Private Meeting of Vod

[Siv Kryze]

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ANVIL OF CONCORDIA​

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The Anvil of Concordia never really slept.

Even this late into the cycle the station was alive with noise — forge hammers somewhere deep below the docks, loaders dragging crates across durasteel, crews yelling over the whine of engines and welding torches. Heat lingered in the air from the foundries beneath the station, mixing with fuel smoke and burnt metal.

Dock Twelve had been cleared for the incoming ship.

Not because anyone important was arriving, but because the thing looked held together by determination and old repairs. Carbon scoring ran across the hull, sections of plating were mismatched, and one of the maneuvering fins had very obviously been welded back together in the field.

A few Concordian mechanics were already taking bets on what would fail first.

Siv Kryze stood overlooking the dock from a raised platform near the control station, helmet tucked beneath one arm. Blue beskar reflected the sparks flashing below while workers moved around him carrying tools and datapads. He watched the ship settle into its clamps without saying much.

It looked like the kind of ship that never stayed in one place long.

The boarding ramp lowered with a hydraulic hiss.

Siv finally stepped forward as the figure emerged.

"Protector Itzhal Volkihar ," he greeted, voice calm enough that it still carried through the dockyard noise. His eyes flicked back toward the ship. "You know refits are supposed to happen before the ship starts falling apart, right?"

There was a hint of amusement there.

Barely.

Behind them a crane dragged the stripped hull of a gunship overhead while somewhere deeper in the station another forge hammer rang out loud enough to shake the deck for a second.

Siv glanced back toward Itzha again.

"Heard the Protectorate's been busy lately," he said casually. "Figured eventually one of you would end up here needing repairs."

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Concordia, Outer Rim Territories

An excessive wave of smoke vented from the boarding ramp—a dense, choking wave of smoke that billowed like the exhale of a great beast. The descending figure was enveloped entirely, cloaked in a swirling mass of noxious gases that twisted and turned as if the coils of a terrible snake were wrapping around its prey. Affixed to the inside of his Buy'ce, the rebreather hissed eagerly, pumping fresh, clean air directly into his lungs, a crucial lifeline amidst the toxic haze. Magnetic seals worked tirelessly to keep the worst of the malevolent fumes at bay, creating a firm barrier between him and the perilous atmosphere that was rapidly dissipating beneath the thunderous roar of the ventilation units above, which had detected the danger.

Itzhal Volkihar emerged from the swirling mist, which clung to him like a lingering memory until his powerful strides broke its hold. Across his frame, the intricate craftsmanship of his armour was marred by deep, charred lines that snaked across its surface, blurring the space between the vivid crimson plates and their obsidian counterparts. His steps, however, betrayed none of the damage displayed upon the surface, confident and sure as they reached his fellow Mandalorian.

"I believe I may have come across that advice once or twice," he replied, his voice laced with playful scepticism as he shot a sideways glance at the weathered and battered hull of his ship. He hesitated for a moment, as if truly noticing the extensive damage for the first time, eyes beneath the visor tracing the remnants of past skirmishes and disasters etched into the metal. After a brief pause, he shifted his gaze back to Siv. "It's good to see you, Warden."

It felt almost like yesterday, he'd stepped foot on Anvil.

The bustling scene of a city in motion—starships gliding gracefully along the crowded skylanes, their metallic hulls gleaming softly under the dying glow of the distant sun and their cities' industrial might. Plumes of heat rose from the roaring furnaces, creating shimmering waves that distorted the metal landscape. Dock workers, clad in bright uniforms, worked side by side with Mandalorian security officers who busily examined crates of various sizes as they were deposited by lumbering freighters.—had been no less impressive from his vantage point in the cockpit.

"In all seriousness, most of the damage is from my last job; an unpleasant affair along the Ancora border, it should be finished now, but one can never know for sure," he confessed, his tone dropping to a near whisper. With a slight tilt of his helmet towards the ship, he continued, "I've also got a Basilisk War Droid in need of a thorough check-up, if your team has the resources to spare."

Tags: Siv Kryze​

 

[Siv Kryze]

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ANVIL OF CONCORDIA​

​

Siv watched the last of the smoke get ripped upward into the station vents before glancing back toward the battered ship. Even by Concordian standards it looked abused. The kind of vessel that kept flying because its owner refused to let it die.

His attention shifted at the mention of the Basilisk.

"That explains the smell," he said evenly. "Thought one of the reactors down here finally gave up."

One of the nearby technicians barked out a short laugh before immediately pretending not to listen anymore.

Siv motioned for one of the dock overseers to approach. A few quiet instructions followed — diagnostics, secured bay access, priority servicing for the war droid — before the Warden finally looked back toward Itzha.

"We'll take care of it."

