[Complete] Ch 9 Fate/Knights of the Heroic Throne (Patreon)

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 9 - 

The Blockade Run

They moved through the palace corridors in formation—guards at the flanks, handmaidens surrounding the Queen, the two Jedi at point. Arturia Pendragon—the petite yet severe woman in a servant’s outfit—had fallen back to cover the rear, her sword still drawn, her footsteps silent on the marble.

From the direction of the bays came short, contained bursts of blaster fire. Beneath it, at intervals, the city-wide rumbles continued—the Gungans keeping their side of the bargain.

Qui-Gon reached out through the Force as they approached each corner. The palace hummed with movement—yet much of that movement revealed itself through voids, the way droids registered as absences in the Force’s flow. On a garden world like Naboo, teeming with life, absence stood out.

The corridor leading to the hangar was empty. Too empty.

He held up a fist. The column stopped.

“The hangar approach should be heavily defended by now,” Obi-Wan murmured beside him. “They know we’re heading there.”

“They do.” Qui-Gon extended his senses further. The Force whispered warnings—not of immediate danger, but of wrongness. Deliberate absence. A path cleared for them to walk.

His instincts said trap.

He was about to signal the advance when—

“Queen Amidala.”

Everyone turned.

Governor Sio Bibble stepped forward from the rear of the column. Despite his relatively youthful appearance—the sort that came from expensive treatments the wealthy could afford—his white hair and neatly trimmed beard betrayed his true age. More telling was the weight in his bearing. This was a man who had spent decades in service to his world, and who understood precisely what he was about to do.

“I’m afraid this is where we part,” he said.

One of the handmaidens stepped forward immediately. “Governor Bibble—”

Two more could not quite hide their worry despite the thick ceremonial paint, though they held their tongues.

The Queen raised a hand, silencing them. She moved to stand before the governor, her painted face unreadable. “If they capture you—”

“Yes.” Bibble’s voice was steady. “But someone must organise the citizens of Naboo. Coordinate the resistance cells across every continent. Ensure the occupation cannot settle into comfort.” He gestured to the red-uniformed officer beside him. “Captain Typho and I will hold the planet. That is our responsibility.”

He met the Queen’s gaze directly.

“Yours, Your Highness, is to ensure the Trade Federation does not escape justice. Expose them before the Senate. Bring the Republic’s weight down upon their heads.” A thin smile crossed his weathered face. “We can endure much, knowing help is coming.”

Captain Typho stepped forward, his bearing military-precise despite the chaos surrounding them. “My Queen. Leave Naboo to us. We will not fail you.”

The Queen turned to her handmaidens. Something passed between them in a series of minute nods.

Silence held for a moment.

“The passages would be a boon to the resistance,” Arturia declared.

The small woman in servant’s clothing looked to the Queen first. The Queen nodded. Then the handmaidens nodded, one after another, a cascade of silent permission.

Only then did Arturia speak.

“If you head back the way we came and take the first left turn, the second-to-last room has a hidden passage behind the dresser. It leads outside the palace grounds through the old servant’s quarters.” Her voice was clipped, efficient.

She fished a small keyfob from somewhere within her uniform and tossed it to Captain Typho in a clean arc. He caught it one-handed.

“That will grant you access to The Empty Pantry through the passage exit,” she continued. “Use the establishment as a base of operations if you need it. The upper floors are defensible, the storage rooms are stocked, and the building has multiple exits to Theed’s hidden passageways.”

She paused.

“I am expecting at the very least equivalent tax reductions if our establishment suffers damage during your occupation of it.”

Every face in the corridor went flat.

The Queen’s painted lips twitched—the barest crack in her composure. “We shall see what can be arranged.”

“Acceptable.” Arturia turned away as though the matter were settled, which apparently it was.

Qui-Gon caught Obi-Wan’s eye. His Padawan’s expression suggested he was reconsidering several assumptions about Naboo’s political landscape. Qui-Gon could not blame him. In thirty years of diplomatic missions, he had never encountered a monarch’s retainer who negotiated property compensation in the middle of an evacuation.

The Queen faced Bibble and Typho one final time. When she spoke again, the ceremonial cadence had dropped away. What remained was rawer. Younger.

“You are not permitted to die, Governor Bibble. Captain Typho.” She held each of their gazes in turn. “May Naboo weather these hard times. I will return with the Republic at my back, and when I do, I expect to find you both waiting.”

Both men bowed low. When they straightened, something had settled in their expressions—resolution, perhaps, or the particular calm that came with accepting one’s role in events larger than oneself.

“Three-quarters of the guards go with you,” the Queen ordered.

Typho’s head snapped up. “Your Highness—”

“We are in safe hands.” The Queen’s gaze flickered to the Jedi, then to Arturia at the rear of the column. “Naboo needs the best of our forces here. You will require them more than we will.”

