled over them—even in her own head.

Tsabin felt the familiar spark of irritation at Sio Bibble's predictable behaviour. Like clockwork, the governor's expression shifted as his gaze swept over them. He ignored Padmé entirely, as if she were invisible, while offering Tsabin nothing more than a perfunctory nod—neutral at best, coldly dismissive at worst. The contrast with his effusive warmth toward Emiya was stark enough to be almost comical.

"Oh, and modest as well," Bibble declared with theatrical appreciation, his jubilant expression returning full force now that his attention was safely focused away from the women.

"My office will undoubtedly be a frequent customer if the quality of the food persists," Bibble declared with theatrical appreciation. "I'm sure my wife will love what I'm bringing home tonight—though she'll probably taste it in the morning." He released Shirou's hand before giving him two hearty thumps on the shoulders, the gesture almost paternal in its approval.

"Where are my manners?" Bibble asked rhetorically, his voice swelling with self-importance.

Tsabin's lips twitched at the predictable display, her thoughts laced with dry irritation. 'Yeah, where indeed are your manners?'

"This is Cedor Parnell—Head of the Merchant Guild of Naboo," he continued, turning with a flourish to introduce the broad-shouldered man who had accompanied him. Parnell's sun-browned skin and dark auburn hair, streaked with early grey, caught the faint lamplight as he stepped forward.

Tsabin knew from his record that he was well into his sixties, though careful gene and skin therapies kept him looking closer to his mid-forties. Anyone with enough credits could afford rejuvenation treatments to preserve youth—even the elderly governor of Theed, whose long face, neatly trimmed grey-white beard, sharp blue-grey eyes, and swept-back silver hair made him look remarkably spry. Bibble was scarcely a decade older than Parnell, and the whitening of their hair, Serin mused, was likely more the result of stress than time—a professional hazard shared by men in power.

Parnell's square jaw and neatly kept beard lent him the practical solidity of a craftsman rather than the polish of a court official. The forest-green and bronze of his guild robes complemented his colouring, and unlike Bibble's performative warmth, his manner seemed genuinely open. He inclined his head politely toward both Liora and Serin before turning to Shirou, his gesture marked by the kind of natural respect the governor always seemed to lack.

Bibble, beaming with renewed enthusiasm now that the attention had safely returned to male company, clapped his hands together. "Cedor, this is Shirou Emiya, co-owner of this lovely establishment. He has been a gracious host and entertained me thoroughly this evening."

Parnell extended his arm in greeting, his own plastoid container balanced carefully in the other hand. Emiya accepted the handshake with calm precision; as Tsabin had noticed earlier, he spoke with the effortless composure of someone long accustomed to those in power—courteous without ever being deferential.

"He has expressed an interest in opening a stall by our river market as well," Bibble added with enthusiasm, giving Emiya two more thumps on the shoulder, "and I think their business would be an excellent addition to our Festival of the Merchant's Boon, don't you think?"

"Oh, is this true? Are you planning on hiring additional staff?" Parnell asked, his brown eyes keen with the interest of a man who understood the practicalities of business expansion.

"Yes, Mr Parnell, we're planning to expand operations to handle deliveries, and we do need more staff so we can start having regular rest days. It'll also let us take advantage of new opportunities, just as our generous sponsor Tessari Nyl suggested," Shirou replied smoothly. His tone remained conversational—professional without a hint of obsequiousness. "In fact, our first batch of interviews happens tomorrow."

"Ah, Tessari Nyl—how is that crafty old schemer?" Parnell asked with genuine fondness, reaching for his datapad. He attempted to balance the device on his already-occupied left hand, the containers threatening to slip, but Shirou smoothly offered to hold them while Parnell navigated his datapad.
"I'm sure she and Balron are enjoying their time on Cantonica; it's barely been a month since their last visit," Emiya said conversationally, reaching for his own datapad.

"Here—you can reach me through my assistant. I'm sure we can arrange a booth at the festival; just let us know when you'd like to open a stall at the river market. More jobs and more commerce are always welcome," Parnell said. He and Sio exchanged a satisfied nod as Emiya gently tapped his device against Parnell's to receive the contact details.