Simple as that.

He tucked his helmet beneath his arm again and jerked his head toward one of the elevated walkways overlooking the dockyards.

"Come on," Siv said. "No point shouting over half the station."

The two moved away from the landing bay while crews immediately swarmed the ship behind them. Weld sparks flashed against the hull as they crossed onto the upper gantries, the noise of the dock softening slightly the farther they walked.

Below them stretched the Anvil in motion.

Freighters suspended in magnetic clamps. Half-built gunships rotating slowly in drydock frames. Mandalorian workers hauling crates and fuel lines while security patrols threaded through the organized chaos. Far beneath the transparisteel flooring, forge light pulsed from the industrial sectors like a heartbeat.

Siv rested a forearm briefly against the railing as they walked.

"Been hearing plenty out of the Protectorate lately," he said casually. "Border disputes. Iron Covenant movement. Everyone whispering like another fire's about to start somewhere."

His gaze drifted sidelong toward Itzha.

"Usually means you've been busy."

After another moment he pushed off the railing and continued toward a pair of heavy blast doors at the end of the corridor.

"Figured we could sit somewhere quieter before the mechanics come back demanding authorization to rebuild half your ship."

"Heard the Protectorate's been busy lately," he said casually. "Figured eventually one of you would end up here needing repairs."

Tag: Itzhal Volkihar​

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Concordia, Outer Rim Territories

With a gentle shake of his head, Itzhal fought to suppress the laugh bubbling up from the depths of his chest, his lips twitching at the corners before he mercilessly stifled his reaction.

"My one free piece of advice is you shouldn't let Biaye catch wind of any statements like that," the Morellian advised, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he cast a wary glance back towards the open landing ramp. "They possess a pride deeper than they would ever care to admit, and I can only imagine the storm that would brew from a remark like that."

Wearily, he shook his head once more, weighed down by the exhaustion that sank deep into his limbs as he dared to think of recent events and the constant need for results that had pushed him onwards, again and again, until it felt like his body would never stop. Not until Mandalore was safe, not until his people were protected. Not until...

He turned away from the sight of his battered ship, its hull scorched and its once-proud silhouette now marred.

"Spirits above, I hope they didn't catch that," he murmured, a faint spark of amusement hidden under the pretend dread. "I'm sure they'll appreciate the help regardless."

He followed, deliberately unhurried, each step heavy with the weight of his thoughts as he glanced over the horizon.

"We're busy people," he admitted, staring out over the familiar sights of Anvil.

A land unwavering in the face of challenges that loom just beyond its borders, where civilians stride with heads held high, encircled by comrades ready to stand and fight until the bitter end, driven by a commitment to protect those they regard as kin, not through blood alone, but united through the shared bonds of culture and community. It was a sight worth it in the end. It had to be.

Moments later, the solid beskar plates resting on his shoulders trembled slightly with an exhausted exhale.

"I'll be honest," he began, a hint of frustration creeping into his tone, "when the Diarchy collapsed the way it did, I expected things to quieten down."

He shook his Buy'ce, his expression darkening beneath the visor, "Clearly, it was my mistake to assume they would do anything without causing more problems for everyone else. That entire territory has become nothing more than a breeding ground for fresh disasters, and, worse yet, it resurrected a few old ones that should have stayed buried." He grunted then, the muscles in his jaw tightening before he hissed out the next words through the vocalizer. "Don't even get me started on the Imps."

Ahead of them, the blast doors opened with a muffled thump that just barely covered the Morellian's, "Bloody Corellia."

Tags: Siv Kryze​

 

[Siv Kryze]

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ANVIL OF CONCORDIA​

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Siv caught the way several nearby workers suddenly buried themselves in their tasks the moment Biaye was mentioned.

A faint scoff escaped him.

"Dock crews hear one thing out of context and suddenly it becomes station history," he said as they walked. "By tomorrow they'll probably think your entire ship threatened to vent toxins through the Anvil."

The humor faded naturally as the two left the docking bay behind. Heavy blast doors sealed shut, muting the roar of engines and forge hammers into a distant industrial rumble. The corridor ahead was quieter, lined with narrow windows overlooking Concordia's inner foundries where rivers of molten metal glowed beneath suspended assembly frames.

Siv walked at an even pace beside him, helmet tucked beneath one arm.

When Itzhal Volkihar mentioned the Imperial Confederation and the Diarchy, the Warden's expression hardened slightly.

"The Mandalorian Empire spent years fighting the Diarchy just to keep them from spreading further," he said plainly. "And the Imperial Confederation never sat right with me either. Too many Imperials trying to repaint themselves into something cleaner while the galaxy burned around them."

His eyes drifted briefly toward the foundries below.

