Adonis rose when commanded, his movements smooth and reverent, as though standing itself was an oath. The weight of the moment settled in his chest like gravity, anchoring him in place. It wasn't just the presence of Mand'alor, though that alone would command respect, it was who stood beside him. Warriors whispered of in battlesong, names spoken with reverence or caution. He scanned the faces gathering in the glow of the cavern, their armor catching fractured light, their reputations heavier than their beskar. To be included among them felt like stepping into myth. The boy who once escaped Celanon under cover of night, fleeing legacy and failure with Jonah at his side, would never have imagined this. But life had sharpened him since then. War had molded him. And the Creed had carved him into something worthy.
As Aether spoke, his words echoing across the chamber's stone bones, something in the air shifted. It was subtle at first. Not in sound or sight, but
scent.
It came like a whisper to the senses: delicate and distinct, cutting through the mineral tang of Mandalorian soil and deep-earth damp. A sweetness, foreign to this place yet impossibly familiar.
Meiloorun Blossom. A scent from memory, tucked into the corners of forgotten cloth and old dreams. It used to linger on shawls and in hallways back home, a trace of someone whose presence had been warmth itself. The mist swirled in heavier, denser coils now, winding around his frame, brushing the edges of his armor like an embrace reaching through time. He didn't understand what was happening, but he didn't resist it.
His breath hitched, chest tightening.
Aether's voice grew distant, like the slow submersion of sound in water. The cavern blurred around the edges of his vision. Then, through the rising warmth and the silent thunder of the Force, he heard it.
"
Adonis…"
A name, not shouted or called- but spoken,
breathed. As if it had waited years to be said again.
The voice was faint. Soft as steam rising from a teacup. Smooth like milk and smoke. But undeniably real.
His eyes closed. A slow, shuddering inhale followed. For the first time since the day his father died, the endless static in his mind quieted. The pressure in his chest lessened, and he breathed like a boy again. When he opened his eyes—
She was there.
A vision clothed in memory and mist, her figure wrapped in layers of pale cloth that clung to her form like warmth itself. The fabric fluttered without breeze, soft and timeless. Her hair, dark and rich like burnt ember, spilled past her shoulders in gentle waves. Though her eyes were colorless now, he remembered them in vivid detail,
green, warm as a sunlit tide, bright with knowing. Her expression was calm, eternally gentle. One hand reached forward, hovering inches from his chest, directly over his heart.
She smiled, just as he remembered.
Sereia Angelis.
She had been the soul of House Angelis, even if the House never acknowledged it aloud. Born of Vaal's soil, daughter to a humble farmer, she had risen by the strength of her spirit alone. A scholar, a healer, a mother of sharp wit and sharper empathy. It was her mind that caught Adonis Angelis III's eye, but it was her defiant softness that made her unforgettable. She had not let wealth tarnish her grace. She had been a sponge to the family's wetstone—a calming force in a household built for war. An illness had taken her before Adonis could truly understand what loss meant. But he had learned.
Oh, he had learned.
And now, impossibly, she stood before him.
A tear gathered beneath his helmet, pressure blooming behind his eyes. His throat tightened, locked in a grip forged by grief long-buried. He didn't know if this was real. If the Manda had conjured her. If the Force had found a way. If his soul had simply needed it enough to make it so.
"Mother…" The word broke from him in a whisper barely held together. Whether it left his lips or only existed in the space between thought and breath, he couldn't tell. It didn't matter.
She leaned closer, her hand lowering slightly until it hovered over his own. No contact. No warmth. But still- he felt her. Or something close enough to believe.
"My sweet boy." Her voice was a balm, aged in kindness and gentler than he deserved.
"They've taught you to fight," she said,
"to kill…" Her words slowed, trembling with sadness, as if weighed down by what they had seen him become.
"But I tried… I tried to teach you to love."
Her hand rose toward his face, instinctive and mothering. It stopped just short of his helmeted cheek. Still, he leaned into the gesture, as though the armor could be pierced by memory alone.
"Your father…" Her voice darkened with sorrow.
"He was too blind with loyalty. Too proud. He couldn't see what we could."
A memory surged to the surface.
He was young. His head in her lap. A book opened across them. She had been telling a story of a Mandalorian family: brave, loyal, but tender with one another. He remembered her laughter. His own. He remembered her hand on his hair. Then- his father's
boots. The
door.
Anger. The story closing like a tomb. Her voice silenced not by fear, but by necessity. He remembered how
small he felt in that silence.
The mist thickened, flickering around the edges.
He returned to the now.
The tear that had waited finally fell, trailing down his cheek beneath the helmet. And her spectral hand moved with it, as though tracing its path, even through the beskar.
"You are still that same sweet, sweet boy," she whispered, her lips curling into a bittersweet smile.
"The one I held in my arms the last time I saw the stars."
She lowered her hand, now pressing it flat over the sigil engraved into his chestplate. The eight-point star of House Angelis shimmered faintly beneath her touch, as if warmed from within.
"Your name is a blade, Adonis. Angelis. Your father's legacy. Your family's burden. But don't let it cut you."
The air pulsed.
"Use it," she said, her voice carrying a strength now. "
Carve something better."
He didn't respond, not properly. The storm inside him drowned the words he wanted to say. Apologies. Promises. Pleas. They all spun just behind his lips, unspoken.
"Mother…" he said again, a second time, smaller than the first.
She placed her hand over the crest one final time, pressing it, not in weight, but in will. As if claiming it as her own.
"You are more than any of them, Adonis. More than what they expect you to be. You are mine, too."
Her voice softened again, dissolving like the edges of a dream.
And though her touch had never broken through the armor, he had never felt more held in all his life.
Aether Verd
Kirae Orade
Cordelia Malkavian
Incitrix
Vytal Noctura