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  xRSxxRSxxRSx

  The trees of Concordia aren't like the ones I remember from Earth. They're taller, wilder, with bark like cracked iron and canopies that blot out the sun in thick patches. The undergrowth is sparse in places, dense in others, almost like the forest itself picks and chooses where it wants you to go. I've been walking for hours now, weaving through game trails and old paths that barely exist anymore, the metal weight of my armor settling more naturally across my shoulders with each step.

  It's different wearing full Beskar outside of training drills. In the heat of combat, everything narrows down, motion, threat, instinct. But out here in the woods, it breathes differently. It creaks so slightly when I move. Catches sunlight in gold streaks between the leaves. Makes me feel invincible.

  My carbine rests in my hands, ready but not raised. Pistol at my thigh, sword strapped tight across my back. A full loadout, not because I expect trouble, Pre made it clear the moon was relatively secure, but because I've learned not to trust "secure" when half the galaxy wants you dead or in chains.

  Concordia is bigger than I expected. Pre said there's about half a million people scattered across its surface, mostly in settlements that cling close to old iron and copper mines, river valleys, or clan fortresses. The rest of it is wilderness. Untamed and half-forgotten.

  I take a moment to stop beneath an arching branch, its dark leaves rustling softly in the breeze. The air smells clean here, like woodsmoke, moss, and distant ozone. Nothing like Nar Shaddaa or the fighting pits. No stink of sweat or blood or recycled air. Just peace, heavy and unfamiliar.

  I reach out with the Force. Let it thread outward from my skin like a ripple across still water. I feel insects shifting in the brush. A small animal darting away beneath roots. Distantly, the presence of people, settlers or scouts maybe, too far to be a concern.

  I keep walking.

  Not because I'm lost.

  Because I want to know this place. Every ridge, every outcropping, every silent glade and echoing ravine. If this is the ground I'm going to bleed for, then I want to know what it feels like under my boots.

  The forest opens up ahead, light filtering through in soft beams. The canopy thins near a ridge, and when I reach the edge, the ground just… ends.

  I step forward slowly, boots scraping loose soil. There's a ravine, a deep one, cutting clean through the forest floor like a scar. Thirty feet across, easy. Maybe more. Jagged rocks line the walls on both sides, the kind that would snap bones if you didn't make the jump.

  I stare across the gap, pulse steady. There's a fallen tree a hundred meters to my left that might serve as a makeshift bridge, but that's not what I'm here for.

  I shift my carbine to my back, magnet-lock it. Roll my shoulders, take a breath, and feel the air cool in my lungs.

  The Force hums low beneath my skin, coiled like a spring just waiting. I reached for it and it's far more familiar now. Responsive. Like a current under the surface of my bones.

  Two steps back. My stance settles.

  Then I move.

  One step. Two. A third.

  And I jump.

  The Force surges through me, not explosive, not showy. Controlled. Focused. My fortified body carries me forward with clean momentum. The wind rushes past my helmet, branches blurring beneath me.

  I cleared the ravine easily. Land solid, knees bending with the impact. No stumble, no strain. Like I was made for this.

  I straighten and look back.

  The gap's still there. Still just as wide. But the part of me that once doubted whether I could do that? Gone.

  I grin under the helmet. It's not just the Force. It's me, too. Stronger now. Sharper.

  I take a moment, catching the wind on the other side of the ridge. Let it blow across the armor. Let the silence settle in.

  Then I kept walking.

  The woods on this side of the ravine felt older. The trees grew thick and close together, their trunks gnarled like they were straining toward each other. Moss clung to every surface, and the air carried the damp scent of earth and decaying leaves.

  I moved through it slowly, taking everything in. No real threats out here, just wilderness, but the habit of staying alert was burned into me. My hand brushed the hilt of my sword from time to time, more out of instinct than need.

  I passed a clearing where scorched earth marked an old fire or maybe a training site. Beyond that, half-buried in underbrush, I spotted a rusted trail of durasteel plating, the remains of a mining path, maybe. It led up to a crumbled overlook, where jagged beams stuck out from the edge like broken teeth. Whatever industry once thrived here had long since bled out.