"Then both finally collapsed and left everyone else to deal with the aftermath."

Trade fractured. Territories broke apart. Systems started looking inward instead of outward. It reminded Siv too much of old stories from after previous wars — everyone pretending stability existed while quietly preparing for the next conflict.

"Concordia hit a dry period after all of it," he admitted. "Not war. Just… stagnation. Too many routes shut down. Too many governments imploding around us. Felt like everyone was waiting for the next disaster before deciding what to do."

Ahead, another set of doors opened into a quieter meeting chamber overlooking the lower shipyards. Holoprojectors sat dormant around a circular table while forge light flickered faintly through the wide viewport behind it.

Siv stepped inside first.

"So lately I've been trying to ease things back toward normalcy." He set his helmet down against the table. "Trade negotiations through Corellia. Reopening old routes. Keeping relations stable where I can."

A faint smirk crossed his face.

"Corellians are exhausting, by the way."

He leaned lightly against the edge of the table afterward.

"And now I'm meeting with the Iron Covenant too." His tone stayed measured. "Seeing where they stand. Whether they actually want cooperation or just another excuse for Mandalorians to divide themselves again."

That, more than anything, seemed to bother him.

"Our borders have been too loose for too long," Siv continued. "Too many scattered factions. Too many people looking at Mandalorian space like easy ground because we've spent more time fighting each other than reinforcing what matters."

His gaze settled on Itzha then.

"If things collapse again out there, I want our worlds ready before the fires reach us this time."

Tag: Itzhal Volkihar​

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Concordia, Outer Rim Territories

With his opinion on the matter already expressed, Itzhal strode forward with purposeful silence, his heavy boots echoing in lockstep with his fellow Mandalorian.

The Warden's recollection was a familiar lament—an echo of the chaos closer to the origin, spiralling outwards until everyone felt the impact of their crippled economy and the sudden lack of security where once order had been branded a necessary evil. If he were a less travelled man, he might have taken it as proof, but he'd seen the truth enough times to see behind the hollow words; change was always violent, the repressed rose, and the desperate grasped at their dwindling power until their world collapsed around them. He'd known that. Somehow, he'd just forgotten how bloody the mess could become. It wasn't something he was going to forget again.

The quiet of the meeting chamber hit him like a wall of force; no incessant beeps from dying systems, no crackle of the superheated air evaporating from exposure to a relentless volley of blaster fire, no screams from helpless civilians watching in disbelief and fear as their fragile lives collapsed around them—only the steps of two men, their boots a quiet patter against the smooth metal.

Itzhal hesitated, a simple stutter in the surety of his stride, quickly absorbed beneath the stretch of his next step and the chuckle that broke free.

"Oh, really," Itzhal drawled, with a short thought towards the many Corellians he'd faced. "I hadn't noticed. You should inform Ambassador Bastiel, I'm sure she'd appreciate the heads up."

With a smooth motion that concealed the intricate procedure of magnetic seals disengaging across the stretch of his Buy'ce, Itzhal removed his helmet and settled it against the ridge of the table.

"I wasn't aware either side had opened negotiations," he admitted, with a languid shrug of his shoulders that ended with his fingers slipping into the grooves of his belt. "I suppose it was only a matter of time before someone had to initiate. Should I be offering condolences or congratulations?"

And wasn't it a sign of the times that he had to ask in the first place? At least, uncertainty was better than knowing they had enemies that should have been kin, well, at least in the moment. Ignorance was a different kind of sin. If they really were intending to cause problems, he'd rather have his blasters locked and loaded. Until then, he'd leave Siv and his fellow Wardens the pleasure of figuring it out.

"I don't envy you. It was never in my wheelhouse—give me a target to hunt, a crime scene to examine, or a suspect to question—but dealing with a snake that might as easily shake my hand as they would stick a blade in my back, well, I'm not sure I could do that," his smile was an old, weary thing stretched across the ingrained grimace of his lips. "I suppose that's why I get the easier task."

Against the back wall, an old mural stretched from corner to corner, warriors with their blades held high, starships trailing glittering paths of metal the same colour as pure beskar. Itzhal stared, his eyes focused upon the central figure, their Buy'ce pointed towards some nebulous future.

"Don't ever doubt the future, when it's so clear to see, it's not a matter of whether things will collapse beyond the border, it's only a matter of when," his voice was soft as if the confession caused something deep inside to ache with the futility of it all. "But we have time—a precious commodity—to arm ourselves for whatever storm we face. When the moment arrives, it will not matter how quickly it appeared or how savage the winds ravage our lands, only that we are ready to protect our people, however we may. That has to be enough, and if it isn't, then we shall make it so."

