Private Visitors to the Iron Citadel

[Korda Veydran]

Location- iron citadel: sanctum

The air in the Iron Citadel's sanctum was heavy with incense, smoke curling lazily toward the vaulted ceiling and catching the pale light that filtered through high, narrow windows. Dust motes floated like tiny suspended stars in the sunbeams. Korda Veydran knelt on the cool stone floor, legs folded beneath him, his helmet resting carefully in front of him. The metal gleamed in the light, scarred from countless battles, yet polished here in reverence, a reminder of both honor and burden.


He let his hands brush against the faintly etched runes in the floor, tracing symbols carved for Kad Harangir. His voice was low, but steady, filling the silent hall.

"Kad Harangir… tracyn mhi'diir. Tracyn mhi'cuyi'cuyi' be gedet paruyc, bal mhi'beskar'gamur kaysh'la skraan. Vokarir haa'ni cuyir be mhi nu'kayd… solus mhi'briik… solus Yaga Minor haar'kaysh bal mhi tracyn su'cuy, ven'riduur mhi ven'riduur naas."

He paused, taking a slow breath, letting the weight of his own words sink in. Then, his voice grew softer, more intimate, a murmur almost swallowed by the stone walls:
"Bal tracyn mhi'shuk'la be haa'ni cuyir haar kaysh'la mhi… solus mhi'kar'taylir, solus mhi'beskar'gamur kar'taylir, mhi copaani bal mhi cuyir ven'riduur, bal ven'riduur haar mhi serim. Solus mhi'solusir haa'ni, nu solus mhi'jolib bal nu'briik ven'ni'jur, bal nu'solusir haari be cuyir be'senaar, nu be shuk'la."


The words hung in the air, swallowed by shadows, yet resonating back to him. Memories clawed forward, yaga minor, the four he had landed with that day, the mistakes that still felt fresh. The weight pressed on him, but he remained kneeling, silent save for the prayer, letting each syllable fortify his resolve.


A faint hum from his comm device interrupted the heavy quiet. Korda's head tilted slightly, catching the soft vibration beneath the stone tiles, Omen. Relief flickered through him, tempered by the readiness always poised at the edge of his thoughts. Whatever came next, he would meet it, and he would not falter.


He inhaled deeply, letting the scent of incense and stone fill him. Golden light pooled across the floor, washing over his armor, shadows stretching along the high arches. Rising slowly, Korda lifted his helmet, feeling the familiar weight in his hands. His gaze swept the vast hall, noting every column, every rune, every whisper of history etched into the Citadel's walls.


Alone, yet not lonely, he whispered once more:
"Solus mhi'solusir haa'ni cuyir ven'ni'jur bal mhi, bal solus mhi'kar'taylir bal kaysh'la, nu'tracyn be'gaanir, nu copaani haari ven'kaysh'la."

Jett Vox Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Korda's contraction would break as he heard the engines of a freighter pass overhead. In the Mynock's cockpit, Omen banked over the bright shining city, giving a low whistle as they circled. Shouting back into the living quarters, "You better come up here, ladies. You are missing the view," the Clone tried to get Aren and Jett up to the cockpit before the ATC forced him to stop clogging the airspace and land already.

The newly built freighter was still being configured to their needs, and both Omen and Aren didn't think they would ever need something for more than two people. Jett proved them wrong, and so they had decided to transform the large cargo area into their master bedroom and Aren's workspace, leaving Jett the "Captain's Quarters" or so said the sign on the door. Hopefully, it would give the girl a much-needed ego boost.

Eventually, Omen slowly brought them down on the landing pad, the landing struts hissing as they touched. A few minutes later, the ARC walked down the ramp with his helmet under his arm and looking around before letting his partner and student hop off the ship after him. "Well, this is it. I think Korda was downplaying this place when he mentioned coming here. When I looked it up, I even saw they have a War College here." Giving the kid a gentle smile, he commented to Jett as she looked around on her own. "Guess that's where you are going in a couple of years if that's what you want. Korda's just going to give you an introductory lesson while you are here." Who had yet to show his face... "Now where is that big oaf going to pop out from..."

Korda Veydran , Jett Vox , Aren D'Shade

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda's concentration broke the instant the Mynock's engines roared overhead, the sound vibrating faintly through the stone floor of the sanctum. Dust motes, caught in the beams of the city lights outside, glimmered like tiny stars as he rose from his kneeling position, helmet in hand. His boots made soft, deliberate contact with the stone, echoing in the vast hall, a rhythm that matched the rising pulse of anticipation in his chest. he made his way to the where the ship had landed.

Before Omen could react, Korda stalked forward and, with practiced ease, gripped the back of his chest plate, hoisting the ARC clear off the ground. Omen let out a startled shout, flailing as Korda leaned in, letting his voice drop low, teasing.

