K I N G
KELDABE, MANDALORE
The weight of his station did not prevent him from walking among his people. It never had. In the quieter veins of Keldabe, where the clang of the forge gave way to murmured greetings and the rich aroma of food carts drifted in the air, the Mand'alor moved with purpose. He did not take the main roads. Today, he chose the winding alleys where stone met foot with centuries of wear, and where the Empire's pulse beat not in steel formations or policy meetings, but in the lives that endured between moments of peace and war.
Ambition stirred within him, hot and restless. It was not the kind that burned cities or seized thrones. It was the kind that sought to build, to shape something enduring. It was this desire that had driven him into the company of the Nightmother,
Vytal Noctura
, only days prior. He had shared a theory with her, half-mad and half-inspired, and to his surprise, she had not dismissed it. Now he chased its echo, hoping to forge it into something real.
That pursuit had brought him here, into the scent-heavy corner of the city where herbalists sold powders in wrapped satchels and whispered fortunes alongside tinctures. This was the domain of Spiritspeakers, those who walked the line between wisdom and wonder. One in particular had captured his attention...not with theatrics or titles, but with presence. Sanguina had stood beside the Empire during its hour of need, and when she did, the Manda had clung to her like dew to armor. That had meant something.
He found her stall just ahead, tucked beneath a hanging canopy of red and bone-white cloth. The sight of it brought the first warmth to his voice before he even spoke. In his gloved hand, he carried a carefully bundled offering, the linen wrap still holding the faintest heat from the oven. Sweet cakes, crusted in spiced sugar and filled with cream, made with his own hands before dawn ever kissed the city.
He approached not as ruler to subject, but as man to woman, kin to kin. His voice carried a note of mirth as he inclined his head and offered the bundle with an open palm.
“I come bearing bribes,” he said, smile hidden behind the obsidian sheen of his helm. “Tell me, Sanguina, would you consider taking an early brunch break... if the price is right?”
Ambition stirred within him, hot and restless. It was not the kind that burned cities or seized thrones. It was the kind that sought to build, to shape something enduring. It was this desire that had driven him into the company of the Nightmother,
Vytal Noctura
, only days prior. He had shared a theory with her, half-mad and half-inspired, and to his surprise, she had not dismissed it. Now he chased its echo, hoping to forge it into something real.That pursuit had brought him here, into the scent-heavy corner of the city where herbalists sold powders in wrapped satchels and whispered fortunes alongside tinctures. This was the domain of Spiritspeakers, those who walked the line between wisdom and wonder. One in particular had captured his attention...not with theatrics or titles, but with presence. Sanguina had stood beside the Empire during its hour of need, and when she did, the Manda had clung to her like dew to armor. That had meant something.
He found her stall just ahead, tucked beneath a hanging canopy of red and bone-white cloth. The sight of it brought the first warmth to his voice before he even spoke. In his gloved hand, he carried a carefully bundled offering, the linen wrap still holding the faintest heat from the oven. Sweet cakes, crusted in spiced sugar and filled with cream, made with his own hands before dawn ever kissed the city.
He approached not as ruler to subject, but as man to woman, kin to kin. His voice carried a note of mirth as he inclined his head and offered the bundle with an open palm.
“I come bearing bribes,” he said, smile hidden behind the obsidian sheen of his helm. “Tell me, Sanguina, would you consider taking an early brunch break... if the price is right?”
