Private Iron and Blood

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Theed Palace
Office of the Voice of Naboo
Aether Verd

The holographic image froze mid-flicker.

Silence followed -- not the gentle kind, not the merciful kind. It was the sort that pressed hard and without relent as Sibylla's hand hovered where the controls had been. A fine trembling washed through her, settling into her bones with the deepest chill of winter. And even with the broadcast paused, the echoes refused to fade as the woman's screams seemed etched into the air, reverberating behind Sibylla's eyes, ringing in her ears as if sound could stain memory.

Shock took her first.

Then horror.

The implications hovered just beyond reach, distant and unreal, while the images themselves struck with brutal clarity even as her heart thundered, each beat loud enough to feel intrusive, throat tightening until breath became an effort rather than instinct as her chest began to heave.

She was not unused to death. Nor to blood.

Assassination attempts had taught her how quickly a room could become a battlefield. Wielu had taught her how swiftly order could collapse, how councilmen could fall, and lives could be nearly extinguished in the same breath. Theed had burned. The Senate had bled. She had watched the Black Sun's broadcast of Kalantha's bruised and bloody visage with a cold, horrified resolve she had not known she possessed.

But this.....this was something else.

This brutality did not reconcile with the man she thought she understood.

In her mind, Aether had always been balance made manifest. Strength held in check by restraint. Power wielded with judgment, reserved for moments when consequence demanded it. Mand'alor the Iron was a title she associated with resolve, not excess. With order, not spectacle. With the Iron Fist that would cast judgment as needed, but not unwarranted. She had sat and witnessed this herself with the rest of the Alors when Aether had asked them what they should do to determine the Will of the Empire, when it came to the Diarchy, and for the blood spilled for the death of the Mandalorian Child.

She knew House Wars. She understood what they could unleash when old bloodlines and ancient grudges were stirred. She had studied them, prepared for them, accepted their inevitability when diplomacy failed...but this was not war between Houses.

This was suffering seemingly visited upon civilians, seemingly to the lives of those who may have had no hand in the Diarch's betrayal. Perhaps no voice in the choices that led to the death of a Mandalorian child or authority over the execution of the commandos whose fate had sparked this fury.

Had the punishment been leveled solely at the Diarchs themselves, Sibylla could have followed the logic. She could have understood it as a grim calculus -- an act meant to sever future defiance, to prevent further bloodshed by making an example of those truly at fault.

That would have been harsh, but it would have been comprehensible.

Instead, the rage had seemingly spilled outward, indiscriminate, crushing those who lived under Mandalorian oversight but bore no guilt of their own... save to have ties to the Diarchs by some means.

The thought sat heavy in her chest and made it difficult to swallow.

There had to be more.

There had to be context she lacked, a truth obscured by the brutality of the images. Surely Aether would not have gone to such lengths without cause. Perhaps those civilians had been complicit. Perhaps evidence had surfaced, some hidden alliance with the Diarchy, some atrocity that justified the severity of the response.

There had to be.

It was the only way her mind could make sense of it, the only thread that kept something inside her from splintering outright.

Sibylla exhaled slowly, then cut the broadcast entirely. The room dimmed, the holographic light collapsing into nothing. Without hesitation, she turned toward the secure console and activated the direct line granted to her as Ambassador to Mandalore -- to Aether himself.

If there was more, she would hear it from him.

And if there was not... Sibylla's fingers stilled for just a fraction of a second before the holocall connected.

Shiraya help them all.

 

[Aether Verd]

Wearing:
Beskar'gam - Darksaber​

MANDALORE

The secure channel accepted the connection without ceremony, the ambient light of the chamber shifting as a Mandalorian presence resolved itself into being. Aether Verd appeared as a hologram framed in iron and shadow, beskar armor unmarred and unadorned, his helm deliberately absent as though to deny the galaxy the comfort of anonymity.

Displeasure was visible, contained rather than volatile, the expression of a man who had already measured outrage, condemnation, and the recoil of distant powers and found none of it surprising. Behind him, the chamber was stark and utilitarian, a place forged for judgment rather than performance, its walls catching faint reflections like embers buried deep within stone.

This had never been indulgence.

The crucifixion had been restraint made manifest. When Mand’alor the Iron ordered the Nite Owls to apprehend the constellation of souls bound to the Diarchy, he did so with a ledger already filled. The spark had been struck on Vexis Station, where a Mandalorian child was killed, not by accident or misjudgment, but as an accepted consequence of Diarchal authority. That death had ignited the conflict, but it had not stood alone.

On Daro, when a ceasefire was declared as a gesture of civility, the Diarchy had shattered it within hours. Mandalorians were executed without cause, without evidence, without trial. Their only crime was their armor. Their only guilt was identity. Civilian status had been stripped from them in full view of the galaxy, and their deaths had been presented as order restored.

Still, Mandalore had held.

The offenses that followed were quieter, more insidious. Plainclothes agents and so called civilians tied directly to the Diarchs were loosed upon Taris, stirring riots, provoking violence, seeding sedition beneath the pretense of unrest. Each act was designed to fracture stability while preserving plausible deniability, each one another mark against a ledger the Diarchy pretended did not exist.

Even then, Mandalore restrained itself.

Border skirmishes. Military targets. Controlled responses meant to contain rather than consume. The Mandalorian Empire had answered provocation with discipline, refusing to widen the conflict despite mounting evidence of coordinated malice.

The line was drawn only when the Diarchy slithered into the shadows and parlayed with the Black Sun Syndicate, seeking not victory, not leverage, but genocide. The hope to erase entire Mandalorian worlds was not rumor, not conjecture, but intent made clear.

At that point, restraint demanded demonstration.

The galaxy recoiled as anticipated. The Diarchy lamented barbarism while carefully omitting the child on Vexis, the executions on Daro, the riots on Taris, the appeal to Black Sun for annihilation. The Imperial Confederation advised caution, as though Mandalorian space had suddenly become dangerous rather than resolute.

None of that unsettled him.

What did was the silence from those who should have known better.

Aurelian, once king and now chancellor of the High Republic, issued advisories and quiet condemnation without so much as a word exchanged. Weeks earlier, they had worked in tandem, tracing Death Star III and preparing for a threat that loomed over the galaxy entire. Times were shifting. Masks were thinning.

Still, Aether did not act on rumor. He would not trade discipline for impulse. Facts would be gathered in full, always, even when trust began to fracture.