  I raised my arm and tapped the bracer on my left forearm. The small holo-projector blinked to life, casting a dim blue readout above my wrist.

  Late afternoon. Sun wouldn't hold out much longer.

  I gave a small nod to myself and shut the holo down. Time to head back.

  Drawing in a breath, I reached for the Force again, gripped it deep beneath the surface of my skin, like bracing against a storm, and pushed.

  Everything sharpened.

  I exploded forward, boots striking the ground in rapid, barely-there bursts. The wind screamed past me, whipping at my cape and tugging at the seams in my armor. Trees and branches blurred at the edge of my vision, just flickers of motion as I ducked and weaved through them.

  The world didn't slow down, I just moved faster than it could keep up.

  My body felt weightless, like each stride was a controlled fall. I bounced off roots, angled around trunks, using every surface like a springboard. The Force surged through my muscles and bones, steady and effortless.

  This wasn't running.

  It was practically flying, just with my feet still kissing the ground.

  The Force wasn't just fueling my speed, it was guiding me. Subtle nudges twisted my feet just enough to avoid the slick patches of moss. My balance adjusted on instinct, ankles shifting, knees bending, before I even registered the uneven terrain ahead. Instinct guided me forward and I was revelling in it.

  A half-rotted log loomed in front of me. I didn't slow down.

  My stride lengthened. One foot struck down just before the log, and the other kicked off it. I sailed over with inches to spare, landing smooth on the slope beyond. Dirt gave way under my boots loose and treacherous, but the Force held me steady, rolling my weight to the balls of my feet before I could skid out and crash face-first into the forest floor.

  I grinned under the helmet.

  This was freedom. This was what they could never teach in a holo-book or through training remotes. The Force wasn't some doctrine. It was alive, thrumming with wild rhythm beneath every leaf and stone and breath. It moved with me like a song I already knew the words to and I was the conductor.

  The trees whipped past, a blur of motion and shadow. I ducked a branch without looking. Veered left and leapt over a boulder at the last second. My body didn't hesitate, didn't question. It just moved.

  I pushed harder, letting the momentum build.

  It was dangerous, stupid even, to go this fast in terrain like this.

  But damn, it felt good.

  The trees began to thin ahead, light filtering through in broader shafts. I angled toward the clearing without slowing, feeling the terrain open up beneath my boots. A few more long strides, and then I burst from the treeline like a missile, dirt and leaves kicked up in my wake.

  There it was, the settlement.

  The old copper mine had been repurposed into a fortress over generations. Weatherworn durasteel walls rose around the main pit, reinforced with fresh plating and sloped panels to deflect blaster fire. Gun towers flanked the entrance, manned by sentries in plastoid and durasteel armor, the symbol of Clan Vizsla prominent on most of them. Above, cables crisscrossed between structures clinging to the canyon walls, forming a tangled web of walkways and repulsorlift platforms that ferried supplies and people from level to level.

  The mine's vertical sprawl had been turned into a living fortress, a place built by soldiers and not architects. Aesthetically unappealing but functional enough for a settlement of a couple thousand people.

  I slowed only as I hit the packed earth near the outer gate, dust trailing behind me in a long streak. My lungs burned, heart pounding against the inside of my chestplate, but it wasn't from exhaustion. It was a thrill. A pure, unfiltered rush of exhilaration.

  One of the guards turned at the sound, tilting his helmet. He didn't speak, just nodded once and stepped aside, recognizing me. There weren't many short offworlders in golden beskar.

  I gave a slight nod in return and walked in, the heavy gate creaking open just enough to admit me.

  Clan banners near the entrance fluttered on poles, and voices echoed up from the lower levels; shouting, clashing steel, laughter.

  I took a breath, letting the Force settle. The wild rhythm faded from my limbs, but the afterglow remained.

  I paused just inside the gate, letting the noise fade into the background as I reached out with the Force. Not pushing, just feeling. Letting the current brush against me and flow outward, threading through the stone and metal and people.

  Hundreds of presences blinked against my senses. Dull sparks of awareness, some calm or focused, and few agitated or sharp. I filtered past them, searching for the one that always stood out. Like a knife honed on war, wrapped in discipline and buried intent.