"You've been keeping her entertained too much… or maybe it's been you I should be worried about? perhaps a private sparing lesson will help~" he murmured, letting the words hang with a faintly flirtatious edge. A soft laugh escaped him as he set Omen down, watching the way the Clone's eyes flicked toward him, betraying surprise and a hint of fluster.

Turning his attention, Korda inclined his head toward Aren with quiet respect. "It's good to see you again," he said, voice soft but warm, sincerity grounding the moment.

Then he faced Jett, smirking as he looked at her. "And you… did well back in the arena on Wistril." His fist struck his chest plate in a crisp salute, reverberating through the hall. Sliding an arm around Omen in a playful almost-headlock, he added with a chuckle, "I hope you haven't been boring her too much, Sergeant," enjoying the subtle tension he'd created.

Even in the levity, Korda felt the familiar pull of memory, the shadow of Yaga Minor, the tightening in his chest, the restless coil of tension beneath his skin. Yet here, in the presence of trusted allies, he allowed himself a brief, steadying breath. Shadows stretched along the stone walls, incense smoke drifting lazily through the shafts of city light, and Korda let a small exhale slip free, grounding himself in the moment.

The reunion, the teasing, and the subtle sparks of flirtation mingled with old scars and discipline, keeping him alert, amused, and fully present, ready for laughter, banter, and the unspoken truths that came with companions back at his side.

Sergeant Omen Aren D'Shade Jett Vox

 

[Jett Vox]

<bzzt> "Gar'ika... Gar'la," <bzzt> Jett murmered as she took the chance to scan the Sanctum. As Jett was looking around, her helmet on, her visual sensor readings gave a vast overflow of data. Her metal soled boots clicked on the floor of the massive temple-like building. <bzzt> "Never thought I'd go to college," <bzzt> she said with a hint of irony and a touch of humor, but she followed Omen inside, where they met Korda humming a monk-like mantra. His armor was intricate, golden. Looked like it was made of something expensive. He addressed her, and Jett seemed surprised. First that she was being addressed at all, and secondly his assertion. Jett reached up and took off her helmet, spilling orange-red hair down her shoulders.

"Really?" She cocked her head. "I seem to remember I gave up half way through. I'm pretty sure all of the other... Foundlings right? ...anyway, pretty sure the other Foundlings are still mad at me." Her mentor and the new guy started with their play fighting, so Jett tucked her helmet under her arm and walked past them to stare up at the massive vaulted ceiling. The sight of it gave her instant vertigo. She'd never seen a building so massive or so heavily engineered. Even the Arena was a bit of a joke compared to it.

"Woah," she said under her breath and tore her eyes away from it. She then looked back over her shoulder for Aren and Omen. They were there, still chatting up with their friend, likely catching up on old times. After all, they were old people. Old people had a lot of old times to look back on. Jett did not. She'd probably remember the dizzying architecture of this place well into her old age.

"This place is massive," she said in unhidden awe.

Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen Korda Veydran

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda stepped closer, the soft hum of his golden armor echoing faintly in the vaulted Sanctum. A low chuckle escaped him as he tilted his head, taking in the massive architecture.

"Sanctum… really is something, isn't it?" he said, eyes lighting up with quiet admiration. "Didn't always call a place home. Feels… different seeing it through someone else's eyes."

He noticed her hesitation, the way she mentioned quitting halfway, and gave a small, understanding smile. Oro poked her head out from his chestplate, sniffing the air curiously. Korda's chuckle softened.

"You've seen a lot, haven't you?" he asked, gesturing to her armor and the way she carried herself. "What made you… keep going? Or stop, if that's the story?"
He didn't press, just let the question hang in the air, his tone patient and sincere. "Sometimes the path we walk… it's shaped by what we lose, not just what we gain. I'd like to hear yours, if you don't mind sharing."

He gestured toward a nearby pew near the altar of the Destroyer God. "Sit if you like. Take your time. No one's rushing you here."
Oro poked further out, sniffing curiously at her boots, and Korda's lips curved into a small, gentle smile. "Everyone has a story worth hearing," he said softly. "Including yours."

Jett Vox Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren stepped down the ramp a moment after Omen, her boots touching the landing pad with the quiet certainty of someone who had already taken in far more of the Citadel than she had outwardly shown. The air here carried a different weight than most places she had been. Old stone. Incense. Discipline woven into the architecture itself. It was not unfamiliar, but it was not her world either.

She watched Omen take in the view with open appreciation, the whistle escaping him earning the faintest hint of amusement in her eyes. Jett's reaction to the Citadel was easier to read. Awe, curiosity, a little vertigo from the scale of it all. Aren, let the girl take that moment without interrupting it.

