Private Ghost of the Fringe || Farris

[Aether Verd]

ON THE FRINGE OF THE EMPIRE
"Myths don't exist out here."​

The warehouse sat like a scar on the moon's pale surface—its walls rusted and sunken, its roof bowed from time and disuse. Aether watched from the shadows of an outcrop above, the visor of his helmet glowing faintly with motion-tracked overlays. Below, two shuttles faced one another nose to nose, and between them, smugglers bartered crates like they were trading spice on Nar Shaddaa. Weapons. Narcotics. People. He’d seen all of it in reports. Seen more of it buried beneath the silence.

The Mandalorian Empire had many enemies, but this… this was rot. Quiet, seeping, invisible until it was far too late.

He glanced to the side. The Protectors were still as ghosts themselves—scattered in the rocks, behind crates, watching. Waiting. They had done their part well these past months, unearthing slums and syndicates like archaeologists peeling back layers of a decayed era. But before they could strike, someone else had.

Illicit stockpiles burned before boots ever touched the ground. Slavers found trussed and delivered to their own holding cells. Weapons shipments vaporized in the void. No trail, no chatter. Just silence and ruin in their wake. The Protectors had given the specter a name:

The Ghost of the Fringe.

A myth at first. A joke passed over campfires and comm channels. But myths don’t leave a trail of broken chains and smoking hulls.

And tonight? Tonight, the trail led here.

He knelt beside a rusted strut, armor scraping dully against the metal. The moon’s pale light caught the outline of his helm as he watched the smugglers make their deal.

Best case?

They weren’t alone.

Worst case?

The Protectors got another score to hang on the wall.

He tapped the side of his helmet twice, transmitting in a low click across the comms.

:: Hold. Watch. Let the Ghost come to us. ::

A breath passed. Heavy. Expectant.

Let’s see if stories bleed.

Farris Kettefre

 

[Farris Kettefre]

She had done it for the Jedi, at first.

That was what Farris had told herself in the beginning, a couple of weeks ago. When she had first discovered this quiet little outcrop, trading people as one would trade food, she had contacted the Council to seek guidance and direction.

She had hoped the translucent holo image of the Grandmaster Valery Noble shimmering in the air before her would calm her. It did not.

The message had been clear. Do not attack. Not yet — not by yourself. Find the stillness within you and wait.

And she had tried. Sitting cross-legged out in the crags and gray swamp of this moon, her bare toes digging into the dry dust that drifted on the wind and coated her hair, her eyes closed to what she desired to do.

But she could not forget Kessel. She remembered how she wished someone had done something.

Before the leech.

Then her eyes had opened, and she was sprinting across the swamp before she had even bothered to slip into her boots.


And now, on day fourteen of her unsanctioned attacks, she knew there would be no crawling back to the Jedi. She was on her own, lost in the wilds, covered in moss from the valley, and grit from the wind, and sometimes - blood from her enemies.

But it didn’t matter - she was no Jedi anymore. She was the Ghost of the Fringe.

Inhaling deeply, Farris slid the lightsaber from her belt and went into a low crouch, her blue hair a shiny, tangled mess that gleamed in the starlight, piled atop her head, the first sign that she had been living out in what they called the ‘Fringe’ for days.

She would go soon, maybe. Maybe when they stopped. But would they ever stop?

She hid behind a large shipping container, one that had been rolled from the ship an hour ago. She pressed her fingers against the wood of it, her eyes dark as she looked for what lay within.

People. There were people in there. A Twi’lek, an Iktotchi. A human. They were asleep on something their handler must have fed them on the flight over.

There were other shipments - artillery, mostly. Rifles. Drugs to numb the ones who would be firing those rounds later.

These things were scattered in the crates that dotted the warehouse. Farris listened closely while she rested with her back on the crate.

The bartering was almost done.

“Yeah. There, two thousand. It’s sent. Check your pad.”

“Great….I’m getting out of here, then. Don’t want to end up like those sacks down the way. See ya.”

“Yeah. You talking about the Ghost?” A chuckle. One that did not believe. “See ya.”