Thus, when the call from Naboo came, he had been ready.

His eyes settled on the projection before him, steady and unyielding, and when he spoke, it was calm, even, and utterly without apology.

“I thought you would have called sooner.”

The chamber remained still, Mand’alor the Iron present in full, waiting not to justify, but to be understood.

Sibylla Abrantes

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

The hologram flickered with its blue white light and Sibylla found herself pausing without quite intending to.

Not from fear but from recognition.

She took in the details quickly, almost instinctively -- the absence of his helm and showed the dark angles of his face, filling the space with his presence even as light and projection. Those dark eyes found hers at once with that familiar, unwavering gaze of one who bore duty and responsibilities upon his shoulders since birth, and in them she saw neither regret nor spectacle but something far more difficult to name. Resolve, certainly. Control.. and beneath it, a restraint that felt tested rather than abandoned.

"I called as soon as I could," Sibylla replied quietly.

There was no pageantry in the admission nor diplomacy she was trying to hide behind. The truth of it showed plainly in her face, in the worry she had not yet sorted into neat lines, and the concern she did not wish to conceal because the shadow of the broadcast was still lingering in the set of her mouth and the tension in her brow.

But she didn't turn away. Not from Aether's gaze, not from his presence.

"What happened, Aether?"

The question was asked not as an Ambassador nor the Voice of Naboo. The question came instead from the woman who had spoken with him before, who had listened, who had believed she understood the balance he carried. It was in her tone, in the way she held his eyes, asking not for justification but for truth. The unfiltered kind.

But she asked all the same, because she needed to know...and because whatever the answer was, she would face it.

Because there was no denying that the images still unsettled her; she could not pretend otherwise. Not with the way they sat heavy in her stomach, seemingly refusing to be reasoned away with. Nor could she deny that this was a matter she would need time to sort through with care and clarity, as any young diplomat worth her salt must.

The Diarchy had, after all, committed its own public atrocity. The execution of the Commandos had been broadcast without shame and baited the Mandalorian Empire, an act Sibylla had condemned outright. It was the sort of provocation that demanded a response. Of that, she had no illusions. Reprisal in a manner that was measured and deliberate would have been expected.

What she had not expected was this...and perhaps that was why it struck her so deeply, why it left her more shaken than she cared to admit.

Because beneath the horror, beneath the disbelief, a far more unsettling question had begun to take shape.

Would she have done the same?

Aether Verd
​

 

[Aether Verd]

Wearing:
Beskar'gam - Darksaber​

MANDALORE

The Mand’alor released a slow, heavy sigh as her words reached him, the sound carrying through the chamber like air drawn from a bellows before the forge roared anew. It was not irritation directed at her, but acknowledgment of the reality that framed her station, a role bound in process, consent, and the careful tyranny of schedules not her own. Democracy and bureaucracy could elevate an Ambassador to remarkable heights, and just as often leave her standing in the aftermath of decisions already made, treaties strained beneath realities no vote could soften.

His gaze did not leave her projection as the breath escaped him, and when he spoke again, it was not sharp, nor dismissive, but edged with something darker than his usual calm.

“What happened,” Aether said, his brow furrowing as restraint tightened visibly along his expression, “was the result of accumulation. Of lines crossed so often that they ceased to be accidents and became doctrine.”

He straightened slightly, presence filling the chamber even through light and projection.

“The Diarchy has been trying to kill us.” he continued, voice steady, iron beneath every syllable. “Not me alone. Not the Great Heathen Army. Entire worlds along our borders. Trillions of innocent lives reduced to acceptable losses in pursuit of leverage.”

His eyes hardened, the controlled calm giving way to something more severe, though never unmeasured.

“My Nite Owls intercepted intelligence of a meeting between the Diarchy and the Black Sun Syndicate,” Aether said. “In that chamber, the Diarch did not hedge or bargain. They demanded genocide. The extermination of Mandalorian populations en masse, not for strategy, not for survival, but to make Mandalore squirm.”

He let that truth stand, unadorned.

“And the so called civilians you saw,” he continued, “were not innocents caught in a tide they did not shape. They were instruments. Pawns used repeatedly by the Diarchy to destabilize Taris. They received orders through plainclothes agents, incited riots, rebellion, sedition, and murder. They circulated poisonous spice through the poorest districts, attempting to kill the destitute by the thousands, all in service to their liege and their narrative.”

His jaw tightened as he spoke the next words, not in anger, but in certainty.

“They were a cancer.” Aether said. “Guilty of treason under the laws of Taris, guilty under the laws of the Empire, and guilty by the ways of Mandalore. Tumors are not negotiated with. They are cut out.”

Aether paused then, folding his arms across his armored chest, the motion slow and deliberate. Another breath followed, quieter than the first, but no less laden with resolve.

“The Empire is preparing for a two front war.” he said. “What you saw was the first and only warning to the Diarchy and its allies. Mandalore will not issue it twice.”

His eyes lifted fully to her projection, unwavering.

“It is one thing for mercenaries to fall on contract. Or for soldiers to fall in battle. We have kept our clashes to the borders, to military targets, to forces that chose the blade knowingly. But the Diarchy escalated beyond that. They executed Mandalorians for wearing armor. They broadcast it as theater. They plotted the eradication of our people.”

His voice remained even, but the severity of it was unmistakable.

“That spat in the face of every restraint we exercised.” Aether said. “And so an answer was given. Not in chaos. Not in indulgence. In clarity.”

He held her gaze through the hologram, neither demanding agreement nor offering apology.

“You asked what happened...” he concluded. “This is what happens when restraint is mistaken for weakness, and when Mandalore is forced to remind the galaxy of the price of blood.”

Sibylla Abrantes

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Sibylla did not interrupt him.

She stood still as the words came, listening not only to what Aether said, but to how he said it. To the tightening of his brow, the weight carried in the pauses, the way restraint drew itself visibly across his expression like a hand closing around a blade. This was not a political exchange, not truly. She did not hear him as Mand'alor speaking to an Ambassador, nor did she listen as a representative tallying justification.

She listened as someone who looked up to him.

As someone who believed, perhaps naively, that open dialogue could always bridge the worst of divides.

If that was a flaw then it was one she owned.

Biases were human. She had learned that early, in courtrooms and council chambers alike. The danger was not in possessing them, but in failing to recognize them when emotion threatened to eclipse judgment. Sibylla knew this. She had practiced composure until it fit her like a second skin.