Tags: Siv Kryze​

 

[Siv Kryze]

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ANVIL OF CONCORDIA​

A faint grin crossed Siv's face at the mention of Bastiel.

"I think Ambassador Bastiel figured that out long before I did," he said lightly. "Corellians are easier to handle once you accept they'll argue about absolutely everything."

The Warden stepped further into the chamber, setting his helmet onto the table near one of the inactive holoprojectors. Beyond the wide viewport behind him, the shipyards of Concordia still moved endlessly — cargo haulers drifting between drydocks, forge light flickering against the station's steel bones.

At the mention of the Iron Covenant, Siv grew quieter for a moment.

"I know some people expect those talks to end badly," he admitted. "Truthfully, maybe they will. Wouldn't be the first time Mandalorians turned on each other over politics, territory, or pride."

There was frustration buried beneath the words more than anger.

"But I'm tired of that cycle."

He leaned lightly against the edge of the table, arms folding across his chestplate.

"The Mandalorian Empire spent years fighting the Diarchy while the Imperial Confederation tried spreading its influence everywhere else. Then both collapsed and left the entire region fractured." His eyes drifted briefly toward the mural across the chamber wall. "Since then it feels like every group's been looking at the next Mandalorian faction as either competition or a threat."

Siv shook his head once.

"The Iron Covenant shouldn't be treated like automatic adversaries just because they're another Mandalorian power." His tone stayed calm, but firm. "We don't all need to agree on everything, but fighting each other every time the galaxy changes around us is exactly why outside powers keep finding ways to weaken Mandalorian space."

The foundries below rumbled faintly through the deck beneath their feet.

"I'd rather speak to them as fellow Mandalorians first before assuming we need another war." His gaze shifted back toward Itzha then. "Especially now."

A small pause followed.

"Because whether people like it or not, the borders are unstable again. Trade routes are uncertain, governments are collapsing, and old conflicts are resurfacing." Siv rested a hand against the table's edge. "If another major conflict starts, I'd rather our people stand together where we can instead of wasting strength fighting each other while the rest of the galaxy circles overhead."

Tag: Itzhal Volkihar​

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Concordia, Outer Rim Territories

Itzhal did not begrudge the Warden's exhaustion; old frustrations seeped into the air with every word exchanged, each sentence filled with the weight of unresolved grievances that seemed impossible to shake off. The Resol'nare was not a difficult ideal to follow: six tenets, each laid out like stepping stones leading to the essence of what it meant to belong to their proud culture. These truths were so simple that even children sang nursery rhymes about them.

Yet, despite this simplicity, it seemed so common that individuals found a way to twist and mould the ideals to fit their own interpretations, until only their version of Mandalorian mattered—or, conversely, whatever didn't fit fell into their vision of Dar'manda. Spirits, Itzhal had grown to hate that word. It had been a triumph, the day that Mand'alor of Iron had retracted all claims to that word, regardless of deed—there were other ways to judge a man, rather than just what made them one of their culture.

No, Siv Kryze was not unreasonable in despising the cycle of self-destruction that had ingrained itself in the very fabric of their society. It did not mean that Itzhal was so quick to trust.

"Speaking from personal experience," Itzhal began, his voice measured and steady, "I've always found it wiser to brace oneself for the worst, it so rarely leaves one disappointed. Only then will I consider the possibility of something better, pessimistic, perhaps, but unfortunately realistic considering the circumstances. If you want to step into things with hope at the forefront, I won't begrudge you that; the Galaxy would probably be a better place if the rest of us idiots started believing in our distant neighbours, rather than only those who've stood by our side." He punctuated his words with a slow, deliberate shrug of his shoulders that ended with his hands landing palm down against the table.

His eyes drifted once again to the mural of their ancestors and the problems they never discussed; had they ever faced so many issues keeping their people together?

"So," his gaze wandered back towards Siv. "Why don't you tell me about these neighbours you've been talking to?"

Tags: Siv Kryze​

 

[Siv Kryze]

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ANVIL OF CONCORDIA​

Siv listened without interrupting, his eyes drifting toward the mural as Itzhal spoke. There was truth in what the Protector was saying. The galaxy had a habit of rewarding caution and punishing optimism. Anyone who'd lived through the Diarchy, the Imperial Confederation, and everything that followed learned that lesson sooner or later.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"I don't think that's pessimism," he said. "I think that's experience."

He rested a hand against the edge of the table, glancing out the viewport toward the shipyards below. Even from here he could see workers moving between drydocks, freighters being unloaded, life carrying on despite the chaos beyond Concordia's borders.

"Truth is, I don't necessarily disagree with you. I've met enough politicians, admirals, and self-proclaimed visionaries to know that disappointment is usually the safer bet."

The smile faded, though the amusement remained.