Then Korda appeared.

The moment he lifted Omen off the ground, Aren's expression did not change much, but her eyes sharpened slightly as she observed the movement. Not alarmed. Just cataloging the way the two of them moved around each other. When Korda finally set Omen back down, her gaze moved briefly between them.

"You greet people in an unusual manner," she said calmly.

There was no accusation in it. Just a simple observation.

Her eyes lingered on Korda a second longer when he turned toward her and greeted her properly. She inclined her head in return.

"It's good to see you again as well."

Her voice was steady, though there was a quiet warmth beneath it that hadn't been present the first time they met.

While the others continued speaking, Aren's attention drifted through the Sanctum itself. Her gaze moved across the high arches, the etched runes, the way the light caught in the drifting incense smoke. The entire structure felt deliberate. Built not only to impress but to remind those within it of something larger than themselves.

When Jett spoke in quiet amazement about the size of the place, Aren stepped closer beside her.

"It was designed that way," she said.

Her eyes followed the girl's gaze up toward the vaulted ceiling.

"Architecture like this is rarely about practicality. It is about perspective. When a space makes you feel small, it also reminds you that the things built here are meant to outlast the people standing inside it."

Her tone was thoughtful rather than reverent.

When Korda began speaking with Jett about her story, Aren did not interrupt him immediately. Instead, she watched the exchange, arms loosely folded as she leaned lightly against one of the stone columns.

Only when he gestured toward the pew did she speak again.

"You do not have to explain yourself here," Aren told Jett quietly.

Her gaze softened just slightly.

"People often believe their path needs to make sense to others in order to be valid. It does not."

She glanced briefly toward Korda, then back to the girl.

"Sometimes stopping is not failure," she added. "Sometimes it is simply recognizing that the direction was wrong."

A small pause followed before her tone shifted to something a little lighter.

"And if you do decide to attend a war college someday," Aren said, glancing toward the immense hall around them, "it will likely involve fewer ceilings this large and considerably more instructors shouting."

Her attention returned to Korda again then, studying him with the same quiet awareness she carried into most rooms.

"This place suits you," she said evenly. "It carries the same… intensity."

Korda Veydran Jett Vox Sergeant Omen

 

[Jett Vox]

Jett was still looking around when Korda spoke to her, implying about her 'story.' "I haven't seen that much," she murmured, punctuating that sentence by showing her naive country-bumpkin side. "I've mostly lived next to Nerf stables, and walked almost everywhere, except when we used our ship for deliveries," she said, talking about her family life in the Unknown regions. "Where I come from, there isn't more than a single building taller than two floors, and everything is made of mud and straw."

"My dad was a farmer, and my mom taught us how to read and write, a little math, and how to repair the few tools we could afford. Most of what we had was made out of burlap and rope." She finally looked directly at Korda. "I've been to a planet called Lothal, and an arena to fight against ungodly power, but I haven't really seen much else." In spite of her story, her voice had the accent of Concordia, which probably meant her parents were from Concordia. Which means they likely left and never returned to the Mandalorians for some reason they never told their kids about -- probably what had eventually put them in their graves.

"I just want to stop running," she admitted. Really possibly the first time she really had opened up to her new friends. "I'm tired of being alone and I'm tired of running away. This armor is the only reason I'm still alive, and I'm pretty sure I have to earn that privilege." She hesitated, and looked for something to stare at so that her face wouldn't give away her uncertainty. "I haven't earned anything yet."

After a second of musing, she cocked her head again but kept that thought to herself.

Aren D'Shade Korda Veydran Sergeant Omen

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda listened without interrupting.
The massive hall seemed quieter somehow as Jett spoke, the incense drifting lazily through the beams of light above them. He rested a hand lightly against the back of one of the pews, helmet hanging loosely at his side, golden armor reflecting the warm glow of the Sanctum.

When she finished, he nodded slowly.
"I'm going to be brutally honest with you," he said, voice calm but firm.

"You don't stop running from your past."
A faint pause followed.
"You just decide when you're done letting it chase you."

Oro shifted slightly inside his chest plate, her small head poking out again as if curious about the sudden seriousness. Korda absentmindedly tapped the edge of his armor where she sat before continuing.

"I tried running too."
His gaze drifted upward toward the towering arches of the Sanctum.
"I was born into the remnants of a minor Mandalorian clan. Clan Veydran. We were known for siege warfare… demolitions. Breaking things other clans couldn't."

A faint, humorless smile crossed his face.
"I leaned into that reputation a little too well."
His eyes returned to Jett.

"From the time I was young, destruction was the only language anyone bothered teaching me. When Mandalore fought its wars, I pushed every battle as far as it could go. No restraint. No hesitation."