The argument died in Typho’s throat. Qui-Gon could see the calculation behind his eyes—the weighing of duty against instinct, of tactical necessity against protective impulse. The man was a soldier. He understood numbers. He understood that a small party moved faster, drew less attention, required fewer resources.

He also understood that his queen had just given him the tools to wage an effective resistance.

“As you command, Your Highness.”

At the column’s head, the captain with the landing-strut jaw clasped Typho’s forearm in passing—something not entirely protocol in the grip—before resuming his place at the Queen’s flank.

The column split. Guards peeled away to follow Bibble and Typho back down the corridor, their footsteps retracing their steps back deep into the palace.

The Queen watched the departing group until they vanished around the corner. Her posture remained impeccable. But Qui-Gon caught the moment her hands tightened at her sides, the fractional clench of fingers against elaborate sleeves.

Then she turned forward.

“The hangar,” she said. “Move.”

They moved.

“Shirou—we’re at the last hallway before the hangar,” Yané said behind him, voice pitched low into her comm.

The acknowledgement came back in that same unhurried calm.

Shirou. So the overwatch had a name—and the Queen’s people spoke it the way one spoke a friend’s.

Ahead, the hangar doors waited, and the voids beyond them did not move.

Then the Force pulsed.

Several more signatures—rapid, one after another, each heavier than the last. The same raw quality he’d felt on descent. Not dark. Not light. But closer now, and far more powerful.

“Hold.”

The voice came through Yané’s comm.

The Queen raised her fist. The column stopped.

Beyond the hangar, beyond the palace grounds, heavy and distant explosions rumbled.

Qui-Gon kept his hand away from his lightsaber.

“I cleared the air," the voice now identified as Shirou said.

Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan exchanged looks.

"Ready Move!”

-=&<o>&=-

Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon peered through the gap in the hangar bay doors. The slight opening made this feel more like a trap with every passing second.

"Master, I don't think whatever powers were bestowed upon us by the Chancellor will have much sway here," Obi-Wan whispered.

"Then we flip the table and turn the game on them."

Arturia's voice cut through from behind them. Petite, blonde, pale—and, from what Obi-Wan had witnessed in the plaza, possessed of monstrous strength and blade skills that rivalled any master he knew. The form itself was primitive. Obi-Wan had studied the history of pre-lightsaber Jedi combat, when forms still accounted for edge alignment. Even modern vibroblade users placed little importance on such technicalities. A touch guaranteed a cut regardless.

Visually, he might have guessed Echani heritage, but the sheer physical power suggested Epicanthix blood—unless biomechanical augmentation had advanced far beyond current medical literature. Her arms and legs could be entirely artificial for all he knew.

"Master Jedi and Padawan Jedi."

Through their bond, Obi-Wan felt a quick burst of amusement from Qui-Gon at the address. His own irritation must have shown on his face.

"Shirou and I shall take all of their attention," Arturia continued, her tone brooking no argument. "When we have it, secure the pilots and prepare for lift-off."

She turned to the rest of the group. "You have trained for this. Watch each other's backs, protect the Queen, and head straight to the ship."

Yané raised her comm unit. "You heard all that?"

"Yes," came a stoic reply through the speaker.

"Shirou, on three." Arturia gripped her broadsword with both hands. "One... two..."

"Three!" The word came through the speaker.

She leapt into the fray.

The impact against the destroyer contingent sent sparks flying. Their shields—the same design that had sent him and his Master running through a Federation flagship—did nothing. They were calibrated against blaster fire.

Arturia was not blaster fire.

She passed straight through the nearest shield envelope and took the droid apart from inside it. Metal crumpled. Servos screamed. By the second destroyer she had found an angle that stacked the rest in a line—only the nearest had a clear shot, and the B1 units at her exposed back could not fire without cutting down their own. Her broadsword swatted aside the little that reached her.

It was utilitarian and violent at the same time. It was a sight to see.

She charged the line with a powerful thrust, then pivoted into a wide sweep, her hand sliding to the pommel's end to use the full length of the handle as a lever. The sweep launched several destroyers bodily into a contingent of their B1 counterparts.

Every droid in the hangar snapped to attention.

Then a piercing whine echoed through the vast space. Something small and sleek shot through the bay's open exit—an air bike. A swoop, specifically.

'Aren't those illegal?'

"Shirou, you brought my steed!" For the first time, genuine excitement coloured Arturia's stoic voice.

The rider wore a plain white shirt and simple black slacks beneath a striking long coat of deep crimson leather. Broad shoulders strained against the seams, sleeves tugged by the muscles beneath. Light brown skin, short white hair, sharp silver-grey eyes that seemed to catalogue every threat in the hangar at once.

He too wielded a large sword—which made Obi-Wan wonder about their shared preference for primitive weapons.

Shirou swooped in with one hand on the controls, the other gripping his blade. A single pass bisected three B1 battle droids before they could track his movement. Return fire chased the space where he had been.

Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon exchanged a nod.

