K I N G
VERD ESTATE, MANDALORE
The heat shimmered across the horizon.
Even at dawn, the air above Mandalore’s deserts quivered like glass, the ochre sands stretching toward the horizon in waves of living flame. Far in the distance, mesas broke through the haze like the bones of old titans, and beyond them, slivers of green marked the slow return of life to the world. Aether Verd had seen to that himself. The planet that once stood broken and ashen beneath centuries of war now breathed again, its scars softened by renewal. The homeworld of his people, the heart of the Empire, was no longer a tomb. It was alive.
And it was here that he would receive his guest.
The Mand’alor stood upon the wide stone landing pad that crowned the uppermost terrace of the House Verd Estate. The structure sprawled across the mountainside like a fortress carved from the bones of the planet itself. Its towering ramparts and angular walls were forged from luminous white stone, veined with gold where the sun struck. Wind swept through its open halls, carrying the dry scent of dust and iron. From afar, it might have seemed a citadel built for kings; up close, it was unmistakably a stronghold. Verd to its core.
Aether waited at the edge of the bay, helm tucked beneath his arm. His armor, dark as volcanic glass and streaked faintly with crimson, drank in the morning light. The crimson cloak at his back stirred faintly with the wind, the fabric whispering against the beskar plates. His expression, hidden behind the hard lines of discipline, was unreadable but not unfeeling. Thule had left its impression upon him.
Flanking the landing pad stood his Supercommandos. Their armor gleamed gold beneath the twin suns, each warrior unmoving, spears angled toward the ground in a silent salute. They were symbols as much as guards, living embodiments of Mandalorian might and tradition.
Aether’s gaze rose toward the pale sky, where the faint trace of an approaching ship cut through the light. He had sent for Sidonia of Thule, Warden of a world steeped in shadow. A week had passed since he had stepped upon her soil, spoken amidst her stronghold, and now he sought to return that grace upon his own.
Hospitality was a language older than war.
So he waited, the dry wind lifting the edges of his cloak, the weight of a thousand histories pressing silent between them. The Mand’alor stood in the heat of his homeland, waiting to see how the Warden of Thule would answer his call, and what bridges might yet be forged between iron and shadow.
Even at dawn, the air above Mandalore’s deserts quivered like glass, the ochre sands stretching toward the horizon in waves of living flame. Far in the distance, mesas broke through the haze like the bones of old titans, and beyond them, slivers of green marked the slow return of life to the world. Aether Verd had seen to that himself. The planet that once stood broken and ashen beneath centuries of war now breathed again, its scars softened by renewal. The homeworld of his people, the heart of the Empire, was no longer a tomb. It was alive.
And it was here that he would receive his guest.
The Mand’alor stood upon the wide stone landing pad that crowned the uppermost terrace of the House Verd Estate. The structure sprawled across the mountainside like a fortress carved from the bones of the planet itself. Its towering ramparts and angular walls were forged from luminous white stone, veined with gold where the sun struck. Wind swept through its open halls, carrying the dry scent of dust and iron. From afar, it might have seemed a citadel built for kings; up close, it was unmistakably a stronghold. Verd to its core.
Aether waited at the edge of the bay, helm tucked beneath his arm. His armor, dark as volcanic glass and streaked faintly with crimson, drank in the morning light. The crimson cloak at his back stirred faintly with the wind, the fabric whispering against the beskar plates. His expression, hidden behind the hard lines of discipline, was unreadable but not unfeeling. Thule had left its impression upon him.
Flanking the landing pad stood his Supercommandos. Their armor gleamed gold beneath the twin suns, each warrior unmoving, spears angled toward the ground in a silent salute. They were symbols as much as guards, living embodiments of Mandalorian might and tradition.
Aether’s gaze rose toward the pale sky, where the faint trace of an approaching ship cut through the light. He had sent for Sidonia of Thule, Warden of a world steeped in shadow. A week had passed since he had stepped upon her soil, spoken amidst her stronghold, and now he sought to return that grace upon his own.
Hospitality was a language older than war.
So he waited, the dry wind lifting the edges of his cloak, the weight of a thousand histories pressing silent between them. The Mand’alor stood in the heat of his homeland, waiting to see how the Warden of Thule would answer his call, and what bridges might yet be forged between iron and shadow.
