Private Osmanli's Patience

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

The sky over Qosantrya was a pale violet hue, fading gently into silver as twilight settled across the spires of the capital. It was the hour between dusk and duty—when the business of the Commonwealth slowed, and the city's great marble structures exhaled the heat of the day.

Within the Hyacinth Palace, shielded from the din of statecraft and ceremonial obligations, the Garden of Accord remained quiet. There were no aides here. No open datapads. No prying holocams or broadcast projections. Only the soft murmur of wind over still water and the faint rustle of blossoms opening beneath the star-kissed sky.

This was the place Ivalyn had chosen, not the grand Starlight Atrium or the gilded Petal Court, but the garden tucked between them, known less for spectacle and more for reflection.

Here, history was not spoken aloud. It was inhaled like the scent of native Dosuunian hyacinths, and worn in the silence between those who understood it.

When Arminius Kroeger arrived, he would be escorted not by the Belisaurius Guard, but by a single aide from the Order of Vigilance, a deliberate choice. The path through the garden was winding and dimly lit, designed to keep curious eyes away while offering no false shadows.

Ivalyn awaited him near one of the reflective pools, dressed not in her usual ceremonial attire but in something more reserved: a tailored deep navy ensemble with silver trim, the Grand Vizier's insignia discreet at her collarbone. Her posture remained regal, but her expression was unguarded. Here, at last, she could speak without posturing.

"Kroeger," she said with the barest nod, her voice hushed yet commanding, "Thank you for coming on such short notice. I needed someone who still remembers what true Imperialism was, before it became a slogan on the tongues of Sith sycophants."

She gestured subtly to the stone bench across from her. No armed guard lingered. No holo-feed recorded the moment. A place of quiet, of respect and where a conversation could occur with no prying eyes or ears.

"There's a conversation we need to have. One about survival, and about the price of reclaiming sovereignty when diplomacy begins to fail." It fell to Ivalyn to ensure that the Dosuunian Commonwealth, one of the last remnants of the First Order, continued to survive. Even if it would cost Ivalyn her own life. "You spoke well, even on such a notice as it was over Ryoone, and for that I am grateful." She remarked, knowing that for Kroeger it was all about practicality and the practical realities did not frame this fight well for Dosuun and her countrymen. That much, Ivalyn was well aware of but that was why she needed to speak with him, for if there was to be any hope of survival, it would start here.

Kroeger ​

 

[Kroeger]

​

HYCASINTH PALACE, QOSANTRYA
THE IMPERIAL COMMONWEALTH
902 ABY

D E M O N
IRON LEGION
'THOSE ONCE LOYAL'
Ivalyn Yvarro

IMPERIAL​

A lone vessel emerged from hyperspace, paired with two TIE Slasher heavy fighters to act as escort for the Legion Commander, the vantablack solar panels painted with the laughing skull-and-snake motif of the Iron Legion on its top wing of each side with the Iron Sun on the bottom wing to signify their mercenary allegiance. The signature screech of the twin ion engines along with the lower, nigh silent hum of the Phantom wailed across the atmosphere as they approached the Palace, setting down with an elegant and calculated descent unto the landing pad before the boarding ramp opened with a hydraulic hiss.

For the first occasion in a long while, Kroeger emerged in Imperial dress. The field grey tunic, trousers and black jackboots lined with a faint green piping signifying his branch in the Imperial Army of the New Imperial Order. The left shoulder sported the insignia of the Iron Legion and the right, the First Armored Assault Division. Even so, his half-cybernetic disfigured features lied beneath the woven bandaging, his cybernetic left hand of slick and black metal shaping emerged from his sleeve.

A pair of Deathtroopers, snapped to the proper facing on their heels to follow him in his exit of the starship. They followed him from the landing pad and toward the palace proper where the lone attendant was there to greet him. He motioned a closed, gloved fist up to the two Deathtroopers acting as escort, their duraplast armor snapping as they halted and splayed apart to stand at either side of the entrance of Kroeger's landing pad as the ship's crew and pilots began the preventative maintenance of each vessel. Refueling, checking for faults, tracking beacons and possible sabotage. Less of concern from the Commonwealth but any party at all.

He arrived in the flesh, the very nature and appearance of the man contrasting the serene nature of the garden, his gaze, half a brooding red cybernetic and half color sapped organic peered to her, looking her over in an appraisal of the woman as she spoke in greeting. He nodded. "Yvarro." He said, his voice deep, gravely and thrumming with cybernetic intervention.

