Private Iron & Silver

[Seris Mataan]

The shuttle cut a clean silhouette against the twin suns of Mandalore as it descended through the dry air. Its hull bore no insignia sleek, quiet, purpose-built. It did not roar as it landed; it settled, as though it belonged there.

When the ramp hissed open, Seris Mataan stood at its threshold like a figure drawn from myth.

She wore robes of silver, smooth and flowing like forged moonlight, layered beneath a long, matching cloak that swept behind her like the echo of a tide. The hood was drawn forward, shadowing her features, but a cascade of crimson hair spilled from beneath the cowl—vivid against the muted steel of her garb.

Her steps were soft, deliberate.

No guards challenged her. They didn't need to. The Force moved around her with a quiet rhythm not dark, not light, but alive. Vibrant. Present. She carried herself with the serene bearing of a dancer and the presence of someone who did not need to announce what she was.

Not Jedi.
Not Sith.

But something different, perhaps purer a vessel of the Living Force.

As she approached the massive gates of Sundari Hall, she found them already opened.

Not for her.

But perfectly timed.

And Seris, understanding the language of moments, stepped through without pause.

Inside, the hall was vast and echoing, its banners high above red, gold, black, the proud sigils of clans old and new. The stone beneath her feet bore the weight of generations. Firelight flickered along the walls, and at the far end, beneath the looming crest of the Mandalorian people, sat the Mand'alor.

She paused.

Then, with deliberate grace, she lifted both hands and drew back her hood. The crimson cascade of her hair caught the light, as did the calm sharpness in her green eyes. The Force around her pulsed faintly, like a held breath. Yet she waited, until she was waved forward and only a few steps.

She stepped forward, and her voice carried clearly.

"Mand'alor, my name is Seris Mataan, daughter of Taiia. My father was of Clan Wren."

She held the Mand'alor's gaze a moment longer, then added, her tone neither boastful nor supplicating:

"My mother once served your father, in the days of the Confederacy. She fought beside him many times, I have come to you at her request."

It was not a name-drop. It was an offering. A bridge.

A moment passed.

Then Seris inclined her head not a bow, but something respectful. The nod of one heir to another. The stillness of someone who knows the history they carry and chooses to bear it well.

She stood tall, poised, awaiting the Mand'alor's answer.

TAG: Aether Verd

​

 

[Jonah]

.

 

[Aether Verd]

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

COURT OF IRON

The Court did not rumble. It watched.

Stone and steel lined the vast hall, the heart of Sundari reforged by fire and stubborn will. Crimson carpet stretched from gate to throne, the color deep as spilled blood and twice as proud. On either side, the statues of former Mand’alors stood as columns of iron and obsidian, watchful relics of eras past. Their visors bore down like sentinels, and though no breath stirred within, it felt as though they saw her. Judged her. Measured her.

And then there was him.

Seated beneath the banner of the Mandalorian people, where red and gold met black in burning unity, was Aether Verd. He did not rise. He did not need to.

His throne was wrought of war, of metals reclaimed from beskar, from durasteel, from the bones of broken enemies. Firelight painted his armor in shades of rust and sun, but the helm upon his head glowed with an unyielding gold. One hand rested against the armrest, fingers curled in thought. The other was still.

As Seris entered, he regarded her not as a threat, nor as a curiosity, but as something rare.

The air seemed to shift with her words.

When she named herself, daughter of Taiia, child of Clan Wren, there was no immediate reply. Just silence. Consideration. Then, slowly, his head dipped in recognition.

“Then you are welcome here.”

The words were firm, resonant beneath the vocoder. But there was something else, buried beneath the steel of his tone—something quiet.

Not Jedi. Not Sith.

But Mandalorian.

Heritage first.

That mattered.

“The service your mother gave to my father speaks to her strength,” he continued, his voice steady. “But your blood, Clan Wren, carries weight of its own. More than name. More than favor. It carries choice.”