"But if every Mandalorian starts from the assumption that the other side is going to betray them, then we've already made the decision before the conversation begins."

His gaze shifted back toward Itzhal.

"The Iron Covenant is a good example. I've heard the rumors. Everyone has. Some think they're a threat. Others think they're the future. Most haven't actually bothered speaking to them."

Siv shrugged.

"I don't know what they'll become. Maybe the talks go nowhere. Maybe we disagree on half the issues in the galaxy. Maybe we walk away with nothing but a handshake."

The Warden paused for a moment.

"But they're Mandalorians."

Simple words, but spoken with conviction.

"That should mean something. It should mean more than immediately treating each other like enemies because our banners aren't identical."

His eyes drifted briefly toward the mural again.

"We spent years fighting the Diarchy. We spent years dealing with the fallout of the Imperial Confederation. Meanwhile the rest of the galaxy keeps finding new ways to tear itself apart. I'd rather not spend the next decade looking for reasons to fight fellow Mandalorians too."

He leaned back slightly against the table.

"Lately I've been talking with Corellians, merchants, planetary governors, whoever's willing to sit down and have a conversation. Some of it's trade. Some of it's diplomacy. Most of it's making sure Concordia isn't isolated if things go bad again."

A quiet chuckle escaped him.

"And they will go bad again. They always do."

The humor faded into something more thoughtful.

"When that happens, I'd rather see stronger borders, stronger trade routes, and Mandalorians talking to one another than repeating the same mistakes we've been making for generations. Maybe that's hopeful. Maybe it's just practical. Either way, I think it's worth trying."

Tag: Itzhal Volkihar​

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Concordia, Outer Rim Territories

Siv Kryze spoke of a bitterly familiar regret, the folly of the vigilant sentinel, forever staring out upon a Galaxy with eyes that could only see malice in every action. It was no way to live. It was no way to build an Empire. Hope was needed; allies braced together for the coming storms, trade routes reaching beyond the borders in search of willing partners, and, most of all, acknowledgement of the kin that should be, regardless of the differences that made them who they were. After all, what was the point of a Mandalorian Empire if it didn't accept all of them?

"I understand your point," Itzhal murmured, his voice low as he lowered his head, a deliberate nod, emphasised all the more by his lack of Buy'ce.

"But concepts mean little alone; it is easy to claim a connection to some distant cousin you may never face, may never have to deal with," he continued, louder now as he stared across the mural of silent protectors. "Just as it is simple to hate a threat that is unfamiliar. Even if it hasn't harmed you yet, its existence is all the worse for the blanks filled by your own mind, cruel as our thoughts often are."

His hands pressed against the metal edge of the table, palms flat and fingers stretched in a relaxed brace. His eyes traced the inlining frame of the holotable, the slight scuff marks ingrained in the durasteel, mere inches from the visual ports.

He shook his head, a faint twist at the corner of his lips, leaving the expression sharp, as his gaze simmered with dark amusement. "Truly knowing is different, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse, but it fills the blanks all the same."

Blue eyes trailed across the stretch of Siv's chestplate, over the engravings of burnished bronze marked into the beskar—a firebird raising from the ashes just as their people had time and time again, as long as someone remained to carry the torch. Rebuilder. Liberator. Architect. Reclaimer. Rekindler. Iron. For all his people's woes, there was always someone ready.

With a lingering intensity, Itzhal's gaze ascended upwards until it met the steady gaze of his fellow Mandalorian. "I must confess," he began, his tone imbued with a sense of longing. "I wish I had the luxury of time to expand my horizons beyond the most immediate of threats and the worlds under our aegis, but my purpose is tied to Mandalore. An anchor of my own choosing, despite all the tribulations and frustrations it often brings," he chuckled, a short shake of his head sending wisps of grey hair down across his fringe. "Some days, it would be easier if I didn't see the point of it all. Regardless, I cannot justify leaving our borders, not for the sake of passing judgment upon those who act beyond our borders."

Resolute, Itzhal's gaze remained fixed, firm as the Beskar that lined his form. "So, I must rely upon the judgment of others. You have met many of them, interacted beyond the boundaries of suspect and victim, and seen them as people. So please, educate me: tell me who they are, what they desire, what makes them similar, and, by contrast, what makes them different. I want to know what it is they say and, in truth, what it is they actually do. Only then, perhaps, might I be able to understand what it is you see of them when you reach for that fickle thing called hope."

Tags: Siv Kryze​

 

[Siv Kryze]

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ANVIL OF CONCORDIA​

Siv considered the question for a moment before answering.

"From what I've seen so far, I don't think the Iron Covenant's concern is the Mandalorian Empire."

He glanced briefly toward the mural again, toward warriors that had survived generations of triumphs and disasters alike.