He shrugged slightly.
"Turns out even Mandalorians have a limit."
His voice stayed even, almost reflective.
"They called me too savage. Said I fought like a monster."
Another quiet pause.
"So they decided to exile me."
The words were delivered simply, without theatrics.

Korda glanced down at the armor he wore, brushing his fingers across the worn plating.
"This armor belonged to my uncle. He died when I was barely old enough to hold a spear. His last words were that only I would ever wear it."
A small breath left him.
"I was fourteen when my clan tried to cast me out."

His gaze hardened slightly, though the tone of his voice never rose.
"They feared a monster… so I showed them one."
The Sanctum felt very still for a moment.
"I burned the clan down," he said plainly. "Then I hunted down every last Veydran until I was the only one left."
He let the silence sit there for a moment before speaking again, softer this time.

"So trust me when I say… running doesn't work."
Korda leaned back slightly against the pew.
"The trick isn't escaping your past."
His eyes met Jett's again.

"It's learning how to carry it without letting it decide who you become."
Another small pause passed before he added gently,
"And for the record… I'm not telling you that story to compete with what you've lost."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"If anything, you're luckier than I was. and if you need someone who can relate or someone who can give advice about this type of trauma, just reach out kid"
He gestured loosely toward Aren and the others nearby.
"When everything burned for me, nobody picked me up afterward. I became a mercenary at fifteen and figured things out the hard way."

His expression softened slightly.
"You haven't had to do that. Not yet."
Oro chirped quietly, her small snout poking further out of the chest plate as she examined Jett again.
Korda chuckled faintly at the interruption before nodding toward the massive hall around them.

"And if you ever decide you want to stop running long enough to learn something here…"
He tilted his head slightly toward the towering structure.
"…I'd gladly sponsor your entry into the War College."
The faintest hint of a grin appeared.
"Someone has to teach the next generation how to properly break things."

Jett Vox Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen didn't know what was more embarrassing, being lifted off the ground by the Giant or being flirted with and his partner not caring at all. "Oh, I'll give you a private sparring session if you don't let me down..." was said in a tone that brothers use when they are annoyed with each other. The Clone playfully elbowed Korda in the ribs to get himself released. "And you'll probably bore her more. She is well-trained enough to take you down with one punch." He was lying through his teeth, of course, but who knows, maybe Jett would surprise them both.

The Clone gave his student a sympathetic smile as she looked at their surroundings. She had gone in the deep end and had to crawl back out. That would be hard for anyone. "Just that you tried at all is an accomplishment. I think you just need more direct support, and that's what we are here for." As goofy as Korda was, he probably was the expert of Mando Warfare, or at least the best expert that he knew. The ARC hoped he would impart that knowledge in a fun and interesting way that he hoped would impact Jett for a long time to come. His pointing at Korda and nodding along as the big man tried to reassure his new student told Jett he felt the same way.

Managing to free himself from the big lug, he walked over to where the kid was admiring the cityscape. "Makes you think, doesn't it? What can happen when people work together?" He was almost in awe himself. This place really could blow your armor off. "Feels like a different world..." If this is what people call a Mandalorian paradise, he couldn't say whoever called it that was wrong.

Omen sat down in one of the pews, studying the statue of the Destroyer God. Well, at least he knew why Korda was how he was now... Omen was a conversation when it came to religon and he certainly hadn't worshiped Gods that looked more like demons before. It was here that he listened to Jett's story from afar. It was pretty much as he guessed, but that last cock of her head made him raise an eyebrow. He knew Jett well enough by now that she was holding something back. It was something that he wanted to claw out of her, but he decided to be smart. "Yes, you haven't earned anything yet, but you don't have anything for us to want to help you." Jett could tell by the Clone's smile that he was telling the truth, that he wanted to give her all the support she needed to succeed.

Everyone had their limit and Omen knew Korda had no limits just on his personality. He was still trying to repair the garage door Korda he had bent when he was trying to get it open. Still the Clone knew he was trying his best to relate to this new young woman that had been put in front of him and Omen appriecated it. As Korda said he would happily sponser her for the war college, Omen summed up how he felt by saying, "Your life, your choices." Ones, Jett could go right back to farming and he would support her. What made her happy was all he wanted. Turning to his friend, he asked the question that had been in his mind since they had landed. "Well, you gonna show us around or what Big Guy?"

Korda Veydran , Aren D'Shade , Jett Vox

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda chuckled, a low, resonant sound that seemed to harmonize with the faint hum of the Citadel itself. "Well," he said, eyes glinting with amusement at Omen's remark about Jett dropping him with one punch, "if she's that strong, I won't argue, just don't let it happen in the reactor rooms. Or near anything ancient." He let his gaze sweep over the massive hall, columns etched with runes, light spilling from the stained transparisteel, the faint pulse of the Iron Heart beneath their feet almost perceptible.