  Pre.

  I frowned beneath my helmet when it didn't come to me immediately. He was usually easy to pin down, like a flare in the dark. But now he was muted, not absent, but withdrawn. Centered, maybe. Focused on something.

  There. Fourth level. Deep in the mine's belly, not far from one of the old maintenance stations that had been turned into a war room.

  I turned toward the edge of the platform and made my way to one of the repulsorlifts. It hovered beside the rim, thrumming softly, its cage-like railings flickering with low-powered shields. I stepped inside and tapped the controls. With a quiet hum, the lift disengaged and began to descend.

  The repulsorlift took only a few moments to descend and slowed with a subtle jolt as it reached the fourth level. The doors hissed open to a dim corridor lined with reinforced durasteel and old rock, veins of copper catching glints of the low, industrial lighting. The air here carried the scent of metal, old dust, and something faintly oily like sweat and poorly ventilated air.

  I stepped out, boots clanking softly against the deck plating. A few Mandalorians stood posted along the hall, their armor in shades of blue, black, and gray, common Vizsla colors, or the muted tones of their allied houses and the obvious custom ones with clan sigils on them. Helmets turned as I passed, and I got a few nods of acknowledgment, crisp and brief. No words, just silent recognition. Everyone here had something to do. With the receptive clans' leaders gathering tomorrow, tension was humming just under the surface like a primed charge.

  Their focus was razor-sharp, but not hostile. Just committed. I respected that.

  I passed a weapons cache being checked by two younger warriors, then turned left down a narrower hallway. The Force stirred faintly, familiar presence ahead, firm and grounded.

  I rounded the corner into one of the side command chambers, its blast doors half-open, and there he was.

  Pre Vizsla stood near a holotable lit with a projection of Concordia's southern valleys, his helmet tucked under one arm. His pale blond hair was slicked back in a practiced military cut, eyes locked on the display with the kind of intensity that said he wasn't looking at terrain, he was seeing battlefields.

  Beside him stood a broader, older man, his cousin Argus. Blond hair streaked with iron at the temples, stern face weathered by years of combat. I'd heard enough to respect the man. Not a talker, but a soldier through and through.

  They were speaking in low Mando'a, the words smooth but clipped. I wasn't close enough at the moment to hear, but I didn't really care.

  I stepped into the room, waiting a beat until Pre noticed me or finished speaking with Argus.

  Pre's words trailed off, and Argus gave a short, firm nod. "Parjai,"

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  He then turned on his heel and walked out, the sound of his boots fading down the corridor. Whatever they'd been talking about, it wasn't for my ears, and that was fine. I wasn't one to dig where I wasn't invited.

  Pre turned his attention to me then, expression steady, the edge of command still etched into his posture. "You'll be with me tomorrow during the meeting," he said without preamble. "Expect a couple dozen clans. Ordo, Tervho, and others worth paying attention to."

  I gave a slight nod. That explained the buzz around the settlement, the urgency in every step I'd passed on the way in. "Got it," I said, arms crossing loosely over my chest. "You expecting problems?"

  "Always," he said dryly, then tilted his head. "But no. Not from them, yet."

  There was a pause before he added, voice a touch more personal, "How are you doing? And what do you think of Concordia?"

  I blinked under my helmet, caught just slightly off-guard. Right. From his perspective, I was some Outer Rim slave who'd barely known anything outside of sand and urban grime. Tatooine and Nar Shaddaa, two places no sane person called home unless they had to.

  I let a breath slide out and gave a half-shrug. "It's a good planet. Quiet, plenty of room to breathe. I like the runs through the forest. Feels alive. And the weather—" I gave a short laugh. "Yeah, I'm not missing the heat. Not one bit."

  That got the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile.

  I shifted my weight slightly, one brow arched beneath the helmet. "That all?"

  Pre's expression shifted, more serious again, that same look he'd had when speaking to Argus. The kind that meant something else was coming, and it wasn't small talk.

  "No," he said. "There'll be training drills tomorrow. Platoon-level. You'll be participating. It's mostly for the younger blood, new warriors of Clan Vizsla."