"If anything, their history explains why."

His eyes settled back on Itzhal.

"They remember things most of us only read about. The fall of the old Empire. The Sith genocide. Mandalore changing hands over and over while Kestri became the place that carried our people forward. When I listen to them speak, I don't hear resentment toward the Empire. I hear people who spent decades watching outside powers nearly wipe us out."

Siv rested a hand against the table.

"Romul didn't spend half that conversation talking about rival clans or Mand'alors. He talked about the Sith. He talked about Dha'naast. He talked about concentration camps and genocide. He talked about what happened when Mandalorians were divided and an enemy took advantage of it."

The Warden shook his head slightly.

"That's not the perspective of someone looking for a fight with fellow Mandalorians. That's the perspective of someone who's spent a lifetime making sure what happened on Mandalore never happens again."

A faint smile appeared.

"That doesn't mean we'll agree on everything. Spirits know no two Mandalorians ever do. But I walked away with the impression that they're far more concerned about outside interlopers than fellow Mandalorians."

He folded his arms loosely.

"The Empire wants stability. The Covenant wants security. Those aren't opposing goals."

Siv glanced out the viewport toward the shipyards below.

"I think they're wary. Maybe even skeptical. But considering their history, I'd be more concerned if they weren't."

His gaze returned to Itzhal.

"That's why I want to talk to them. Not because I expect us to become one people overnight, but because I'd rather understand their concerns than invent them. The galaxy's given us enough enemies already. I don't see much value in creating new ones when the people across the table are still Mandalorians."

Tag: Itzhal Volkihar​

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Concordia, Outer Rim Territories

In the stillness that followed his question, Itzhal remained poised, like the ancient sentinels etched into the edges of the mural—solemn and vigilant while others charged forward into glory. The old Morellian studied Siv Kryze intently, noting the subtle changes in the other Mandalorian's expression as the weight of the question pressed down on him, leaving the warden with a look of deep contemplation carved into the furrows of his face. For a moment, the silence lingered, stretching out for what felt like much longer than mere seconds. It mattered not. Itzhal felt no urgency to break the silence; he was content to allow them the time needed to gather their thoughts.

In truth, it did not take long.

And so, he spoke of Romul Saxon and the men and women who stood alongside him—those who formed the Iron Covenant.

Itzhal leaned heavily against the table, the cool surface grounding him as he pressed his palms flat against its edge. With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world, he finally pushed off, the movement accompanied by a subtle shrug of his shoulders, which carried him a couple of steps away from the table as he acknowledged, "You've made your point, Warden."

The harsh clack of his boots echoed out from where he stopped, standing beside the viewport overlooking the hangar below. His own arrival was something of an abnormality, with ship after ship flowing through the station without a problem in sight. Brand new hulls and state-of-the-art technology slipping past old junkers, with more rust piled on top of their rust-coated plates.

"I will not pretend to dismiss my waryness," he sighed, tired in a way that seeped deep into the very marrow of his bones. His eyes, though, blazed with more than just defeat; there was a defiance there, decades of experience, and a will that had seen his people burn more than once before. "But I am more than just my fears. Truly, if you believe they are what they say they are, and assure me as you do now, that they are not our enemies, then I will take you at your word."

Slowly, his eyes trailed out over the spaceport and towards the opening in the sky above, picturing what lay beyond the curtain of night. Once more, he spoke, barely a whisper, "They are not wrong to voice the grievances left in the wake of those old monsters, not while they still remain, not while our people still carry the scars, nor to highlight the Empire's neglect in addressing such wounds. I have measured the scales more than once, but for the sake of our people, I have tolerated much; it does not escape my attention that the family ties that safeguard our civilians, also protect warmongers and demagolka."

Tags: Siv Kryze​

 

[Siv Kryze]

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ANVIL OF CONCORDIA​

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Siv was quiet for a moment, then gave a small nod.

"I know," he said. "That version of Kryze wasn't about avoiding Mandalorian conflict. It was more… strict than that. Almost like a creed-first warrior order."

He leaned back against the table, eyes briefly drifting to the mural before returning to Itzhal.

"And I'm not trying to copy it wholesale."

A pause.

"What I'm trying to take from it is the earlier shape of it—the part where Jenn Kryze still believed Mandalorians should be held to something. That strength wasn't just power, it had a direction to it. Protection, responsibility. Not just survival."

His tone stayed steady, but more grounded than idealistic.

"I understand why that shifted later. When you keep seeing the same brutality cycle through Enclaves, Neo-Crusaders, all of it… it wears people down. It makes 'unity' feel like a word that always gets abused."

Siv exhaled lightly.

"But I'm not trying to fix that by pretending the fractures don't exist. I'm trying not to let them become the only thing we are."