Yet as he spoke, Sibylla began to realize with a quiet, uncomfortable clarity that composure was far easier when the stakes were abstract.

It was far harder when the person before you mattered.

The more he spoke of the Diarchy, the clearer the shape of their intent became. Not provocation. Not brinkmanship. But extermination. Genocide spoken plainly, without euphemism. Her chest tightened as the weight of it settled, feeling the indignation flare and collide with the memory of the broadcast she had watched only moments before.

Then he spoke of Black Sun.

Her lips pressed together at that in an involuntary reaction. The name alone carried too much history, too much rot. The image of Kalantha's bruised and bloodied face rose unbidden in her mind, the helplessness of not knowing where she was, whether she still lived, twisting anew. That the Diarchy would consort with them felt like confirmation of every fear she had not yet given voice to.

And truth be told, part of Sibylla understood.

She knew what happened when pressure did not relent. When restraint was met not with respect, but with escalation. There came a point where bending became breaking, where the needs of the many eclipsed the pleas of the few, where enough truly was enough.

Sibylla's jaw clenched, the knot in her throat tightening as anger, horror, frustration, empathy, and no small measure of agreement churned together, leaving her nauseous with the effort of holding them all at once.

She knew this had not been an impulsive act.

That was the most difficult part to reconcile.

This had been considered. Weighed. Measured. The judgment rendered was deliberate, meant to demonstrate that Mandalore would not be pressed, prodded, or quietly erased. Part of her stood with him in that certainty.

And yet...

Another part of her recoiled from the brutality of it being broadcast to the galaxy, from the spectacle of suffering made public, no matter how carefully justified. The two truths refused to settle neatly beside one another.

How was she meant to reconcile that?

For a moment, words abandoned her entirely. It showed in the way she drew a breath and held it, in the tension along her jaw before she finally released it in a slow and unsteady exhale.

When she spoke at last her voice was quieter than before, stripped of diplomacy, threaded instead with something incredibly earnest and raw.

Family, he told her. That is how discussions and Mandalorian councils worked. They spoke like family.

And in her unfiltered expression that showed exactly how she felt and how torn she was on it all, Sibylla spoke in the manner Aether had taught her.

Like family.

"I hear you," Sibylla said. After a brief pause, her hazel eyes held his, the unease lingering there in quiet, unmistakable measure. She was still working through it all -- she knew it, felt it -- but the question would not leave her.

"Did it have to look like that?" she asked simply, without rhetoric, her tone carrying the weight of a genuine wonder that there might have been another way.

Aether Verd​

 

[Aether Verd]

Wearing:
Beskar'gam - Darksaber​

MANDALORE

Aether saw her.

Truly saw her, not as an emissary framed by protocol or a symbol weighed down by office, but as Sibylla herself, standing bare in the space between conviction and doubt. He saw the restraint in her posture, the careful consideration warring beneath the surface, the confusion that came not from ignorance but from caring too deeply to simplify what had been laid before her. In all the time they had worked side by side, in all the ground they had covered together until familiarity had hardened into something like kinship, he understood her turmoil instinctively.

A frustrated breath slipped from his nostrils, slow and controlled.

She was not his enemy. She was not the Diarchy gnashing its teeth to the north. She was not the king-turned-chancellor who had inked a travel advisory rather than pick up a comm and speak like a man.

She was the woman who had stood beside his brother at his lowest hour. She was the woman who had earned the respect of his clans through patience, resolve, and an unyielding sense of self. And so he waited, letting her words come, letting them land without interruption after he had laid the enemy’s treachery bare.

When she finally spoke again, the shift was unmistakable. This was not the Voice of Naboo reaching across a political gulf. This was Sib’ika, speaking as family, asking not for justification but for understanding.

Did it have to look that way?

Aether nodded once, solemnly.

“Yes.” he said, his voice steady but edged with something heavier than before. “It did.”

He held her gaze as he continued, unwilling to soften the truth for the sake of comfort.

“It was necessary on more fronts than one.” Aether said. “Here, at home, it quieted those whose hunger for blood burns hotter than my own restraint. Mandalore is not a mirror of me. My discipline is not shared equally among every warrior who watched their kin executed on Daro or saw a child die on Vexis Station.”

His jaw tightened briefly.

“There are those who would have repeated the attack on Deeja Park. Unchecked slaughter. Raids that would have spiraled beyond. This display gave them an outlet that did not involve loosing them upon the Diarchy. It reminded them that judgment still flows through Mand’alor, not through vengeance alone.”

He drew a breath, measured, then pressed on.

“Beyond our borders, it was just as necessary. We are at war, whether the galaxy wishes to name it or not, and the war of the mind is as real as any fought with blaster and blade. The Diarchy may posture and proclaim resolve, but fear is running through their ranks. I can feel it.”

His eyes darkened.

“That same fear authored the Imperial Confederation’s response. And, surprisingly enough, it authored Aurelian Veruna’s as well.”

Aether folded his arms across his armored chest, annoyance bleeding into his tone despite his effort to temper it. Remembering who stood before him, he spoke more casually now, the way he would on any other day when titles fell away.

“Honestly,” he said, “I thought Veruna would take comfort in it. If the Mand’alor is willing to go to such lengths for his own people, imagine what I would do if he were ever captured. Does the man have any idea how many crucifixions I would happily conduct to get him back?”

The irritation finally slipped its leash, brief but unmistakable.

“But no.” Aether continued. “Travel advisory.”

He paused, displeasure simmering just beneath the surface, and then muttered with blunt finality,

“Fucking. Ass. Hole.”

Sibylla Abrantes

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Sibylla listened.

She did not interrupt Aether. She did not shape his words into arguments or answers meant for the Senate or councils. She listened as on3 listened to a friend she admired, taking in not only what Aether said, but the weight beneath it. The reasoning was brutal, yes, but intentional. And that, perhaps, was what troubled her most.

Because part of her understood.

That understanding coiled uncomfortably within her, twisting alongside the nausea the broadcast had left behind. She could not yet decide whether it was the punishment itself that unsettled her, knowing now the depth of the Diarchy's crimes, or whether it was the fact that it had been made a spectacle for the galaxy to witness. Both answers felt uncomfortably true.

An example had to be made. Just because Mandalore had shown restraint didn't mean they were easy to push around.

And still, the excess of it lingered in her stomach, agreement and revulsion bound together unable to align in a clean, neat puzzle.