  I resisted the urge to sigh, though I couldn't help the brief huff that escaped me. Of course. It made sense, especially with the clans gathering. Show strength. Unity. Capability.

  Still, the irony wasn't lost on me.

  Platoon drills. I wondered if any of them knew how many firefights I'd lived through. How many operations I'd run, how many times I'd bled in mud and ash and glass. Combat in the pits, street battles, tactical assaults… Hell, I probably had more experience than all the kids I'd be training with combined.

  But I wasn't about to say that out loud. Instead, I gave a short nod, my voice dry. "Understood. I'll be ready."

  Pre gave a satisfied nod. "Good," he said, then his features eased, the stern lines softening into something a little more familiar. He waved a hand toward the corridor. "Now scram. Go relax for the evening."

  I grinned behind my helmet and snapped a lazy salute, exaggerating it just enough to toe the line. "Lek, buir," I said in Mando'a, 'yes, father.'

  That earned me a snort from him as I turned on my heel and strode out, boots clinking against the metal flooring.

  I made my way back to the repulsor-lift, nodding back at one of the guards stationed nearby who gave me a brief tap to the chestplate in acknowledgment. The hum of the lift engaged as I keyed in the second-lowest level, my level.

  The descent was smooth, and I crossed my arms as the walls of rock and reinforced durasteel slid past. It always struck me how deep this place went. Not just a mine anymore, this was a fortress.

  The lift let out a soft hiss and clicked to a stop. I stepped off into the dim, amber-lit corridor, the metal under my boots cool and quiet. My quarters were just to the right, door recessed slightly into the rock wall. Pre's door was adjacent, simple but solid, just like the man.

  I keyed the panel, the lock clicked open, and I stepped into my room. Spartan, sure, but comfortable. Bed, small table, storage for weapons and gear, and a wall-mounted terminal. Not much, but it was more than I ever had on Tatooine. Or Nar Shaddaa.

  And it was mine.

  I stepped inside and the door slid shut behind me with a soft thud. The silence was welcome. I unlatched my helmet and pulled it off, the cool air of the room brushing against my face like a balm. Setting the helmet down on the table with a muted clunk, I reached up and undid the tie keeping my hair back.

  The tension eased the moment it came loose.

  Dark strands fell free, tumbling past my shoulders and down to my lower ribs in a curtain of black. I ran a hand through it, working out the kinks from the bun.

  I crossed the room to the small safe bolted into the wall. The keypad lit up under my fingers, and I punched in the password, each click echoing in the stillness. A soft hiss of hydraulics as the lock disengaged, and I opened it.

  There it was.

  The holocron.

  Dark, jagged, pyramidal, etched in red lines that pulsed faintly like a dormant heart waiting to beat. I reached out with the Force, my awareness brushing against the cold presence slumbering within.

  It stirred.

  With a flicker of power, the Sith holocron of Darth Malgus came to life, lifting an inch from my hand, turning slowly in the air. Its lines glowed brighter, and the hum of ancient knowledge whispered in the air between us.

  "Let's see what you've got for me tonight," I murmured, settling down cross-legged on the floor.

  xRSxxRSxxRSx

  I looked into the mirror in front of my sink as I worked my hair into a proper knot, silently enjoying the fact that I had long hair once again. It was long before I enlisted and the years of being forced to have it short were long gone.

  After that was I done, I moved on to my plates that would connect to the undersuit I'd slipped on a minute ago.

  Piece by piece, it went into place. Chestplate first, the gold finish catching the light from the ceiling. The pauldrons, gauntlets, vambraces followed. I locked them all in, running a quick check with my hands. No gaps. No rattling plates.

  The kama I had gotten recently went on next and hooked it to my waist with a click. It was reinforced with armorweave, black with gold trim, hanging heavy but flexible. Built-in pouches loaded with extra mags, grenades, a second pistol, a knife, and a couple bacta injectors. Everything secured where I could reach it fast.

  I slotted my carbine onto the mag holster across my back, the barrel sitting just behind my right shoulder. Heavy blaster pistol in the thigh rig. Backup pistol tucked into the kama. Knife on the belt. Sword sheathed at my lower back, angled for a quick draw if I needed it.