He glanced at Itzhal again.

"And I get the hesitation. I really do. People like Jenn still have Loyalists for a reason. That distrust doesn't come from nowhere—it comes from watching Mandalorians hurt Mandalorians while calling it tradition, or necessity, or unity."

A beat.

"I'm just trying to see if there's anything left in that older idea worth carrying forward without it turning into the same cycle again."

Tag: Itzhal Volkihar​

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Concordia, Outer Rim Territories

Cold blue eyes reflected the bustling scene unfolding before it, as vessels of all sizes descended through the framed openings in the hangar's ceiling to land upon expansive landing platforms, where workers scurried between their tasks, a constant hive of activity that was almost dizzying to consider. The metallic clank of a freighter's landing gear resonated softly, its sound dampened by the thick seals of the viewport.

His eyes shuttered closed as their words drifted toward Jenn Kryze—the Redeemer. At least, that was the name they'd called her then; in recent times, she had taken on other monikers. The dreamer was one that lingered in conversations that uttered her name, delivered with a bittersweet mixture of sorrow and dismay. It was a title for the woman who had dared to envision more for their people than mere conquest, yearning for a future painted with hope rather than blood, where people stared upon the T-Visor in pride and joy rather than fear.

Sometimes, he wondered if it would be kinder to have escaped the shadow of her failures in a blaze of glory, rather than sink into the annals of history as just another cautionary tale. It would have been a waste.

"You speak of a worthy goal," he offered, barely more than a whisper, a paltry statement in the grand scheme of things. "I only wish I could offer more to help."

Once, years ago now, he'd sworn a solemn oath, pledging to become a steadfast shield for the innocent and vulnerable. With pride that burned as bright as the sun, he'd committed himself to the relentless pursuit of evil that lurked throughout the Galaxy, aware he'd never be able to eradicate it all, but willing to try all the same. Nor had he been alone; he'd stood with his fellow warriors on a noble quest against the corruption that blighted the galaxy, ready to uplift those who would dare to help, even as the rest of existence demanded their acceptance of the darkness that surrounded them.

On good days, he still remembered it with pride.

On others...

"Reports to my office have been quieter than I would like," he began, his voice searching for amusement that he didn't feel. "If I were optimistic, I would assume it means everything is right in the world, but I rarely get to be so fortunate. I would hope that my memory still serves faithfully. If I remember correctly, the last time I was here, we'd uncovered that beskar forge operating off the grid, alongside a few smuggling ventures, before I was recalled. If you'd pardon my curiosity, how went the rest of that operation?"

Tags: Siv Kryze​

 

[Siv Kryze]

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ANVIL OF CONCORDIA​

​

Siv let out a quiet huff of amusement as another transport descended through the cavernous hangar beyond the viewport. The distant whine of repulsors and the rhythmic clang of loading equipment echoed through the station, blending into the constant heartbeat of Concordia's industry.

"You're asking the Warden to admit there are still criminals on Concordia?" he asked with a faint grin. "Careful, Protector. You'll ruin my reputation."

The joke lingered only briefly before fading.

"Truthfully, we shut most of it down. The forge was seized, the operation behind it dismantled, and a few people discovered that smuggling beskar through my territory is a good way to lose both the cargo and the ship carrying it."

He folded his arms across his chest, watching workers move between freighters below like streams of ants crossing a durasteel plain.

"There are always others, though. There always will be. You close one route and another appears somewhere else. That's the nature of ports, trade hubs, and people looking to make easy credits."

His gaze followed a cargo hauler being guided toward one of the larger berths.

"Still, things have been quieter. Not perfect, just quieter. Less organized crime, fewer major incidents."

For a moment, he simply watched the activity below. Merchants, dockworkers, security patrols, travelers from a dozen worlds—all moving through the same space without incident. It was the sort of mundane order most people never noticed until it disappeared.

"Most of my attention lately has been spent keeping trade moving and making sure Concordia doesn't get dragged into whatever fresh disaster the rest of the galaxy decides to create this month."

A faint shake of his head followed.

"Which, if I'm being honest, worries me more than the smugglers ever did. Criminals are predictable. Governments, warlords, and collapsing borders usually aren't."

He turned his attention back to Itzhal, the blue glow of traffic beacons reflecting faintly across the viewport behind him.

"Though I suppose if your reports have gone quiet too, maybe that's a good sign."

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Or maybe we're both about to have a very bad week."