She was still grappling with that when his next words struck.

Authored responses?

The question crossed her face before she could stop it. She blinked, once, then again, composure faltering just enough to show the shock of it. Her hand moved instinctively toward her datapad, and Aether would see there was no artifice in the gesture. No delay meant to soften the blow.

Priority alerts filled the screen.

She scanned them quickly, light flickering across her features as she took in King Aurelian Veruna the Second's broadcast, then the cascade that followed. Statements from the Imperial Confederation. From other governments. And at last, the Diarchy itself.

It was then that her lips pressed into a thin, unmoving line as she could not help how her heart leapt, hammering harder and harder as she reached the call to reconvene the Republic and reassess the Treaty of Twin Crowns by the Senate and the issuance of a travel advisory.

Issued without her counsel.

"By Shiraya's grace," she murmured, scarcely aware she had spoken, hearing a faint piercing ring that swelled until it drowned out everything else, crashing against every facet of her being -- From one who believed in the Charter of Unity. To the Voice of Naboo. Ambassador to Mandalore. Sib'ika. Sibylla -- each one of those roles pulling at her in turn, demanding precedence yet none offering relief.

Because Aurelian had warned her.

Foundation Day returned with unwelcome clarity, Aurelian's voice edged with promise and threat alike. So much had changed since then. This was no longer an abstract loyalty. And she was, inconveniently, still human.

Anger rose first -- at the Diarchy, at the broadcasts that had dragged the galaxy to this moment, at Aurelian for acting without her, for not allowing her to try and manage things clashing with that sense that it was Aurelian. Confusion followed close behind, then frustration, embarrassment, alarm. Beneath it all lay the far heavier question of what was right.

She swallowed, steadying herself as best she could.

"I will speak to Aurelian," Sibylla said at last, lifting her gaze to Aether's. It was not an excuse nor a request. It was resolve.

She drew a breath, finding her footing again, and when she spoke next there was a spark in her eyes that had not dimmed.

"I hear you," she said exhaling as she tried to work through the chaos in her mind and what next steps could be done. "If you are willing, send me everything you have. The Diarchy's actions, their betrayals, their dealings with Black Sun, every attempt they made to bring genocide upon your people." She knew they would have to verify it, but she didn't fear that what was confirmed wouldn't be exactly as Aether told her.

Her jaw set.

"If they deny it, I will ensure the truth is set before them."

Yet even then, as she felt her emotions roll within her, she had to know as much as convey where she was at. If she even could.

She was still learning. Growing. Becoming the woman and leader to come. Realizing the decisions that those in positions of power and responsibility to others had to endure. To face. To live by and carry the weight of. Burdens and Blessings alike.

This was a lesson in the harsh reality of that.

"But I must be honest, Aether. Seeing that was… difficult and brutal. In my mind, it would be the Diarchs themselves who bear the final judgment. To cut off the head of the snake and root them out permanently... though I am sure that has already been a path you had considered."

She took another breath.

"And while I know my counsel does not carry the weight of the Alors, I cannot leave this unasked."

She hesitated, only for a breath.

"Would you consider ending their suffering if any still live?" Crucifixion was a horrible and brutal punishment, a suffering that lasted days. There was no need for that sort of suffering.

Her eyes searched his. It was her hope that they had, to put an end to their suffering.

"And the children," she added quietly. "If there were any. Were they spared? And if so, what becomes of them now?"

For a child has no guilt over the deeds of their parents or kin.

Aether Verd
​

 

[Aether Verd]

Wearing:
Beskar'gam - Darksaber​

MANDALORE - HOLOCALL

Surprise touched Aether first, quiet but unmistakable.

In the time he had known Sibylla, he had come to read the careful seams beneath her composure, the subtle tells of a woman who carried responsibility with grace even when it strained her. The way her lips pressed together now told him a simple truth before the datapad ever confirmed it. She had not known. Not about Veruna’s declaration. Not about the cascade of nations that had followed. Not about the microscope suddenly trained on the bond between Mandalore and Naboo.

So Mand’alor and friend alike watched her in silence as she took it in, the pause stretching while alerts scrolled and reality shifted beneath her feet. When she finally lifted her gaze and spoke of confronting Aurelian, Aether folded his arms across his chest. Not defensively, not in irritation, but with the stillness of a man measuring resolve as it settled into place.

He listened as certainty returned to her voice, as she asked for everything.

Aether did not answer immediately. Instead, his gauntleted hand moved to the datapad fixed along his vambrace, fingers precise and practiced. With a single sequence, a flood of records surged across the secure channel. Vexis Station and the death that lit the fuse. Daro’s ceasefire and the executions that shattered it before the galaxy. Plainclothes agents and orchestrated riots on Taris. Attempts to seed Mandalorian space with Wildfire, a narcotic designed to hollow out entire populations. And finally, pristine and unaltered, the recording of the Diarchy seated across from the Black Sun Syndicate, voices clear as they begged for Mandalorian blood.

Only when the last file transferred did Aether speak.

“I do not expect a democracy to understand war the way Mandalore does.” he said evenly. “Your systems are built to deliberate. Ours are built to survive.”

His gaze held steady through the projection.

“What you call brutality is mercy when measured against what was coming. If this causes the Diarchy to hesitate, if it gives their allies and sympathizers pause, if it forces the galaxy to think twice before escalating again, then it saves trillions. Mandalorian lives, yes, but not only ours.”

He drew a slow breath, the discipline in it evident.

“A few were rightfully executed to send a message that our restraint would not be mistaken for permission. If that message is heard, then countless others never have to die. That is the calculus.”

Aether inclined his head slightly, acknowledgment without concession.

“You are right about the Diarchs.” he continued. “They should bear final judgment, and they will. Bastion will burn for what they have done. But along the way, others need not die, and this ensured it.”

Another breath followed before he addressed the questions she had asked last, the ones that cut closer than politics ever could.

“After the broadcast aired, those on the Cross did not linger.” Aether said, his voice firm but controlled. “Their ends were accelerated. I will spare you the details, but cruelty was not how it concluded.”

Then his tone shifted, not softer, but resolute in a different way.

“And the children..” he said. “No child was sentenced for the crimes of their parents or kin. Orphans are the heart and treasure of Mandalore. Every one of them was taken in by the clans.”

Pride, quiet and unyielding, settled into his words.

“They will be raised as Mandalorians. With care. With love. With the Resol’nare. They will grow knowing belonging, not punishment.”