He raised one hand, palm open in silent invitation.

“You’ve come to Mandalore by request.”

The visor remained fixed on her—bright, unblinking.

“What is it she asks of us, Seris Mataan?”

A pause, then the words that closed the distance.

“Mandalore is listening.”​

Seris Mataan

 

[Seris Mataan]

Seris took a breath, letting the silence between his question and her reply stretch just long enough to be sure of her words. Her mother had always told her: don't speak until you know what you mean to say, and never mistake presence for permission.

"She asks for knowledge."

Her voice carried, steady and composed, but absent any sense of performance. There was no need to impress Mandalore only to be honest.

"She's felt something shifting. The Force moves differently now quieter in places it used to be felt strongly, stronger in places it once avoided. Stars no longer behave the way they should."

A brief pause.

"She believes the Cult of the Unmaker may be returning. Or never left. Not that they are responsible but they may be using the chaos to start moving again, they'll move through the cracks first, through the spaces people stop paying attention to."

Seris glanced upward toward the vaulted stone, the blackened banners of reforged Sundari. The Mandalorians had always rebuilt and buried their dead. They also had a long memory.

"She doesn't think Mandalore holds all the answers. But she trusts that you've seen something. Felt something. And that if anyone's still paying attention, it's here."

Her gaze returned to the throne not challenging, not deferential. Just direct.

"She sent me to listen. Not to speak in her place. Just to carry her trust and to learn what I can from what Mandalore has seen."

Then, a slight shift in tone. Still steady. Still sure.

"She has asked me to remain. For a time."

Her posture didn't change, but there was something steadier in the way she said it. No hint of negotiation, only intention.

"She thought it might be useful for both of us to have someone close. A resource. Quiet if needed. Ready if not."

Seris gave a small nod, not quite concluding, but marking the end of what she meant to say.

"I don't expect anything. Just to learn. And to listen. That's all she asks."

TAG: Aether Verd

​

 

[Aether Verd]

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

COURT OF IRON

The quiet held, but it was not empty. It was the quiet of consideration, of listening.

Aether regarded Seris with the calm of a man who had seen too many warnings ignored, who understood that even whispers could be the herald of a storm. His visor remained fixed on her, gold light unwavering, the only movement the slow, deliberate curl of his fingers against the armrest as he processed her words.

When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of memory, the echo of history worn into steel.

“I know the name you speak.”

The admission was not given lightly, nor was it burdened with theatrics. It was simply truth.

“The Unmaker was responsible for the fall of my father’s Confederacy. It was the reason I was raised among the ashes of that dream, in the cold vastness of the Shiraya Expanse, while worlds burned and the galaxy turned its face away.”

He shifted, letting his helm tilt slightly, as if considering the vaults above them and the banners that marked the enduring will of Mandalore.

“Since claiming this throne, we have contended with a being from the Netherworld who calls himself Harrow. We do not yet know if there is any tie between him and the Unmaker, but he wields powers that should not exist, the kind that drag the dead from their rest and set them to war in his name.”

The armored hand lifted, motioning toward her, an unspoken acknowledgment of the choice she had made in coming here.

“You are welcome here, Seris Mataan. Your mother’s trust honors us, and if it is knowledge she seeks, she shall have it. We will ensure that communication, resources, and information flow as needed, so long as she wishes it.”

He paused, the helm’s gold glow focused on her alone, his tone steady but searching.

“But that is her request. I would ask what you want.”

His hand lowered to rest against the armrest once more, firm but open.

“I will not expect you to serve as the bridge between us unless you wish it. You are not here as a tool or a courier unless you choose to be. If you wish to remain, then remain. If you wish to learn, then learn. If you wish to stand ready when the storm comes, then you will have your place here when it does.”

He let the words settle, the Court watching, the banners whispering the memory of battles past.

“Mandalore is listening. And I will know you as more than a name if you will let me.”

​

Seris Mataan