"It's already early morning, Mr Emiya," Sio observed, glancing at the chrono on his device before looking up at the starry sky, while Emiya returned the plastoid containers to the guild head. "Give my regards to both Balron and Tessari. My wife would love to see her cousin and his wife now and then. Thank you for the lovely evening."

Parnell mirrored his goodbyes with easy warmth, and both men headed toward the front of the establishment where a sleek speeder waited on the pavement. But not before Sio Bibble shot Padmé one final icy stare, pointedly ignoring Tsabin altogether.

As the telltale whine of the speeder faded into the distance, Shirou turned to them with a slightly raised eyebrow, his expression wry. "It looks like he really doesn't like you, Liora—and only barely tolerates you, Serin."

Padmé could only manage a pained yet exhausted sigh, the weight of the evening's diplomatic tightrope walk evident in the slump of her shoulders. Tsabin shrugged with deliberate nonchalance, though her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Well, you could drop the aliases now—that was the last of the guests. And it's quite a long story."

For the second time this very early morning, another jubilant voice called out through the night air. "Shirou!" Arturia appeared, clutching a case of bottled wines as if it weighed nothing, flanked by Su Yan, whose own cheeks bore the telltale flush of an evening well-spent. "The night is still young; let us partake in some more libations and forge bonds of friendship!"

Tsabin couldn't help but grin at the sight of Arturia, whose normally composed demeanour had been softened by the evening's festivities. A delicate shade of pink coloured the blonde woman's cheeks—she had clearly accepted several offered drinks throughout the night, as had most of the hosts. After all, this event hadn't been merely a night of revelry but also a calculated mixer designed to connect their staff with influential members of the merchant guild.

"Hey! I don't mind that at all," Tsabin declared with enthusiasm—the prospect of extending the evening suddenly seemed far more appealing than ending it on Sio Bibble's particular sour note.

"I'm sure it'll be fun." Without waiting for objections, she grabbed Padmé's hand with playful determination. She tugged Padmé along, following Arturia and the rest of the girls toward their upper-garden retreat—leaving Shirou standing there without even the opportunity to put his two credits in.

-=&<o>&=-

With everyone still draped in their restaurant uniforms—though thankfully freed from the confines of their thigh-highs—they had gathered around a heavy, weathered wooden table. The chairs, hastily borrowed from the dining area downstairs, creaked softly under their weight as they settled into the evening's reprieve. The cool night air carried the faint scent of millaflower from the rooftop garden's planters, mingling with the rich aromas wafting from Emiya's culinary offerings.

Eirtama, cradling a bottle of chilled Nabooan white wine like a precious treasure, extended her long, slender arms with practised grace. Her slim fingers held the bottle's base with an almost lazy elegance as she poured generous helpings into each glass, the pale liquid catching the garden's ambient lighting. The soft clink of glass against glass punctuated the gentle evening breeze.

Her vivid red braids had been released from their earlier restraints, now cascading freely over her shoulders in waves that shimmered with rich lustre under the overhead lights. Her clear blue eyes, bright but tempered with the day's accumulated exhaustion, shifted towards the compact cryocooler as she methodically wedged the cork back into the emptied bottle.

Setting the spent bottle on the crate it came in, beside the humming cryocooler, she retrieved a bottle opener with practised efficiency and uncorked another bottle of white. Condensation immediately began forming delicate beads across the glass surface. The temperature differential created tiny rivulets that caught the light like scattered diamonds.

"Ey, Sasha, how is it?" Eirtama's voice carried a note of genuine curiosity as she directed her attention towards her companion.

Sasha sat with one hand threading through her nearly black, straight hair, attempting to tame the silken strands that the evening's gentle breeze kept sweeping across her face. The glossy locks seemed to have a mind of their own, catching and reflecting the garden's soft illumination. In her other hand, she cradled a small ceramic bowl—no larger than her palm—tipped delicately towards her pink lips as she savoured careful sips of the white, aromatic broth within.

Emiya, ever the consummate host despite his quietly weary demeanour, had just finished presenting his centrepiece: a wide, shallow pot filled with milky white broth that steamed invitingly in the cool air. He'd referred to it as paitan. The surface of the soup shimmered with emulsified protein and fat, creating an almost pearlescent quality that spoke to hours of rolling boil—well, that was according to Emiya.

