K I N G
IRIDIUM, MOUNTAINSIDE
On Iridium, the tensions between the Diarchy and the Mandalorian Empire boiled over into violence. Though the planet had long stood as neutral territory, both powers had quietly seeded personnel across its orbit and surface, each seeking to deny the other a foothold. On this day, the Diarchy had constructed a checkpoint station above the world, a barrier designed to prevent Mandalorians from conducting trade or business beneath. It was not an open act of war, but the insult was undeniable. To interfere with the right of Mandalorians to set foot on the surface was to challenge their freedom. Such a challenge could not stand unanswered. In short order, a raiding party struck fast and true, overwhelming the Diarchy’s garrison and cutting the station offline before the hour had turned.
Yet victory was not without its sting. The Diarchy had prepared for the eventuality of failure, and their last act of spite carried consequences far beyond the stars. Remote charges had been rigged to the core structure, leaving the Mandalorians with little chance of countering the detonation once the order was given. With the push of a button, the station erupted into flame, taking those still aboard with it. The wreckage, torn free of orbit, was cast down to the surface like iron rain. Its fall was cruelly precise, slamming into the mountainside and swallowing a village in fire and ruin. Where there might have been opportunity for goodwill with Iridium, there was now only devastation, and the Diarchy would no doubt whisper that it had been the Empire’s hand that brought it.
So it was that the Mand’alor went himself to Iridium. Though he knew in his heart that few could have survived the twin fates of fire and a fall from orbit, he did not extinguish the ember of hope within him. Even the smallest chance of finding survivors warranted his presence. Aether could not turn a blind eye to the village that had suffered for their war, for to do so would grant the Diarchy a victory of its own. If survivors remained, they would see that the Empire did not abandon them. And if none remained, the dead would still be honored, their memory bound to the resolve of those who bore the iron crown.
When he arrived with his warriors, the scene was as grim as expected. The village lay in ruins, its homes shattered beneath burning timbers, its streets choked with smoke and ash. The villagers themselves fought desperately against the flames, their frantic efforts aided by hastily raised tents that served as makeshift hospitals. Without hesitation, Aether gave the order for his men to join in the effort, to douse the flames and move the rubble alongside the people of Iridium. Yet before he joined them, he made for the tents. He had to know if his hope had proven true. He reached for the curtain of the first, his hand steady though his chest grew tight. He pulled it aside, his gaze searching within for the gleam of beskar’gam, hoping that Mandalorians had endured where so many had not.
Yet victory was not without its sting. The Diarchy had prepared for the eventuality of failure, and their last act of spite carried consequences far beyond the stars. Remote charges had been rigged to the core structure, leaving the Mandalorians with little chance of countering the detonation once the order was given. With the push of a button, the station erupted into flame, taking those still aboard with it. The wreckage, torn free of orbit, was cast down to the surface like iron rain. Its fall was cruelly precise, slamming into the mountainside and swallowing a village in fire and ruin. Where there might have been opportunity for goodwill with Iridium, there was now only devastation, and the Diarchy would no doubt whisper that it had been the Empire’s hand that brought it.
So it was that the Mand’alor went himself to Iridium. Though he knew in his heart that few could have survived the twin fates of fire and a fall from orbit, he did not extinguish the ember of hope within him. Even the smallest chance of finding survivors warranted his presence. Aether could not turn a blind eye to the village that had suffered for their war, for to do so would grant the Diarchy a victory of its own. If survivors remained, they would see that the Empire did not abandon them. And if none remained, the dead would still be honored, their memory bound to the resolve of those who bore the iron crown.
When he arrived with his warriors, the scene was as grim as expected. The village lay in ruins, its homes shattered beneath burning timbers, its streets choked with smoke and ash. The villagers themselves fought desperately against the flames, their frantic efforts aided by hastily raised tents that served as makeshift hospitals. Without hesitation, Aether gave the order for his men to join in the effort, to douse the flames and move the rubble alongside the people of Iridium. Yet before he joined them, he made for the tents. He had to know if his hope had proven true. He reached for the curtain of the first, his hand steady though his chest grew tight. He pulled it aside, his gaze searching within for the gleam of beskar’gam, hoping that Mandalorians had endured where so many had not.
