I R O N M A I D E N
The Ark had learned how to whisper.
Deep within Sith Space, where the stars burned beneath the long shadow of the Sith Covenant and the territories of the Empire, the monastery-cityship drifted behind the blazing disk of a distant sun. From the surface of Empress Teta, it would have been almost impossible to see. A dark shape swallowed by stellar brilliance, deliberately hiding in the glare while its beacon pulsed outward through the void.
A dreary invitation.
Come, if you seek power.
Come, if you seek fire.
Come, if you possess the courage to put your soul beneath a blade.
For all the talk of alliances, treaties, bargains, and the increasingly tangled web between Mandalorians and Sith, Dima found the entire thing rather amusing. Doors that had remained firmly shut to her people for generations were suddenly opening. Places once considered hostile territory were now becoming places where Mandalorians could walk without immediately being asked to explain themselves. Sith were speaking to Mandalorians. Mandalorians were speaking to Sith. Lords who would once have considered one another enemies now found themselves sharing tables, exchanging weapons, and discussing what could be gained by working together.
Time had a peculiar sense of humor.
The more things changed, the more they somehow remained exactly the same.
Dima, for her part, had never been particularly impressed by borders.
Nor flags.
Nor the invisible lines drawn across star charts by beings who had never bothered asking the stars where they belonged.
She had always marched to the rhythm of a drum only the gods could hear. Where there was a blade-shaped dream, Dima eventually appeared. Where there was a warrior searching for purpose, she found herself watching. Where there was an ancient weapon waiting for a worthy hand, her claws inevitably began itching to place it there. One way or another, the will of Ha'rangir would be met so long as Domina Prime continued stalking the stars.
And now the stars had brought her somewhere particularly interesting.
The beacon of the Ark pulsed again.
The War College had opened its doors.
Not to ordinary soldiers.
Not to common Mandalorian recruits seeking another set of armor and a blaster.
The halls of Ha'rangir offered something older.
Something harsher.
Something much closer to a dueling school than a military academy.
Those who entered its gates would be taught the Majestic Flame of Mandas combat doctrine, the mandates of the Old Gods, and the sacred disciplines that House Prime had guarded across generations. The Iron Clergy did not simply teach prospects how to fight together. They stripped them down to the individual and demanded that they discover what remained when formations, armies, technology, and numbers were taken away.
The dueling floor beneath the grand hall became a living furnace.
Prospects clashed across it in pairs and groups, moving through ritualized combat exercises constructed by the Iron Clergy. Bare hands met armored limbs. Beskads flashed. Spears swept through practiced arcs. Axes collided against shields. Blades changed hands. Fighters were forced to transition between weapons without warning, to adapt when their preferred method failed, to continue when exhaustion made every movement heavier.
There were no easy victories.
There were no ceremonial participation medals.
Every clash was an examination.
Every mistake was remembered.
House Prime did not intend to raise armies here.
Dima had enough armies.
She wanted champions.
Individuals capable of becoming legends before anyone had even bothered giving them a title.
That was what made the War College so tempting to her.
The Sith understood hunger.
They understood ambition.
They understood that power was not something one merely possessed. It was something constantly fought over, tested, stolen, inherited, challenged, and proven. Their games were dangerous precisely because everyone participating understood the same fundamental truth.
Power invited challengers.
And challengers created opportunities.
Mand'alor's expanding relationships with the Sith had opened a strange new frontier for House Prime. Mandalorians could now walk deeper into Sith territory than they once could have imagined, and Dima had no intention of wasting the opportunity.
There were souls here worth testing.
Perhaps even souls worth arming.
Because the divine armaments she had spent so long creating were never meant to sit inside glass cases, they were meant to be used.
Svartskera was waiting. Stjörnuskagi was waiting.
The sacred weapons accumulated within the Ark's vaults were waiting.
Each one had been forged with a purpose beyond mere craftsmanship. Each was meant to find someone with a blade-shaped dream burning inside them. Someone willing to carry the burden of power into battle and prove that the weapon had chosen correctly.
Dima hungered for those souls.
But even she understood the danger.
Power could not simply be handed to the first impressive warrior who walked through her doors.
A weapon blessed by the gods was not a toy.
It was a responsibility.
A temptation.
A declaration.
So who could she trust?
That answer would belong to time.
For now, she watched.
At the top of the grand staircase overlooking the dueling floor, Domina Prime knelt in silence.
Her enormous alien frame was wrapped within her dark cloak, its folds pooling around her body as she remained perfectly still. Her claws rested neatly in her lap. Her mask concealed most of her expression, but all five of her eyes burned through its lenses, watching every movement below.
On either side of her stood two of her finer champions.
They did not speak.
They did not need to.
They were there as examples.
As guardians.
As living proof of what the War College could create.
Below them, another pair of prospects crashed together.
Dima's head tilted.
One fighter overcommitted.
The other immediately punished the mistake.
Dima's fingers twitched.
There.
Again.
A different pair entered the floor.
This time the Iron Clergy altered the exercise, forcing the combatants into a mass engagement. The formation dissolved almost immediately. Warriors collided from every direction, blades flashing beneath the immense banners of Ha'rangir while the sacred drums echoed through the chamber.
Dima watched without blinking.
This was why she had opened the doors.
Not because the Sith were Sith.
Not because alliances were fashionable.
Not because Mandalore had suddenly become interested in the same stars she had been wandering for years.
Because somewhere among all those hungry souls might be one worthy of becoming something more.
A champion.
Perhaps even the bearer of one of her gods' armaments.
Her tail shifted beneath the cloak, the tip giving one slow scrape against the stone.
The beacon pulsed again outside.
Another invitation carried across Sith Space.
Another handful of ambitious warriors would eventually find the Ark waiting behind the sun.
Dima leaned forward slightly.
One of the prospects below staggered.
The Warpriest's five eyes narrowed.
"Again."
The word carried effortlessly through the vast chamber.
The combatants immediately reset.
Dima settled back onto her knees.
A faint, predatory smile appeared beneath her mask.
"Let the old golds bare witness~"
And beneath the distant Sith sun, the Ark continued to wait.