Arranged around the communal pot with artistic precision were an array of vegetables—crisp greens and earthy mushrooms that promised textural contrast—alongside both processed and fresh meats that seemed to beckon from their carefully composed positions.

"Whoa, this is so good," Sasha breathed, setting her bowl down with a soft ceramic clink against the wooden table's surface. Her movements were fluid as she gathered her rebellious hair, securing it with an elastic band that had been wrapped around her slender wrist.

The action transformed her face, revealing the elegant line of her neck and the determined set of her jawline as she smacked her lips in appreciation.

"It's pretty rich and velvety—" She paused to take a considered sip of her wine, the pale liquid catching the light as it touched her lips. "—and it works surprisingly well with the wine. The acidity cuts through the richness beautifully."

The endorsement seemed to unlock something in the group's collective restraint. Tsabin reached for the ladle, its metal handle still warm from the steam, and served herself a modest portion of the bubbling soup. She positioned the ladle's handle towards Padmé—a subtle invitation that her closest friend recognised immediately, taking it as her cue to serve herself a portion. The gesture rippled around the table as everyone else followed suit, creating a comfortable rhythm of sharing and anticipation.

With deliberate care, Tsabin selected a silver fork and pierced a piece of pale white flesh. Tip-yip breast, she surmised, her brow crinkling slightly in concentration as she examined the meat's delicate texture. The protein looked perfectly cooked—tender and inviting without being overdone.

Beside the communal pot, Emiya had arranged three ceramic jars, each accompanied by its own small serving utensil. The containers seemed to promise different flavour journeys, their glazed surfaces reflecting the garden's gentle lighting.

The first, he'd explained with characteristic understatement, contained ponzu—a savoury and sour sauce designed for general purposes, its relatively light composition meant to enhance rather than overwhelm.

The second jar held what appeared to be a heavier sesame sauce, dark, creamy, and glossy, fragrant with garlic, herbs, and the deep, funky notes of fermented chilli paste that made Tsabin's nose tingle from this close.

The third jar, however, had captured her attention completely. According to Emiya's careful explanation, it contained citrus koushou—a potent blend of fermented citrus peels and chillies that promised surprising power despite its deceptively fresh, almost floral aroma. His warning that 'less is more' had been delivered with the kind of gentle authority that came from experience, accompanied by a slight smile that suggested he'd seen someone else learn that particular lesson.

Following Emiya's enthusiastic recommendation that the citrus would pair exceptionally well with the tip-yip, Tsabin reached for the tiny ceramic spoon. The utensil felt almost delicate in her fingers as she carefully portioned a small amount of the bright green condiment, its vibrant colour promising intensity. She dabbed it precisely onto the top of her selected piece of meat, watching as the paste clung to the protein's surface like a verdant crown.

The first bite was nothing short of revelatory. As her teeth sank through the tender meat, bright, sharp, citrusy notes exploded across her palate with an intensity that made her eyes flutter closed involuntarily. The fermented citrus brought layers of complexity—salty and slightly funky—while the chilli had little heat, yet it seemed to awaken every taste bud simultaneously as her mouth salivated. A soft, involuntary squeal escaped her throat, the sound somewhere between surprise and pure pleasure.

Without conscious thought, she followed the bite with a sip of the rich, velvety broth. The contrast was sublime—the paitan's creamy richness providing a luxurious backdrop that somehow made the citrus condiment's brightness even more pronounced. A pleasurable moan, deeper and more resonant than her initial squeal, escaped her lips before she could stop it.

"You like it that much, huh?" The amused voice from above made Tsabin freeze mid-chew, her eyes snapping open to discover the entire table's attention focused squarely on her. The realisation hit her like cold water—she'd been so lost in the sensory experience that she'd completely forgotten her audience.

Padmé's expression was caught between fond exasperation and barely contained laughter, her warm brown eyes dancing with mirth. Eirtama had paused mid-pour, the wine bottle suspended in her elegant fingers as her clear blue eyes sparkled with undisguised amusement. Sasha's steady hazel gaze held a mixture of curiosity and entertainment, while her lips curved in the slightest hint of a knowing smile.

Mara raised an eyebrow; her light-amber eyes—usually bright and warm—now appraising. Her voluminous blonde locks were tied into a messy bun. The new girl, Rabbine, who could pass as a little sister to both Padmé and Mara, gave her an awkward smile.

