Objective: 1
Dral-Kar'ta Saandyr
Kael Varr Bastiel Skirata
The title still landed strangely in Veyla's ears. Lady Kryze. Miss Kryze. Even simply Kryze on its own carried a weight she hadn't fully learned how to wear again. As a child, she had turned away from the name as much as she had been taken from it, burying it beneath layers of distance and survival. She had spent years pretending Mandalore was a ghost story rather than something woven into her very marrow.
Yet, sitting here by the fire among Mandalorians who carried their clans as openly as their blades, she found herself unconsciously straightening. The instinct to shrink from the spotlight flickered and died, replaced by a tentative, burgeoning pride. Maybe, in time, the name would stop feeling like a borrowed garment and start feeling like skin.
Her gaze shifted toward Dral-Kar'ta. She offered a faint, respectful nod, acknowledging the surprisingly philosophical edge to his practicality as a warrior.
"The stars changing seems to have forced all of us to decide what we keep and what we become," she said, her voice barely rising above the crackle of the wood.
"Some people adapted faster than others."
There was no bitterness in her tone, only the quiet reflection of someone who had watched the galaxy tilt on its axis and had to find her footing in the dark.
When Kael turned back to her, however, the sudden shift toward an apology caught her off guard. She didn't break composure; years of discipline saw to that, but the sharp lines of her expression softened as he stumbled through his explanation. At the mention of her buir, her eyes drifted to the dancing flames, the orange light reflecting in the dark depths of her pupils.
"My buir has joined the stars," she said calmly.
The words didn't carry the raw, jagged edge of fresh grief; instead, they had the smooth, heavy resonance of a loss that had settled into the very foundation of her soul. It was a fact of her life, a structural element of who she was.
She let the silence hang for a moment before returning her focus to Kael, a hint of genuine warmth finally touching her face.
"You don't owe me an apology for making an assumption," she continued,
"especially not one made with such evident respect. In this life, we work with the information we have."
A small pause followed as she processed his story about her Alor. The mental image of him nearly throwing himself into the fray with the foundlings during the Verd'goten sparked a genuine trace of amusement in her eyes. It was a quintessential trait, one she knew all too well.
"He almost certainly considered it," she admitted with a dry, knowing smile.
"Self-control has never been his strongest suit when it comes to the people he cares about. He tends to lead with his heart, and usually a very heavy pair of boots."
She lowered her voice slightly, the intimacy of the firelight drawing them closer.
"And I will be sure to pass your thanks along when I see him next. He'll appreciate knowing his concern didn't go unnoticed."
The fire cracked loudly, a pocket of sap or water exploding and sending a spiraling pillar of sparks into the obsidian Mandalorian sky. Veyla watched them rise and vanish before her gaze settled back on Kael, steady and sincere.
"For what it's worth, Kael," she said, her voice grounding the moment,
"you carry yourself differently now than you did with the Wolves. Back then, you looked like someone asking for permission to stand among us. Now?"
She gestured vaguely to the way he sat, the way he spoke of his craft and his path.
"Now you look like someone beginning to understand they already belong here." She let her gaze drift between the two warriors, bridging the space between them with a final, firm thought.
"That kind of growth, the kind that happens under the skin, matters more than beskar ever will."
Charlana
