AS IRON SHARPENS IRON
Emissary of the Unknown - Chapter 1
Emissary of the Unknown - Chapter 1
The atmosphere aboard the orbital station was thick with the scent of ozone and the sharp, metallic tang of nervous sweat. The Knight sat in the dim light of the Sector 4 armory, his back straight, eyes closed. Around him, the chaotic symphony of a station at war played out: the frantic clatter of boots on durasteel, the bark of panicked sergeants, and the high-pitched whine of overcharged power cells.
To the passing soldiers, he was a statue of veteran resolve, a Knight of the Diarchy whose presence served as a silent anchor in the rising tide of Mandalorian aggression. They did not see the meticulous way he breathed, a rhythmic cycle meant to stoke a fire that had nothing to do with the symbols on his chest.
A young corporal stumbled into the armory, his hands trembling as he fumbled with a crate of thermal detonators. The Knight opened his eyes, his gaze steady and unnervingly calm.
"Steady, son," His voice was a low rasp, carrying the authority of a man who had seen worlds burn. He reached out, his hand steadying the boy's wrist with a grip that felt as unyielding as stone. "Fear is a fuel, but only if you learn to burn it slowly. If you let it flash, it will only blind you."
The boy nodded, swallowing hard, visibly emboldened by the Knight's proximity. He watched him hurry away with a faint, indiscernible tilt of his head. He felt a fleeting pity for them, these unrefined souls. Their courage was genuine, but it lacked the tempered discipline of the Internal Flame. They fought for a border; The Shroud Knight fought for a legacy they couldn't even name.
Once alone, he turned back to his kit. He drew a lightsaber hilt from its holster. Not the standard Diarchy issue, but a blade of his own making. Its surface was a matte-grey, an obsidian-like finish that seemed to swallow the flickering emergency lights of the station. It felt heavier in his hand than any weapon should, possessed of a density that hummed with a dull, familiar echo.
He ran a gloved thumb over a small, concealed compartment in his gauntlet. Inside lay the Silver Needle, its tip sterilized and ready. The Mandalorians would be here soon. They would bring their beskar, their legends, and their ancient bloodlines. To the Diarchy, they were invaders to be repelled. To the Emissary of the Unknown, they were a rich vein of genetic history waiting to be tapped.
The first tremor shook the station, the violent signature of a Mandalorian boarding pod slamming into the hull three decks below. The red alert sirens shifted to a rhythmic, pulsing wail.
The Knight stood, his cloak settling around his shoulders like a shroud. He adjusted his mask, the faceplate sealing with a hiss of recycled air. He looked at his reflection in the polished surface of a nearby locker. He saw a loyal servant of the Diarchy. He saw a hero ready to die.
But beneath the mask, in the quiet dark of his mind, The Shroud Knight was already calculating the trajectories of the coming violence. The chaos of the war was a perfect veil; under the cover of smoke and blaster fire, many things could be lost, and many things could be taken.
"Let them come," he whispered to the empty room, his voice a ghost of the Unknown Regions. "The iron is waiting."
To the passing soldiers, he was a statue of veteran resolve, a Knight of the Diarchy whose presence served as a silent anchor in the rising tide of Mandalorian aggression. They did not see the meticulous way he breathed, a rhythmic cycle meant to stoke a fire that had nothing to do with the symbols on his chest.
A young corporal stumbled into the armory, his hands trembling as he fumbled with a crate of thermal detonators. The Knight opened his eyes, his gaze steady and unnervingly calm.
"Steady, son," His voice was a low rasp, carrying the authority of a man who had seen worlds burn. He reached out, his hand steadying the boy's wrist with a grip that felt as unyielding as stone. "Fear is a fuel, but only if you learn to burn it slowly. If you let it flash, it will only blind you."
The boy nodded, swallowing hard, visibly emboldened by the Knight's proximity. He watched him hurry away with a faint, indiscernible tilt of his head. He felt a fleeting pity for them, these unrefined souls. Their courage was genuine, but it lacked the tempered discipline of the Internal Flame. They fought for a border; The Shroud Knight fought for a legacy they couldn't even name.
Once alone, he turned back to his kit. He drew a lightsaber hilt from its holster. Not the standard Diarchy issue, but a blade of his own making. Its surface was a matte-grey, an obsidian-like finish that seemed to swallow the flickering emergency lights of the station. It felt heavier in his hand than any weapon should, possessed of a density that hummed with a dull, familiar echo.
He ran a gloved thumb over a small, concealed compartment in his gauntlet. Inside lay the Silver Needle, its tip sterilized and ready. The Mandalorians would be here soon. They would bring their beskar, their legends, and their ancient bloodlines. To the Diarchy, they were invaders to be repelled. To the Emissary of the Unknown, they were a rich vein of genetic history waiting to be tapped.
The first tremor shook the station, the violent signature of a Mandalorian boarding pod slamming into the hull three decks below. The red alert sirens shifted to a rhythmic, pulsing wail.
The Knight stood, his cloak settling around his shoulders like a shroud. He adjusted his mask, the faceplate sealing with a hiss of recycled air. He looked at his reflection in the polished surface of a nearby locker. He saw a loyal servant of the Diarchy. He saw a hero ready to die.
But beneath the mask, in the quiet dark of his mind, The Shroud Knight was already calculating the trajectories of the coming violence. The chaos of the war was a perfect veil; under the cover of smoke and blaster fire, many things could be lost, and many things could be taken.
"Let them come," he whispered to the empty room, his voice a ghost of the Unknown Regions. "The iron is waiting."
