The Silver Warlord
S U N D A R I
The scars of war have long been erased through the fires of industry that erected the domed city from the charred ruins it once was. For in its place, stood a shining city, unlike any other in the known galaxy, for this was Sundari, Imperial Capital of the Mandalorian Empire and Seat of Mand'alor the Iron. Under his reign the ashes of the past had been swept away and from them the fires bore a new, strong empire. The majesty of it all stunned the Silver Warlord,
The air here shimmered above the durasteel spires like heat mirage, bending the light into rivers that danced across glass and armor. For the first time, Zurak Bruul felt the full weight of the heavens pressing down on him, the touch of its endless, merciless blue across him. His people had lived beneath stone and furnace for generations, determined to preserve their existence, heritage to a galaxy that sought their annihilation; to him, the very sky felt wrong, too open, too naked. Yet when he stepped through the city's gates, the light struck his armor and painted him in fire, and he couldn't look away from it. Its touch mesmerized him.
He paused in the grand plaza, where the dome of Sundari rose above all, a translucent colossus of beskar and brilliance, holding the breath of the city inside. The architecture was magnificent in a way that almost made him ache: impossible curves of alloy and glass, sunlight refracted through banners that hung like veins of flame. It spoke to the fierce determination of those who wanted nothing more than to carve the city from living memory, as something that could never be forgotten. Children ran across the marble terraces with joy in every step, their laughter echoing off the duracrete walls. Every sound was alive, haggling, prayers, the hiss of vapor engines and the rumble of transports passing overhead. It felt more like a living thing, life flowing through it like veins in the body of a great giant.
To him it was music.
He walked slowly, each step measured, his massive frame cutting a path through the crowd like a ship through surf. His armor still bore the deep sheen of the forge, burnished black beskar veined with faint silver and cobalt, hammered into plates that caught the light in ripples. He left his helmet clipped to his side so he could feel the warmth, the air on his tough skin, the rhythm of his gait steady and thunderous. People stared as he passed, some with awe, others with curiosity, a few with unease. The Taung were legends whispered in the language of myth, not meant to walk in daylight, honored ancestors buried in the annals of the past thought gone to the world. Yet here one moved among them, wrapped in the breath of history.
The scent of ozone and spice filled the air as he passed through market corridors that wound like arteries between various towers, squared structures. Holo signs shimmered in alien colors. Vendors called out in languages he barely recognized, evolution had taken them in different directions. He reached out once, gloved fingers brushing the surface of a glowing screen that displayed schematics of weapons he couldn't name. The image warped against his touch, a device born from centuries of advancement. While his people had developed all their own, innovation had moved at a slower pace compared to the collective galaxies march of progress.
Zurak's jaw tightened. Wonder and sorrow mingled in his chest like quenched steel in equal measure, excitement for what he could bring home, grief for all that had been lost to them. Others had come with him to the city, a full procession of the greatest minds of Clan Bruul each with careful instructions.
Everywhere he looked, he saw the children of Mandalore thriving in a world of light, their armor bright, their weapons refined, their buildings scraping the edge of the sky. And he thought: What had been sacrificed to get here? Yet the thought held no contempt, only contemplation. What word reached his ears spoke of apocalyptic destruction, genocide, unprecedented troubles. He could almost hear the old forges song beneath the hum of the city, hidden in the rhythm of engines, the clang of construction, proof that even in this age of chrome and circuitry, the song of the hammer still lived, the legacy of his people still lingered among the roots of those who sought to do them proud.
He moved on. Past shrines of Kad Ha'rangir reimagined in steel, past cantinas where soldiers drank beneath banners of the Empire, past forges powered by suns instead of magma. All of it gleamed, alive, unscarred. He stopped at a balcony overlooking the horizon. The dome's edge framed the sunset in molten gold, the sky a living forge of flame and distance. The sight stole his breath. For the first time in memory, he felt small, not from weakness, but from the sheer scale of it all. The mountain had been a womb and for him? All of this was an awakening. He raised a gauntleted hand toward the glass above, watching the reflected light play across the metal. The sky looked almost close enough to touch.
He turned away with the slow gravity of stone shifting. The streets were thick with people again, lights brightening for evening. The city's pulse quickened around him, laughter, engines, voices, all blurring together. He moved through it as a living relic among phantoms, absorbing every detail, every flicker of modern life. He was so absorbed, in fact, that he didn't see the figure rounding the corner until, impact. A sharp, heavy collision. Armor to form. The sound rang like a hammerstrike, reverberating through the plaza. Zurak staggered half a step, not from pain, but from surprise. His gaze snapped downward, light from the holos and dusk reflecting off his silvery black plates.
Someone stood before him. Who it was, he could not yet say.
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