Aether met her gaze once more, presence steady, unflinching.

“You asked if it had to look that way.” he said. “This is why it did. Not to glorify suffering, but to end a path that would have consumed worlds.”

He did not demand her agreement. He did not ask for absolution.

He simply stood there, Mand’alor the Iron, having laid every truth between them, and waited for family to decide what to do with it.

Sibylla Abrantes

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Aether Verd

Sibylla did not speak at once.

She stood very still as the data streamed across the channel, the weight of it settling piece by piece rather than all at once. Vexis. Daro. Taris. Wildfire. Black Sun. Each name, each file, pressed another stone into the quiet place behind her ribs. She read them carefully, methodically, as she had been trained to do, even as her heart hammered at the sheer accumulation of it all.

So this was the ledger.

When she lifted her gaze again, it was not accusation that met him, nor disbelief. It was something far more difficult to hold...understanding, edged with sorrow and anger at the Diarchy that this had to come to a head like this.

"I see what you mean regarding what was coming," Sibika's voice trembled the slightest, jaw flexing even though her hands had gone still at her sides, fingers curled just enough to betray the effort it took to remain composed. She drew in a breath slowly in the way she did when she felt herself pulled in too many directions at once.

"And I do not doubt your arithmetic, however cold it must appear to those of us who were spared the necessity of making it," she continued, eyes holding his through the projection. That admission cost her something, and it showed in the way her brows knit, in the faint tightening at the corners of her mouth.

"Nor do I mistake restraint for permission," she added. "I have seen what happens when cruelty learns that no one will answer it."

Hazel eyes fell briefly to the last of the files before lifting again.

"But understanding a choice does not make it sit easily," Sibylla said, with quiet, if rough honesty. "Perhaps that is my failing. Or perhaps it is simply the cost of standing close enough to feel the weight of it..." she swallowed hard. "... that things are not so abstract when one cares about the people one wants to protect....How do you do it? How do you handle it?...When it is no longer abstract..." it was as much of a question as a rhetorical one. Or perhaps a conversation better set in a different time.

At his words about the crosses, she closed her eyes for the briefest moment, relief and grief mingling in equal measure, especially once he revealed that the children were spared and would be raised in homes and with love was news that visibly affected her, and she nodded even as her chin gave the slightest of trembles.

"I am glad to hear that." Sibylla admitted honestly, giving another nod as she drew a breath, grateful that Aether had done so. This was the man she knew him to be, the one she had to connect with and talk with. The one who did not want excess suffering but justice delivered accordingly.

All the different facets of Aether Verd. Mand'alor.

"I will bring this to our new High Chancellor Dominique Vexx as well as Aurelian," she told him, her tone increasing in an edge that gave a sense of purpose and determination. But she had to talk with Aurelian first. Part of her was still stunned and angry at the situation, and that would need to be addressed with him. How could he have done this without her?

"... and when time permits... I would like to come visit outside of my duties once more and dine with you and the elders," she thought back to when things were far more calm and made more sense, when they could eat and enjoy each other's company.

"Too much is going on in the galaxy... and more than once, I find myself feeling somewhat adrift." She swallowed hard, realizing she was revealing more than normal, yet trusting it nonetheless. That was what Aether had taught her. To speak her mind.

"I am learning," she said quietly, "that making sense of the galaxy is a skill I have not yet fully mastered."

For it wasn't just the Diarchy and their chaos, but what was going on with Black Sun and the Sith attacks upon Republic space that may have ties to a group called the Covenant. The attacks on the Tapani Sector, and then there were the issues within the Republic itself.

The truth of it lingered heavily in all the fractures pressing in from every side. She did not yet know how to make sense of it all -- only that she would have to.

"I will be in touch soon. Thank you for your time, Aether... and your honesty."

 

[Aurelian Veruna]

Location: Days Later - Mandalore
Tags: Aether Verd

Aurelian stood alone in the center of Mand'alor's throne room, the echo of his boots the only sound breaking the cavernous quiet. He paced in slow, deliberate lines, hands clasped behind his back, jaw tight. Waiting had never suited him. Too much time to think. Too much space for doubt to creep in.

He had come in person for a reason.

The warning to the Republic had already gone out. Public. Unavoidable. A clean denunciation of the executions, framed as principle rather than provocation. He understood the move well enough. Fear as theater. Authority carved into flesh. It was a Mandalorian play as old as their wars. Still, as a member of the High Republic, he had been forced to answer it. Silence would have been read as consent.

That calculation sat poorly with him.

His gaze drifted to the throne. Heavy. Stark. Unapologetic. He remembered the first time he had stood here, younger, sharper in different ways. Back then, he and Sibylla had worked side by side, pouring over clauses and concessions through long nights that bled into early mornings. A treaty born of exhaustion and stubborn hope. It had taken everything they had to make it hold.

And it had. For a time.

Aurelian slowed his pacing, breath steadying. Both sides were different now. Mandalore hardened by blood and spectacle. The Republic expanding well beyond Naboo. He felt the weight of that shift keenly.

He stopped directly before the throne, studying it with a practiced, critical eye.

His mouth twitched despite himself. He was here to talk, to salvage what could still be salvaged. He had not come to posture or threaten. Yet he knew better than to arrive unarmed in spirit. Mandalore respected strength. It tolerated diplomacy only when it was backed by resolve.

Aurelian straightened as footsteps echoed somewhere beyond the chamber. He schooled his expression into something calm, composed, unreadable. Patience, then. He could do patience, when it mattered.

He only hoped the King of the Mandalorians was in a mood to listen.

Because if he was not, this conversation would become something else entirely.

​

 

[Aether Verd]

Wearing:
Beskar'gam - Darksaber​

COURT OF IRON, MANDALORE

Aurelian Veruna would not have to wait long.

Since the day the King of Naboo had first set foot upon Mandalore, when the Empire was still finding its spine, something genuine had grown between them. Respect. Trust. A sense that, despite their differing worlds, they understood one another. That history made the travel advisory cut deeper than any denunciation ever could. It had come without warning, without a call, without even the courtesy of hearing the truth from the man who had stood beside him against threats far larger than optics.

Surprise lingered in that silence. Not the loud kind, but the kind that settles in the chest and forces reassessment.

The doors of the Court of Iron swung open.