Su Yan, however, had adopted what could only be described as a positively foxy expression, her golden-brown eyes alight with mischievous delight as she leaned forward with predatory interest. "That was quite the orgasmic moan, Tsabin," she teased, her voice carrying just enough volume to make the comparison unmistakable. "Which combination did you try? Because I absolutely want to experience whatever just transported you to another realm!"

"Judging from the only missing piece in the hot pot and the small bits of green floating in her bowl, it was the tip-yip breast with a bit of citrus koushou," came the familiar voice from directly above her head, tinged with gentle amusement.
Tsabin jerked her head back sharply to locate the source, the sudden movement sending a shock of awareness through her neck muscles.

There, standing behind her chair with an expression of quiet satisfaction, was Emiya—his silver-grey eyes holding that particular blend of warmth and subtle humour that seemed to be his default setting.

Recognising the potential for collision between her rapidly tilting head and the chair's unforgiving backrest, Emiya smoothly placed his palm between her skull and the wooden surface, his reflexes speaking to the kind of spatial awareness typical of people who work in the service industry.

Arching an eyebrow in her direction, Emiya withdrew his palm from behind her skull as he settled into the vacant chair next to her, reaching for a pair of tongs. He selected another portion of the breast meat, held it aloft, and directed it towards Padmé, saying, "Here, let's finish the tip-yip breast; otherwise, it'll just overcook and become unpleasant. While I do recommend the koushou for the breast, any of the condiments will work as well."

With her delicate hands, Padmé raised her bowl, meeting the piece of meat halfway. He repeated the same cycle for each of the girls, even offering Tsabin another round, though she noticed him place one of the pieces in the empty bowl for Arturia.

"Ei, Arturia! Come join, come join," Su Yan enthusiastically called out, her voice cutting through the evening air with genuine warmth as Padmé, Mara, and Eirtama leaned in closer to catch every word of Rabbine's continuation of her animated recounting of her experiences in Coruscant—which had been momentarily interrupted by Tsabin's earlier moan. The younger woman was particularly vivid when describing her time at the University of Coruscant, her amber-gold eyes sparkling with remembered excitement as she gestured expressively.

Craning her neck, Tsabin caught sight of the blonde emerging from their studio apartment, no longer bound by the crisp lines of her black-and-white service uniform. Instead, Arturia had changed into something far more casual: short boxer shorts that revealed the lean musculature of her legs, and a simple white camisole that clung softly to her petite frame.

The moonlight seemed to seek her out deliberately, Tsabin mused with a mixture of admiration. Arturia's pale skin—that distinctive white with its faint grey undertone—caught the lunar glow and transformed her into something almost otherworldly. She moved with that characteristic measured grace, but in the silvery light, she appeared less like the composed restaurant waitress they all knew and more like some ethereal spectre who had wandered out of an old fairy tale.

But that ethereal impression shattered like morning frost as she dropped into the vacant spot next to Emiya, the movement fluid yet decisive. The way she draped her legs across his lap whilst declaring, "My limbs ache, Shirou, you will tend to my calves and feet," carried all the imperious authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question.

Tsabin nearly choked on her wine at the brazen display, the liquid catching in her throat as she witnessed the transformation from ethereal maiden to demanding noble in the space of a heartbeat. The casual intimacy of the gesture—those pale legs settling across Emiya's thighs as if it were the most natural thing in the world—sent an unexpected flutter through her chest that she couldn't quite name.

Emiya, without missing a beat, pushed her legs away with practised efficiency and said, "This is hardly the appropriate setting—thank you, Su Yan." He rebuked the petite, theorised, anthropomorphised sarlacc while thanking Su Yan, who immediately filled both Emiya and Arturia's glasses with wine, her golden-brown eyes dancing with barely suppressed amusement at the domestic theatre unfolding before them.

The rebuke was delivered with such matter-of-fact calm that Tsabin found herself studying Emiya's profile in the moonlight, noting the way his silver-grey eyes held that particular brand of long-suffering patience that spoke of countless similar exchanges. There was something almost endearing about his resigned composure, like a man who had grown accustomed to weathering storms of noble petulance.