"Now," he continued, voice taking on a more inviting tone, "I can show you around. But it's a proper tour, everything you see has its place, its history. Touch the relics? Don't. The Citadel doesn't take kindly to careless hands, and neither do I." Oro nudged gently against his chestplate, as if confirming the rules.


He led the way, boots echoing softly against the polished floors, pausing now and then to gesture toward the towering spires visible through the windows or the golden glow of the Azurite Cinders far below in the Iron Heart's core chamber. "This isn't just a ship. It's a city, a monastery, a temple, and a war machine all at once. It survives because it balances faith and fire, engineering and ritual. Step lightly, breathe it in, and try to remember it, it doesn't often welcome new eyes so openly."


Omen's expression betrayed awe; even Aren's calm exterior flickered as she noted the scale and intent woven into every wall and beam. Korda's voice softened as he added, "Everything here has purpose. Even the shadows have meaning. And if you're paying attention, it teaches you something, about patience, discipline… and strength."


He glanced at Jett, letting a faint, encouraging smile tug at his lips. "Follow me, all of you. And don't worry, if the Citadel starts feeling too overwhelming, there are quieter corners where the air doesn't hum like a star about to ignite. But you'll want to see the heart. Everyone does."

Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen Jett Vox

 

[Nixie Voidskipper]

(wrong character)

 

[Jett Vox]

Jett visibly cringed at his description of his exile. She could never have imagined harming her own family, so the furthest thing from her heart was sympathy. She did understand though, and she nodded. Everyone in the Galaxy has problems.

She dragged her eyes away from the city they overlooked, and found herself deep in thought. Whether they mean watching your family slaughtered in front of you, and their corpses put up on sticks, or whole planets being fried out of existence, the problems of one-- she paused in thought, "Wait. I thought Mando'a was the name of our people, and Mandalorian was a fruit." --Anyway, the problem of one person didn't amount to much in a Galaxy like this one.

"It's not? Not a fruit, I mean." She really couldn't help herself. No matter what her brain told her not to, or to say. Jett could have played it off. Pretended she knew all along.

Jett looked around at everyone, feeling dumber and dumber as it settled in that she'd been wrong this whole time. Her cheeks were turning redder than her hair at that point. So she turned to follow Korda, reaching out to grasp his bicep with both hands while the look in her eyes spoke for her. Go... let's go... they said.

Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen Korda Veydran

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda stopped when she grabbed his bicep.
He didn't pull away.

For a moment, he just looked down at her hands gripping his armor, then at the way her shoulders had tightened, the red rising in her cheeks brighter than her hair.

A low chuckle rumbled from behind his helmet.
"It's alright," he said calmly.
He shifted slightly so she didn't feel like she was clinging, more like walking beside him. "If you weren't raised in the culture, it's easy to mix things up."
His voice softened, losing the teasing edge.

"Mando'a is the language," he explained. "The tongue of the ancestors. The words our forebears spoke when Mandalore was young and the Taung still remembered their first wars."

They resumed walking slowly through the grand hall.
"It's a beautiful language," he continued. "Harsh. Direct. It can build someone up with a single word… or cut deeper than any blade." A faint pause. "Very Mandalorian."

He glanced down at her again.
"And Mandalorian is our people."
A beat.
"Not a fruit."

There was a quiet huff of amusement in his tone.
He reached up and, very deliberately, rested a gauntleted hand on the top of her head. Not condescending, just grounding. A brief, steady pat.
"When I was a child," he added casually, "I thought beskar was a kind of steak."
A pause.
"I asked the quartermaster why we weren't allowed to eat it."


Oro gave a sharp, almost offende chirp.
Korda continued as if that settled the matter. "Everyone starts somewhere."
He gently nudged her forward with his elbow. "Now. If you want to recover your warrior dignity, walk like you meant to say it."
Another beat.
"And for the record? A Mandalorian fruit would probably try to stab you."

Jett Vox Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren had been walking a few steps behind them, her attention drifting between the Citadel's imposing architecture and the two people in front of her, quietly noting the way each of them reacted to the space. The structure itself did not overwhelm her in the same way it clearly overwhelmed Jett, but she understood perfectly well what it was designed to do; the Citadel was not built to be subtle, and it made no attempt to pretend otherwise.

When Jett blurted out the question about Mandalorians being a fruit, Aren did not react immediately. Instead, her gaze shifted toward the girl with a measured calm, taking in the flush rising across her cheeks, the tension gathering in her shoulders, and the instinctive way she edged closer to Korda as if proximity alone might steady her.

