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Objective: Avenge our Angels
Supporting Units: Nearby Artillery, Possible CAS/CAP
Opposition: Korda Veydran
Forces: The Iron Creed 4th Squad
The Paladin's helmet would tilt, questioningly, though, they would move over to the Ashen Maw. Dust and Blood Covered, she'd pick it up with one hand on the handguard. Looking it over slightly.
"Innocentes in bello partes non eligunt. Bellatores id pro eis eligunt."
After a few seconds, the Vo-coder would throw out a sigh. The Paladin holds out the weapon toward the Mandalore from afar, gesturing for him to retrieve it.
"Ustiones me non terrent, nec fratres sororesque meas... Abi, mortuos tuos recupera et abi dum potes. Hoc tantum permittere possumus."
During this exchange, a Knight would notice Korda's glance in a seemingly random direction, he'd pat another Iron Wall's shoulder both the two would break off slightly. Bringing Miniguns to bare and Muntion Feeds clear, scanning constantly...
In this same instance, Another Knight, one attempting to heal the dead man would radio to Souls of the Lilaste order
"Copias auxiliares petuntur; situs antiaereus militibus caret et praesidium requirit."
The pain came sharp and intimate—wrong for a blaster, wrong for the chaos of the corridor.
Steel slid between plates.
Siv felt the knife bite into the soft seam beneath his cuirass, a hot line of fire carving across muscle before he could fully roll with it. Blood warmed the inside of his armor, his breath hitching once as the strike landed true enough to matter. Not deep enough to end him—but close enough to make the point.
Lethal. Personal.
The Knight was already inside his space, too close for jetpack tricks, too close for clean spear work. This was the danger of corridors—no room to disengage, no room to float free. Every mistake paid in flesh.
Siv didn't retreat.
He took the cut, locked his stance, and answered immediately.
His left gauntlet snapped up between them and fired.
Flame erupted at point-blank range,a brutal, concussive burst that turned fog into shrieking vapor and washed over the Knight's cloak and armor in a rolling wall of heat. The corridor became an oven in an instant—air screaming, suppression systems choking, visibility collapsing into fire-lit chaos.
Siv used the opening without mercy, wrenching his torso away as the spear came up hard, not to kill, but to claim space. To shove the fight back where it belonged.
"Contact confirmed," he said into comms, voice low, steady despite the blood slicking his side. "Stuns are off. This just went lethal."
He shifted again, shoulders squaring, placing himself between the saber and Hanna's last known position as the jetpack hummed, ready but restrained. No overextension. No heroics.
Just control.
The corridor was no longer forgiving. No clean angles. No safe misses.
And Siv Kryze held the line anyway—cut, burning, and very much still standing.
Gavin surged through the air, the thrill of battle filling his veins. At last, a worthy opponent. His blade came down in a violent arc, but instead of biting into flesh or armor, it carved a glowing scar across the deck. His knee smashed into the floor as he landed, the impact cracking the metal beneath him. A shallow crater formed around his boot and knee, the structure groaning under the force.
Anger flared as she toyed with him, that mocking flourish of her cloak still lingering in his vision. It was not the pain of the strike that bothered him. It was the humiliation. The reminder of their last encounter.
He rose slowly to his full height, the orange glow of his lightsaber reflecting across the warped deck. The weapon hummed in his hand, steady and eager. Then the body came flying toward him.
Gavin’s hand shot out and caught it by the neck. The dead soldier hung there, limp and broken, armor crushed inward. The man’s face was frozen in a final expression of fear, eyes wide, mouth slightly open as if he had tried to scream.
Gavin studied it for a moment.
There was no pity in his eyes. No anger either. This was war. People died in war. They knew what they signed up for. Their deaths served a purpose.
Or maybe not.
The thought passed through his mind quickly. He did not dwell on it. He simply let the body drop. It hit the ground with a dull thud.
Gavin moved forward again, only to catch the movement of something large flying toward him from the side. Aether’s debris. The mass of metal and stone spun through the air with enough force to crush a lesser fighter. Gavin reacted instantly. His lightsaber snapped up and carved through the object, splitting it in two. The remaining fragments slammed into his shoulders and chest. He planted his feet and absorbed the impact, refusing to give ground.
His attention never left the Warpriest.
Around her, the air twisted. The thorns shifted, the space itself seeming to bend to her will. Still, Gavin advanced. Slow and steady. The wild apprentice she once humiliated was gone. In his place stood something colder.
He stopped about ten feet from her, his blade angled low at his side. “When we last fought,” Gavin said, his voice steady and filled with a quiet determination, “you bested me. Barely a day goes by that I don’t think about it.”
He knew she would enjoy hearing that. He wanted her to. He wanted her to understand how deeply that defeat had burned into him. How it had shaped him.
“But I don’t intend to give you the same courtesy,” he continued, eyes narrowing. “Only your family and friends will have the chance to mourn this loss.”
He wanted her dead. He wanted her armor cracked open and her faith shattered with it.
“Let’s dance,” he muttered.
He moved again, but this time there was no wild charge. No reckless leap. His advance was controlled, rooted in the training Reign had drilled into him. Form V flowed through his movements. Strong and direct.
He stepped in with a heavy slash aimed to test her guard, the strike backed by the weight of his entire body. The moment the blade met resistance, he followed it with a quick, direct thrust, a probing attack meant to draw out her response. These were not killing blows. Not yet. They were measured. He was searching for weaknesses, testing her strength, her speed, her reactions.
His mind stayed sharp. His stance ready to shift at a moment’s notice. He had seen what she could do. He knew better than to underestimate her. This time, he would not give her the fight she remembered.
