Sword of Shiraya
Lorn moved like a shadow across the slick pylons, his boots finding grip where the swamp mist wanted everything to slide into silence. The foul air of Shador burned faintly in his lungs with each breath, but he ignored it, just another scar among the many he carried. Sweat mingled with the constant moisture, drawing pale lines down a face sharpened by weariness. His dark eyes constantly scanned, expecting a sudden turn of fortune or a hidden blade.
The Black Sun base rose from the swamps ahead, its massive pylons vanishing into the dark water below. Crimson lights glared through the mist, casting broken, twisted reflections. Armored figures patrolled the causeways, their movements precise, Mandalorian-trained, perhaps even Mandalorians themselves.
He breathed, steady, his eyes narrowing as he studied the fortress. His body was still, but inside a restless tension coiled, the memory of countless raids, ambushes, and too many innocents he hadn't reached in time. He carried that weight always, like a companion that never let him forget. He would not allow that fate here.
He glanced sideways at Elias, the Jedi moving with him through the murk. Lorn's gaze lingered, studying the man with the quiet scrutiny of one who had long since stopped trusting easily, even among his own. He valued loyalty, but only if it had been tested and proven, not just expressed in words.
"You see it," Lorn said at last. He nodded toward the base, the guards, the faint glow of the transport beyond. "They're ready for us, expecting us." His eyes searched Elias, measuring him in the dim light. "So. What do you want to do?"
He let the words hang, a test of character more than just strategy. Lorn needed to see Edo act, to prove himself through deeds. He sought evidence that the man carried more than just words and reputation, that he harbored the fire to justify the Council's trust. And so Lorn waited, still and watchful, the storm behind his eyes never far from breaking.