  One last sweep. I moved through a few basic motions including twists, turns, crouch, reach, making sure the armor stayed in place and nothing snagged.

  The plates could probably be adjusted in positioning with padding so I could feasibly wear this kit, at least the chest portion, without it needing to be reforged for at least another two or three years. That might have at first glance seemed foolish for Pre to get me a full Beskar set of armour, but I knew it served the secondary purpose of signaling that he indeed had the money and more importantly Beskar to do it.

  And me being at the clan meeting served that purpose.

  Satisfied, I grabbed my helmet off the table. Gold, like the rest, visor blacked out with a deep crimson tone. I held it for a second, feeling the weight of it in my hands.

  Then I locked it down over my head.

  Time to move.

  I stepped out of my quarters, the door sliding shut behind me with a soft hiss.

  Pre was already outside my door when I stepped out, leaning against the wall like he'd been waiting for a while. He gave a short nod, and I fell into step with him without a word.

  The hallway was dim, industrial stone walls reinforced with durasteel supports. The lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a muted glow over everything.

  We crossed the hallway and got onto the lift together, riding it up to the top floor. No small talk. None needed.

  Once we reached the top, we headed straight toward the meeting room, our boots thudding against the stone floor. Pre led the way through the old corridors, his posture easy but focused.

  The heavy doors to the old main office were already unlocked, and a couple of Vizsla guards standing outside gave short nods as we passed.

  Inside, the room had been stripped down for function. The old mining equipment was long gone. Now it was open space with reinforced walls and a few rows of chairs and tables set out in the center.

  Around the edges, Mandalorians were already gathering. Warriors from half a dozen clans, judging by the different clan sigils that I could see through the colors and paint schemes on their armor. Some stood talking quietly in pairs or small groups, others checking over gear or pulling up information on datapads.

  Pre barely slowed his stride. I followed him through the milling crowd, catching a few glances thrown my way. Nothing aggressive. Just weighing, measuring.

  I kept my helmet on, same as everyone else. No point giving anything away early.

  We made it to the central table, where the real business would happen once the meeting kicked off.

  Pre finally spoke, low enough that only I could hear.

  "Stay sharp. Watch who talks and who listens."

  I gave a slight dip of my head to show I understood, my gaze already sweeping the room.

  The first thing I noticed once we were closer was the clan sigils.

  Clan Ordo's symbol was one I only vaguely recognized but didn't actually know what it was supposed to be. Clan Tervho had a deep green color scheme, their emblem looking like a pair of wings crossed over a spear. Others I didn't recognize immediately, but they all carried themselves the same way, disciplined, wary, and not here for a party.

  I stretched out with the Force, careful to keep it subtle. Just a brush along the edges of their minds.

  What I got back was... not much.

  Most of them had mental defenses and their minds were locked down tighter than a durasteel vault. No clear thoughts leaking out, no emotions I could latch onto. Just tiny flecks here and there, a flash of suspicion, a hint of calculation, a low, simmering pride, but nothing clean enough to get a real read without pushing harder.

  Especially the ones who stood straighter, who had their guards positioned half a step behind and to the side. The clan heads.

  It was like trying to peer through the seams of a sealed blast door. Possible, but not worth the noise it would cause.

  I pulled the sense back before anyone noticed the prying.

  Pre made his way to one of the seats, a calm nod of acknowledgment to the others as he settled in. The others followed suit, their movements precise and practiced.

  "Pre Vizsla, present," Pre announced, his deep voice cutting through the low murmur of the room.

  The others chimed in one by one.

  "Gar Saxon, present."

  A long, solid man with a stern voice, Saxon's armor was more utilitarian than most and was a plain gray.

  "Hezek Tervho, present," came the deep rumble of the Tervho clan leader.

  I couldn't help but notice how ridiculous he looked sitting. He had to be well over six and a half feet tall, and even seated, his broad shoulders and thick neck made the chair look small beneath him. He was built like a tank, every inch of him screaming strength, and his armor matched, heavy, dark green, and intimidating, with the sigil of Tervho emblazoned across his chest.

  "Karik Ordo, present." A stocky man in silver armour with black highlights stated, his helmet having two dents in them from what looked like rather recent blaster bolt strikes.