She let Korda answer first, giving him space to handle his part.

Only when he finished did Aren speak, her voice as even and composed as ever.

"For clarity," she said, "if Mandalorians were a fruit, they would almost certainly be classified as something highly aggressive and probably weaponized." She allowed a brief pause. Just long enough for the image to settle. "Possibly explosive."

The faintest thread of dry humor wove through her tone, subtle enough that it could be missed if someone wasn't listening for it.

Her eyes moved to Jett then, steady but not unkind, carrying none of the judgment the girl clearly expected. "You are allowed to not know things," Aren continued, her voice softening in a way that felt deliberate rather than indulgent. "That is the starting point for learning them, not a failure."

She stepped a little closer, matching their pace as they continued deeper into the Citadel's interior, her presence quiet but grounding.

"What matters is that you asked," she added, her tone carrying the weight of someone who valued precision over pride. "Incorrect assumptions are far more dangerous when they remain unspoken."

Her gaze flicked briefly toward Korda when he mentioned thinking Beskar was edible, a small acknowledgment of the absurdity, before returning to Jett.

"And for the record," Aren said, "if beskar were edible, someone here would have attempted to consume it by now." A very slight glance toward Omen followed, barely a movement, but unmistakably pointed. "Repeatedly."

Then her attention returned forward, her expression settling back into its usual neutrality as the corridor opened ahead of them.

"As for Mandalorian culture," she said after a moment, her tone shifting into something more measured, "I only know what I have observed from the people I've met. They are not a monolith, and I would not presume to speak for them."

She let that truth sit between them before adding, more gently,

"You are not behind, Jett. You are simply learning something new at a different pace than the rest of us, and there is nothing wrong with that."

Korda Veydran Jett Vox Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Yeah, Korda's description would probably do that to anyone. Omen was half dismayed he had decided to use it on the girl and half glad he did to tell her just that. That it can always be worse and even if you aren't on solid ground, if you kept on clawing upwards, you might get to a better place.

The Clone's eyebrow shot up in both surprise and bemusement when Jett came out of her shell to tell everyone that she had gotten the two most important terms in their culture and mixed him up. It was hard not to blame himself for not teaching her better, but the ARC thought her parents would have at least taught her that about their culture. Guess Math and making sure mouths were fed were more important...

Omen didn't say anything at first, trying to not embarrass the girl more than she already was. Hearing Korda's story did make him chuckle though, till Aren's little line calling him out earned her a pull back up against him along with the same icy glare Aren sometimes gave him. "I might just try to make some metal steak with any scrap metal I find just for you." Sighing, he reluctantly let his partner go as he glanced ahead at Jett with an apologetic look. "Sorry, guess I should have tried to teach you better. So, like they said, it's not all on you. Let's just make the most of the present for you to learn now." A lack of knowledge could always be made up, a blaster bolt in ignorance couldn't.

Korda Veydran , Aren D'Shade , Jett Vox

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda listened to both of them without interrupting.
Aren's measured logic. Omen's quiet guilt.
When Omen apologized, Korda gave a low hum.
Then, casually, he said

"Gar cuyir ner vod, Omen… bal gar parjir at ibic? Gar never cuyir jorhaa at te ara'nov manda? Gar di'kut… bal te jate, ni ven gar'la gar'se."


His helmet tilted slightly.
There was the faintest hint of amusement in his tone.
He didn't translate.
Instead, he clapped a heavy hand against Omen's shoulder as they walked.

"You're not responsible for knowing everything," he added aloud, this time in Basic. "But if you're raising a warrior, you check whether they know the difference between their people and produce."

A beat.
"Basic readiness assessment."
Oro chirped approvingly.
The corridor opened into a vast chamber of heat and light.
The Armor Forge.

Molten glow bled from recessed channels in the floor. Suspended crucibles rotated slowly overhead. Massive mechanical arms moved with deliberate precision, shaping plates of beskar under controlled plasma arcs. The air hummed with contained violence, creation through fire.

Korda stepped forward, boots echoing against metal.
"This," he said, gesturing outward, "is where I forged the plates for the Ashen Maw."
He reached out, resting a gauntleted hand briefly against a cooled anvil etched with hammer marks.
"Every piece shaped by hand. Every imperfection earned."
His gaze shifted to Jett.


"And sometimes," he added evenly, "this is where parts for explosives are assembled. Carefully. With supervision."
A subtle glance toward Omen.
From there, he led them onward.
The heat faded. The light dimmed.
They entered a chamber entirely different in tone.


Tall shelves arced upward in circular tiers. Datapads, holocrons, etched tablets of stone and metal. Projected star maps hovered mid-air. Names. Battles. Lineages. Oaths.