The Paladin's helmet tilted, just slightly, a silent question formed in steel. She moved toward the Ashen Maw with measured steps, stooping to retrieve it one-handed by the guard. Dust smeared the weapon's finish. Blood flecked the barrel. She turned it over once, inspecting Korda's craftsmanship with quiet, professional curiosity. "Innocentes in bello partes non eligunt. Bellatores id pro eis eligunt." The vocoder breathed out something close to a sigh. After a moment, she extended the rifle back toward him. "Ustiones me non terrent, nec fratres sororesque meas… Abi. Mortuos tuos recupera et abi dum potes. Hoc tantum permittere possumus."
Korda didn't answer right away. His helmet hung from his belt by a scorched retention clip, swaying faintly as he shifted his weight. Cold air hit his face, stinging every cut and bruise. Blood traced from a split brow down the bridge of his nose, dripping from the corner of his mouth as he breathed. Each inhale was a wet, ragged rattle. Each exhale burned, pluming a faint, red-tinged mist into the cold air. His ribs screamed at him to stop moving. He ignored them. He pushed himself upright anyway. His shoulder plate sagged where it had been struck. His backplate sat crooked. His chest rose in uneven pulls, raw lungs fighting for oxygen while pain throbbed through every nerve. His eyes were bright, fevered, locked on the Paladin as he stepped forward and took the Ashen Maw back into his hands. The familiar weight grounded him. For a moment, just one, something like relief crossed his face.
"Bene est" he rasped, his voice thick with fluid.
Then he took two slow steps backward. Dust drifted through the air. Heat shimmered off the ruined platform. Somewhere metal creaked as the AA battery settled after the earlier impacts. Korda lifted his chin. "cum videas quoscumque deos ad quos genua flectis" he called hoarsely, voice carrying without the helmet's amplification, "Dic eis Kordam te misisse."
His thumb slid along the inside of his gauntlet. Not a button. A pressure plate, hardwired to the detonator. He dropped sideways toward a broken slab of ferrocrete. The charge detonated. The blast ripped outward in a brutal wave, hotter, harder than standard yield. It wasn't a charge on the platform; it was the one he'd planted earlier, unseen in the chaos, the sticky charge that had found its mark clinging to the underside of a boot when that same foot had driven into his ribs. The platform shuddered like it had been struck by a hammer from orbit. Shrapnel screamed across the ground. Dust and debris swallowed the air in a violent bloom. Korda hit cover shoulder-first, the impact driving the breath from his lungs in a broken cough. He curled instinctively, teeth clenched, vision swimming as the shockwave tore through his already battered body. He spat a thick, dark clot of blood into the dirt. "Yeah," he muttered. "Burn."
His fingers swept his gauntlet interface on reflex. No more detonators. Only spare charges. "Damn it." Blaster fire cracked past his position, one bolt slicing so close it scorched his cheek. He flinched back, jaw tightening as heat kissed skin. The wounded Mando he told to stay behind due to a leg wound was still fighting. pride was in kordas chest, but also sadness. he knew the Mando would not live.
Korda brought the Ashen Maw up, bracing it against the wall while trying to manually cycle the action. The casing was still jammed deep inside. He struck the receiver with the heel of his palm, once, twice, growling under his breath as pain lanced through his shoulder. Another bolt flashed by. He fired blind in response, not to hit. To distract. It worked. The pressure shifted.
Korda broke from cover, sprinting low across shattered durasteel, boots hammering against scorched plating. Every step sent lightning through his ribs, but adrenaline dragged him forward anyway. He slid to the AA battery's base and tore open the access panel with an override spike. Power relays. Control lines. Feed regulators. Perfect. He fumbled for a charge, his fingers slick with his own blood, a warm, sticky film that made the magnetic clamps hard to grip. He slammed the charge into the fuse box. Magnetic clamps bit hard. Another went into the primary control spine, his hands moving on instinct while his vision pulsed at the edges, a dark tunnel closing in. He needed a med evac. Soon.
He looked up. The ammo feeds ran higher, thick armored conduits climbing the side of the weapon. Korda exhaled shakily, a wet, bubbling sound, and started climbing. His fingers dug into maintenance grips, leaving dark red smears on the metal. His boots scraped for purchase. Halfway up, a violent coughing fit tore through him. He pressed his forehead briefly to the cold metal, gagging as he spat another stringy clot onto the plating below. The realization hit him then, cold and sharp: he was bleeding internally, fast. He swallowed the iron-tasting saliva and forced himself onward.
At the junction, he planted another charge along the feed housing, his bloody hands smearing the device, making the final seal difficult. Then he dropped back down harder than intended, landing in a crouch that nearly collapsed beneath him. He staggered, caught himself on the platform's edge, and straightened. Helmetless. Bleeding. Breathing fire. The Ashen Maw still jammed. And Korda was smiling. Because the AA battery was now wired to die. And even if he didn't walk away from this. His brothers and sisters in the sky might.
Trace's time sitting against the wall was long. Too long. Too quiet. Then, the air shifted. Red lights flashed in the corridors accompanied by the wailing of alarm systems. Hidden fire spray systems in the ceilings let loose a continuous stream of foamy fire retardant. The stuff gushed through the corridors, searching to put out a fire that didn't exist. It quickly became a river covering the floor and rushing around his boots. The commando came to the conclusion that the enemy had hacked into some control console somewhere and taken control of the shipyard's systems.
Trace stood up, ignoring the dull ache in his back as he looked down the two corridors. Nothing yet. The surveillance systems had seen Tarn Ekkard engaging one boarding party, and Shyra battling another. Those enemies were too occupied to be the source of the current chaos. There had to be another Mandalorian team that he somehow hadn't seen on the cameras. Despite his growing fatigue, he would certainly notice a group of heavily armored individuals walking through an empty hallway. Meaning they were hidden from cameras.