Aether advanced with measured steps, helm tucked beneath his arm, beskar catching the chamber light in muted reflections as he passed the statues of those who had ruled before him. Each Mand’alor carved into stone watched in still judgment, their legacies etched into Mandalore’s bones. He slowed only once, stopping before the statue of Mand’alor the Reclaimer.

This was the warrior whose vision had forged the first Empire. The one who had warned him, long ago, of the dangers of trusting democracies and the comfort of proximity to Jedi ideals. The man who had raised him.

Aether reached out and set his hand against the marble, fingers splayed as a heavy breath left him. Doubt stirred briefly, sharp and unwelcome. Had his father been right all along. Had trust been a luxury Mandalore could never afford.

He withdrew his hand and lifted the helm, settling it into place with practiced ease. The world narrowed behind iron. His gaze had always been reserved for friends, and in this moment, the King of Naboo stood before him as a politician. A customer. Only politicians and customers issued proclamations without picking up the holo, even when treaties were built on the promise of speaking first.

Still, Mandalore honored process.

Aether advanced the rest of the distance, offering Aurelian a single nod in passing before turning and seating himself upon the throne. Both arms came to rest against the iron frame, posture unyielding, presence absolute.

When he spoke, his voice carried with the certainty of iron laid to purpose.

“Mandalore is listening.”​

Aurelian Veruna , Sibylla Abrantes

 

[Aurelian Veruna]

Tags: Aether Verd | Sibylla Abrantes

Aurelian watched Mand'alor enter the chamber, and for a moment he forgot to pace.

The armor always did that. Beskar caught the light. The helm tucked under Aether's arm, the measured stride, the way the room seemed to orient itself around him. Authority made physical. Aurelian felt a flicker of something sharp and uncharitable twist in his chest.

What that must do to lesser men.

He had spent his life learning how to command a room with words, with presence, with the careful cultivation of reputation. Aether simply existed, and the galaxy made space. There was envy there, faint but undeniable. He swallowed it down. Jealousy was unbecoming, even when it was earned.

Aurelian stood still as Aether took the throne. He did not bow. He did not speak. He let the silence stretch, counting his breaths, watching the iron posture settle into something immovable. This was not a moment for haste. Every word here would carry weight long after it was spoken.

Mandalore is listening.

He let that sit for another heartbeat. Then another. When he finally smiled, it was slow and precise, the kind that made courtiers uneasy and rivals cautious.

"It's good to see you again," Aurelian said lightly, as if they were not standing at the edge of something brittle.

Inside, his thoughts churned. Choose carefully. Do not corner him. Do not yield too much.

"I imagine you did not react favorably to my… colorfully worded statement regarding your broadcast," he continued, tone measured, almost conversational. "For that, I won't insult you by pretending surprise."

He took a few steps forward, stopping well short of the throne. Respect without submission. "I do apologize for not speaking to you first. The circumstances moved faster than courtesy allowed."

The truth pressed at him, and he let it through. "That broadcast unsettled the masses. Deeply. You know how the Republic is. Fear spreads faster than reason." His jaw tightened briefly. "Had it not been transmitted to half the galaxy, I may not have needed to respond as quickly as I did."

He exhaled, letting the tension ease from his shoulders. "Though I didn't come here to posture. I came because whatever this becomes next matters."

Aurelian met the dark visor squarely. "We built something once. It held longer than anyone expected. I'd like to see if it still can."

​

 

[Aether Verd]

Wearing:
Beskar'gam - Darksaber​

COURT OF IRON, MANDALORE

When the King of Naboo offered that careful smile, something old stirred in Aether, a ghost of counsel carried on memory rather than sound. He could almost hear his father’s voice, recalling long years as Vicelord of the Southern Systems, recounting the same expression with weary familiarity. Naboo’s infamous smile, offered warmly while a dagger waited just out of sight. Politicians had perfected it into an art.

But there was no room for rumination now.

This was the moment he had named plainly: Mandalore was listening.

Aether remained silent as Veruna spoke, his visor fixed upon the man with an intensity that did not flicker. The noble’s words were chosen with care, laid gently, almost apologetically, yet the implication settled all the same. If only the broadcast had not gone out. If only the warning had not been made so visible. If only Mandalore had kept its judgment private, then the Republic might have been spared its response.

Aether did not interrupt him.

He saw the truth braided through the explanation, thin but present. It was not that circumstances had moved faster than courtesy allowed. It was that fear had moved faster than logic ever could. Fear had driven the Republic’s hand, fear that their eastern neighbor had slipped its leash, fear that iron and blood had replaced restraint and reason. Pearl clutching dressed as principle, breath held behind proclamations meant to calm the masses.

When Veruna finished, Aether let the silence return. He did not rush to fill it. Then he spoke, not as the man who had once extended trust across a table, but as Mand’alor the Iron.

“Democracies are democracies.” Aether said, voice steady and unadorned. “Aristocracies are aristocracies. I do not fault you for acting in your nature, any more than I fault the Diarchy serpents for spitting venom when cornered.”

He leaned forward slightly upon the throne, iron presence tightening the air.

“My warning was simple.” he continued. “I declared the value of a Mandalorian life. I declared that those who stand beside the Diarchy, who endorse Mandalorian blood on their hands, will be enemies of Mandalore. And I declared war upon the Diarchy itself.”

There was no flourish in it, no apology, only certainty.

“Mandalore does not traffic in complex politics.” Aether said. “Our nature is to speak plainly. To act plainly. To answer blood with resolve so that more blood does not follow.”

He shifted then, one armored hand lifting in a measured gesture toward Veruna, neither accusatory nor welcoming, but inviting clarity.

“What comes next depends entirely on the Republic.” Aether said. “If you choose to stand with the Diarchy, then the future will reflect that choice. If you do not, then tomorrow will look like yesterday in Mandalorian eyes: business as usual.”

The visor remained locked upon the King of Naboo, unreadable, unyielding.

“So tell me,” Aether said, his tone calm as tempered steel, “what does tomorrow bring?”

Aurelian Veruna | Sibylla Abrantes

 

[Aurelian Veruna]

Tags: Aether Verd | Sibylla Abrantes | @The rest of y'all watching

Aurelian held Aether's gaze. He smiled, small and deliberate, and let out a quiet huff of amusement that echoed faintly in the chamber.

"So... serious," he murmured, more to himself than as insult.

Inside, his thoughts moved faster than his words. He did not know the Diarchs. Had never broken bread with them, never tested their tells. He would not pretend otherwise. Lying here would be easy. Useful, even. He refused it. That was not the game today.