"The Record Hall," Korda said more quietly now.
"We keep track of more than war. Clans. Foundlings. The fallen. Victories. Failures."
His voice lowered further.
"If Mandalore falls again, this survives. If planets burn, this remembers."

He let that settle.
Then he turned.
"Come."
The corridor widened and opened into an internal courtyard.

High walls ringed the space, etched with sigils. The floor was sanded durasteel, scarred with countless impacts. Training weapons lined the periphery. Containment field emitters sat dormant along the edges.

It was unmistakable.
A sparring yard.
Korda stepped into the center.
He turned to Jett.

His tone changed.
Not teasing.
Not gentle.
Measured.

"Jett."
He pointed to a marked line in the sanded metal.
"Stand at attention."
The hum of the Citadel seemed quieter here.
Waiting.

Sergeant Omen Aren D'Shade Jett Vox

 

[Jett Vox]

"Ni cuy'valir, bal ven'ni olar gar, Ni parjai Mando'a sa'laab'la." Said Jett, to Korga when she heard what sounded like him trying to hide what he was saying about her to Omen.

Jett was stiff now, her anxiety making her shudder with tension running through her form. Each moment seemed to tick slowly as she realized her faux pas. But then Aren reassured her, and Jett gave her a slow, understanding nod. "My father taught us Mando'a, but said a Mandalorian was a bitter inedible fruit that should be avoided. I guess he didn't like Mandalorians very much." She mused, a bit embarrassed and suddenly more than a little bit conflicted. "I don't think he ever meant for us - me or my sister - to meet one." Jett said solemnly.

Then he started pontificating on old Mandalorian sayings that Jett had never been taught, to which her ears perked with interest. It sounded to her like Mandalorians only knew war, and her father's choices were starting to make more sense. A man with two daughters might not have wanted to raise them where all they would know was fighting. I'm not like him, but I'm not like them either. So what am I?

She followed them through chambers and hallways, past panels with glowing text showing data and maps and text, and soon it became clear that everything here was made for war, for combat. This was a proving ground. Her suspicions were confirmed when they converged on an open area and Korda pointed, Jett rocking on her heels, giving the order for her to stand there, and she snapped a little too rigid.
Taking her long hair in a fist, she slowly twisted it around her fist and let it fall into her helmet. She bent down completely to fit her head inside, and then walked to the spot where she would stand, her toes at the line. She stood as rigid and tall as possible, though she was neither rigid nor tall.

In her mind she took account of the weaponry she had on her. A single short vibroblade in her right gauntlet. Whipcord in the same. Flamethrower. Aside from one trick she kept up her sleeve, that was about it. Nothing special like whistling birds, or a hidden lightsaber. Jett's armor was like the armor of her ancestors. Built for killing Jedi, and only moderately effective at that.

"Oya!" She said automatically. Her father had disciplined his children by making them stand at attention. Some habits were hard to break.

Sergeant Omen Korda Veydran Aren D'Shade

 

[Korda Veydran]

The courtyard went still when she spoke.
Not because of the Mando'a.
Because of the meaning behind it.
Korda didn't move at first.

But his hand did tighten.
Subtly.
Aren would see it. Omen definitely would.
When Jett repeated her father's description, a bitter, inedible fruit to be avoided, something in Korda's posture changed. Not explosive. Not wild.

Rigid.
Then
His voice cracked across the courtyard.
"Half-Left FACE. present, ARMS!"

It wasn't shouted.
It was barked.
The kind of command that had shaped recruits into soldiers for generations.
Sharp. Immediate. Expecting obedience without hesitation.

The air felt heavier.
Then
Silence.
A long breath pulled slowly through his helmet.

Held.
Released.
When he spoke again, the edge was still there, but controlled now.
"…That was unnecessary."
Not to her.
To himself.

He stepped forward, boots deliberate against the scarred durasteel.
"I do not take well to insults," he said evenly. "Even borrowed ones."
A beat.
"But."
His shoulders eased slightly.

"You were repeating what you were taught. That is not the same as speaking from your own judgment."
He stopped in front of her.
Not towering. Not looming.
Assessing.
"You stood at attention without hesitation," he observed. "You tucked your hair without being told. You inventoried your weapons."

His head tilted slightly.
"Your father trained you."
The anger was gone now. Replaced with focus.
"What did he teach you?" Korda asked. "Forms. Doctrine. Clan history? Did he speak of the Resol'nare? Of the Taung? Of Mandalore the First?"
A brief pause.

"And what was his name?"
The question wasn't aggressive.
It was precise.
"If I know the clan," Korda continued calmly, "I can tell you what he chose not to teach."
His voice softened, not pitying, but steady.

