A Political Refugee (Open to Mandalorians)

[Adonis Angelis IV]

Celanon


The pulse of the city beat like a drum beneath his boots.

Celanon never slept—its streets pulsed with endless movement, with flickering holos and distant sirens, with the smell of ozone and the heat of repulsorlifts skimming just above the pavement. To anyone else, it was just another overcrowded world in the Inner Rim, a place where fortunes were made or lost on backroom deals and black market promises. To Adonis, it was something else, it was a graveyard for the life he left behind.

For the first time in his life, he had escaped Vaal, he had escaped the stone halls of House Angelis and the crushing expectation carved into every corner of his family's estate. But freedom, he had learned, was not without cost. Not when your blood bore the name Angelis. With neither him nor his father left to control the family's fortune, the wolves were already circling. Cousins, uncles, and opportunists in fine robes and polished boots were no doubt sharpening their knives. They'd fight over the credits, over the name, over the charred bones of a legacy Adonis no longer wanted. The courts had frozen the estate, thank the Force, but legal lockups were temporary, and patience was a weapon the nobility wielded well.

The only thing working in his favor was the political climate. Vaal had always been a world divided. The Mandalorians had a strong cultural grip, while the Angelis family had remained one of the last vocal supporters of the Galactic Alliance. It made them powerful. It also made them targets. When Adonis had turned his back on it all, on Alliance, the title he'd been groomed to inherit, the local media lit up like a supernova. "Angelis Heir Defects to Mandalore."

The headline hit harder than a blaster bolt. To the Mandalorians, it was a symbol. To the Angelis loyalists, it was heresy. And to Adonis? It was survival.

____________


He stepped through the doors of a grime-covered motel tucked between two leaning towers of durasteel and broken promises. The air stank of coolant and rust, and the lighting buzzed like it might die at any moment. "I just need the room for the night. I'll be gone in the morning," he said, low and clipped. His voice had taken on that gruff edge lately—tight, stripped of courtesy, as if pleasantries were armor he no longer had time to wear.

The Rodian behind the counter blinked, slow and uncertain, before sliding a worn key-chit across the desk. "Check-out will be at-"

Adonis didn't wait. He turned on his heel and made for the hallway, the sound of his boots disappearing into the hum of machinery and leaking pipes. He'd checked in under a false name, paid in clean credits, and kept his hood low. Celanon wasn't a place people asked questions. It was a place people went to be forgotten, and that suited him just fine.

Adonis dropped the room key onto the bunk and sat on the edge, the armor creaking faintly under the tension in his shoulders. The glow of the city filtered through the narrow window, casting orange reflections across his chestplate. The Angelis crest still burned on his armor—not because he honored it, but because he wanted them to see it when he came back. Scarred. Blackened. Reclaimed.

In just under eight hours, a meeting would take place across town. A Mandalorian contact, arranged by a mutual acquaintance still on Vaal. Whether the contact knew his full story or just assumed he was another disillusioned warrior returning to the Creed didn't matter. What mattered was the next step. He wasn't just running anymore. He was gathering momentum.

The Alliance had let his father die for their politics. They had praised him in secret, then buried his memory when it wasn't convenient. But Adonis remembered. He carried that silence like a blade. He would carve his own name into the stars.

And when they spoke of House Angelis again, they would remember the son who chose Creed over blood—and burned the path behind him.

 

[Jonah]

Celanon
Somewhere across town...

The bar was the kind of place that didn’t even pretend to be clean.

Neon signs flickered in the windows like dying stars. The air smelled like old smoke, spilt booze, and sweat that had nowhere to go. Most of the booths were patched with synthleather and bad decisions. Music droned from a broken speaker, too low to dance to, too loud to ignore. Perfect.