As he watched the foam begin inching its way into new territory down the next corridor, he let out a puff of air, slightly amused. Even if the cameras weren't able to see the Mandalorians directly, they would be able to spot the way the attackers physically affected the fire retardant as they moved.
Trace activated the high-encryption Commando team comm frequency in his helmet and said, "If you're on cams, watch for the way the foam moves. Our enemies may be cloaked from direct sight, but we can still see how they affect the environment."
A chorus of "copy" came back as Trace hunkered down in the spray, mostly obscured by it. Now he was truly appreciative of the vacuum seal his armor had. No chemicals would be getting on his skin today. He returned his eyes to the repetitive task of cycling through security footage, watching fire retardant more closely than ever before in his life.
An alarm rolled through the War Forge’s interior. Deep and resonant. The sound echoed down the corridors in overlapping waves. White warning lights flooded the corridors. Flashing across durasteel walls as the station transitioned from idle watchfulness to active alert status.
CT-312 felt it. Caligo had their attention. ‘Good.’ Outside, the Dûr'ashaarai ghosted in and out of existence. Its cloaking mantle flickering just long enough to be seen before vanishing again. Enough to provoke, but not enough to alarm.
The station was aware, but didn’t feel threatened. Not by a single starfighter slipping through its perimeter. Defensive posture, not panic. Exactly where CT-312 wanted it. A soft chime sounded in her helmet as BARCA updated.
[ BARCA ] [ Camera Feeds… ACTIVE ]
[ Station’s Schematics… ACQUIRED ]
A translucent map unfolded across CT-312’s HUD. Overlaid her vision, corridors and bulkheads resolved into clean geometry. Along one side, a narrow strip of live camera feeds began cycling, Showing: grainy angles, maintenance bays, security corridors, control nodes. BARCA cross-referenced everything in real time. Populating the map with moving markers that represented the station’s personnel. CT-312 had eyes on the clusters, patrol routes,... gaps— where she could slip through.
CT-312’s gloved hand reached into a pouch at her hip, withdrawing several spider slicer droids. Their compact frames faintly clicking softly as they unfolded. Her hand brushed along the Pred-X units. One by one, the slicer droids scuttled into the battle droid's armored plating. Hitching a ride.
“Go.”
All four quadrupedal battle droid split off without further commands. Moving low with predatory efficiency. In the open corridors, they looked almost organic. Their large frames advancing through empty space. Each carried its payload of slicer droids like fleas to a host. As each Pred-X crossed into new sectors, a slicer droid would detach. Dropping and skittering away, only to disappear into access ports and consoles. One by one, they linked back into BARCA’s system. Widening CT-312’s control net.
The Scout faded from view as Halcyon Armour’s cloaking activated. Her outline vanished into refracted nothingness. “Command bridge.” She murmured. BARCA responded, shifting the map. A route was generated on her HUD. CT-312 moved. Advancing with caution with her steps silent and rifle held tight against her shoulder. The station loomed around her.
She continued to slip through the station. Guided by BARCA’s steady updates and quiet work of her droids spreading ahead and around her. CT-312 slowed as BARCA pulsed a quiet warning. Two patrol markers converging. She halted mid-step. Activating her mag boots, Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Walked up the wall onto the ceiling, holding position. Boots echoing through the corridor neared as Diarchy security moved with confidence of a station that still believed itself intact.
CT-312 slowed her breathing. The cloaking field bent the light around her, but not perfectly. She could feel it strain as the patrols passed close below her. One of them paused. Their head tilting slightly as if listening for something. A hand lifted. CT-312 didn’t move. She let the moment stretch, slowly aiming the rifle down. Steadily aiming at the group, holding her breath. BARCA throttled nonessential systems down to a whisper, dampening the faint hum of her armor.
The ambient noise and alert status alarm filled the empty space. Boots moved on, the patrol resumed. Their voices faded and once more the corridor emptied. Only when the markers slid past and dispersed did CT-312 breathe. Deactivating her mag boots and dropping down, THUD. She began moving forward again, cloaking field stabilizing as it smoothed out the distortion.
BARCA rerouted her path immediately, narrowing travel time. The Scout followed without comment. CT-312 knew it was a matter of time before the Pred-Xs' were spotted. Notifying the station that there were intruders inside as well. She had to pick up the pace.
//: Kallous
//:
//: Station //:
//: Equipment in Signature //:
Everything settled, and Quinn straightened her form, eyes piercing through the scattered debris to a man standing at a distance. He wasn't who she was looking for, but it seemed he wanted to interfere. A soft sigh, her face shifting into annoyance more than anger. It seemed the Diarch would continue to hide in his high tower.
How bothersome…
Quinn raised an eyebrow as she watched his demeanor. It reminded her of the Diarch; it seemed his influence was stronger among his insects than she had assumed. Breaking them would make the victory that much sweeter. He spoke briefly, which she appreciated. Quinn was never one to lecture; battles and the conversations that happened during them were better with physicality.
She was an Echani, and battle and war were in her blood. Her family had ruled the planet; she was born and raised in a culture bathed in her people's traditions. Srina had ensured the girl knew that she was a true Echani warrior beyond the Sith teachings.
Exhaling softly, Quinn shrugged. If the man didn't know her, it meant he wasn't important enough to know who she was. A smug little smirk curled at her lips as she gave him one answer.
"If you were worth knowing who I am, you would know." Her words faded into the sounds of the battle around them. Once more, the Force shook, drawing in the woman's influence. The device that bore her soul bled into the Force around them. Hate, dread, and horror echoed with each breath.
"And no, I don't care who you are... you're just in my way."