She was running out of time. She had to move —

But as Farris raised her hand, she become suddenly aware of more…

There were things scattered out in the rocks beyond the base. Life forms. Probably more people. But between focusing on the smugglers - and allowing herself to disappear within the Cloak - she could not afford to investigate them.

I’ll get them next, she thought.

She disappeared completely within the Cloak and leapt atop the crate, and then she was surging through the air toward the team of traders.

The violet saberstaff ignited in the air as her hand reached out, seizing the Force and yanking it like a curtain being ripped from a window.

The men were thrown to the floor, knocked from their feet before they could reach for their blasters.

But she stopped. She wanted them to reach for them.

And that was when the screaming began, as the blaster fire was met with the circular spin of her saberstaff, and artillery began to bounce around the warehouse and find soft flesh.

“Aaaagh! What is this?” someone screamed.

OUTFIT: Jedi Armor | TAG:| Aether Verd | EQUIPMENT: Saberstaff

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[Aether Verd]

ON THE FRINGE OF THE EMPIRE
"Even Ghosts need friends."​

They were running out of time.

Aether could see it in the way the smugglers were fidgeting now—tapping their datapads, motioning toward crates, making vague gestures in the direction of the shuttles. The deal was almost done. And the longer they waited, the more likely someone would bolt with cargo the Empire could not afford to lose again.

His gaze narrowed beneath the visor.

:: Two on the far ridge. Sightlines on both ships. Disable the engines. ::

Two Protectors responded in clicks. Sharpshooters, both. One carried a long-barreled disruptor, the other a slugthrower retrofitted for EMP rounds. If the traffickers tried to flee, they’d go nowhere fast.

Aether shifted slightly on his perch.

And that’s when the Force stirred. Then the impact came.

A blur moved across the clearing like wind with weight. A saberstaff ignited mid-air—violet light spinning like the blade of a saw—and suddenly the smugglers were on the ground, thrown like dolls from a child’s tantrum. One tried to scramble for his blaster.

Aether watched the Ghost rise.

No tricks. No myth. Just fury in motion, folding blaster fire back on its wielders, saber carving arcs of light through smoke and flesh.

:: Mark the Ghost on HUD—friendly. For now. Engage all others. ::

Then he stood.

Then he flew.

Jetpack screaming to life, Aether launched from his vantage point in a hail of grit and fire, the heavy blaster pistol in his hand already warming up. Below, the Protectors broke cover with war cries and bolt fire—ghosts no longer, but revenants of war. They moved in coordinated strikes, clipping runners, battering down those who reached for heavier arms.

Aether landed hard near the Ghost’s flank, knees bending on impact, his pistol raised high. One of the smugglers had her dead to rights—until a red bolt dropped him mid-aim.

“Cleaning house,” Aether muttered, smoke curling from the muzzle of his pistol, “requires many hands.”

The warehouse was chaos now. Screams and gunfire. Metal and fire. But it was a losing fight for the enemy. Between the Mandalorian war machine and the silent wrath of the Fringe, the syndicate didn’t stand a chance.

And Aether? He hadn’t come to capture.

He came to cleanse.

Farris Kettefre

 

[Farris Kettefre]

There were simply more of them this time, and they formed a semi-circle of near-constant blaster fire, fanning out before her.

In her haste to disrupt another operation, she had overestimated her abilities.

She stood silently and furiously spinning the hilt over and over in her hands, creating a shield of erratic light that cut down blaster fire and mostly sent it bouncing toward the smugglers.

But sweat had begun to form on her forehead after two minutes, and her left boot wobbled slightly.

Then the Cloak disappeared, and she was instantly fully visible to her attackers.

One of them stepped forward to spring at her from the flank, raising his pistol to blow apart her ear. She turned —

Then a blast from behind caught him in the chest and dropped him before he could fire.

Farris’ blue eyes slid back to briefly appraise a figure who dropped in behind her on a jetpack. He stood gleaming in gold beskar, smoke pouring from the end of his gun, turning his helmet just slightly to appraise her while she appraised him.