Jonah sat in the farthest booth, his back to the wall, one leg propped up on the seat across from him. Shadow cloaked the lower half of his face, save for the faint glint of gold on his tooth when he sipped his drink. He wore armor stripped of insignia, matte-black and worn in all the right places, and his hair was cut short with neat lines. That wasn’t for looks—it was habit. Old habits. Hard to break what’s been forged in blood.

The glass in his hand held something strong and dark, probably illegal. He didn’t ask. Didn’t care. He wasn’t here for the taste.

He was here for the heir.

Word moved fast in Jonah’s circles. Faster than it had any right to. And when it came down the line that some polished noble from Vaal wanted to ditch the gala life and start pledging oaths to the Creed, Jonah raised a brow. Another looking for purpose, he thought. Or another spy thinking he’s clever. Either way, he had time. His brother had given him the leash to do what he did best—vet the ghosts before they haunt the Empire.

He’d spent the last two days sifting through rumors like ash through his fingers. Some say the kid's got fire. Some say he’s just angry at the Alliance. Jonah didn’t trust either. Emotions made people unpredictable. And he had no room in his warpath for unpredictability.

That’s what the Nite Owls were for. They didn’t wave banners. Didn’t give speeches. They moved in the margins—his kind of people. Half Mandalorian, half ghost. Just how he liked it.

Jonah took another sip, the glow of the city slashing across his amber eyes as he glanced toward the door. The hour had come.

Let’s see what kind of son you really are, he thought, setting the glass down without looking away.

Tag: Adonis Angelis IV

​

​

 

[Adonis Angelis IV]

Celanon

The next few hours were a haze of restless sleep and cold sweat. Adonis lay tangled in stiff sheets, his body tossing and turning beneath them like a man caught in a riptide. Sleep did not come easy. When it did, it brought no comfort. His dreams were dense with the shadows of his choices, filled with a kind of dread that settled deep in the bones. He had never known uncertainty before—not truly. He'd never worried about where his next meal would come from, never had to think twice about whether he'd have a bed, or if the clothes on his back would keep him safe. He never feared for his life when he walked down the street or smiled too long at a stranger.

Now, he couldn't shake the thought that his own face was a target. He looked too much like his father. It used to be something he was proud of. A shared jawline. The same intense stare. The same proud carriage of a man raised in the halls of power. But now, every glance in a mirror reminded him of a name that might get him killed. Until he was under the Mandalorians' protection, if they even let him in, he was vulnerable. Alone. And hunted.

One dream struck harder than the rest. He stood before his father, his grandfather, and even the legendary founder of the family. All of them loomed over him, silent but suffocating. Their faces were lined with disappointment, carved from stone and legacy. He tried to speak, to move, to breathe—but their judgment pressed down on him like a weight on his chest. He woke with a gasp, clutching at the sheets like a drowning man. It took a moment to realize he was in a motel on Celanon, not some ancient courtroom of his family's imagination. The air was freezing, biting at his sweat-soaked skin. He sat up slowly, peeling off the damp shirt that clung to him like ice.

The neon digits of the wall chrono blinked gently. Two hours before sunrise. It was time to get moving.

Adonis swung his legs off the side of the bed, planting his feet on the chilled durasteel floor. He had cranked the air conditioning in a futile attempt to counter the heat of his nightmares, and now it felt like waking up on Hoth. The sweat on his body had gone cold, and every step toward the temperature control unit sent a shiver down his spine. He turned the air off with a groggy grunt, then shuffled into the cramped refresher.

The shower hissed to life, steam rising quickly in the confined space. He stepped into the heat without hesitation, letting it wash the cold, and the dreams, off his skin. The water beat against his back, but his thoughts stayed sharp, echoing beneath the sound like a war drum. He couldn't allow fear to write his future. His family had knelt to the Alliance, and it had cost them everything.

Now, he would show them what loyalty really looked like.

