Private Reconvene of Mandos

[Siv Kryze]

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ANVIL OF CONCORDIA ​

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The viewport of the Warden's chamber framed the endless dark, but Siv Kryze saw more than stars. His Nite Owl helmet sealed around him, the hiss of the respirator fading into silence as the HUD came alive—tracking heat vents from the forges below, mapping orbiting traffic lanes in pale blue lines.


And then—something else.


A flicker, like static crawling across his vision, though it was no fault of his systems. The Force pressed at the edges of perception, subtle, but insistent. Siv stilled, letting the quiet settle through him.


There. A ripple, raw and untamed. It didn't announce itself like the practiced focus of a Jedi Knight, nor coil like the venom of a Sith. This was something sharper—instinctive, storm-tossed. A spark without form.


His HUD cross-referenced Concordia's docking arrays. A small freighter had cut through the traffic net minutes ago, hull profile battered but holding together, its registration falsified with amateur care. His visor tagged it in red, pulsing faintly.


Siv tilted his head, the reflection of forge-fire streaking across the owl-faced visor. Beneath beskar, his jaw tightened. A presence… untaught. Unaware.


He let the Force flow through him, measuring the shape of what lingered within that ship. Pain. Defiance. The weight of survival worn like armor. And something deeper—an ember of the same fire that lived within him.


A name did not come. Only the certainty that whoever they were, they would change the rhythm of Concordia's forge.


His gauntlet brushed the spear magnet-locked to his back. Then he turned from the viewport, voice low but steady over comms.


"Track the new arrival. No interference… yet."


The visor caught the light once more before the door hissed open and Siv strode into the corridors of the Anvil. Somewhere out there, a storm had landed.

And he meant to meet it.

Tag: Veyla Krinn​

 

[Veyla Krinn]

Veyla was born to Mandalorian parents, who had raised her on Mandalore. She had taken many oaths and assumed various responsibilities. Then, on a dark day, her life had changed, and she wandered the Outer Rim. Yet there was a part of her that craved to be a part of the Mandalorian family once again. Instead of an exile she hadn't earned, she started making small forays back to familiar territory. Places she had visited as a child. Locations that held a history greater than she could ever truly comprehend.

Concordia was close to home, and Veyla wanted to walk the comforting streets of the moon once again. A place that was once the origin of the Death Watch and Clan Kryze. Under her helmet, she wore a serene expression as her shuttle landed. After nearly a decade, she had her feet on Mandalorian soil again.

As she stepped off her ship, she paused for a moment and just looked. It had changed; the memories of a teenager were wiped clean and started anew. If she had removed her helmet, she would have drawn in a deep breath. As it was, she left it on and wanted the comfortable armor on her face.

She didn't know any of these current Mandalorians and wasn't sure if they would welcome the former clan member. Walking with a confidence she hardly felt, she felt eyes on her, but not threatened. It seemed she had drawn attention without even trying.

Siv Kryze

 

[Titus Kryze]

The stars snapped back into hard focus as Titus Kryze dropped out of hyperspace beyond Concordia's orbital lanes. The Anvil of Concordia hung ahead—an angular ring of docks and plating, dark steel catching distant light like a blade. In the cockpit of the Adenn'Am, his hands moved through routine: establish intercept, transmit forged approach credentials, and await permission. "Docking request Alpha‑7—cargo manifest Delta‑991," he fed the hub's comm with practiced lies. The handshake accepted the false codes; docking clamps engaged, and the ramp cycled down. The illusion held. Perfect.

Titus moved from airlock into the hub with the studied calm of a predator comfortable in a crowded den. The Anvil's main concourse was a layered thing—market stalls, whirring vendors, and clusters of officials drifting between trade booths. His target, a mid‑rank merchant who trafficked illicit arms, would pass through this artery on his way to a private meeting. The client wanted him alive. Titus preferred extraction without blood: a deft touch, a pressure point, a knot, and the man would be moved before anyone noticed.

He kept his distance, letting the crowd blur around his armor. The Ambran Rifle rode silent on his back; the A‑180 sat warm at his hip in stun mode. He watched the merchant's angles and guard placements through the HUD, mapping routes, timing breaths. When the man rounded a pillar with two bodyguards in tow, Titus moved into position—one step, then another—closing the gap.

He reached out.

They were already there.