"I've had many, similar conversations in past months. The Imperial identity is scattered like lone pups of a slain mother-wolf. Each one a divergent ideology. Each one a splinter to a greater whole and yet I doubt if the entities in unity would paint a united picture or a schizophrenic mess. Regardless, here I stand." He said, a hand smoothing into his pocket to produce a slick case, prying it open with a metallic thumb to draw a cigarette which he sparked alight, taking in a long toke of the stimulant before easing it from his lips.

 

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

Kroeger​

Ivalyn regarded Kroeger as he entered the garden, his uniform crisp and unmistakably Imperial—the classic field grey tunic, pressed trousers, and polished black jackboots. The image evoked memory more than novelty.

There was something about his presence, half-brooding and half-machine, that reminded her, almost uncomfortably, of her father. The cybernetics lent a certain coldness, a mechanical edge to his voice that thrummed low and gravely beneath the tranquility of the garden's stillness. A stark contrast, she thought, to the setting... and to herself. "Imperial divergence does seem to be quite numerous these days," she said with a touch of wryness, folding her hands before her.

"Though, if you asked my father, they should all bow to the Book of Tavlar. And in some regard, he isn't wrong." She let the remark settle between them, her voice calm, her posture composed.

It was, after all, the sort of political ideology that had—in recent memory—built one of the strongest Empires the galaxy had seen since Sieger Ren and Natasi Fortan's First Order graced its stars. Between the First Order and the New Imperial Order that followed, there had been precious little to unite Imperialism. Every Warlord, every Moff, every so-called reformer had their own vision, their own blueprint for conquest. And none seemed content to cooperate for long.

"I appreciate your presence today," she continued, inclining her head gracefully. Her tone carried the quiet sincerity of someone who did not extend thanks lightly. "I want to begin by stating plainly. I hold no illusions about where my nation stands militarily when compared to the Sith Order."

The admission was not defeatist. It was matter-of-fact, delivered with the cool precision of someone who understood power as more than numbers and firepower. "Therefore," she said, eyes fixed on Kroeger, "the actions I take next cannot be the work of a hammer. We lack the weight for blunt force."

She paused, letting the air settle again between them, fragrant with hyacinth and shaded by marble latticework.

"No. What I do now must be the work of a scalpel, precise, deliberate, and without unnecessary flourish." The time for the Commonwealth to collect itself had come. That much was clear.

She inhaled, steadying herself against the enormity of what lay ahead. "I must operate with intent, not instinct. Because unlike those who rule from thrones of arrogance, we do not have the luxury of failure."

Her words were quiet, but not soft. They were forged, not spoken, shaped in the crucible of diplomacy, legacy, and survival.

And with them, Ivalyn made clear: the path forward would not be paved in grand declarations or open war, but in quiet acts of defiance, carefully chosen allies, and the unflinching resolve to endure.

"As much as I am glad of your presence during the Ryoone crisis, I cannot lean on it." Her tone was even, neither cold nor ungrateful, but unflinchingly pragmatic. "It would be unwise of me to build a nation's future on the temporary strength of a mercenary legion."

They both understood what was left unsaid: Kroeger's forces had proven invaluable in the moment, but they were not the foundation of sovereignty. They were meant to supplement, to strike in moments of crisis, but never to substitute for the steady hand of a standing army.

"You have other contracts, ones more lucrative, I'm quite sure. Which is why my appeal to you today is not for deployment, but for counsel." She allowed a pause, the garden's hush offering space for gravity to settle between her words. "Your advice. Your criticisms. However blunt or bold."

She met his gaze directly. There was no performance here, only the sincerity of a stateswoman who had seen the chessboard shift one time too many.

"Everything from this moment forward counts toward a movement, one that has perhaps been inevitable since the moment the Najarkan Accords were signed."

Her voice lowered slightly, not conspiratorial, but reverent.

"A movement of independence."

She did not say rebellion. She did not need to.

This was not the First Order of old, and it was no longer enough to survive beneath the shadow of another empire's ambition. The time had come to chart a path forward, and in Kroeger, she hoped to find more than a hired sword. She hoped to find a veteran of Imperial collapse, a witness to its rebirth, and someone capable of guiding her through the narrowing corridor that now faced the Commonwealth.

She drew a breath, still composed, her tone like glass over steel. "So tell me, what must be done, and where must I begin, if my nation is to stand apart and survive it?"