He tilted his head slightly, considering. But he chose not to answer his question about tomorrow. Not because he was being evasive, but because he didn't know them well enough to speak for their intent. Plus he supposed that problem was no longer his to solve.

What stayed with him was the line Aether had chosen.

"To answer blood with resolve so that more blood does not follow," Aurelian repeated, slow and thoughtful. He rolled it over in his mind, tasting the certainty in it. "That's a clean belief. I admire that."

His smile thinned. "But I wonder if it works."

He stepped a fraction closer, boots quiet against stone. "If I watched my people crucified on a live holofeed," he said evenly, "I would not see resolve. I would see a promise. And I would be certain more blood was coming."

He watched for a reaction. There was none. Of course there wasn't.

"Don't mistake me," Aurelian continued. "I understand the move. I even respect it, to a degree. Mandalore draws lines clearly. The galaxy has always known where you stand. But lines invite crossings."

His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the feed he had watched days earlier. "I saw the you meeting with those Imperials. Or whatever they're calling themselves now. Ambitious, reckless, loud." His mouth curved faintly. "Those idiots will leap at any excuse to join the fray. Martyrs are excellent recruitment tools."

He spread his hands, open, unthreatening. "So I have to ask, Mand'alor. If blood answers blood, and spectacle answers spectacle… do these crucifixions do anything but invite more innocent lives to end?"

He met his gaze squarely again, voice steady. "Or is this the moment where it becomes useful for Mandalore to traffic in a little complex politics after all?"

​

 

[Aether Verd]

Wearing:
Beskar'gam - Darksaber​

COURT OF IRON, MANDALORE

Aether’s gaze narrowed behind the visor as the King of Naboo spoke, the unanswered question lingering between them by deliberate choice. Tomorrow remained untouched, skirted with the elegance of a nobleman crossing a polished floor, careful never to commit where consequence might follow. Such was the nature of aristocracies and democracies alike, precise, graceful, and evasive when clarity demanded risk.

Mandalorians were not built that way.

“I note that my question remains unanswered.” Aether said evenly, iron threaded through every syllable. “You spoke of seeing whether what we built could still last, yet you will not tell me what you intend to build tomorrow.”

The Court of Iron held his words without echo, as though the chamber itself waited to hear what would come next.

Aether regarded the man before him with a colder measure now. He knew well that Aurelian Veruna no longer held supreme authority over the High Republic. Even so, the King’s voice still carried across ten thousand worlds. He had guided the Republic through the death of Chancellor Kalantha, through fracture and fear, and opinions shaped by him would never stand alone. Aether suspected the King understood this, and wondered what game lay beneath the careful phrasing.

“You ask whether my approach works.” Aether continued, answering the challenge directly. “It does.”

He leaned forward slightly, iron presence pressing into the space between them.

“The Diarchy incurred a blood debt the moment they chose genocide over diplomacy. They guaranteed payment through the depth of their crimes. The crucifixion did not invite chaos. It forced hesitation. It made the galaxy stop and consider whether standing beside the Diarchy is worth the blood of their sons and daughters.”

His tone did not rise, nor did it soften.

“Hesitancy and fear are not failures in war. They preserve lives. Trillions of them.”

Aether lifted one armored hand and dismissed the next implication without ceremony.

“As for the Imperial Confederation, their minds were made up long before my judgment was rendered.” he said. “Our meeting had nothing to do with the Diarchy. It had everything to do with their feud with the Sith Order. They sought to pressure Mandalore into staying out of that conflict.”

A fraction of steel entered his voice.

“Why? Because they fear that if Mandalore fights, their ambitions fail. Their designs would have revealed themselves regardless of any flirtation with the Diarchy.”

His visor turned fully back to the King of Naboo, and this time the gesture that followed was unmistakable, an open invitation edged with command.

“I do not believe you crossed the stars and left your throne to trade hypotheticals with me.” Aether said. “A holocall would have sufficed for that.”

The Mand’alor settled fully into his throne, iron posture unyielding.

“So let us stop circling one another.” he said, calm and deliberate. “Tell me what you have come to seek from Mandalore.”

Aurelian Veruna | Sibylla Abrantes

 

[Aurelian Veruna]

Tags: Aether Verd | Sibylla Abrantes

Aurelian studied the throne room for a moment longer than necessary, then looked back to Aether and smiled, crooked and familiar. "What if I just wanted to come see my friend," he said lightly. "My friend who recently crucified people."

The joke hung there. Fell flat. He exhaled through his nose, accepting the silence. "No?" Aurelian added. "Alright. Plain it is."

He turned away and began to pace, slow and thoughtful, eyes lifting to the statues that ringed the Court of Iron. Mand'alors carved in stone. Victories etched into posture. He felt small here, and he hated that he noticed.

"I crossed the stars because I respect you, Aether," he said at last. "And because I wanted to apologize in person. That much is true." He glanced back over his shoulder. "But I won't insult you by pretending that was the only reason."

His steps slowed. Inside, he weighed how much honesty cost, and decided it was cheaper than miscalculation. "I am just as curious as those Imperials about your relationship with the Sith," Aurelian said evenly. "I understand the nature of the business. You are mercenaries. You take contracts. I don't begrudge that. But I needed to see for myself that Mandalore is still led by you. Not by a Sith wearing your people like armor."

That admission sat heavier than he expected. He stopped pacing and looked back to the throne.

"I also owe it to my people to know whether it is still safe to come here," he continued. "That a Naboo trader or a Republic envoy won't find themselves executed because they said the wrong thing, or looked like a Diarch sympathizer by accident." His mouth twitched. "But that's neither here nor there."

He turned fully then, meeting the visor again. "Truthfully?" Aurelian said. "It was your humor I missed the most."

Another joke. Nothing. He sighed, rubbing a hand briefly over his face.

"I don't know what tomorrow brings," he said, more quietly now. "I won't stand here and lie to you. I can tell you this: the Republic does not align with the Diarchy at this moment. We haven't even met them." His brows knit. "I had hoped to broker something between you and them. That window is closed it seems."

He straightened, resolve settling back into place. "So I will leave the renegotiation of our own deal to my Chancellor. I'll advise, I'll push where I can. But we do want another agreement with Mandalore."

Aurelian held Aether's gaze, steady and sincere. "One that reflects who we both are now. Not who we were when we first built it."