No alarms screamed. No red lights flared. Instead, uniformed figures slipped from maintenance hatches, bulkhead seams, and vendor kiosks—appearing as if from nowhere. Their approach was silent and precise, a coordinated cordon that quickly surrounded him from all angles without disturbing the crowd. The bodyguards froze; the merchant's face went pale. Titus' calculated plan had been undone before it even began.
[3:16 PM]
Titus paused, assessing the cordon. Firing would endanger innocents. Escape routes were already blocked. The Anvil's security moved with disciplined efficiency, surrounding him so completely that there was no room to maneuver.

He lifted his hands slowly, palms out, and shifted slightly so the merchant remained between him and the nearest rifles. The gesture was calm, deliberate—a universal signal of surrender. Every step of the Mandalorian's measured control communicated the one fact left: he would not escalate.

The merchant's guards relaxed slightly, uncertainty written across their faces, but the cordon did not relent. Titus' helmet reflected the lights of the Anvil, his visor glinting against the disciplined grid of weapons trained on him. He was caught—compromised, trapped, and unable to pull off the silent extraction he had always preferred.

A brief breath. One last scan of the corridor and the converging forces. No civilians had been harmed, no shots fired. His mission had failed in the purest sense, but Titus Kryze had maintained the one thing he valued above all else: restraint.

He lowered himself fully into compliance, standing still in the center of the concourse. Hands raised, Ambran Rifle holstered but visible, he waited as the Mandalorian‑trained security pressed closer. The target remained at his side, alive and unharmed. For the first time in hours, Titus felt the weight of true containment, his freedom stripped away—not by miscalculation, but by the cold efficiency of the Anvil's defenders.

Siv Kryze Veyla Krinn

 

[Siv Kryze]

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ANVIL OF CONCORDIA​

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The Anvil's forges beat like a heart beneath his boots, steel and fire reverberating through the chamber. Siv Kryze stood before the two arrivals the moon had drawn to him: one who had slipped through their defenses with forged codes, the other who returned to Mandalorian soil after years of wandering.


His visor swept over them in silence. Titus Kryze —his lies precise, his movements disciplined, undone not by clumsiness but by the Anvil's vigilance. Restraint radiated from him even in capture. A man who knew what he was doing… but not yet why.


And Veyla Krinn —the weight of years clinging to her like dust from the Outer Rim. She walked with the poise of a warrior but bore the distance of someone unsure if these halls still remembered her name.


Siv planted his spear against the deck with a ringing clang, voice cutting low through the comms.


"You enter Concordia in different ways. One with deception. One with silence. Neither of you comes by chance."


He turned his helm first toward Titus.
"False codes, a hidden plan, a merchant target. That speaks of a professional's hand. You could have been a saboteur, a thief, an assassin. Yet you held your fire when cornered. You surrendered control instead of forcing chaos. Tell me—was it restraint born of loyalty, or just convenience?"


Then, slowly, to Veyla.
"You return after nearly a decade, walking on soil that is not the same as when you left. Your eyes weigh what has changed, and still you come. But why now? Do you seek family, redemption… or simply a place to stand when war comes?"


The forges below struck in rhythm, a hammer against steel. Siv let the silence stretch, his visor reflecting them both.


"Purpose," he said finally, tone sharpened like a blade. "That is what the Empire demands. I will not ask where you've been. Only this: why you stand here now, before the Anvil."


He turned, the spear resting across his shoulder, and began down the corridor without looking back.


"Speak your purpose, and walk with me. The forge will decide the rest."

 

[Veyla Krinn]

Veyla stood in the shadow of the Anvil, her helmeted gaze tracing the forge's rhythmic pulse. The heat of the fires mirrored the turmoil within her—an unrelenting forge of memories, regrets, and unspoken oaths. Concordia's steel heart had once been her cradle; now, it felt like a distant echo of a life she had left behind.

Her fingers tightened around the straps of her armor, the beskar cool against her skin. Each piece was a testament to her survival, each scar a story of battles fought and lost. The crimson accents on her armor were more than decoration; they were a silent tribute to House Kryze, to the family she had once known, to the legacy she had once embraced.

The years away had not dulled her senses; if anything, they had sharpened them. The galaxy had taught her to trust few, to rely on herself above all. Yet, standing here, before the Anvil, she felt the weight of her past pressing down upon her. The question lingered: why had she returned?

"I do not seek redemption," she murmured, her voice barely audible beneath the hum of the forges. "Redemption is a luxury for those who have something to atone for. I seek purpose."