Later That Morning – Celanon Marketplace

The street outside the motel was already alive with movement. Vendors barked out prices from metal booths, hovercarts weaved through the alleys, and smoke curled lazily from oil-fried street food that wafted on the morning air. Adonis moved with purpose through the vendors. His armor was concealed beneath a rough cloak, the fabric draped over his shoulders and chest like a traveler's garb. It didn't do much to hide the shape of the plating beneath, nor the blaster holstered at his side, but it made enough of a difference to keep most from staring too long.

The family crest, however, was harder to hide. Etched proudly onto the chestplate, it gleamed with quiet defiance beneath the folds of fabric. He had tried to obscure it as best he could, but part of him refused to cover it completely. There was pride there, buried under the betrayal. A need to reclaim it. Not for the Alliance—but for himself.

Still, it was dangerous. Too dangerous.

His contact back on Vaal hadn't given much to go on. Just a location—"the bar across from the marketplace"—and a promise that the man he was meeting would recognize him. No name, no description. Just a word. Drexel. It was a sea-covered world far beyond the core trade lanes, obscure enough that it wouldn't come up in casual conversation. A passphrase. One Adonis was know it was the correct person when they used the phrase. Letting him know he was with the correct person and it wasn't a trap.

The bar itself loomed like a bruise on the edge of the plaza. Faded neon flickered above the door, and the windows were smeared with grime and city dust. The kind of place that didn't pretend to be anything it wasn't. He hesitated at the threshold for a fraction of a second, then pushed the door open.

The scent hit him immediately—smoke, booze, sweat, and something unplaceable and sour, like despair left out too long. The lights were dim, the music broken and distant, and every face inside turned just slightly when he walked through the door. Not long enough to be rude, but long enough to take stock. Long enough to judge. He kept his eyes forward and his stride steady.

In the back, seated alone in a booth that practically dripped with deliberate anonymity, sat a man. Cloaked in shadows, yet placed just right to be noticed. Not hiding—waiting. The figure radiated experience, tension wound into every motionless limb. That had to be him. Or it was a trap.

Adonis reminded himself of the word. Drexel. He knew he needed to hear the word to know he was safe, but he wasn't about to just ask the man.

First, he would test the waters.

"I'll take a shot of whatever he's drinking," he told the bartender, jerking his chin subtly toward the man in the shadows. The bartender gave him a long, tired look. The kind that said he'd seen too many men make this mistake. But he poured the drink anyway, setting the glass down with quiet reluctance.

Adonis lifted it, inhaled the harsh scent, and downed it in one sharp pull.

It burned. Gods, it burned.

He'd drunk before—fine wines, vintage brandies, rare liquors aged in Core Worlds vaults—but this was something else entirely. This was fire in a glass. It ripped its way down his throat and sat in his gut like molten stone. He kept his face straight...barely.

A moment later, he gestured for another. This time, two glasses. He didn't look at the man in the corner, not directly. But he made sure the drinks were placed in the line of sight.

An offering.

An invitation.

Now, it was just a matter of whether the man would drink—or draw.

Jonah

 

[Jonah]

Jonah clocked him the second the door creaked open.

Not because he made a scene—far from it. The noble knew how to move. Quiet. Measured. Like someone trying not to draw attention but too used to being watched to ever truly disappear. Jonah’s brow lifted slightly above the rim of his glass as he took another sip.

That cloak might’ve fooled the casual eye, but Jonah wasn’t casual. The armor underneath was evident in the way the man carried himself—too straight, too balanced. And even through the folds of fabric, he could just barely make out the glint of something etched on the chestplate. Crest. House Angelis.

So. The stories were true.

Still, Jonah didn’t move. Not yet. He wasn’t here for stories.

He was here for truth—the kind you found in a man’s eyes when everything else was stripped away.

He watched as the newcomer made his way to the bar and said something low to the tender. A drink was poured. One shot. Then two. The noble lifted one and threw it back with a grit-toothed kind of defiance, then set the pair of glasses out like markers on a battlefield. One for him. One for whoever stepped into the circle.

Smart.