She was annoyed she had missed his approach from the crag above, but it appeared he had just saved her life.

Mandalorian? A strand of hair fell over her eye, and she blew it with the corner of her mouth as he spoke to her.

"Cleaning house,” he muttered, smoke curling from the muzzle, "requires many hands."

So perhaps he meant to help. For now. She would determine the reason later.

Farris nodded once and stopped deflecting to leap forward on powerful feet. She landed ten feet away, right in front of a Duros thug who had been trying to retreat from the rear of the hangar.

She delivered a swift kick to his green collarbone and then smashed her hilt into his nose. When he dropped to the ground, she turned away to appraise the mystery Mandalorian and his team, as more of them dropped from the air with their jet packs and returned fire.

She quietly watched a few of the smugglers scrambling toward the ramp of a ship. She looked at the Mandalorian in gold and made an educated guess.

“If you want that cargo, you’d better stop them now.” She raised her eyebrows and smoothed her hair with her free hand. “Or I might destroy it first.”

OUTFIT: Jedi Armor | TAG:| Aether Verd | EQUIPMENT: Saberstaff

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[Aether Verd]

FRINGE OF THE EMPIRE
"Who do ghosts serve?"​

The tide broke fast.

With the Ghost at his flank and the Protectors descending like a hammer, the ambush unraveled into a blood-slick retreat. Smugglers shouted over one another, some trying to flee, others trying to bargain mid-blaster burst. None succeeded.

Aether moved with deliberate precision—each shot from his heavy pistol dropping another would-be trafficker. One bolt took the arm off a Nikto mid-draw. Another split a rifle before it could fully clear a crate. Beskar boots pounded dirt and ferrocrete around him as his people landed one by one, their jetpacks screaming war into the hollow dark.

Within moments, the hangar was quiet again. Not silent—never silent—but quiet enough for breathing to feel normal again.

The last body dropped.

Aether exhaled.

He holstered his pistol with a smooth motion and turned toward her—toward the Ghost.

"I want that rot cleansed from my lands," he said flatly, loud enough for every Protector present to hear.

Without another word, the Protectors moved.

Wrist-mounted flamethrowers hissed to life, and fire answered their call. It washed over crates of narcotics, stockpiles of rifles, pallets marked with Syndicate codes in languages long outlawed. One by one, they caught and curled black beneath the blaze.

But not everything burned.

Inside the slaver crate, the Protectors found what Aether suspected: women, children—barely conscious, some barely clothed. He raised a hand and his people pivoted with discipline. The flames veered wide. The prisoners were untouched.

"Secure them," Aether ordered. A pair of Protectors nodded and moved to the survivors, voices low, movements practiced. They wrapped the freed captives in thermal cloaks and whispered something beneath their helmets. Not comfort. Mandalorians didn’t do comfort. But something close enough to believe in.

The rest of the Protectors returned to formation. Helmets faced the Ghost. None raised their weapons. None needed to.

Aether turned back to her and lifted a hand—just one, flat and open.

Wait.

When he spoke again, his voice was calm, but iron lay beneath it.

"You are within the territory of the Mandalorian Empire," he said. "And you are safe. My Protectors will see to the wounded and the freed."

The pair escorting the prisoners moved toward a nearby shuttle. The others held position. Watching.

Aether stepped forward, only slightly, just enough to let his presence meet hers in full.

"You’ve been operating freely in my lands," he said. "Doing good, yes. But you are a rogue element."

A pause.

"I am Mand’alor the Iron. And I want to know who you are… and who you serve."

Farris Kettefre

 

[Farris Kettefre]

Farris switched off the lightsaber and waited patiently. Her body became very still, recovering from the skirmish, while her hands rested at her hips. Only her eyes moved, flicking from one Mandalorian to the next, as they fired their last rounds with a calculated coolness that you did not find in the Jedi Order.

But most of all, her eyes stayed on the warrior in gold beskar. She had initially suspected he was their leader, and now that was confirmed. He gave the orders, and they carried them out wordlessly.