Tsabin could feel a sudden pressure building behind her temples as she thought about Emiya's earlier explanation of some of Arturia's fans' theories about her bottomless stomach. She chalked it up to the day's tiredness and the potent vintage Su Yan kept pouring, watching as Arturia puffed her cheeks into a pout that transformed her regal features into something almost childishly endearing.

The moonlight caught the slight flush across Arturia's pale cheeks, whether from wine or indignation, Tsabin couldn't tell. But there was something utterly captivating about the way Arturia could shift so seamlessly between imperial authority and petulant charm, her golden eyes flashing with wounded pride even as her lower lip jutted out in obvious displeasure.

"I could give you a massage before we sleep," Emiya acquiesced, not looking at Arturia directly, his voice carrying that particular tone of someone who had learned when to pick his battles. The words hung in the warm night air as Tsabin took a large sip of the wine, feeling the rich liquid coat her throat as she watched their interplay between the couple with growing fascination.

Arturia's pout transformed instantly into a face of pure delight, her golden eyes lighting up with triumph as she nodded to herself in satisfaction, the movement causing her blonde hair to catch the moonlight like spun silk. Then, with the air of someone bestowing a great favour, she turned to address the table: "Do any of you want to have a massage before we sleep? Shirou here has amazing hands."

The casual offer dropped into the conversation like a stone into still water, sending ripples of surprise and intrigue across the gathered faces. Tsabin felt heat creep up her neck at the innocent yet loaded suggestion, her mind immediately conjuring images that had no business forming at a friendly dinner gathering.

Emiya, who began methodically dividing more of the aromatic meat and vegetables from the pot into individual bowls—the steam rising from the freshly served portions carrying the rich scents of herbs and spices—froze mid-motion at the sudden offer. His hands stilled over the communal dish, a piece of tender meat wedged between the teeth of a serving tong as if time itself had paused.

The silence stretched for a heartbeat, broken only by the gentle bubbling of the remaining broth and the distant sounds of the city settling into the night. Everyone appeared momentarily wrong-footed by the offer, with expressions ranging from startled surprise to dawning interest. However, Su Yan quirked an eyebrow at the suggestion, her amber-gold eyes sparkling with mischief as she leaned forward slightly, clearly intrigued by this unexpected development.

"What? Are you not staying the night?" Arturia continued, her tone suggesting that the answer should be evident to anyone with sense. "You might as well. Everyone here has already had at least a bottle of wine in them, and despite the automated flight capabilities of speeders, it is still not recommended; you'd need someone sober behind the control yoke of your vehicle." She punctuated her practical argument by downing her glass in one smooth motion, the pale column of her throat working as she swallowed.

Tsabin found herself mesmerised by the casual elegance of even that simple action, the way Arturia's head tilted back just enough to reveal the delicate line of her neck, the soft sound of satisfaction that escaped her lips as she set the empty glass down with a decisive click against the table.

"You might as well experience Shirou's full hospitali—ow!" The words cut off abruptly as Arturia's hand flew to her ear, her golden eyes widening in indignant surprise.

Shirou had reached over with lightning precision to flick her ear, the sharp sound of contact echoing in the sudden quiet. "Hey, why are you suddenly volunteering me?" he demanded, his amber eyes flashing with a mixture of exasperation and embarrassment. "Plus, I think it's quite an inappropriate offer, especially when we just met everyone today."

Emiya turned to face the rest of them, his expression shifting into formal contrition as he tilted his head in a proper bow. "I apologise for the inappropriate offer," he said with sincere regret colouring his voice. "If you do decide to stay the night, I can easily set up a sleeping bag and rest in the dining area. I wouldn't want to impose or make anyone uncomfortable."

The formal politeness was so at odds with the domestic bickering that had preceded it that Tsabin had to bite back a smile. There was something endearingly old-fashioned about his courtesy, the way he automatically took responsibility for his partner's boldness whilst offering practical solutions.

Su Yan suddenly interjected, her delicate hand raised as she gave a coy smile that transformed her already pretty features into something genuinely captivating. "Hey, I already know you lot through Uncle Balron," she said, her voice carrying a note of playful innocence that didn't quite match the spark in her golden-brown eyes. "Could I get that massage as well?"