Clean.

Subtle.

No one would notice unless they were looking for it.

Jonah smiled.

He slid out of the booth without fanfare, armor whispering against synthleather. His stride across the floor was unhurried, easy—but it carried weight. The kind that made people part without knowing why. He came to a stop beside the noble, leaning a forearm casually on the counter. Without a word, he reached for the offered drink and brought it to his lips.

A slow sip.

Then a quiet, wry chuckle.

“Last time I had this particular swill,” he said, voice gravel-edged and faintly amused, “was during a mission gone sideways at a mining outpost. Drexel job. You ever been?”

He let the name hang in the air—not loud, but clear. The key turned in the lock.

Another sip followed, slower this time. Then he turned slightly, angling his gaze toward the younger man. Studying him.

He looked solid. Grounded. The kind of man who’d seen things, carried weight.

But seeming wasn’t everything.

“You got the face of a man with a legacy,” Jonah muttered, golden eyes sharp beneath a furrowed brow. “The question is whether it’s gonna carry you—or crush you.”

He tilted his glass in a faint salute. A quiet invitation.

“Let’s find out.”

Tag: Adonis Angelis IV

 

[Adonis Angelis IV]

The bar shifted the moment the man moved.

No sound. No sudden shift in pace. Just gravity—the kind that bent the space around it. Heads didn't turn, but Adonis knew they felt it. The presence of someone who didn't demand attention... only made it impossible to look away.

He came from the booth like a shadow stepping into firelight. Controlled. Measured. Like a man used to walking into rooms where the walls already knew his name. Adonis didn't move. Didn't reach for anything. But the thought crossed his mind. This meeting held just as much danger for the other man as it did for him, but it still felt like Adonis had more to lose. A runaway noble from Vaal, child of a proud Alliance family, slipping into Mandalorian space to pledge allegiance? It was the kind of thing that sounded too neat. Too convenient.

Exactly the kind of thing you'd set a trap around...So he stayed still, eyes forward, posture quiet.

The man closed the distance, and Adonis caught a full look. Taller by a little. Built like someone who didn't train to look strong, he just became it. He moved with a predator's patience. Every inch of him said: earned. Not inherited. And underneath it all, there was something else it was an energy humming just beneath the surface. Not Jedi. Not Sith. Just... Force. Raw, present, unspoken.

It brushed against Adonis like static.

His hand hovered near his thigh, not touching the blaster, but aware of it. The man hadn't drawn. Hadn't threatened. But the moment he stepped close, it felt like being beneath an Acklay—still, but with weight in the air.

Then came the word.

"Drexel."

The pressure cracked.

Adonis exhaled, low and measured. The tension that had been pulling at his spine for two straight days gave way—if only slightly. He didn't slouch. Didn't relax. But some part of him unclenched, just enough to think clearly. He turned a little in his seat, enough to let the cloak shift. The crest on his chestplate caught the low barlight. He hadn't done a great job hiding it anyway. No point pretending. "Drexel's a nightmare," he said, voice flat but not cold. "One of those places that makes you wonder if the air's trying to kill you... or if it already did."

He paused, then glanced down at his glass.

"Right now? Mine is trying to kill me." Whatever legacy he had was on the line, likely to be written off as a death, or worse, a total exile. Adonis tapped the side of the glass lightly before knocking the second shot back with a practiced flick of the wrist. The burn came easier this time. Less fire. More warmth. He didn't know if that was the alcohol or just the sudden sense of not being hunted...for the moment.

The bartender, in some unspoken gesture of respect or curiosity, refilled their drinks. Adonis nodded once, lifting his third. "Cheers," he said quietly, eyes still on the Mandalorian. "To the ones trying to outrun what raised them."

He downed the drink.

Then, setting the glass down, he said it.

"Adonis."
A breath.
"Adonis Angelis the Fourth."

The name dropped between them like a blade on the table. Not a boast. Not a shield. Just a fact. One that explained a lot.