  "Ordo Kelborn, present."

  A man with a scarlet scar gash in his helmet running down the side of his face. His voice was steady, and his armor had a faint orange tint to it.

  "Atii Itera, present."

  This came from a woman, short and lithe, and the aura of someone who knew how to take charge. Her armor was a matte black, only the faintest traces of silver etched into the edges.

  I sat back a little, glancing over the room. Every clan leader, present.

  And me, just a part of the background. At least for now.

  I did a quick headcount while keeping my helmeted gaze neutral, about fifty in the room when including the guards at the walls. I could feel several more out in the hallways beyond, but not precisely how many. The thick Beskar all around us and the sheer presence of so many strong wills made it harder to get an exact read.

  Pre didn't waste time. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. "You all know why we're here," he said, voice sharp and cutting through the low background noise. "It pertains to the continued tensions with the Dar'manda that call themselves New Mandalorians."

  That earned a ripple of muttered agreements and curt nods from around the table.

  I let my senses stretch out as subtly as I could, reading the room carefully. Most of the leaders kept their mental defenses thick and solid, giving me only the occasional flicker of emotion, like brushing against stone walls slick with rain. No clear images or strong feelings, just vague impressions.

  One thing I was certain of at the moment; the Saxons were unlikely to be New Mandalorian sympathizers as they were hardliners beyond the pale.

  The others... I wasn't ready to trust yet until I heard more.

  Pre kept speaking, his tone leaving no room for misinterpretation. "I've gathered you here to discuss," he said, voice ringing off the stone and metal walls, "and I won't mince words, ousting the New Mandalorians and their allies. We will also ensure the Republic keeps its nose out of Mandalorian matters with the removal of Clan Kryze and the rest of the New Mandalorian… faction."

  The reaction around the table was mostly still, only the slight tilts of helmets or shifts of weight showing the gravity of what he'd just laid out.

  One voice broke the silence, deep and edged with a kind of wary challenge.

  It was Hezek Tervho.

  "You presume to lead such a coalition then, Vizsla?" Hezek asked, the words phrased as a question, but the tone heavier, like a test.

  Pre nodded once, like he had already anticipated the question.

  "Of course," he said evenly. "Clan Vizsla is the largest in Mandalorian space. Concordia is ours. We're positioned to strike Sundari at a moment's notice. And I have the resources to see it done."

  He let that sit for a breath, the room dead silent save for the faint hum of the old ventilation systems overhead.

  Then he dropped the real hammer.

  "And," Pre added, his voice cool but unmistakably sharpened, "I have located a previously undiscovered vein of Beskar."

  The ripple through the room was immediate and tangible. I felt it like a shift in the air pressure, sharp and sudden.

  For the first time since I had walked into this meeting, I could clearly feel the emotions crack out from the clan heads around the table. Shock. Surprise. A hard current of raw, unguarded interest. Even the ones who had kept their mental walls tight until now couldn't mask it fast enough.

  Finding new Beskar wasn't just rare in this timeframe, it was nearly a miracle. And whoever controlled it would hold the kind of leverage few could ever dream of.

  The shift was almost physical.

  In near unison, the clan heads' attention snapped toward me. I could feel it, like a pressure point pressed against the side of my ribs. Their gazes were weighty, appraising, picking apart every detail they could see of me standing there in full gleaming gold Beskar.

  I stayed still, steady under the heat of it, but inside, I could feel the pieces falling into place just as they were in their minds.

  The Beskar plate. The way Pre had made a point of bringing me here, armored to the teeth like I was already a full-fledged warrior among men twice my size and several times my presumed experience.

  I might've looked at best fifteen under all this kit, but the message was loud and clear now; Pre Vizsla had the Beskar, the numbers, the resources, and the next generation already armored and ready for war.

  The head of Clan Ordo leaned forward, voice cutting through the thick tension.

  "Where on Mandalore was it found?" he asked, tone sharp but controlled. "We'll need to know, if we're to keep it from falling into the hands of the wrong clans."

  Pre didn't answer right away. He simply leaned forward in his seat, elbows resting on the table, fingers steepled in front of his visor. For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the old repulsor systems somewhere deep in the walls.