She watched a crate get engulfed in flame from a wristcaster. She didn’t react to that, except for the slightest jerk of her head. She had expected them to steal from the smugglers. Instead, they were destroying all of it.

Her hair blew in the wind, mixing in with the smells of burning plastics and steel. She stayed just beyond the warrior in gold and blinked when he instructed her to wait.

When he was done addressing those who had been captured, he turned to face her, and she squared her shoulders just slightly. Waiting to see if she would need to fight her way out of this.

Instead — he introduced himself as the Iron. Suddenly, everything began to fall into place in her head. Now she understood what this was. Now she knew where she was. She had been so lost..for days…

She had at least heard of him. Aether Verd had recently formed the Mandalorian Empire and worked to unite the clans that had been lost to the stars.

This was their moon, and she had been invading it. Without ever knowing.

She watched parts of the warehouse burn behind him, thinking of what she wanted to reveal, before her eyes flicked to him and she spoke.

“My name is Farris,” she said. Her voice was hoarse in her own ears, as if she hadn’t spoken to another person in days.

He was correct. Since she could not - would not - go home to the Jedi…what did that make her now?

“I am…was…a Jedi. They’ve moved on to Tython. I won’t be following them there,” she said simply.

OUTFIT: Jedi Armor | TAG:| Aether Verd | EQUIPMENT: Saberstaff ​

 

[Aether Verd]

FRINGE OF THE EMPIRE
"Life has many choices. This is one of them."​

Aether listened.

He said nothing at first. Just let the words hang between them—simple, quiet things, spoken with the rasp of someone who hadn’t spoken in days. Maybe longer. The wind carried the scent of flame and ash around them. The warehouse crackled behind him. The moment stretched.

She was not with the Jedi anymore.

She had not followed them to Tython.

Instead, she spent her nights here—in his lands—striking at the dark where few dared tread. Alone. Relentless. Unclaimed.

His helmet tilted ever so slightly as he considered her. Not with judgment. Not even suspicion.

Just thought.

“…Be it far from me,” he said at last, “to show ingratitude to one who has risked her life on behalf of my people.”

He stepped once to the side, half-turning to glance back toward the flames—toward the charred remnants of rifles, credits, and collars.

“I’d heard the whispers. Stories passed between fires and comms. Nothing confirmed. Just the aftermath of a ghost.”

Aether turned back to her, voice steady now.

“After tonight, I believe them.”

His hands remained at his sides. Relaxed. But there was weight in his next words—measured, intentional.

“You’ve walked as a rogue within my Empire. Whether by choice or by circumstance matters little. Vigilantes sow chaos, even when they mean well.”

A pause.

“But I do not see chaos when I look at you.”

He took one step forward—not in threat, but with certainty.

“So I offer you a choice.”

Aether raised one hand, gesturing toward the horizon behind him.

“You’ll come to the capital. As my guest. You’ll rest. Recover. Eat something that isn’t whatever you’ve been living on out here.”

The corners of his voice almost curved—almost.

“And when that’s done, your path is yours to decide.”

He extended two fingers now, to mark the options plainly.

“Stay. Serve the Empire. As Mandalorian or as Citizen. Your actions will be legitimized. Supported. Empowered. You will not hunt shadows alone again.”

A breath.

“Or… you’ll be given a proper escort beyond our borders. No harm. No pursuit. Just the respect due to a warrior who chose her own road.”

He turned his head slightly, gesturing now to the warriors around them—still watching, still waiting, but without hostility.

“These are the Mandalorian Protectors. Like you, they bring order to chaos. They cut out the rot. Liberate the trafficked. Bury the wicked.”

He faced her fully once more.

“You could serve beside them. You could even be one of them.”

Then a pause—just long enough to be personal.

“…Or, if your will is strong enough, I could train you myself.”

His helm dipped in the faintest nod.

“The choice is yours, Farris.”

Farris Kettefre

 

[Farris Kettefre]

Farris listened to him speak. She kept eye contact with his helmet, vaguely aware of how his comms filtered his voice just slightly and rendered it in calm, cool shades of blue.

