K I N G

MANDALORE
The wind carried the scent of iron and soil as Aether listened, his helm tilted just enough that the faint curve of a smile could almost be heard in his tone. “If I accomplish nothing else as Mand’alor, this will be enough.” he said, voice low and steady. “Restoring our home. Giving our people something to believe in again. That is victory enough for me.” He turned slightly, visor catching the light as he looked across the busy streets. “I am proud of what we’ve built here. And I am glad you’re here to see it, vod. To be part of it.”
A low whistle left his lips as Acier spoke of his work with the Path. “You’ve been busy!” he remarked with quiet amusement. “Sabotage, extractions, escorting civilians. That’s no small task. You’ve been doing exceptional work, Ace. Being the rebel against an Empire is never easy, but if anyone’s up to it, it’s you.”
For a moment, the silence stretched between them. Aether felt the shift in his brother’s tone, that faint shadow that came and went behind his words. He didn’t press. Whatever burden Acier carried, he would share it when ready. And if not, Aether would stand beside him all the same.
He raised his helm slightly, taking a slow swig from his canteen before setting it back to his belt. “As for the Diarchy,” he began, shaking his head, “nothing has improved. It seems we are destined for war.” His voice lost none of its calm. “I do not fear conflict; it is our way. But if we must raise the sword, I would rather do so wisely. This situation feels wrong, like someone wants to see us at each other’s throats.”
He let that hang for a moment before his tone lightened, a spark of warmth returning. “Other than that, things are steady. Our contracts hold, relations are strong, and the High Republic is proving to be a reliable neighbor.” His visor turned toward his brother again, the faintest trace of a chuckle following. “Speaking of the High Republic,” he said, nudging Acier’s shoulder lightly, “when are you going to make your move on Sibylla?”
A low whistle left his lips as Acier spoke of his work with the Path. “You’ve been busy!” he remarked with quiet amusement. “Sabotage, extractions, escorting civilians. That’s no small task. You’ve been doing exceptional work, Ace. Being the rebel against an Empire is never easy, but if anyone’s up to it, it’s you.”
For a moment, the silence stretched between them. Aether felt the shift in his brother’s tone, that faint shadow that came and went behind his words. He didn’t press. Whatever burden Acier carried, he would share it when ready. And if not, Aether would stand beside him all the same.
He raised his helm slightly, taking a slow swig from his canteen before setting it back to his belt. “As for the Diarchy,” he began, shaking his head, “nothing has improved. It seems we are destined for war.” His voice lost none of its calm. “I do not fear conflict; it is our way. But if we must raise the sword, I would rather do so wisely. This situation feels wrong, like someone wants to see us at each other’s throats.”
He let that hang for a moment before his tone lightened, a spark of warmth returning. “Other than that, things are steady. Our contracts hold, relations are strong, and the High Republic is proving to be a reliable neighbor.” His visor turned toward his brother again, the faintest trace of a chuckle following. “Speaking of the High Republic,” he said, nudging Acier’s shoulder lightly, “when are you going to make your move on Sibylla?”