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Musings from the Seat of the Empress 903 ABY
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Srina Talon laughed.
It was a rare ghostly sound, almost sweet, were it not touched with something wicked that echoed in the vaulted halls of what had become her home. In all her years, she had never expected the darkness of his father, his mother, to consume Aether Verd enough that he would broadcast his demons live for all to see. It was his first honest act as Mand'alor…It was the first time she had looked at him, sable-skinned and tall, seeing not the naïve god-child she had raised…But Mand'alor the Iron. Aether, the King. How many insults could his people swallow?
The Sith were one…But had the Sith Order acted against this new Mandalorian Empire?
No.
Why?
They weren't led by an abomination and an unrepentant snake that relied on the strength of mattress coils rather than their own army. Srina would never forgive the previous Mandalorian Empire for their slights against her people, for their hubris, or their unwarranted orbital bombardment of Eshan so many moons ago. She would never forgive them for stealing the breath from her sisters' lungs, for poisoning the earth, the air. But…This new generation of beskar-clad warrior? They, were not the same.
This missive from Aether Verd proved it.
She took her time reading the announcements that followed, aware, that the Tenth Sith Empire had laid waste to Mandalore. It had not taken place beneath her reign, but it was an act that followed both nations like wraiths, pulling on threads of animosity, distrust, and a need for revenge. Yet…They stilled, for the Bright Mother. Anger kept at the perfect boil that never ran over. It was ironic, this name, they had given her in the wake of a contract fulfilled. It was ironic because there was no light in her, nothing good, nothing left to call bright in the wake of what civilized heroes had abandoned to rot.
Srina reviewed every carefully worded condemnation, and her sharp mind noted each travel ban that was somehow dressed up as moral clarity. She saw them, from varying nations, to be exactly what they were: Unoriginal. Copied down to the signature, the tone, and quite small.
Where were the monsters of this galaxy?
Not the simpering twits that postured behind treaties or hid behind silver tongues. She yearned for those who finished what they started, for those who understood that Order was not preserved by notes on the Holonet and that peace was not enforced by advisory notices. It was a curious tactic that her mind could not wrap around, not when curious alliances were springing up all over.
It was especially odd when the blood on Atrisia was not yet cold.
The Diarchy proceeded with public execution and called it justice. Mandalore crucified their enemies and called it recompense. Both were brutal. Both were deliberate. And both, at least, were authentic and truthful about what they were willing to do.
The wintry woman preferred the plain openness of war, of the might it took to snuff out an opponent rather than surrendering to the notion that neutrality was a virtue. Travel bans were not courage. They were the refuge of children who did not want blood on their hands but were perfectly content to let it soak into the ground somewhere else. They spoke of law while endorsing violence through silence. How could she see what they did not? Did they not see the hypocrisy?
Those with sin should be very careful when throwing stones.
Someone, eventually, would throw them back.
The pale Empress set down her data pad on the table and settled into the high-backed chair, quiet, while her thoughts moved forward. Her beloved children from one end of the galaxy to the other would likely take note as she had. This was the same scenario that had presented itself when the Order went to war with the Alliance, the Imperial Confederation, and most recently the Faithless on their damnable Death Star. It was cause and effect.
She would not issue a statement, would not prop up any advisories. She would not pretend that war was not coming when it whispered so freely on the horizon. The Echani part of her was gladdened for it, her sluggish blood warm with the thought of spilling from the Southern Systems, from the Holy Worlds, with one—True purpose.
To create.
To birth monsters who did not look away, monsters, with plans to end what the galaxy kept starting and never had the spine to finish. No more half-measures.
The Light had made her a widow, the Light, had earned her ire again and again, while the Imperial block as a whole had done its best to burn both the Blackwall and the Holy Worlds…
She was not as kind as the Republic…It would never be forgiven. Was it personal? Yes. Was it petty? Definitely. Did she care? Not in the slightest.
Their existence threatened her children.
Their existence threatened, all, of her children.
No more.
"Ready my ship…No delegation, no delay."
"Lady Talon?"
"It seems…It is time for me to return to Mandalore.", her voice was soft, even, as her orders were followed to the letter. She rose from the chair and smoothed down the front of her clothing in a way that was eerie…If only because it was so normal. So, pedestrian. Not at all the actions of a woman who was thinking of little more than what fresh hell she had the opportunity to unleash. Her expression was beautifully empty…As if she were made of velvet night, glimmering stars, and shining glass.
As if she weren't the golden-eyed equivalent of a walking black hole.
"My nephew has sent me a…sign…to visit. It would be rude not to respond."