In her hand, a short scepter glowed a sickening yellow; it did nothing yet, but it seemed to be charging. Instead of the scepter, Quinn's focus began to manifest in the form of a large source of the dark side. The energy began to swirl around her, solidifying into large spears of darkness.
As they formed, it only took a wave of her arm for them to move. They darted forward, attacking at different points, aiming to block off any escape. Six long spears in total cut through the air as she waited, watching to see what he would do next.
The Diarchy was an unknown; their leaders were impatient children who spoke more than they acted. This fight would be a lesson for both of them.
Avast's back scraped the bulkhead as durasteel crowded her space, shields grinding forward with a brutal, unstoppable weight. There was no room left for blaster fire. No room to breathe.
She snarled, low and raw, and let the blaster drop on its sling and her hand immediately went to her belt, grabbing at her vibro shiv.
It snapped into her palm with a sharp whine, the vibration buzzing up her arm like an angry insect, but Avast welcomed it.
Time to get up close and personal now.
She ducked as a shield edge swept past her head, feeling the rush of air, the heat of bodies packed tight. Someone slammed into her shoulder and she grunted, barely keeping her feet. The Force surged in a chaotic swell, but one presence cut through it, someone leading them.
From behind her beskar helm Avast's eyes locked upon Tarn.
Then the Pathfinder moved, shoving in low, shoulder-first, ramming right into the seam between two shields. The impact rattled her teeth and she went slipping sideways in the half-second of space it bought her, before her blade flashed up, angling for gaps. Under the arm. Between plates. Anywhere soft.
It was then that she lunged toward the heart of the formation, breath coming in harsh bursts, dark eyes locked on the man driving them forward, the vibration of the shiv screaming in her grip as she tried to get close enough to attempt a strike right at his chest.
Tyr saw it the instant their posture changed, shields no longer braced to absorb fire, but angled inward, bodies stacked tight behind them. They weren’t trying to win the corridor at range anymore.
They were trying to drown it.
He shifted his weight, rotary cannon spitting another controlled burst into the advancing mass. Plasma crawled across shields in furious ripples, but they leaned into it, boots digging in, momentum building.
They were closing the distance fast.
Tyr’s jaw tightened behind his helmet. Close-quarters against a compressed phalanx meant less room for the rotary cannon to do its work. He let the trigger go and reached down toward his belt, fingers brushing the curve of another grenade.
Frag this time.
He started to pull-
Then Avast moved.
Out of the corner of his visor he caught her breaking from the wall, blaster dropping, vibro shiv screaming to life in her grip as she slammed into the seam between shields. She vanished into the crush of bodies and flashing metal like a blade sliding into armor.
“Oritsir,” Tyr muttered, a rough grunt of irritation and respect tangled together.
No more grenades. Not with her in there.
He abandoned the frag and snapped the rotary cannon back up instead, shifting position three heavy steps left to widen his angle. His visor scanned quickly, picking up thermal overlays, movement spikes, and rifles trying to pivot around the edges of the wall.
There.
Two Diarchy troopers peeling off the right flank, trying to arc around the melee where Avast had driven in. Another slipping low along the left, rifle rising to take a clean shot into the chaos.
Tyr pivoted hard and unleashed a tight, controlled barrage.
The rotary cannon roared again, this time not saturating the shield line but carving lanes through the outer edges. The first flanker caught the brunt of it, bolts punching through exposed thigh and hip, sending him spinning sideways into a crate in a shower of sparks.
The second tried to duck back behind the shields, but Tyr walked the stream after him, forcing him down flat and out of the fight.
Blaster bolts returned in kind. Several struck Tyr square in the chest and upper arm, ricocheting off Beskar in violent flares of light. The impacts rocked him half a step back, but he held his ground, adjusting his aim without pause.
“Flanks are mine,” he barked over comms, voice steady despite the chaos. “Keep pressure center.”
He tracked another trooper trying to angle a shot past the shield seam where Avast had driven in. Tyr shifted his fire just enough to clip the man’s shoulder, spoiling the aim and forcing him to recoil.
He couldn’t wade into the crush without collapsing their own formation.
But he could make sure no one closed in behind her.
The rotary cannon thundered again, Tyr anchoring the corridor with sheer volume of fire, trying to force the Diarchy’s outer ranks to hug their shields and hesitate.
Inside the grinding wall of bodies, steel met steel.
And Tyr made certain that anyone who tried to circle the Pathfinder paid for it.
Kallous observed the woman's response. She didn't actually monologue, both a little refreshing and slightly disappointing. On the one hand a monologuing sith was a terrible bore, an absolute headache to put up with. On the other hand a monologue would have been an amusing moment to interrupt. It had become a favourite of his over his many long duels, to let his foe start a monologue only to shut them up midway through. The results of course varied, but whether the enemy was surprised, annoyed, enraged or otherwise displeased with being interrupted it never failed to bring a smile to his face. Sadly, no such luck here. He'd have to fight an actually competent opponent for once.
And a very proud one too. That was something he could use.
Already in the first few seconds of interaction he had a few key details he could use. Her pride was first and foremost among these, utterly brazen and impossible to miss. Generally with Sith hubris was earned to some degree, and it wasn't always easy to gauge whether their ego had outgrown their power or not. And judging by her next move he had to assume that this degree of vanity was indeed earned, at least in large part. But in addition to the black spears she conjured, he also felt her attempt to influence his mind. To make him afraid. She projected an aura in the Force, and air of despair and overwhelming force.
Like a gorilla striking its chest.
How typical.
Her attempt to influence his mind would be found to be utterly fruitless. The man in front of her was more grounded even than most Jedi, and she would not be able to squeeze any fear out of him. Instead his presence in the force would seem to almost shrink, or fade. Becoming translucent as he forced his mind to quiet, and he allowed himself to sink into the depths of the ocean that was the Force.