Tag: Itzhal Volkihar​

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Concordia, Outer Rim Territories

The corners of Itzhal's lips twitched in an unwitting smile as Siv delivered his joke, a reputation indeed—he would need to remember that one the next time someone was attempting to deny what was directly in front of their eyes. He couldn't help but envision their stony faces, lacking any appreciation for the humour, especially when it was their own reputation at stake. Not that all would take it so professionally, a few of the worst would surely be bright red, fury burning in their eyes as they prepared to defend themselves. Probably a sign that the comment was best saved for friends or not at all, depending on the circumstances. But he mused that if he'd reached the point of openly ridiculing their reputation, it was clear the situation had indeed spiralled into disarray.

Something for consideration, at least.

Slowly, his smile, once a small and accidental thing, settled comfortably upon his face with every piece of the good news that the Warden delivered. It had been a shame when new orders had demanded his attention elsewhere, transferring from the heart of Mandalorian space to the outer edges where the borders existed only as long as Mandalore possessed the strength to contend for those plentiful worlds. Ultimately, the repositioning of resources such as himself and the Protectorate assets had been crucial, with their duties across contested worlds an unfortunate necessity compared to the stabilised territory of Concordia. Still, Itzhal couldn't deny he'd felt some dissatisfaction with leaving a job half-done, regardless.

Fortunately, then, men like Siv Kryze had been there to finish the job.

"As long as there are people to form civilisation, there will be crime attempting to defy it," he murmured, his voice kept to a hush as he spoke words of wisdom he'd heard a thousand times before, in more variations than he could count. Not once had it ever deterred him from his mission; one didn't have to fight the whole ocean to protect their cities from the waves.

"Rejoice with what you have accomplished, and know that the reward for your deeds are but echoes of those across all realms under Mandalore's purview," His smile, soft and settled upon his face, glinted with mirth as he beheld the bustling spaceport that served as one of Anvil's crown jewels, a celebration of the efforts that had dragged the city out of the dirt after civil war and sabotage had attempted to lay it low. "More toil awaits us both, for such is the way of the Galaxy."

Unable or unwilling to hide the smile that covered his face, Itzhal shrugged his shoulders.

"Personally, I'm leaning towards that bad week being a matter of eventuality."

Tags: Siv Kryze​

 

[Siv Kryze]

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ANVIL OF CONCORDIA​

​

Siv gave a quiet nod, his attention drifting back toward the hangar below. Freighters came and went through the Anvil as they always had, cranes lifting cargo while crews worked without much fanfare. It was ordinary.

And after everything the galaxy had been through, ordinary was worth protecting.

"I've spent most of my time trying to keep trade stable," he said. "If Concordia keeps moving, then people keep working. Supplies keep flowing. Merchants keep coming back. It's not glamorous, but it keeps the lights on."

He rested a hand against the viewport.

"Ever since the Diarchy fell and the Imperial Confederation imploded, it feels like every month another government changes hands or another border becomes contested. Then you've got the Sith and Jedi dragging whole sectors into their own conflicts." He let out a quiet breath. "The galaxy's become unpredictable."

His gaze remained on the ships below.

"But that's also made me appreciate what we have."

A faint smile crossed his face.

"For all the problems we've had over the years, the Mandalorian Empire is still standing. We know who we are. We know what we're protecting. That kind of stability is becoming harder to find."

He looked back toward Itzhal.

"And that's because of people doing their jobs. Wardens keeping places like Concordia running. Protectors watching the frontier. Soldiers standing the line so everyone else can live their lives."

His smile lingered.

"So long as I've got people like you watching the borders, I'll worry a little less about what's happening beyond them."

He folded his arms comfortably across his chest.

"The galaxy will always find a way to make a mess of itself."

A quiet chuckle escaped him.

"Our job is making sure Mandalore doesn't."

Tag: Itzhal Volkihar​

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Concordia, Outer Rim Territories

Itzhal gazed out at the horizon, where the silhouettes of freighters glided slowly through the murky haze of the atmosphere; some descended to the surface, while others reached towards the stars. Smudges of lights in the sky, warped and dimmed by the invisible passage of swirling pollution and reflected by the ever-present glow of Anvil, the star of Concordia, burning out the ethereal beauty of the cosmos with the ever-encroaching presence of civilisation.

In the moment, the Morellian found himself lost in contemplation, uncertain of what he was truly seeking in the vast void. He remained silent, allowing the deep murmur of his fellow Mandalorian's voice to wash over him, their words a familiar backdrop to the thoughts swirling in his mind as they spoke of Concorida's troubles; a familiar story he'd heard a dozen times, though the telling was different. He had little else he could say which had not already been spoken. Instead, his eyes wandered along paths he had travelled many times before, gliding over familiar routes and the absence that separated them, never pausing on any single point—for who could say where the next problem would come from?

But eventually, the veil of silence that had fallen upon him was parted with measured words, "To ensuring that Mandalore doesn't make a mess of itself, then."

Tags: Siv Kryze​