Her mind drifted to the Outer Rim, to the countless worlds she had traversed, each one a chapter in her journey. She had seen the fringes of the galaxy, felt its pulse, its pain. She had learned to survive, to adapt, to become a shadow in the night. But survival was no longer enough.

"I return not to reclaim what was lost," she continued, her words gaining strength. "I return to rebuild, to forge a future from the ashes of the past."

Her gaze lifted, meeting the distant glow of the forge. The Anvil's fires burned bright, relentless, unforgiving, much like her own resolve.

"I stand before you, not as a lost child seeking a home, but as a warrior seeking a cause," she declared, her voice steady, unwavering. "I am not here to be welcomed; I am here to contribute, to fight, to rebuild."

With a final glance at the forge, she turned and strode forward, each step resonating with newfound purpose. The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with challenges, but she was no longer the girl who had fled. She was Veyla Krinn, and she would carve her place in the galaxy, one battle at a time. Maybe she would reclaim the name Kryze, but not yet.

Siv Kryze Titus Kryze

 

[Siv Kryze]

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ANVIL OF CONCORDIA​

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The forge sang below them, a living pulse that made the durasteel tremble with heat and life. Siv Kryze stood with his hands clasped behind his back, helmeted gaze fixed on the river of molten metal flowing beneath the grated floor. The Anvil never slept—its heartbeat was the Empire's, and tonight it throbbed like a living god.


Veyla Krinn stood opposite him, the orange light cutting sharp edges across her armor, glinting in the faint dust of her journey. Her posture was rigid, but not defiant—more like someone standing on ground she had never thought she'd see again.


"You've come far," Siv began, his voice low, modulated through the vocoder. "Not just in distance." He turned, the reflection of the molten river flickering over his visor. "You were cast out once, weren't you? By those who called themselves peacekeepers. The same ones who thought the creed was a relic, and that survival meant silence."


His tone wasn't accusing. If anything, it carried the weight of recognition.


"When I look at you, I see Mandalore before the schism—before the weak burned our culture down and called it progress. You carry the fire they tried to smother. The question is whether you still know how to wield it."


He walked past her, slow and deliberate, the sound of his boots echoing like measured blows from the forge below.


"The Anvil doesn't serve the Warden. It serves the Mand'alor. It forges not just steel, but purpose. Every rivet, every ship, every breath that passes through these halls exists because our people learned that survival alone is not enough. We build, we trade, we defend—but always, always with the knowledge that peace without strength is only waiting for the next conqueror."


He stopped beside her, close enough that the reflection of her armor wavered in the obsidian paneling.


"You said you want to rebuild Mandalore." His voice softened slightly. "Then start here. The Nite Owls have a place under the Empire's wing again—but not as ghosts or scavengers. As architects. As protectors. You will help shape the next generation of our forges, our fleets, our economy. Concordia will not just temper steel—it will temper the creed itself."


He turned toward the viewport, where the Anvil's vast arms reached toward the void, ferrying ships and cargo into orbit like sparks escaping a flame.


" Veyla Krinn your exile ends here. If you're to rebuild Mandalore, do it with your hands in the fire, not clutching the ashes of the past. The Empire will remember your name—but it will be you who defines what it means."


The heat of the forge swelled, reflecting against her armor like dawn breaking over beskar. Siv's voice came once more, low, resolute.


"Walk with me, Let's see if the fire still answers you."

 

[Veyla Krinn]

Veyla stepped forward, letting the heat of the Anvil wash over her, each step echoing against the steel grates beneath. The molten rivers below cast her in gold and crimson, flickering over the sharp angles of her armor, the emblem of House Kryze catching a brilliant gleam in the glow. Shadows danced across her pauldron and breastplate, alive with the pulse of the forge, as if the fire itself recognized her.

Her voice rang clear, steady through the hum of her vocoder. "I know how to wield it—not just fire, not just steel. I have survived storms that would shatter lesser warriors and carried the weight of legacies thought lost. Strength without purpose is hollow… and I am not hollow."

She paused, the roar of molten metal and the hiss of escaping steam filling the space between them, a symphony of heat and life. Her armored hand lifted slightly, almost instinctively, as if feeling the heartbeat of the Anvil itself. Then, with a note of defiance threading her tone, she asked, "And yet… how can you accept me back so readily? After exile, after battles fought alone… after all that I've carried… how can someone place faith in me so fully when they do not even know my name?"