The currents were strong, and they only got stronger the deeper one went. Kallous had learned that riding these currents was the truest method of following where the Force guided, and yeilded the greatest results. And he would need strong currents indeed if he wanted to overcome this foe. Sinking deeper the currents began to carry him, and he let himself catch these currents to ride them.
I am one with the Force. And the Force is with me.
The spears closed the distance, And Kallous closed with them in turn. With a burst of power he dashed across the distance between him and the woman, debris from the tower flashed ahead of him on collision course with the woman. Both to potentially do her harm and deliver an early blow in this duel, but more importantly to help take her focus. She was concentrating on two things already, one was the relic she was using to create this miasma of terror, and the other were the six black darts she was sending his way. Six points were a lot, but for one such as he it was not enough to cut off all escape. Over he went, clearing the first volley, and as he came down he ignited his saber. The ruby red blade burning bright as he brought it down. His intent was to cut her in half lengthways, though he doubted this first attack would land any better than hers did on him.
This duel would take some time, some dancing, some measuring, assessing, planning and probing.
The device was as in tune with the woman as her own heartbeat. There was no focus on control. It was a beast that she allowed to roam free in times like these. Her aura, the darkness, is a natural occurrence for the girl. It was both a blessing and a curse. The dark whispers that lingered, clawing with hunger to be set free, — they wanted to fight, they wanted to let their influence course through his veins. She tilted her head; it seemed that whatever his beliefs were, they protected his mind.
Her smile widened, and not many were able to withstand her phobis core. It had driven Jedi and Sith alike insane; she had used its power to level floors on Coruscant during the destruction of the Galactic Empire.
The Diarchy was quite interesting.
Each string pulled by the Force she felt it, her body riding in tune with every fluid motion. The charge, she knew it was coming; it was a natural defense to charge into an enemy that seemed to want to remain at range. Quinn would wait, no movement, no concern for the attack that came towards her. He was quick, but as his presence withdrew, his physical use of the Force only heightened.
He was skilled, too bad he had made his bed with the foolish Diarchs — the Empire could use someone like this man.
Pity.
She noted his practice of Art of the Small, a skill she often used to contain the Phobis Core. All of this only impressed the Sith Princess.
Something she hated to admit.
The spears missed, but they still beckoned the call of their Master and swooped back towards their enemy. The wide berth allowed them to attack some of the debris he had launched towards her. Two remained aimed at his back as she never let her eyes fall away from his.
One step back, and the durasteel from the platform shot up, arching and peeling back to protect her from her charging opponent. She didn't fear melee…
She didn't find him worthy.
The durasteel would melt against the blade if he continued on his trajectory. All it did was provide a momentary lapse in their confrontation. With this moment, she used it to pull back, drawing more distance between them. She smiled as the glow of the scepter continued to draw upon the death that surrounded them.
The debris had worked about as much as Reign thought it had, batted aside with the force towards Vel.
Yet Reign worried not for his apprentice. The man had grown strong in their time together and the man in front of him demanded his attention.
A small smirk grew on the Diarch’s face as he prepared himself for what was to come. The Mandalorian had power, but those with power tend to break as easily as those without.
As the rocket surged his way Reign subtly pushed, barely moving a finger on his gloved hand and turned ever so slightly as the rocket passed by him. The smirk never leaving his face.
As the explosion sent a wave of heat up his back, Reign propelled himself forward. Closing the distance with his opponent in what seemed like a heartbeat. A viscous overhead slash looking to cleave his opponent in two. Reign had no doubts this attack would fail, but he needed to negate the use of the range weapons Mand’alor could bring to bear.
She could feel it in the marrow of her bones as the storm thickened, bit by bit, above Yaga Minor. Threads of wind that answered her call like fond, old friends, drew away from her while the burden of what she had done was placed on Aether Verd
. The weather patterns pulled tight and fierce, shifting, while they were absorbed and controlled by a man who would not hesitate as she had.
She hesitated. Yes.
Persephone hesitated because all life was precious, a gift that made everything in her scream not to blindly throw away. She did not blame the Mandalorian King for his fierce response, for this, final full measure. How could she chastise him for doing what he thought was right for his people?
In that same vein…
How could she let him do what she would not? She was still complicit. Persephone was still responsible for bringing the wind, the rain, the thunder, and the lightning. The former-Jedi had provided the weapon with which the Diarchy would find themselves soon lacking a space elevator and beset with the death of…So many of their people. She nearly choked on the air she breathed while the brewing storm tugged at her heartstrings. Waiting.
Just barely contained.
Persephone remained seated astride Kyr’valen, and she could feel the basilisk’s claws dig into the metal floor when thunder cracked in the upper atmosphere. The clouds began to churn and turn black with the influence from Ather, and once more, the Darkside latched on to her light with a vengeance. She could feel it polluting her, punishing her, even as the heavens split and lightning snapped out like bright, angry fingers, grasping at the space elevator.
She had asked the sky to gather, while Aether, asked it to destroy.
It hadn’t refused either of them.
He meant to spare her…But he had to know it was impossible. Her fingers remained laced before her chest, and she continued to whisper to nature, calling to the ether, hauntingly pulling the storm more firmly around the elevator's crown. It roiled around like a tightening noose, and she held her breath when lightning struck the massive metal edifice. It was no longer something theoretical that crawled through cloud-cover but monstrous attacks with devastating consequences. It…Didn’t matter that they were in the elevator.
It had to go down…It had to fall. It was begging to collapse…
And they would simply let debris take its honest path down to the city below.
She couldn’t save them.