If this was a test, let it begin.

If it was a trap, let it spring.

Either way, he was done running.

Jonah

 

[Jonah]

CELANON
The Bar Across from the Marketplace

Jonah caught the shift the second it happened. Subtle. Not enough for the room to notice—just enough for him to feel it. Like the tension bleeding out of a wire pulled too tight. The moment the word “Drexel” passed his lips, Adonis exhaled. Not relief exactly. But something close. Like a man realizing the gun wasn’t going to go off… yet.

Jonah took a slow swig of the drink Adonis had offered him, letting it linger. Burned like bad memories. He didn’t flinch.

When Adonis lifted his refilled glass and offered that quiet toast...

“To the ones trying to outrun what raised them.” Jonah chuckled. It was a low, knowing thing, not mocking—just tired. Like someone who knew exactly what those words cost. He raised his glass in turn.

“Cheers to that.” he muttered, and downed the rest in one smooth pull.

He had run, once. Far and fast. From the Creed. From the expectations. From his bloodline. Thought maybe if he ran long enough, the Mandalorian in him would get left behind. It never did. And now? He served as the Mand’alor’s shadow. Quiet. Watchful. Irony had teeth.

But for Adonis… it wasn’t about shadows.

It was about severance.

Some ties, you didn’t unlace. You cut them. And when Adonis dropped his name like a blade—Adonis Angelis the Fourth—Jonah didn’t blink.

He just nodded once.

“I know who you are,” he said plainly. “I know who you were.”

He leaned in just slightly. Enough that the words hit like a hammer instead of a whisper.

“But what matters is—who will you be?”

The air hung heavy between them for a beat. Then Jonah pulled back, his tone shifting slightly. Still sharp. Still serious. But something beneath it now—instructional. Like a blade being unsheathed for practice, not for blood.

“You ever hear of the Resol’nare?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Not yet.

“If you have… recite it.”

Was this the test? Maybe. Maybe not.

But Adonis was about to find out.​

Tag: Adonis Angelis IV

 

[Adonis Angelis IV]

The Resol'nare. The way the word settled into the silence between them made it clear: this wasn't casual conversation. It was a challenge. A door. A weight. And Adonis had no answer for it.

He sat a little straighter, his shoulders no longer held by pride, but by the quiet understanding of what he didn't know. The Mandalorians were a people he had spent most of his life being warned about. The Alliance spared no opportunity to shape them into monsters in the minds of its children, savage warriors, backwards tribes, brutes in iron. He remembered the lectures. The documentaries. The calm, polished voices that spoke of Mandalorian cruelty with the same certainty they praised Alliance order.

But Vaal was never truly Alliance.

Even in the Angelis estate, he had felt it. The hush that fell when certain stories were told. The reverence in the old words that slipped through the cracks. He had tuned it out when he was young. Forced himself not to ask. It was easier to stand in line when you didn't look past the walls.

And yet, somewhere along the way, he had started listening.

"I must admit," he said softly, his voice low with shame, "I don't know the words."

He stared down at his drink, then let out a breath he hadn't meant to hold. "I wasn't given the freedom to form my own opinions as a child. Not about you. Not about anything."

He lifted his gaze to Jonah. There was no fear there. Just a quiet plea. "But I know you value strength. That I have. I know you honor valor. That I can earn."

A pause, then: "And I know you protect culture. That… I know very little of."

There was pain in his words. The kind that didn't come from wounds but from years of being caged in certainty. He had left Vaal convinced he was ready to stand beside the Mandalorians. He had armor, training, conviction.

But conviction wasn't culture.

And now, sitting in this bar with a man who embodied everything he was trying to become, he saw the difference. "There was always propaganda," he continued, "on both sides, I imagine. Stories the Alliance told to justify themselves. Stories you told to survive them. I know now that none of it was the full truth. Maybe none of it ever is."