The request hung in the air like incense, sweet and intoxicating. Tsabin watched Emiya's face go through a series of micro-expressions—surprise, realisation, and what looked distinctly like the dawning comprehension of a man who had suddenly found himself in much deeper waters than anticipated.
Emiya palmed his face with the gesture of someone who could smell blood in the water, his shoulders sagging slightly as he no doubt contemplated how a simple evening had spiralled so completely out of his control.

Seizing the moment with predatory glee, Tsabin cut in, her voice rich with amusement as she leaned forward. "Ooh, if Su Yan is getting one, I want one as well." She turned her attention to Padmé with exaggerated concern, noting how her friend's shoulders carried the tension of their recent late nights. "Padmé, didn't you complain about pains due to our late nights? Go ask for one as well."

"Yes, but—" Padmé began, her cheeks flushing pink in the moonlight as she clearly struggled between propriety and the very real appeal of the offer.

"And about sleeping in the dining area," Tsabin continued, looking around the table with a grin that she knew made her look like a cat who had discovered an unguarded bowl of cream, "we are all grown adults here." She paused to take a deliberate sip of her wine, letting the moment stretch as Su Yan made her rounds, topping up dangerously low glasses with the dedication of someone enabling chaos. "I'm sure you'll be the perfect gentleman, right, Ms Arturia?"

The question was loaded with implications and mischief, and Tsabin felt a thrill of satisfaction at the way it seemed to catch everyone's attention, the various expressions around the table ranging from scandalised to intrigued.

"You may call me Arturia," came the immediate response, delivered with regal authority that brooked no argument. "You might as well call Shirou here by his first name as well. It would be going against our camaraderie if one of us is referred to with their family name whilst the others are not."

The declaration was made with such imperial certainty that Tsabin found herself nodding automatically, caught up in the force of personality that could transform a simple dinner party into a royal court with nothing more than tone and bearing.

Arturia then turned to Shirou with a grin that was pure mischief, her normally imperious golden eyes now alight with devilish intent that made Tsabin's pulse quicken with anticipation. "Regarding Shirou here being a gentleman," she continued, her voice carrying the silky promise of revelations to come, "I would have to disagree, as he definitely is a pervert."

The accusation landed like a bomb in the peaceful evening, causing several people to choke on their drinks whilst others leaned forward with undisguised interest.

"I am not!" Shirou protested, his voice cracking slightly with indignation as colour flooded his cheeks. The moonlight made his white hair seem to glow with ethereal light, even as his face burned with very human embarrassment.

"Yes, you are!" Arturia shot back with triumphant glee, clearly delighting in his discomfort as she settled more comfortably in her seat, preparing to elaborate on her scandalous claims.

"What are you even talking about?" Shirou demanded, crossing his arms defensively as he turned to face her fully, his amber eyes flashing with a mixture of mortification and growing suspicion. "Is this payback for my earlier comments about the sarlacc thing?"

"I do not know what you're talking about," Arturia rebuked with such perfect innocence that it was obviously feigned, before turning to address their captive audience with the air of someone about to reveal state secrets. "Did you know Shirou designed this maid uniform, and it originally had a backless desi—"

The revelation was cut short as Shirou lunged forward with desperate speed, covering Arturia's mouth with his palm to prevent whatever mortifying detail she was about to share with their new friends. But Arturia, far from being silenced, simply bit down on his hand in retaliation, the action accompanied by a distinctly feline 'mokkyu' sound that somehow managed to be both adorable and threatening.

Tsabin and everyone else watched with growing amusement as the pair descended into what could only be described as dignified bickering, their obvious affection for each other shining through even their most heated exchanges. Su Yan continued her dedicated mission of keeping everyone's glasses filled, clearly viewing the domestic entertainment as the perfect accompaniment to their already exceptional late-night feast.

The sight of them—Shirou's mortified protests muffled by Arturia's continued attempts to share embarrassing stories, her golden eyes sparkling with mischief even as she maintained her grip on his hand.

Tsabin found herself exchanging a meaningful glance with Padmé; the look lingered longer than strictly necessary, both women silently wondering whether their own carefully undefined closeness mirrored the affectionate chaos unfolding before them.

Sasha, their generally meek and quiet friend who'd transform into a passionate orator only when conservation topics arose, suddenly cleared her throat with surprising authority. The sound cut through the comfortable atmosphere like a blade through silk. "Um, excuse me," she said, her voice carrying an unusual note of determination that made everyone pause mid-motion.

