| Location | MIV Ironsides, Hyperspace
The blank glare of Itzhal's visor concealed his expression, shrouded in the blue haze of his HuD and the information that was almost always at hand; his lips twisted with a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. His fingers, weathered and roughened from years of duty and hardship, curled tightly around the slender handle of his beskad. With a hushed command whispered inside his Buy'ce, the crushgaunts encasing his hands lay dormant, their power silenced, yet his knuckles turned white as bone as he squeezed the handle tight enough to crush a windpipe.
It would do little to help in this fight.
What significance did the might of his sword arm or the precision of his blasters hold when faced with a presence utterly indifferent to the tangible world around him, a threat that Itzhal himself couldn't even sense—a lack of insight that seemed as much a gift as it was blissful ignorance.
Was the chill that seeped deep into his bones, lurking beneath the supposed warmth of his bodysuit, truly the cold of hyperspace? Was the burning emptiness that settled in his chest at the thought of the Diarchy and their pretence of civility belong solely to him? Was the heavy sense of resigned acceptance that enveloped him regarding the Empress's failsafes entirely his own burden?
Did it matter in the end, now that the thought was placed, but nothing else had changed?
"A tainted gift," Itzhal tasted the words, letting them linger in the air like a bitter aftertaste. Was it truly ever a surprise?
Blue eyes sharpened with the cold light of clarity, roamed the dimly lit chamber. Each surface crafted from Mandalorian Iron, tarnished with the truth that had always lurked beneath the surface, concealed only by the dark lustre of what should have been rightfully theirs—stolen goods, returned with an insulting offer of service that applied to their creed in a way that their Mand'alor would have always accepted. It was a slight that would not easily fade, no matter how it was dressed up. Another grudge added to an ever-expanded list of grievances, endless in practicality.
If only Itzhal could direct his resentment toward the man who had accepted such a ridiculous offer, things might have been simpler. Instead, he found himself tangled in more complex emotions. Aether, the man in question, had never shied away from articulating the stark reality of his vision. It was raw, unyielding, and at this moment, it presented the best glimmer of hope for the fractured pieces of Mandalore to finally come together as one.
Itzhal strode across the training circle, his steps whisper-soft in the hushed quiet of Adelle's exhales. Only a few feet from her seated form, he stopped, his boots in line with her outstretched leg. With a methodical step that crossed the rest of the distance, he dropped to one knee, one hand propped against the beskar plate for support. Then, he reached up with both hands, lifting the Buy'ce from his shoulders, before it settled in the crook of his arm as the other hand dropped back to his knee.
"You speak sense," he assured her, his voice measured with warmth that he didn't entirely feel.
"In life, some things once seen cannot be unseen. The first death you ever see, the first kill you ever make, and yes, I suppose the first time you see behind the magician's trick," he smiled then, a faint thing with a gleam that just barely reached his eyes.
"I cannot perceive the world as you do, perhaps in time, but that is not a matter I wish to consider for the moment. In the meantime, know that I trust you. So, I ask you honestly, are you safe here?"
Adelle Bastiel