It became evident that she was not in danger, despite her multiple trespasses. Well, at least not with the Protectors. It was still very possible Master Noble would send Jedi to come looking for her here.

She was not afraid. But she had nowhere.

He offered her an opportunity to join the Protectors. That at least jerked an inkling of surprise from her that rippled in the Force. Mandalorians - from what she knew of them, because the death gang on Tokmia had been very atypical of what true Mandalorian culture was - did not extend invitations to join their ranks.

But everything was changing in the galaxy. Fast. The only way to survive now was to change with it.

Her dark lips flickered up briefly when he mentioned food. She was hungry…and the Jedi rations of Coruscant were gone now.

But, more importantly, she was being given a pardon, essentially. From the Manda’lor - the one they had named king, in the hopes of making them all stronger.

And he was offering to train her in their ways.

She stood still for a few heartbeats. She listened to what the Force had to say on the matter.

The past is gone, it whispered. You were led here, not to Tython.

Then she stepped forward, her left hand turning palm-up as her eyes became lit with a new fire. Dark nails extended toward Aether Verd, gleaming in the light of the destruction.

“I will train with you,” she agreed.

OUTFIT: Jedi Armor | TAG: Aether Verd | EQUIPMENT: Saberstaff

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[Aether Verd]

THE FRINGE OF THE EMPIRE
"Your Battle doesn't have to be fought Alone."​

Aether said nothing at first.

He watched her.

Watched the shift in her eyes. The change in posture. The quiet moment where the Force whispered its truths to her and she listened. No bravado. No demands. Just choice.

And then she stepped forward.

“I will train with you,” she said, hand rising palm-up, fingers catching the firelight.

He stepped forward in kind and placed a steady hand on her shoulder—firm, not forceful. A gesture meant to ground, not to bind.

Then he turned to the warriors behind him.

:: Four on sweep. Comb the perimeter. Look for stragglers, comm units, cargo caches—anything that points to who was bankrolling this. Report to me directly. The rest—back to the Dawn. ::

The Protectors split without question, pairs jetting off into the rocks while the rest regrouped at his flank. Overhead, one of the Kom’rk-class fighter-transports broke from its high hover and descended on thrusters of blue flame, repositioning to land just a few meters behind Aether and Farris.

He turned his helm toward her once more.

“Follow.”

He didn’t wait to see if she did.

Boots thudded up the ramp as he strode inside, the ship’s interior bathed in cool light and muted steel. Functional. Unyielding. The kind of place a soldier called home.

He took a seat near one of the inner compartments—on a bench lined in worn leather and armored plating. Then, for the first time since they met, his helmet hissed as it detached. He set it down beside him.

Dark hair, damp with sweat. Eyes sharp, but not unkind. A face that looked like it had seen too much and endured anyway.

He looked to her.

"You certainly look like you’ve fought a war all by your lonesome.”

A wry undertone. Not mocking. Just truth, made palatable.

His gaze flicked across her dirt-streaked cheeks, the matted hair, the scuffed saber hilt still at her hip.

“When’s the last time you had a real meal?”

Farris Kettefre

 

[Farris Kettefre]

Farris did her best to keep up with his long stride as he led them up the ramp of the transport. She looked up, taking in the cold lights and the bare-bones framework of the ship. It gave her an inkling that they had been fighting a war here for some time. It gave the impression that there was no time for pleasantries or frivolous materials.

She joined him inside on the bench as the ramp began to fold up, sitting down maybe a little too stiffly. She quietly watched him remove his helmet at last, answering the question that had been waiting at the back of her mind since the battle had ended.

She noted his dark skin, dark hair, serious eyes. Handsome, she thought vaguely, until she turned an ear to listen closely to what he was saying.

She gave a wry grin at his comment about her appearance. She probably looked insane, but luckily the Jedi Order had removed any trace of vanity with their training.

She leaned forward on the seat and rested with her hands folded in front of her knees, finally appearing more human than machine.

“Well, the Jedi are spread more and more thin these days. I’m…fine with doing things alone. I got used to it, out there.”

She looked beyond him, slightly curious, to see where or how he would produce food in the back of this hangar.

