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Summary
"And the Padawan," Sidious continued, his voice dropping into a mocking, theatrical purr. He reveled in the violent flinch the title provoked from Obi-Wan. "A token of my esteem for your victory on Naboo, Lord Maul. He is yours. Your trophy. Your consort."
The word dropped into the silent room like a heavy stone into a stagnant pond.
Consort.
Obi-Wan’s stomach violently rebelled. He squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw clenching so tightly his teeth ground together. It was a calculated, precision strike against his soul. They were not merely executing him. They were stripping away his knighthood, his dignity, his very personhood. He was to be reduced to a possession, a living monument to the Sith’s absolute domination.