His fingers traced the rim of his glass. "I'm willing to unlearn what I was taught. Willing to put in the work. I just need someone to let me."

He looked Jonah over, reading the weight in the man's posture. The scars he didn't show.

"You haven't killed me yet."

The corners of his mouth twitched in something between bitterness and hope.

"I'm just asking for a chance."

Jonah

 

[Feydrik Munin]

Clink.

Clink.

Clink.



​

His boots, his armor, his gear clinked as he walked. His helmet picked up what was said prior to him standing near this so-called Defector.

Between both apostates.

"Your name means nothing. You speak of it as if it has weight. It carries only the name of the enemy, of those who support the Jetii."

His body was tall, the Rally Master's impressive physique and dark-red and black armor, marred in some places by war, concealed under both a cloak and a Kama. His arm was held at his side- the one free of the cloak. However, the one beneath it was held across, either holding a weapon or holding the cloak. Hard to say. Feydrik Munin was known for many things, and a harsh critique of those claiming to be what they were not, and savage, brutal violence was another.

He paced like a wolf at the edge of the trees, sizing up the man at the bar, then the other.

Both were regarded with equal disdain, disgust.

"Justify your position and your so-called defection to the Mando'ade." Feydrik bluntly stated, pacing closer to the bar. Being in arms reach of Feydrik was... unpleasant to say the least, and unnerving at best. But it was ultimately, a bad spot to be. He however, did not come with violent intent- initially. Feydrik was curious, and the high-profile defection caught him by surprise. Feydrik was not one to mingle with the so-called Empire. They were weak and inefficient and would likely suffer the same fate as the Infernal's Empire. Apostates all around.

"He may not kill you. But there are many that would for being an apostate or a heretic as you are now- or even, a supporter of our great enemy for so long."

Feydrik did not make it clear if he was one of those people.

 

[Jonah]

Jonah didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His gaze never left Adonis—not when the words came slowly, not when shame curled at the edges of his voice, not even when the truth landed:

"I don't know the words."

An eyebrow rose. Subtle. A flicker of expression in an otherwise unreadable face.

His lips parted, breath drawing in for what might have been a response—

Clink.

Clink.

Clink.

Heavy boots. Heavier presence.

Jonah didn’t turn to look. Just listened.

The voice that followed was cold steel. The kind of tone meant to carve, not converse. It dripped disdain and made damn sure the air in the bar thickened.

Jonah let it hang.

Then, without a word, he reached for the bottle. Poured a refill. Then poured a third glass. Set it on the bar. A simple gesture. Not an invitation to debate, not a show of deference. Just acknowledgment.

Whoever this was, he wasn’t here to impress him. Jonah didn’t come for posturing or moral high ground.

His eyes returned to Adonis.

“If you don’t know the Resol’nare,” he said plainly, “then you don’t know what it means to be Mandalorian. Not yet.”

He lifted his drink. Took a slow pull. Let the fire settle.

“Fortunately,” he went on, “I'm happy to teach.”

His voice steadied—low, clear, and firm.

“The Resol’nare. The Six Actions.”

He raised his gloved hand. Counted them off, one finger at a time.

“Wear the armor.
Speak the language.
Defend yourself and your family.
Raise your children as Mandalorians.
Contribute to the honor of your clan.
Rally when called by the Mand’alor.”

He didn’t need to dress it up. These weren’t suggestions. They were the spine of who they were.

Jonah took another sip, then let his eyes sweep the room—the bar, the streets beyond, the weight of Celanon itself pressing against the windows.

“The Mand’alor’s cause shifts with the one who bears the helm. Some call us to rebuild. Some to conquer. Others to take vengeance on those who tried to break us.”

His tone darkened—not cruel, but real.

“But whatever form it takes—to live by the Resol’nare means being ready to burn worlds down.”

His gaze found Adonis again. Held it.

“So ask yourself…”

A pause.