The bickering pair—who had been locked in their battle of wills, Arturia's teeth still threatening Shirou's captured hand whilst her golden eyes danced with unrepentant mischief—suddenly directed their full attention towards their friend. Their gazes, still gleaming with the remnants of their conflict, fixed on Sasha with laser-like intensity. The abrupt shift in focus was almost palpable, like stage lights suddenly swivelling to illuminate a new performer.

"What?" both asked in perfect unison, their voices creating an unconscious harmony that only served to emphasise their synchronicity.

"I've been curious since the start," Sasha began, her words measured but tinged with genuine interest, "what exactly is your relationship with each other?" She carefully avoided making direct eye contact with the pair, instead focusing on a spot somewhere between their shoulders, as though the intensity of their combined attention might overwhelm her usual composure.

The question hung in the air like incense, heavy and intoxicating. Tsabin could practically feel the collective held breath of their group, everyone leaning forward almost imperceptibly. This was something that everyone had probably wondered about from the moment they'd met the duo—the way they always referred to each other as 'partners'—a word vague enough to be businesslike yet suggestive of something romantic, especially given there was only one bed in their small apartment.

"Ooh, Sasha, are you interested?" Eirtama suddenly interjected with a teasing lilt that cut through the tension like a blade through butter, her clear blue eyes sparkling with mischief that rivalled Su Yan's and probably her own.

"Ah… no—" Sasha suddenly panicked, her previous composure cracking like ice under pressure as she stuttered her reply, colour flooding her cheeks in a way that made her denial entirely unconvincing. Her hands fluttered nervously, seeking purchase on her glass.

But despite the sidebar drama, all eyes inevitably fell upon the couple at the centre of attention, drawn like moths to flame. The weight of collective curiosity settled over Shirou and Arturia like a blanket, expectant and warm.

"Oh, Shirou here is my partner!" Arturia declared with the kind of pride typically reserved for announcing military victories, her voice ringing clear and strong through the restaurant's intimate space.

"My comrade-in-arms," she continued, before her expression shifted back to that familiar mischievous cast, golden eyes glinting with dangerous amusement as she added, "Or were you asking if we are involved carnally? Well, I certainly wouldn't mind sharing such details. We did have that rather memorable night with Ritsuka in Shibu—hey, ow!"

The sharp intake of breath around the table was audible, Su Yan nearly dropping her bottle of wine, whilst Tsabin felt her own eyebrows climbing towards her hairline in fascination and horror in equal measure.

Shirou, moving with the reflexes of someone long practised in damage control, suddenly held Arturia firmly by the ear, his grip gentle but unmistakably authoritative. His baritone voice cut through the air with the precision of a well-honed blade as he addressed their captivated audience: "If you're asking whether we are a couple in the traditional sense, Miss Sasha, that would be a rather complicated thing to explain without some context."

Arturia managed to slip free from Shirou's restraining fingers. She straightened with dignity intact, smoothing down her uniform with unconscious precision.

"Which is precisely why we have tonight's early morning revelry," she announced, her voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to addressing troops before battle. "We are now comrades in arms, having fought through gruelling service together and entertained guests as one united front."

Rising to her feet with ceremonial gravity, Arturia lifted her glass towards the ceiling, the liquid within catching the light like liquid amber. Her voice carried across the space with regal authority: "As we are now comrades bound by shared trials and mutual respect, let us toast this night's revelry and pledge to deepen our newly forged friendship through honest companionship and good cheer."

The words seemed to resonate in the warm air, carrying weight beyond their simple meaning. Everyone raised their glasses in response—even Shirou, though his participation came with a distinctly begrudging air that suggested he was already anticipating whatever embarrassing revelation might come next.

"Didn't you start tonight's service sitting down whilst indulging in what could only be described as shameless gluttony?" Shirou's voice cut through the night air with surgical precision, delivering one final, sarcastic rebuke.

-=&<o>&=-
END

Glossary:
Chawan - Japanese Rice Bowl
Paitan - Means white soup, basically tonkotsu, but a more general term, as the ton in tonkotsu means pork.

Next Chapter Update: The World of Otome Game is a Second chance for Broken Swords
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