The forge's light spilled across her, flames and shadows weaving a living tapestry that made her appear larger than life—an echo of Mandalore's strength incarnate. Her visor glinted like a polished emerald, reflecting sparks as they flew upward from the molten tide, and the heat seemed to bend around her, molding itself to her presence.

"I will walk with you," she declared, her tone carrying across the Anvil's vast expanse. "Let us see if the fire still answers me… and if Mandalore itself will rise from it, tempered in its own forge."

She planted her feet firmly on the grated floor, shoulders squared, aura radiating resilience and determination. Every flicker of flame, every molten reflection, seemed to mark her as both heir and architect of a future yet unwritten—unyielding, unbroken, unstoppable.

Siv Kryze

 

[Siv Kryze]

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ANVIL OF CONCORDIA​

Siv Kryze stood before it all, unmoving, his dark blue and silver armor reflecting the glow like tempered glass. His Nite Owl helmet, battered and scarred, mirrored the fury of the Anvil beneath him.

Across the walkway stood Veyla Krinn . Her armor bore the marks of exile — patchwork plates, scorched and mismatched, a warrior pieced together by necessity and defiance. The heat shimmered between them like a barrier neither had yet chosen to cross.

"I didn't come here to beg for a place," she said, voice hard through her helmet's modulator. "I came to prove I never lost it."

Siv said nothing. The forges filled the silence, casting rippling light between them. His hand rose — slow, deliberate — and twisted at the neck seal of his helmet. The airlock hissed, and the helm came free.

For the first time, the heat of the Anvil brushed against his skin. Silver hair, short and brushed back, caught the light in streaks of fire and steel. His face bore the calm of one who had endured storms — not untouched by war, but shaped by it. Yet it was his eyes that broke the stillness.
Emerald green — the same as hers.

Not coincidence. Reflection.

For a moment, the forge seemed to quiet, as if the machine itself acknowledged the symmetry. Siv turned the helmet in his hands, his voice unmasked now — calm, deep, carrying the weight of something older than either of them.

"We carry the same fire," he said. "The same defiance. The clans may call it coincidence. I call it proof."

He stepped closer, the light painting his armor in molten hues.

"Exile doesn't take the creed from you. It burns away what's false, until only the truth remains. You survived that crucible — and now you stand here, when others would've turned to ash."

She didn't move. Didn't speak. But the angle of her shoulders shifted, just slightly — not surrender, but understanding.
Siv glanced toward the molten channels below. Sparks rose like embers reaching for the stars.

"Concordia isn't a sanctuary," he continued. "It's a test. Those who come here either forge themselves anew… or break under the hammer."

He looked back to her, the green of his eyes catching the glow — the same depth, the same heat reflected in her visor.

"You've already been through the fire. You just don't realize what it made you."

The silence stretched between them again, filled only by the Anvil's roar. Then Siv placed his helmet beneath his arm and extended a gloved hand toward her.

"Walk with me, Krinn," he said, voice soft but commanding. "Let's see what the fire has left for us to build."

And as they turned toward the great forges of Concordia, the molten light followed — two warriors bound by the same flame, their emerald eyes mirrored in the reflection of a world being remade.

 

[Veyla Krinn]

Veyla Krinn stood, silent, the heat of the Anvil pressing against her armor. For a heartbeat, she allowed herself to feel the weight of the fire, the reflection of molten light dancing across scorched plates and mismatched edges. Then, deliberately, she reached up to the neck seal of her own helmet.

The hiss of the release echoed faintly, a sharp, clean sound against the roar of the forges. She removed it, letting the visor fall free, and the glow caught her features, her long, red hair pulled back, skin touched by countless suns and battles, and eyes that shone with the same fierce emerald green as Siv's.

For a brief moment, neither spoke. The heat, the light, the echo of the molten channels beneath them all seemed to pause, acknowledging the symmetry between them. She let her gaze meet his, steady, unflinching.

"I survived," she said finally, her voice low, tempered by fire and defiance. "Not by hiding. Not by yielding. By facing it."

Her hand fell to her side, relaxed but ready. The shared green of their eyes caught the glow again, mirrored in the ripples of molten steel and rising sparks. For the first time in a long while, Veyla felt the weight of the crucible behind her and the promise of what lay ahead, a reflection of strength, unbroken, and ready to forge anew.

She stepped forward, closing the distance beside him, letting the firelight outline two warriors shaped by the same flame, moving together through the Anvil toward whatever would be built next.

Siv Kryze