“If the Mand’alor wills it—would you burn the galaxy? The Alliance? The Jedi? Would you ignite them all, even to the last child?”

He leaned in just enough that the rest of the world blurred behind him.

“That’s the price.” Another sip. “Now the question is—are you willing to pay it?”

Tag: Adonis Angelis IV , Feydrik Munin

 

[Adonis Angelis IV]

The bar had gone still.

Not quiet, no, the ambient hum of Celanon's market still filtered through the windows, the low crackle of static from a dusty holoset stuttered near the corner, and someone in the far back coughed into their drink, but still. Like the eye of a storm had settled right above them.

Even the air changed. It was thick with the smell of ozone, alcohol, and the sweat of anticipation. The kind of stillness that lives in the second before a blade is drawn.

Adonis didn't flinch at the sound of boots.

Clink.
Clink.
Clink.

The sound rang through the bar like a warning bell. He didn't need to look to know what it was. The bar felt smaller all of a sudden. The light dimmer. The shadow moving toward him was no rumor now, it was a presence. As real as war.

His eyes didn't leave his glass. Not yet. He let the moment stretch, feeling the weight of Feydrik's gaze settle on him like a warhammer resting just above his neck.

But Adonis didn't shrink.

When he did look, first to Jonah, then fully to the man that now loomed beside him, his spine stayed straight. His voice, when it came, was even. Controlled.

"I know what my name means to some," he said. "And I don't expect you to respect it." There was no challenge in his tone. Just quiet truth.

"I was born under the banner of the Alliance. I didn't choose it—but I benefited from it. I saw what it offered. I also saw who it forgot. Who it trampled." Around him, the bar seemed to hold its breath.

"I defected not because I wanted to wear a new sigil. I defected because I saw rot in what I was raised to protect. And I've seen strength, purpose, and honor in the people I was taught to fear." His hand, still holding the glass, flexed, knuckles whitening, before gently setting it down.

"I don't know everything. I don't speak the language. I don't own beskar forged from my ancestors. But I'm not here to claim your culture."

He paused, long enough for the tension to twist tighter like a drawn cable. "I'm here to earn it."

A beat of silence.

The bar lights buzzed overhead. A drink clinked in the far corner. Somewhere beyond the bar, a speeder whooshed past. But inside these walls, the weight of history, expectation, and bloodied ideals pressed in like a vice.

"Jonah asked me if I would burn the galaxy- if the Mand'alor demanded it." Adonis' voice dropped, quieter now, but no less sure. "The truth is, I don't know. I've burned bridges. Buried my name. Severed my bloodline. I've already lost everything for the chance to stand here."

He rose then, slow and deliberate. No aggression. No retreat. Just a man standing his ground.

The sigil of House Angelis glinted across the chestplate of his armor, a defiant star in a storm of scrutiny.

"If I have to lose more to earn your trust, I will."

He looked to Jonah first.

"I'll learn the Six Actions."

Then to Feydrik, gaze level.

"I'll prove to the Mando'ade that I'm not a heretic. Not an apostate. I'm not here to take up space, I'm here to fight."

The silence cracked. Not with sound, but with promise. With steel. "I've worn masks all my life. But this one, this armor, I want it to mean something."

A breath. "So if you think I'm unworthy... teach me. If you think I'm weak... test me. But don't think for a second I'll walk away."

His voice, finally, fell quiet.

Jonah Feydrik Munin

 

[Jonah]

Jonah said nothing as Adonis spoke.

But his head tilted—just slightly. Like a man testing the weight of something. A pause between hammer and anvil.

He heard it in the voice. The stillness behind the words. Not bluster. Not bravado.

Truth.

And when the words “earn it” landed, Jonah’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile. Just the shadow of one. Restrained. Measured.

But this—this was what he came looking for. Not a runaway clinging to survival. Not some desperate brat playing at rebellion.

A man willing to shed what he was to become something more.