“One thing you don’t get used to? The rations.” At last she smiled, her teeth bright in the fluorescent light.

“Whatever food you have, I’m grateful for it.” She leaned back a little, relaxing as the transport began takeoff.

“The…Mandalorians with you. The Protectors. They listen to you without hesitation.” She turned her head slightly out of curiosity. “How did you get them to elect you Mand’alor?”




OUTFIT: Jedi Armor | TAG: Aether Verd | EQUIPMENT: Saberstaff

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[Aether Verd]

ORBIT
"When no one else will, stand."​

The Resolute Dawn hung in orbit like a silent blade above the moon, waiting.

Their transport thrummed as it broke atmosphere, engines pressing them gently into their seats. Outside the viewport, the stars grew clearer. Inside, the space between them softened, even if the silence remained sharp.

Aether watched Farris settle in—stiff at first, then easing into herself. He noted the change in posture, the faint glint of humor in her voice when she spoke of rations, and the smile that followed. It was small. Earned.

He nodded once, then rose without a word and crossed to a storage unit tucked into the ship’s bulkhead. From within, he pulled a sealed ration crate—not the plastiform bricks she might have expected, but something fresh. Cooked. Still warm. Wrapped in foil and stamped with the emblem of the Empire.

He returned and handed it to her without fanfare.

“Smoked nerf. Roasted tubers. Nothing fancy. But it’s real.”

He didn’t sit right away.

Her next question hung there, curious and quiet.

“How did you get them to elect you Mand’alor?”

Aether’s gaze turned toward the transparisteel viewport as the stars began to rise into view, moonlight giving way to the cold glow of the void.

“I didn’t ask for it.”

He sat again, but slower this time, arms resting on his thighs.

“After the Planeshift… the clans were scattered. We’d lost our borders. Our homeworld was bleeding. No one was watching the rim, let alone the fringe.”

He glanced sideways at her.

“My House was on Krant. I saw what what was happening. I saw that my people were in need.”

He paused for a beat. No pride in his voice. Just memory.

“So I acted. My kin followed. Then others joined. We brought aid to Sundari. Protected settlements too small for navcharts. We led. We cared. Word spread.”

A faint breath.

“The clans that survived… named me Mand’alor.”

He shrugged once—like the weight of a crown still didn’t sit quite right on his shoulders.

“I didn’t rise through trial or bloodsport. I rose because someone had to.”

His gaze settled on her again, sharper now.

“And because I don’t ask others to do what I won’t do myself.”

A small silence passed before he added, quieter:

“If you’re going to lead warriors like the Protectors… you earn their loyalty by bleeding beside them.”

He looked to the food in her lap.

“Eat. You’ll need your strength if you’re serious about training.”

Then his gaze turned back to her—sharper now, more deliberate.

“You said you were a Jedi,” he began. “But not anymore. You didn’t follow them to Tython.”

He let that hang for a breath before asking, evenly:

“Why?”

Another beat.

“And will I need to worry about one of your old masters knocking on my cruiser’s door? Rattling a saber about ‘taking you in’ after I’ve made you kin?"

He didn’t ask it like a threat. It wasn’t bluster. Just a ruler asking if war was about to follow his welcome.

Then, quieter:

“Because if you’re going to walk this path with me, I don’t want you having to look over your shoulder while you do.”

Farris Kettefre

 

[Farris Kettefre]

Farris nodded as she took the food that he carried over. She crossed her legs into a meditation pose and carefully opened the bag to lay out the food and begin eating, her eyes moving up every so often to acknowledge his story with a nod of her head while her fingers remained busy.

She was aware of where Krant was, in fact she had spent a training mission there with one of the Masters a long time ago. She didn’t say anything, but it was amusing that here was someone from that world sitting across from her now.

She found Aether to be passionate about his position, and of course willing to do the hard work that it would take to lead them all here. He would be a fine Mand’alor, but she kept that thought private as well.

She chewed a tuber and looked at him again when he mentioned training her. So he had been serious about that….


But now to answer his questions.