  Then he shifted, lifting one foot and slamming it down hard against the floor. The loud, echoing thud snapped every gaze back to him.

  "Not on Mandalore," Pre said, voice low and dangerous. "It's beneath our boots."

  For a half-second, the room was frozen.

  Then the uproar hit, a rising tide of voices, some shocked, some disbelieving, a few already arguing. The sheer weight of what Pre just said settled over the meeting like a bomb had gone off.

  A few of the Mandalorian guards shifted subtly, tension bleeding into their stances. The tall woman in red armor standing near Tervho in particular adjusted her grip on her still holstered pistols, head on a swivel as if expecting the need to act at any moment. Others followed her example, hands drifting closer to weapons or feet setting wider for a steadier stance.

  I watched it all calmly from my spot, arms crossed over my chest. I did not sense any intent to actually go for a weapon or accuse Pre of lying, surprisingly enough.

  Once the uproar finally simmered to a low rumble of whispered arguments and wary glances, Pre leaned back slightly in his chair, giving them the space to catch their breath before speaking again.

  "It proves what many have suspected," Pre said, voice calm but cold. "At some point in our history, a planetoid struck Mandalore. Enough so that fragments, fragments rich in Beskar, ended up here, on Concordia."

  He paused, letting the weight of that settle in again before continuing,

  "Any clan that sides with us that becomes part of the coalition, will be given the opportunity to purchase from the vein. Fairly. No hoarding, no favoritism."

  There was another low wave of murmurs at that, but it was interrupted by the clan head of Itera speaking up bluntly.

  "Are you seeking to become Mand'alor, Vizsla?"

  At that, I tilted my head slightly, looking directly at Pre through my visor. Even without the Force, I could feel the weight of the question settling on the room.

  Pre didn't flinch. He shrugged his shoulders almost casually, spreading his hands slightly.

  "Fett is still Mand'alor," Pre said. "I've no desire to hunt the man down and drag him back, nor claim the title for myself."

  It went without saying that he seemed to at least have been somewhat confident in his own ability to find the man and possibly best him.

  He leaned forward slightly now, voice dropping lower and rougher, something close to a snarl bleeding into his words.

  "What I care about is removing the rot that dares call itself Mandalorian. The Dar'manda."

  He hissed the last word out like it physically disgusted him.

  Inwardly, I made a note of the clan heads.

  A base of cooperation between the clans... even if it was sparked by Pre's ambition, it could be useful. If, when, I decided to move for Mand'alor myself, having the clans already working together would make unifying them far easier. Especially if I could step in when the dust settled.

  Pre's gaze swept across the seated clan heads again, slow and deliberate. Measuring. Waiting.

  It was Gar Saxon who spoke first, his voice hard with the sort of eagerness only a true warrior could have.

  "I'm always up for a fight with the hut'uun," Saxon said, his words sharp enough to cut.

  There were a few grunted agreements from his men standing nearby, but otherwise the room held its breath, waiting to see who else would fall in line.

  Kelborn was next. The older man leaned forward slightly, armored elbows resting on the table as he nodded once.

  "You'll have Clan Kelborn's blades," he said simply, voice steady. No fanfare, just certainty.

  A few heartbeats later, the head of Clan Ordo gave a low grunt.

  "Ordo stands ready," he said, pounding his fist once against his chestplate in the traditional show of resolve.

  Itera leaned back in her seat for a second longer, as if weighing the air itself, then finally gave a sharp nod.

  "Clan Itera will answer the call," She said. Her voice was rough, a little reluctant maybe, but firm enough to carry weight.

  All eyes shifted to Tervho. The big man sat still, his crimson armor seeming to catch every bit of the overhead light. I could feel the tension ratchet up in the room.

  Tervho rumbled out a low breath through his nose, then gave a deep nod, almost a bow of his head.

  "Clan Tervho will stand with Vizsla," he said simply.

  I could feel the final piece click into place, almost like a pressure lifting slightly off the room.

  The moment Tervho gave his word, it was like a switch flipped. The formal posturing dropped, replaced by something sharper.