"You are not him. And you are not us."
A small pause.
"You are deciding what that means. what path you are choosing"
Oro shifted on his shoulder, quiet for once.
The courtyard waited.

Jett Vox Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren had gone still the moment Korda's tone shifted.

She didn't interrupt. She didn't step in while the command was given or when the tension sharpened. But she watched closely, her attention settling not on Korda, but on Jett—the rigidity in her stance, the way her shoulders locked, the way she held herself like she was bracing for something she wasn't sure how to face.

When the silence came back, Aren moved.

Not quickly. Not forcefully.

She stepped up beside Jett, just close enough to be felt without crowding her.

"Hey," she said quietly.

Her voice was softer than before, steady in a different way now.

"You're alright."

She didn't correct her stance outright, but her hand hovered briefly near Jett's arm, a grounding presence without forcing contact.

"You don't have to lock yourself up like that," Aren continued gently. "This isn't a punishment."

Her gaze flicked briefly toward Korda, then back to Jett, keeping the focus where it needed to be.

"You didn't do anything wrong," she added. "You said what you were taught. That's not something you need to apologize for."

A small pause, just enough to let the words settle.

"And you're still here," Aren said, a little more firmly now, but still warm. "That matters more than getting everything right the first time."

Her expression softened just a fraction.

"You're learning. That's the only thing anyone here expects from you."

She stayed beside her, not pulling her away, not stepping in front—just there, steady and quiet, like something solid Jett could lean on if she needed to.

Korda Veydran Jett Vox Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

"She has shi been ti mhi par a skotah ca'nara. Ni Ru'kel rather haa'taylir kaysh yaim'la o'r kaysh own shoes bal briikase than jam cuun culture daab kaysh throat an sha once." ("She has only been with us for a short time. I would rather see her comfortable in her own shoes and happy than jam our culture down her throat all at once.") was his slightly annoyed response to Korda's trying to be his older brother. Omen didn't care if Jett wanted to be Mandalorian or not. If she had wanted a normal life, he would have supported her. Hell, he didn't know if he was or just some castaway who knew the language and had the armor. But here they were, trying to find out if his big brother was willing to teach and if Jett was willing to listen.

As they walked inside the forge, Omen couldn't help but marvel at the setup they had here. It was like the city's occupants had built their own Separatist forgeworks on Genosis. Only the dig at him from Korda brought him back down to Earth. "Says the person who probably passes out thermal dentators as Halloween gifts. And yet you are worried about me." Still, he tried to stay away from the actual foundry and forge area behind the bright yellow and black caution tape on the floor that designated the work area. One couldn't be too careful, but at least these techs would make a face at him like Aren did when he invaded her work area for attention.

As they came back outside and walked into the sparring area, Omen gently pulled Aren to the side, letting the new instructor have the one-on-one time with his new student without interference. At least until Jett's rebuke made Korda blow up like a puffer pig. Then he might have silently pulled out his holopad from his bag to take a picture or two. Just for later reference, of course.

Omen had to give it to Jett; she certainly had fire in her. Not many younglings would pick a fight with their drill master, and it clearly got under the Big Man's skin, which he wholeheartedly approved of. He gently pulled Aren back, letting Korda enforce his authority (though there may have been a smile, a wink, and a thumbs-up in there to calm his student's nerves) as other armored warriors and younglings looked over at the display, wondering what was going on and if there was going to be a shouting match to watch. He almost didn't notice that Aren had stepped forward to join in circumventing the Big Man's wraith. It was a move that he didn't approve of. Korda needed to have the Authority to discipline Jett if necessary, and going up to comfort her was the coddling that Korda probably hated in his head. That and it was the ammunition to joke about how the women were running Omen's life now (which they were, but it didn't need to be said out loud).

Reluctantly moving up behind his partner and sponsor, Omen tried his best to be the buffer and diffuse the situation by trying to turn Korda back to the facts. "Her family was a lot like I am. Outsiders who had a certain angle on looking at the galaxy, just like most people do. They didn't want their daughter to become a Warrior; they wanted her to become a farmer's wife, just like they were. For whatever reason, they wanted to leave this life behind and live a quiet life. It's why we are easing Jett into this and trying not to overwhelm her all at once with the big concepts. Thats not going to help anyone." He had left out the parts on his father's blame game about the state of the galaxy and even of the Mandalorian way. The nationalist Korda might explode if he heard the truth, and he wanted to keep his armor clean. Nodding in Jett's direction, he let her fill in the rest of the facts that she felt like offering up. Though against the time bomb that is Korda (whom he was pleading to with his eyes to keep the peace), the Clone would understand if she kept her lips zipped together and let this tour take its course.

Korda Veydran , Aren D'Shade , Jett Vox