​

 

[Aether Verd]

Wearing:
Beskar'gam - Darksaber​

COURT OF IRON, MANDALORE

Aurelian’s joke landed and died in the space between them.

Aether’s eyebrow lifted beneath the helm, a small tell of disbelief rather than amusement, and he offered nothing in response. No chuckle. No retort. He watched instead as the King of Naboo turned away and began his measured pacing, boots whispering across stone while words followed in careful order. Aether listened the way Mandalorians always did in moments like this, weighing each sentence, measuring what was said against what was left untouched.

Respect. Apology. Curiosity about the Sith. Safety for Naboo citizens. A new agreement shaped by who they had both become.

When Aurelian finally finished, the Court of Iron felt tighter for it, as though the statues themselves leaned closer to hear the answer.

Aether exhaled.

Then he rose.

The movement was sudden and decisive, iron unfolding from iron as he crossed the gap between throne and floor in a handful of thunderous steps. He stopped close enough that the visor reflected the King’s face back at him, frustration surfacing just enough to color the air without breaking discipline.

“Since we are good friends.” Aether began bluntly, voice low and unvarnished, “I am going to speak plainly for a moment...”

He did not raise his voice. He did not need to.

“Politics be damned, you are a fucking ass hole.” he said. “You should have called. Even if you had to issue the advisory. Even if you had to soothe Senators and calm your masses. Before anything else, you should have reached out to your so-called friend and asked him why.”

The visor did not waver.

“The message you should have taken from that crucifixion should have been obvious when it came to you and Sibylla.” Aether continued. “If I am willing to nail every soul the Diarchs loved for the deaths of Mandalorians I did not know personally, imagine what I would do for you if you were captured. Imagine the lengths I would go for Sibylla.”

Aether’s tone sharpened, edged with something wounded rather than furious.

“But instead?” he said, “travel advisory and silence.”

He stepped past Aurelian then, frustration bleeding out with a heavy breath as he put distance between them. Saying it had been necessary. Cathartic, even. But the Mand’alor did not have the luxury of lingering on grievance.

“There are still questions to answer...” he said, voice settling again as he turned back.

“You wanted to understand my relationship with the Sith?” Aether continued. “To do that, you need to remember Naboo before the Republic.”

He gestured faintly, not to the man, but to history itself.

“My father is known on Mandalore as Mand’alor the Reclaimer.” Aether said. “On Naboo, he was the Vicelord of the Confederacy. Srina Talon was his Exarch and his apprentice. They fought and bled together for the southern systems for years.”

The words carried no nostalgia, only fact.

“When the Unmaker destroyed the Confederacy and my father led the remnants into the Shiraya Expanse, Srina went with us. I grew up on the fringe of the galaxy. She was there. A constant presence in my upbringing.”

Aether stopped and faced him fully, folding his arms across his chest.

“Srina Talon is the current Sith Empress.” he said. “But before the Sith Order ever existed, she was and remains my godmother.”

His voice hardened.

“The Sith Order is a nest of factions, plots, and backstabbers.” Aether continued. “Worse, elements within that same Order who were responsible for Mandalore’s near destruction fifty years ago are alive, proud, and active. There is not a fucking world where I send a single Mandalorian soul to bleed for a Zambrano.”

That line was final.

“As Mand’alor the Iron, I extended a contract to a figure within the Sith Order I trust.” he said. “That trust is rare, earned, and narrow. As Aether Verd, I saw my godmother standing in a den of vipers and refused to leave her defenseless when they inevitably strike.”

He inclined his head slightly.

“My contract is with Srina Talon . With her alone. There may be times my warriors stand beside her subordinates on a battlefield, but do not mistake that for allegiance. I am no Sith puppet. I am no agent.”

Offhandedly, he motioned toward the statue of Mand’alor the Reclaimer looming nearby.

“He would kill me personally if I ever bent the knee to anyone.” Aether said. “Sith or otherwise.”

Only then did the tension ease by a fraction.

Aether offered Aurelian a nod, measured and genuine.

“I appreciate you affirming that the Republic and the Diarchy are not aligned.” he said. “I assumed as much. I anticipated that the crucifixion, brutal as it was, would not disturb our standing contract. Still, new Chancellors bring new terms. I understand that.”

For the first time since the exchange began, something familiar crept into his tone. A hint of warmth beneath the iron.

“And since we are being honest.” Aether added, the faintest curve of a smile hidden behind the helm, “When are you and Sibylla finally going to tie the knot?”

The question hung there, lighter than everything that had come before, but no less deliberate. He didn't need to say the words directly for Aurelian to understand: apology accepted.

Aurelian Veruna | Sibylla Abrantes | @All the Lurkers

 

[Aurelian Veruna]

Tags: Aether Verd | Sibylla Abrantes

Aurelian took the insult in stride. Fething nerf herder. He had been called worse, by worse men, on quieter days. He smiled faintly to himself as Aether spoke, hands clasped behind his back, posture easy. He could have handled it better. He knew that. He could have waited, trusted Sibylla to smooth the edges, trusted time. At the moment, action had seemed cleaner. Faster. It was done now. Regret was a luxury he rarely indulged.

He listened. Properly listened.

The history mattered. The father. The Confederacy. Srina Talon. Sith Empress, godmother, survivor. Aurelian felt the familiar tightening in his chest at the mention of the Sith, old lessons stirring, old warnings etched deep. Still, context had weight. Trust earned over blood and years was not something he dismissed lightly. It didn't erase his distaste, but it softened the line where suspicion lived.

By the time Aether finished, Aurelian's expression had settled into something genuine.

"I understand you, Aether Verd," he said smoothly. "Thank you for explaining." He meant it. The honesty helped. He felt steadier for it, even if the galaxy had taught him to be wary of anything that wore the word Sith too comfortably.

Then the question came.

Aurelian raised an eyebrow, slow and deliberate, a flash of amusement crossing his face. Of all the directions the conversation could have turned, that one still had the power to catch him off guard. Honesty was on the table, yes. But some truths were better protected. For her. For Naboo. For everything that still needed careful balance.

"What ever are you talking about, Mand'alor?" he said lightly. "I am married to my work. To the people of Naboo."

The words were practiced. Polished. He had said them before, to Senators, to diplomats, to himself in quieter moments. Still, as he held Aether's gaze, something unspoken lingered there. A knowing look. The truth sat plainly in his eyes, clear as daylight, even if he refused to give it a name.

​