"I'll handle the pilots," Obi-Wan said. His lightsaber ignited, blue light washing over him as he thrust his free hand forward. The Force push toppled the B1s ringing the captive pilots—droids that had been trying, and failing, to track the two blade-wielders. He let the Force flood his body and accelerated towards the downed machines. His lightsaber sang through metal, destroying each one in sequence.

Without prompting, the pilots pulled blaster rifles from the scattered droid remains and joined the fight.

Obi-Wan took vanguard, his blade a blur against the incoming fire. Some bolts he returned to their sources. Most he let bounce into the floor or ceiling—with a swoop and Arturia crossing the hangar at speed, even a Force-guided deflection could find the wrong target.

They moved steadily towards the Queen's vessel—a sleek J-type 327 Nubian, its chromium hull gleaming under the hangar's harsh lighting. The royal yacht sat with its boarding ramp extended, engines cold but ready.

Behind them, the doors they'd entered through began widening. More droids poured in.

Qui-Gon, the Queen, the handmaidens, and the remaining guards had already reached the ship. They formed a defensive line at the base of the ramp, blaster fire lancing outward in disciplined volleys.

"Start the ship!" Arturia shouted. She bashed a battle droid with her bare hand, grabbed it by the neck, and kicked it into another group. The impact sent them toppling, their blaster rifles discharging wildly as they fell.

Droidekas spilled through the entrance now, unfolding from their rolls into firing position.

Qui-Gon held the ramp with the guards and several handmaidens, green blade deflecting bolts whilst the others provided covering fire.

Obi-Wan and the pilots were steps away when the starship's engines began warming up, a high-pitched whine marking the boot sequence.

Several pilots went down. Others, grazed by stray bolts, were half-carried onward by their companions. Obi-Wan struggled to guard every side at once—there were simply too many vectors of attack.

Another high-pitched whine passed overhead. The swoop swept across their position, Shirou slashing left and right at the battle droids pressing in. On his third glance, Obi-Wan noticed something strapped to the man's back—but there was no time to register what it was. He shook off the distraction, planted his feet, and pivoted.

"Quick—to the ship! Don't look back!"

He embraced the Force fully, exhaled, and began swatting blaster bolts aside. Each deflection bought another step backward, another metre closer to the ramp.

"Tell them to start lift-off!" Shirou's voice cut through the chaos. "We'll catch up—just don't close the bay!" He banked hard, the swoop screaming in protest. "ARTURIA!"

Obi-Wan reached Qui-Gon's side, shoulder to shoulder with his master. The order had already been relayed—the pilots were initiating the lift-off sequence.

The two Jedi kept deflecting. Some bolts struck the hull despite their efforts, scorching the chromium.

Obi-Wan spared a glance towards the swoop.

Shirou slammed his blade into the hangar floor. The sword stuck fast, and the bike whipped around it like an axis, bleeding speed through the turn. Arturia rushed in at precisely the right moment. Shirou slid backward on the seat, and the petite woman took the controls with a satisfied smirk.

She revved the engines.

The ship began to lift. The pair made two more passes through the droid ranks, cutting down anything with a clear line on the ramp.

"Go!"

The ship pushed forward through the hangar exit. Shirou had traded his blade for a rifle now—and not a single bolt missed. Arturia steered one-handed, sword sweeping anything in reach, her grin feral.

At fifty metres beyond the bay, Arturia revved the engine one final time and sent the swoop arcing towards the still-open cargo hold.

At the last moment, both Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon spotted a large anti-air turret rotating to track their vessel.

Without conscious thought, both thrust out their hands, reaching through the Force to hold its turn.

The resistance was immense. The targeting mechanism ground against their combined will.

Then an explosion engulfed the turret entirely.

The swoop slid into the bay in the same instant, narrowly missing both Jedi. Obi-Wan caught a glimpse of Shirou holding yet another primitive weapon—a bow, of all things.

'What made the turret explode?'

Questions aside, Obi-Wan allowed himself a sigh of relief.

It was short-lived.

By the time Obi-Wan found a viewport, the ship had cleared the planet's gravity well—and the blockade revealed itself in full. Lucrehulk battleships hung in a wall across their escape vector, weapons batteries already tracking the fleeing yacht. Laser fire raked the shields, and the ship shuddered violently.

"Shields are failing fast!" a pilot shouted from the cockpit.

Several astromech droids rushed towards the external maintenance chutes, prepared to head outside and attempt repairs under fire.

"Shirou!" Nothing in the hangar had put that note in Arturia's voice. It turned Obi-Wan's head faster than the pilot's warning had.

The tall man took hold of a bulkhead support and closed his eyes.

Every pulse Obi-Wan had catalogued—from orbit, from the swamp, from the palace—had been a discrete thing. It happened, and then it stopped.

This one did not stop.

Something poured out of the man and kept pouring—into the deck, along the hull, around the ship entire. It was neither dark nor light. It was simply is.

The next volley struck.

The ship still shuddered.

-=&<o>&=-

End

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