Her hands would never be clean, never, without the stain of bloody murder. It didn’t matter which one of them pulled the trigger. All that mattered was that she let it happen. She choked on nothing from behind her helmet and could only be grateful that Diarch Reign
didn’t seem to know she was alive. Everyone was too preoccupied fighting…
No one noticed the white-clad Mandalorian on the back of a basilisk.
But they might notice when the vortex in the sky started systematically ripping pieces of the space elevator off. They would soon realize that the tower was under attack by more than just missiles and manmade ordinance. Soon…They would understand.
Keen eyes watched the sweeping of the strangers tail, it was nothing like any he had seen. More scale than feather or fur, much like the Windshear. It made him wonder, if she was able breath wind like they could, maybe that was why she bit down on that scarf of hers. Shortly after agreeing, she declared Viari to be a big chicken, having no idea what that was the Rishii nodded his head and replied cheerfully, "Thank you, but Viari is not a chicken. Viari is Rishii."
He didn't know what a chicken was, but it was probably something good, and so he nodded in satisfaction. Although he quickly flinched, seeing the droplets of ruby staining the pavement beneath them and with some urgency the Rishii stepped forward to raise his hand towards the site of the wound. Carefully, he pelled away her shirt and visibly tensed at the sight of her blood, he didn't like seeing people hurt, much less with an open bleeding wound, hovering his hand over it he closed his eyes, concentrated and channeled his essence into the wound. Viari perceived this as a blank of wind, that cloaked and knitted the wound although he knew no one Force Sensitive perceived the Force in the same way.
He began where he was always told too, the blood vessels, first and foremost to stem the bleeding and second to prevent infection and necrosis of any tissue he repaired. The words, had little meaning to Viari but he trusted his father's expertise, and respected his knowledge. His ear-tufts twitched, a burning sensation rippling around his stomach. After a few moments, he felt the currents restored and moved onto the surrounding tissues, the fascia and other structures that would help form the scaffold of any future healing, whilst he began grinding his beak feeling the pain spreading across his abdomen. Eventually, he would move onto the outer flesh, until a hiss of pain stopped him pushing himself any further.
Viari stepped back, eyes opening. He had managed to stop the bleeding, and while he healed some of the surrounding tissue much of it remained damaged. At the very least, he should have soothed the pain and ensured her survival. "Viari helped?" He asked tentatively, feeling the pain in his abdomen slowly beginning to ebb away.
The plasma bloom still bled across tactical displays in afterimages as station icons winked out, and others limped into degraded states. The Bastion Curtain had bent, though it was not broken, a distinction that mattered less than the fact that it had moved. For a lattice built on rigidity, movement was vulnerability. She stood at the center of the command pit, wrapped in Mandalorian iron, visor unreadable; her presence was absolute. No name was spoken for none was needed to be.
"Mark the debris field," she said, voice level, unhurried. "All fragments. Lucrehulk hull sections, station superstructures, reactor slag. I want vectors, mass, and orbital drift plotted." The holotank obeyed. What had once been clean geometry became clutter as wreckage tumbled through the engagement zone. Chunks of durasteel and fractured armor plates spinning end over end. "Bring our fleet inward by five percent. Use the wreckage to break their firing solutions and counterfire."
The Mandalorian formation shifted, not retreating, but nesting into the debris field. Capital ships slid behind fractured station cores. Frigates ghosted along the shadows of Lucrehulk plating kilometers across. Ion and kinetic fire screamed into the field, detonating harmlessly against dead metal or dispersing as targeting solutions fractured and reacquired too late.
Some shots still landed.
"Ma'am, fleet reporting," a Lieutenant on the bridge said calmly. "Keldabe cruiser Genesis reporting that it took a glancing hit from kinetic rounds, its armor has been cratered, but remains intact." The Lieutenant continued, voice steady despite the chaotic exchange of volleys between the two fleets. "Ara'nov frigate Repulse has lost maneuvering thrusters and is falling back under escort. Two Cabur squadrons are reporting losses, three craft each."
The losses would be felt; however, they were still deemed acceptable. The woman shifted her gaze planetside. The world below burned with hostile intent as planetary batteries fired in disciplined waves. It was the kind of defense meant to deny orbit, not merely contest it. "Answer them," She said.
The order rippled outward like the calm before a storm.
Duraanir-type Guided Missile Cruisers pivoted, their tubes cycling open as targeting data flooded in. Missiles screamed planetward in dense salvos, not aimed at cities, but at infrastructure - fire-control nodes, relay towers, orbital targeting uplinks, the hardened spines that fed data to the planetary guns. Ion payloads intended to detonate across defense grids - the purpose was an attempt to cause cascading failures rippling through planetary fire coordination.
Above them, the Aggressor-type Battlecruiser shifted its position. Its massive forward aperture dimmed as capacitors drained and then began to climb again, energy rising in measured, inexorable increments. Heat bled off along the radiator spines. The Super-Heavy Plasma Cannon was recharging. Slowly. Deliberately.
The woman did not rush. "Second wave," she said instead. Bays opened across the Mandalorian fleet. Those Shaadlar-type Troopships that had not deployed surged forward in disciplined formations, hugging the shadowed lanes carved by debris and electronic interference. Kom'rk-type Combat Transports followed close behind, screaming toward the atmosphere in staggered vectors. Atiniir-type Q-Carriers launched alongside them, holding high until drop corridors stabilized, then feeding fresh fighters and supplies downward to reinforce the ground war already underway. Jehavey'ir Assault Ships moved forward, their target wasn't the planet - they moved carefully toward the damaged, though still operational, stations of the Bastion Curtain nearest the Mandalorian fleet, where they would attempt to dock with the stations so their contingent of Mandalorian warriors could board the stations. It was an attempt to turn the Diarchy's own defenses against itself.
