Laphisto entered the war room with the steady, deliberate pace of a soldier long accustomed to halls of strategy. His arms remained folded neatly behind his back, a stance of quiet authority as the heavy doors sealed shut behind him. The only evidence of his escort lingered in the silhouettes of his high guard outside, their forms stiffening into vigilance the moment the chamber closed them off from sight.
Those men were not ordinary protectors. Stripped of the Force and reforged through the grueling tutelage of
Trace Xyston
himself, they had become something else entirely unyielding sentinels who embodied discipline over mysticism. Their presence lingered like an echo even in absence, a reminder of the precautions Laphisto always carried with him.
Approaching the glowing centerpiece of the chamber, he let out a low rumble from deep within his chest a habitual sound of thought, more felt than heard as his gaze fell upon the shifting holographic display. Streams of light traced the movements of the Diarchy's armies against the scattered Mandalorian fronts. His eyes narrowed, studying the projections with a soldier's scrutiny.
Since their return from Kiev'ara, his vision had largely restored itself. What had once been little more than fragmented silhouettes now sharpened into detail. He could see the arcs of troop deployments clearly, the faint glimmer of tactical notes left by commanders, and the subtle gaps within Mandalorian lines. Though the memory of blindness still lingered in the back of his mind, the sight before him was whole once more
an unspoken reminder that even broken things could be mended with time and with celestial assistance.
"
So this is what it's come down to war." He shook his head once, a soft, weary sigh threading through the motion. Then he leaned forward, hands flattening on the rim of the holo-table as if the room itself might tilt under the weight of his decision. The faint scar at his temple caught the projector glow; his remaining ear was pinned tight to his head, a small, stubborn reminder of the fights he'd already survived.
"
It won't be an easy fight," he said, voice low and even, each word measured like a tactical order. "
But the Lilaste Order has already begun shaping the field we're not walking in blind. If we want a drawn-out war while we bargain for peace, I can thicken our defenses where the lines are thin and reinforce every choke point until the Mandalorians grind themselves out." He tapped a pulse on the holo where a vulnerable supply corridor shimmered.
"
If we want to end this quickly, we cut the head off the snake. We push from Ajara, hit their flank hard, and sever Mandalore's command network before they can reorganize. Fast, brutal surgical." He let the words hang, the room answering only with the soft whirr of the projector. "
Either way there are no clean options left. Only different kinds of ruin."
He halted mid-thought, shaking his head as if the weight of countless strategies threatened to drown him. Already his mind had begun sketching the usual patterns supply corridors to sever, diversions to lure Mandalorian warbands off-world, surgical thrusts to cripple their fleet logistics. It was instinct, honed sharp by years of being molded into something less than a man and more of a tool. With a deep breath, he dragged his gaze across the holotable and let it settle on
Diarch Reign
.
He was, at his core, what the Jedi had made him: a soldier, a weapon. They had pointed him at the Sith across centuries of war, wielding him as though he were just another blade in their endless arsenal. Freedom had come eventually, but it had not unmade what he had been forged into. The irony struck him bitterly here he stood, unfettered yet unchanged, falling once more into the role of calculating the destruction of others. Worse still, he was planning the defeat of his own people.
His hand drifted down, brushing against the sigil of Clan Ordo carved into his armor. The familiar weight stirred memories: the day he was welcomed, the moment he was no longer an outsider but a brother-in-arms, sworn into their ranks not as a curiosity but as kin. For a time, it had been true belonging. But then the Neo-Crusaders rose, carrying with them a new creed steeped in fear and dogma. Their hatred of the Force cut deeper than any blade, and while he fought beyond Mandalore's borders, their decree sealed his fate. Exiled, not by choice, not by dishonor earned, but by edict cast out for what he was, not for what he had done.
The frown that creased his face now was sharp with that memory. They had abandoned him once, and yet the blood that flowed in his veins, the warrior's fire in his spirit, still tied him to them. Every strategy he traced against Mandalore was both duty and betrayal, honor and sacrilege. His fingers lingered on the sigil as though the metal might answer, but it remained as silent as the warriors who had turned their backs on him. At last he straightened, the soldier's mask falling back over his features. Whatever path Reign chose, he would walk it. As he always had weapon, commander, exile. And this time, perhaps, judge.
Laphisto