  Pre leaned forward, fingers tapping once on the table. "Good," he said, tone clipped. "Now we move to the real matter. War requires steel, flesh, and firepower. All three need sharpening."

  The conversation shifted fast.

  Weapons. Munition stockpiles. Black market dealers that owed favors. Factories sympathetic to the cause.

  Ships. Fast transports. Gunships. Anything that could be retrofitted to haul troops or punch through a blockade.

  Training. Pre stressed it, drills between the clans, making sure they could fight together without stepping on each other's toes. No point raising an army if they couldn't move as one.

  The heads threw out suggestions, plans. Tervho mentioned some old shipyards his clan had ties to and were owed favours. Kelborn volunteered a few weapon caches stockpiled.

  I stayed quiet, listening. Memorizing. Every bit of information weaving together in my head.

  As the talks rolled on, part of my mind drifted.

  Weapons, ships, resources. All things we needed, and things I might have a shortcut to.

  I thought of the holocron sitting locked away in my quarters, almost certainly filled with knowledge from an empire that had spanned half the galaxy. If anyone had hidden stockpiles, forgotten outposts, buried arsenals... it would be the Sith.

  Malgus might know.

  I made a mental note, locking it away sharp and clear. After this meeting, after the next few moves were set in motion, I'd ask the holocron. I had no doubt there were treasures rotting away in the dark somewhere, and I'd be damned if I let them stay buried.

  The meeting dragged on for another hour or so, filled with hammering out basic details, supply lines, points of contact between clans, training logistics. The occasional argument flared up, voices rising to the edge of shouting before being pulled back under control.

  I noticed it after a while, more and more of the guards posted around the room were focused on me now. Before, they'd kept their attention broad, scanning the room as a whole. Now, with the agreement made and the coalition forming, a lot of their glances kept snapping back to me.

  I kept my posture relaxed but alert, noting every set of eyes. It wasn't paranoia. It was survival.

  One glance swept across the room again, casual but deliberate. I skimmed the surface of their minds, careful not to pry too deep. Most were locked up tight, iron-willed, disciplined.

  Except for one.

  The tall woman in red armor standing next to Hezek Tervho. Her mental shielding wasn't as tight as the others. Not sloppy, but thinner, like she hadn't been trained for it as long. She felt different in the Force too, not raw, but... young. Untempered compared to most of the others.

  I tilted my head slightly behind the T-shaped visor, thinking. She was probably only a few years older than me, if that. Curious, given the company she kept.

  The meeting wound down after another hour or so, with the last few arguments trailing off into murmurs. Finally, Pre stood, and the rest of the clan heads followed suit. There were a few more muttered exchanges and parting words, but the agreement had been made. The details would continue tomorrow, but for now, it was done.

  I stood up as well, following Pre as he made his way out of the room. A few of the guards glanced our way as we passed, but no one stopped us. The other clan heads dispersed quickly, their footsteps echoing down the long hall as they moved toward their respective quarters.

  Once we reached the repulsor-lift, I stepped in behind Pre and settled against the back, waiting for the lift to start its journey. The doors slid shut, and the quiet hum of the lift filled the space between us.

  I didn't wait long. "Was this why I got custom armor this early?" I asked flatly, my voice carrying the weight of the question.

  Pre didn't hesitate. His gaze flickered over to me, a flicker of something unreadable in his presence. Then he nodded. "Yes."

  The simple admission hung in the air for a moment, and I leaned back against the wall, trying to process it. I couldn't say it was a bad plan, because it evidently worked.

  The repulsor-lift hummed to a stop, and the doors slid open with a soft hiss. Pre stepped out first, his stride confident and purposeful as always. He glanced back at me over his shoulder.

  "You've got the rest of the night. Do whatever you want," he said, his voice low and almost casual. "I'll be setting up some locations for the training regimens. We'll need everything to be in place for the future."

  I nodded, feeling the weight of the conversation earlier settle into the back of my mind. Pre was already moving, his mind clearly focused on the next steps, and I wasn't about to stand in his way. The space was open and quiet around me, the corridors stretching out like an invitation.

  I didn't need to be told twice. I made my way to the quarters and the door opened with a slight hiss after I punched in the code, then entered without any fanfare.

  End chapter:.

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