"This is not an orbital battle," she broadcast across the fleet, the message recorded, encrypted, archived. "This is a landing."
Above the troop lanes, starfighters came alive. Firespray-71 gunships armed with heavy ordnance and rolled into attack formations, joined by Firespray-61 interceptors, accelerated hard toward enemy capital silhouettes. Cabur-type starfighters and Vyrhawk fighter-bombers formed up in layered wings, their payloads hot, as target data streamed in, preparing for coordinated bombing runs against Diarchy support ships and exposed elements of the defensive lattice. Closer to the fleet, Davaab-type starfighters held tight, disciplined and patient, weaving through the capital ships' wake. They did not chase. They screened - breaking up incoming enemy squadrons, dragging them into overlapping Mandalorian point-defense fire, denying clean attack runs.
The Mandalorian fleet did not surge forward.
It endured.
Debris drifted as guns thudered, and shields flared and reformed. The Aggressor's charge climbed steadily toward lethal thresholds. Its presence was intended to force recalculations across the Diarchy's targeting nets. Behind the visor, she watched the ground-force telemetry tick upward as the second wave punched through. They were not here to shatter the Curtain in a single blow.
They were here to land.
And once Mandalorians had boots on the ground, the rest of the battle - planet, orbit, or pride - would follow in time.
The fog made the action hard to follow. Even with the HUD of the rarely worn helmet aiding Shyra's natural senses. Shyra's shrouded, lightsaber toting "ally" continued to engage the beskar clad Mandalorian. Seemed like this encounter was now two one-on-ones for the time being at least, that would work for Shyra. A silent order was sent to her HUD to monitor the armored opponent and give warning if it appeared they were aiming a ranged weapon in Shyra's direction, the bodyguard turned her full focus to the intruder on the skates.
Shyra's arm was throbbing as she watched her shots fly through the air. Shyra tried to follow the quick movements of the skater. Her HUD gave an approximation of how quickly the small intruder was traveling and a couple possible target points that would make a direct hit more probable if they continued to move at that rate. Shyra guessed which was most likely, it was purely an "eeny-meeny-miny-moe" process as she knew nothing about her opponent's tendencies to make an informed guess. She was about to pull her trigger again when her first bolts struck.
Shyra paused and recalibrated for whatever damage she may have done with her initial volley. The skater fell down to the metal floor with the impact of the hit. Shyra's second barrage would have been wasted if she fired based on where the opponent could have been. But now the small figure was completely in the fog, for the moment at least. Shyra swung her rifle to where the opponent should have been and readied to fire. Even with the HUD visual was a problem.
The slugs from the opponent's pistols were more than halfway across the battlefield by the time they were detected. If Shyra had heard the shots and reacted immediately it would have been a close shave. At this point it was a matter of minimizing the damage. The best tactic that Shyra could come up with was a roll. Perhaps she would be able to get completely under the volley of slugs, perhaps she could elude some to the side, but mostly a roll would put her head almost on the floor and hopefully safe.
The result of the roll was about as good as Shyra could have expected. Her head and already damaged arm were out of the way completely. Three slugs sailed by, where they ended up hitting was of little concern for the red armored bodyguard. The other three slugs were the issue at hand. All three collided with the armorplast covering Shyra's lower legs. Two hit the outside of her left leg, she couldn't hear it, but Shyra felt the plate crack. Her leg was left throbbing, her femur more than likely broken. The other slug hit the inside of her left leg, as that strike hit second and only half the impact, it was almost ignored by the bodyguard.
After a howl of pain, Shyra did her best to right herself. She fired off a quick sequence of cover fire in the direction of her opponent. She wasn't even sure how many times she had pulled the trigger. Skidding herself along the floor Shyra found her way to the nearest wall and sat up against it for support. She would need a medpac soon Shyra knew even without the "damage report" from her armor's HUD. Making herself as small as possible she readied to fire as soon as she could acquire a visual on where her opponent was. Her roll had been planned out, but with the shooting pain in her leg Shyra's head was swimming. She was disorientated and could not recall where it was that she had been aiming before the roll.
Dral Kar'taal advanced through the smoke with steady, deliberate steps, boots crushing glass and ash beneath beskar greaves scarred by years of war. The sigil of House Verd was emblazoned across his chestplate, black and green streaked with soot and fresh scoring from blaster fire. His helmet optics adjusted to the chaos, filtering heat signatures through drifting smoke and falling debris.
He had watched her, he saw her break away. Dral paused only a fraction of a second.
Compassion. A weakness.
He adjusted his trajectory immediately, abandoning the main engagement. If she survived this day, she would kill more of them. He would not allow that.
Blaster fire snapped past him as he vaulted over a shattered speeder chassis, landing in a crouch. He followed the trail of disturbed ash and scorched durasteel, tracking her with hunter's patience. The sounds of battle dulled behind him, replaced by the distant crackle of fire and the faint sobbing echoing from somewhere ahead.
He rounded the corner, there she was. He moved in and began to open fire with a deadly precision.
The Iron Hound’s bridge was awash in shifting light, ion flares, shield collapses, rotating threat cones updating by the second. Renn Vizsla stood unmoving at the center of it, hands clasped behind his back as the Bastion Curtain tightened like a fist.
“They think this is endurance,” he said quietly. “It’s arithmetic.”
Another wave of ion fire crashed across the forward screen. A Kyramud’s shields dipped hard into amber before stabilizing.
“Rotate her,” Renn ordered without raising his voice.
The battered battleship rolled out of the primary arc, drifting backward under escort as a fresh hull, another Kyramud, shields near full, slid forward into the furnace. To starboard, a Kandosii-type Dreadnaught angled its massive prow into overlapping fire lanes, absorbing the worst of the planetary volleys meant for lighter ships behind it.