When Adonis finished, Jonah rose from his seat.

The motion was quiet. Controlled. A man used to moving without ceremony. He stepped forward.

Thump.

A closed fist tapped Adonis on the shoulder—not hard, not soft. Solid. Like a bridge being built from bone and steel.

Jonah’s voice came low, rough with Mando’a:

“Gai bal manda.”

He let it hang in the air a beat. A second longer. Then:

“I know your name as my brother.”

He'd wait for any flicker of confusion cross Adonis’ face—then continued, tone serious now.

“That’s not just a phrase. Not for show.” He met Adonis’ gaze head-on. No theatrics. Just truth. “It means you’re not of the Alliance anymore. Not of Angelis. You may carry the name, but it doesn’t define you. You are of House Verd now. My blood. My brother. Kin to the Sole Ruler himself.”

He let that settle.

Then another thump—lighter this time. Shoulder to shoulder.

Jonah smirked, dry.

“Don’t fuck this up.”

Without waiting, he turned. Striding past Adonis. Past the other Mandalorian, whose drink still waited on the bar. Jonah threw a hand up in a loose motion toward the door.

“I’ve seen your intent. I know your name.”

He glanced back only once, the neon from the marketplace catching on the edge of his shades.

“Time to head back to Mandalore.”

And just like that, he stepped out into the night.

Didn’t wait.

Didn’t need to.

If Adonis was who he claimed to be—he’d be close behind.

As for the other Mandalorian?

Hopefully, he liked his whiskey neat.

Tag: Adonis Angelis IV , Feydrik Munin

 

[Adonis Angelis IV]

Anxiety was a stranger Adonis had rarely entertained. There had been moments, sure, embarrassment, frustration, pressure to perform-but never this. Not the tight pull in his chest. Not the weight of uncertainty coiling in his gut like a sleeping beast.

He wasn't supposed to feel this way. Not someone like him, born into comfort, raised with expectation, polished into perfection. But standing in that backwater cantina, flanked by warriors who could end him with little more than a breath, Adonis felt it.

Not fear.

Reckoning.

This was the moment everything changed.

He had made the choice long before Jonah's words were spoken. Before the bar. Before the bottle. When he fled his family estate under a fractured sky and carved his own path across the stars. But the weight of that decision only settled now, anchored by the gravel-edge truth of Jonah's voice and the thud of knuckles against his shoulder.

Gai bal manda.

The phrase rang out like a ritual brand, searing into his soul with the quiet gravity of belonging. Not just an acknowledgment, an oath.

House Verd.

The words landed heavier than he expected. That was the Mand'alor's bloodline. This wasn't just some faction or banner. This was legacy. History. Fire.

Adonis stood straighter beneath it. Not because he was trying to impress, but because something in him shifted. Something old sloughed away. For the first time in his life, his name didn't feel like a crown or a shackle. It was a foundation. Something to be rebuilt, reforged.

A proud smile crept across his face, honest and unguarded. "House Verd…" he echoed to himself, almost in disbelief.

He looked toward the other Mandalorian who still lingered nearby. There would be more like him, he knew. Warriors who saw Adonis as a traitor, a princeling with a polished name and no scars to match. Some would doubt him. Some would want him to fail. But Jonah's words rang in his skull like a war drum:

Don't fuck this up.

He wouldn't.

He'd train harder than he ever had. He'd learn the language, wear the armor, live the Creed. He'd bleed beside his new brothers and sisters.

And maybe, if the gods allowed, he'd be worthy of the name he'd been gifted.

As Jonah pushed through the doors into the Celanon market, Adonis followed in silence, boots echoing softly on the floor behind him. He didn't look back. Not even once.

Somewhere behind him, three empty shot glasses sat on the bar- tiny monuments to the man he used to be.

Don't fuck this up, he thought, one last time, as the neon swallowed him whole.

E N D​

Jonah Feydrik Munin