A long pause while she carefully crafted a response. “I have always been apart from most of the Jedi. They took me in pretty late in life, I suppose…the damage had been done. But there were a few that I connected with.”

“Something has always held me back, kept me from being part of the pack. I suppose I’m finally giving up…trying and choosing to go where the Force leads.”

Her thoughts turned to the encounter on Ansion shortly before coming to Concordia. “And then…I met a Sith Lord. She drew me to her. And revealed another path for me. One that feels much more authentic…unrestrained.”


She dusted her fingers off and chewed for a minute before addressing the last part of his question.

“I will go and visit the Jedi one last time. I need to speak to Master Valery Noble and make her aware of my decision. I don’t think you’ll have a problem here, not from the Jedi. I will be absolutely transparent about my intentions. Best to leave them on a good leg, I think.”

She looked up and gave him a slightly wry grin. “And then you can teach, and I can learn.”

OUTFIT: Jedi Armor | TAG: Aether Verd | EQUIPMENT: Saberstaff

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[Aether Verd]

Assets: Beskar'gam | Basilisk
Darksaber | Resolute Dawn​

RESOLUTE DAWN

The deck beneath their feet shifted as the transport angled toward final approach. The low thrum of repulsors deepened into a mechanical growl, and outside the viewport, the armored underbelly of the Resolute Dawn filled their view. Aether watched as the blue light of the hangar's containment field flickered over the ship’s bow, the shadows of waiting Mandalorians stretching across the durasteel floor.

A soft jolt signaled touchdown. The ramp began to lower.

Aether remained seated a moment longer.

“I see,” he said simply, his voice softer than before. “Then maybe the Jedi never truly earned you.”

His tone wasn’t cruel—just pragmatic. Mandalorian. Kind, but cut to the core.

“You were walking your own path even then.”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees.

“As for the Sith…”

He didn’t spit the word. Didn’t curse. But something flared in his eyes—something that remembered.

“The Sith promise freedom. Especially to Jedi. They say: cast off your chains, embrace your power. And for Jedi who’ve only ever been told to suppress what makes them human, it feels like salvation.”

He stood now as the ramp finished lowering, his boots echoing against the steel. The rising sounds of the hangar began to filter in—hydraulics, comm chatter, the rhythmic clank of armored feet.

“But that path is a road to damnation.”

He turned his head slightly, his voice calm but weighty.

“To be Sith is to make war with everything around you. Even peace. Especially peace. That’s the Code. Peace is a lie. And the word ‘Darth’? That’s a challenge. To the Jedi. To the Galaxy. To death itself.”

Aether paused at the edge of the ramp, his silhouette outlined by the hangar lights.

“My father was a Mand’alor… and a Sith Lord.”

A faint breath.

“My mother too.”

He looked over his shoulder at her.

“So trust me when I say—I know their ways. I know their strength. And I know the cost.”

Then he turned and stepped down onto the hangar floor.

“What I offer is different. Freedom, yes. But also purpose. Roots.”

He walked slowly as she followed, his voice carrying clearly even over the busy sounds of the ship.

“Do you know the Resol’nare, Farris?”

Around them, the hangar came into full view: Mandalorians in black, crimson, and gold armor moved with disciplined precision. Some were unloading cargo. Others were calibrating weapons. A few trained in designated sparring zones. The walls were lined with racks of gear, banners marked with clan sigils, and holopanels displaying incoming patrol reports.

This wasn’t just a warship.

It was a home.

Aether led her through it with quiet pride, nodding occasionally to passing warriors. Some nodded back. Others simply gave her a second look—curious, not hostile.

“This is the Resolute Dawn. My flagship. My home when the stars are loud and the ground is far.”

He gestured down the corridor ahead.

“There’s a place for you here, if you want it. But if you walk this path, it begins with the Resol’nare—the Six Tenets. The soul of our people.”

He looked to her again, his pace slowing.

“If you don’t know them yet, you will soon.”

Then he stepped aside, letting her walk beside him now instead of behind.

There was no throne here. No crown. Just armor, purpose, and the weight of legacy shared.​

Farris Kettefre