“Keep the rhythm,” Renn continued. “No heroics. No pride.”
Across the fleet, the pattern repeated.
Ships drawing concentrated fire peeled away before collapse, replaced by fresh hulls stepping into the line. Shield harmonics recalibrated in sequence, backup generators cycling as wounded vessels slipped behind the formation to recharge. It was not a surge. It was a grind, deliberate, controlled.
On the tactical display, Renn isolated a Diarchy cruiser whose shield rotation lagged a fraction of a second slower than the rest.
Missile cruisers and heavy batteries shifted in unison. Instead of spreading across the lattice, Mandalorian guns converged, hundreds of strikes converging on a single hull, forcing its layered shield system to absorb too much, too quickly. Turbolasers followed ion impacts in tight cadence. Kinetic slugs arrived seconds later. No broad gestures. Just pressure, measured and relentless.
“Stay on it,” Renn said. “If it banks, walk the fire.”
Another Mandalorian ship, its shields thinned under station fire, began to falter.
“Pull her back. Replace.”
A Sundari-type battlecruiser slid aside, engines flaring briefly as it cleared the forward arc. In its place, the Darasuum Dreadnaught surged up, shield wall hardening as it shouldered into the barrage without hesitation.
Renn’s gaze flicked toward the wider battlespace, the Warden of Ferrix's transports descending in staggered waves, the Aggressor’s plasma cannon climbing toward another lethal threshold.
“This is not about breaking them in one strike,” Renn said across encrypted channels. “It’s about making their strength cost them more than it costs us.”
Ion bolts flared. Kinetic rounds cratered armor. The Mandalorian line bent, but did not break.
“Maintain rotation,” he ordered. “Maintain concentration.”
One ship out. One ship in. One target at a time.
In the thermal fistfight at the heart of Yaga Minor’s orbit, Renn Vizsla did not attempt to overpower the Bastion Curtain.
He outlasted it, one disciplined exchange at a time.
Renn turned to his Comms officer,
"Open a broad-spectrum channel."
The Iron Hound’s engines burned steady behind him as the battle raged on.
“This is Renn Vizsla, Warden of Roon, speaking to all Diarchy forces.”
His tone was not mocking. Not heated.
It was iron.
“You have fought with discipline. You have bled for your commanders. You have proven your courage.”
A breath, measured, deliberate.
“But this battle does not require your extinction.”
The guns still thundered beyond his hull.
“If you disengage now, if you power down your weapons, withdraw from the engagement zone, or signal surrender, you will not be pursued. You will not be hunted. Your retreat will be honored.”
His visor turned slightly toward the planet below.
“Civilians are not our enemy. Cities are not our objective. Infrastructure unrelated to this fight will be spared if hostilities cease immediately and without delay.”
A moment.
“Continue this engagement, and we will continue ours.”
His voice did not rise.
“Stand down, and this ends.”
The channel remained open a moment longer before cutting cleanly back to combat frequencies.
Something felt wrong. The hairs on her back stood on end, and she felt a tingle down her spine. It was the Force alerting her to another presence, swiftly approaching her from behind. As the blaster light up with the first shot, her instincts took over. The crimson blade of her saber roared to life as she snapped it up and swivelled to face her assailant just in time to deflect the blaster fire.
Blast it! She bit down on her lip in frustration. How'd I let my guard down like this? The inside of her armour suit started to feel uncomfortably hot as her internal temperature began to rise with her rage. As her saber cut through the air, the deflected blaster bolts from her attacker's gun struck against debris and rubble around them. I've got to move. Careful with her footwork, she advanced toward the Madnalorian, circling around to draw his fire away from the location of the orphaned child she had just rescued.
This battle would not be won, however, if she continued to stay on the defensive. Using the Force, she found an opening in his pattern of fire, leaping toward him so she'd be within striking range. With just a few more seconds learning his patterns, she would have the solution she needed to dispatch of him quickly.
Industrial noise gave way to controlled systems hum and filtered air. White tactical lighting reflected off polished durasteel panels and the reinforced blast door set just off the main bridge corridor.
Two RDB-01 Dra'khan Sentinel droids stood motionless outside that door.
They did not shift their weight.
They did not speak.
Their optical sensors remained dim but active.
Inside, the chamber was compact but high-security. A tactical holotable occupied the center of the room, layered with rotating overlays of Yaga Minor's orbital defense lattice, civilian extraction routes, reinforcement vectors, and Bastion Curtain response architecture. The main bridge lay beyond the adjacent bulkhead, separated deliberately from this compartment.
Nihil stood beside the holotable.
A portable encrypted data drive was slotted into the command console at his side. Lines of data scrolled across the interface as schematics transferred—defense nodes, fleet reinforcement timings, failsafe contingencies.
Across from him, the station's commanding officer monitored the purge countdown displayed along the console's edge.
"Transfer at sixty percent," the officer reported.
Nihil gave a small nod.
Two more Sentinel droids stood inside the chamber, positioned at opposing angles near the walls. Their weapons were idle but magnetically locked and ready. Shield systems inactive for now.
"Begin wipe," he said.
The commanding officer keyed the command.
Across the console, Bastion Curtain subfiles began collapsing. Access keys revoked. Redundancies burned. Tactical overlays flickered as classified partitions were stripped from the station's active systems.
A direct piece of Diarch Rellik
- Nihil was ensuring the greater secrets of the curtain were contained no matter the cost.
Korda Veydran
Souls of the Lilaste order
Norbert Oro
![Viari-Token.webp]](https://i.ibb.co/6Rx6Ck5K/Viari-Token.webp])
