Ascending Legend
The quiet hum of the chamber reached her before she had fully stepped inside, a low, resonant vibration that seemed to settle into the stone and air rather than originate from any single source. Iandre paused just inside the threshold, letting her senses adjust to the unfamiliar atmosphere. Although she felt no threat through the Force, there was a distinctive undertone here—a metallic precision, a sense of order so absolute it bordered on unnatural. It reminded her, uncomfortably, of the echoing halls of CIS foundries and the rhythmic march of metal soldiers across the battlefields of her youth. Those memories never surfaced gently.
She forced her breath to steady, smoothing the tension in her jaw and the faint tightening in her shoulders. Jedi training had taught her long ago how to bring her thoughts back into line, and even after so many lost centuries, the discipline still lived in her bones. This was not the Clone Wars. She was not kneeling beside her master's fallen body on a world torn by droids and fire. She was here by choice, in a time and faction she had chosen, preparing to meet someone she understood almost nothing about.
Her steps carried her forward with a quiet confidence that did not quite mask her alertness. Lord Mettallum stood at the far end of the room, his form both imposing and strangely elegant, the metal of his frame catching and refracting the ambient light, making him seem almost carved rather than constructed. His presence in the Force was unusual—muted in some ways, sharply defined in others, like a being occupying two states at once. He was not a droid in the conventional sense, yet he carried enough machine in him that Iandre's instincts prickled despite her best efforts.
She halted at a respectful distance, her posture straight, her hands resting loosely at her sides but never far from her saber—more out of ingrained habit than suspicion.
"Lord Mettallum," she said, her tone steady and polite, with that soft clarity her voice always carried when she spoke with purpose. "I am Iandre Athlea. Rellik has spoken highly of you."
Her gaze moved over him again, not with hostility but with the scrutiny of someone who had spent a lifetime evaluating metal constructs for danger before ever daring to trust them. The memories of the war had carved those reflexes into her, and she had long learned not to pretend otherwise.
"You will have to forgive me," she continued, her voice lowering just slightly, "if part of me remains cautious. I came from a time when independent machines, no matter how sophisticated, were often accompanied by circumstances that demanded vigilance. The galaxy of my childhood was not kind to those who mistook such forms for harmless."
She left the words there—not apologizing, not justifying, simply stating the truth as it lived in her.
Even so, her stance softened by a degree, a clear sign that she intended to listen rather than close herself off.
"I understand you follow the Maker," she said, a thoughtful note entering her voice, one that hinted at the scholar she once had been. "And that your philosophy ties deeply into creation, purpose, and the nature of being. I would like to hear it from you directly."
A long, steady breath eased from her chest.
"I would also like to understand you—beyond the metal, beyond the surface. Whatever you choose to call yourself, whatever it is you believe yourself to be… I'm willing to listen."
The words hung between them gently, without accusation or fear, shaped by honesty.
She did not trust easily. But she was here. And for Iandre Athlea, that meant she was willing to try.
Lord Mettallum
She forced her breath to steady, smoothing the tension in her jaw and the faint tightening in her shoulders. Jedi training had taught her long ago how to bring her thoughts back into line, and even after so many lost centuries, the discipline still lived in her bones. This was not the Clone Wars. She was not kneeling beside her master's fallen body on a world torn by droids and fire. She was here by choice, in a time and faction she had chosen, preparing to meet someone she understood almost nothing about.
Her steps carried her forward with a quiet confidence that did not quite mask her alertness. Lord Mettallum stood at the far end of the room, his form both imposing and strangely elegant, the metal of his frame catching and refracting the ambient light, making him seem almost carved rather than constructed. His presence in the Force was unusual—muted in some ways, sharply defined in others, like a being occupying two states at once. He was not a droid in the conventional sense, yet he carried enough machine in him that Iandre's instincts prickled despite her best efforts.
She halted at a respectful distance, her posture straight, her hands resting loosely at her sides but never far from her saber—more out of ingrained habit than suspicion.
"Lord Mettallum," she said, her tone steady and polite, with that soft clarity her voice always carried when she spoke with purpose. "I am Iandre Athlea. Rellik has spoken highly of you."
Her gaze moved over him again, not with hostility but with the scrutiny of someone who had spent a lifetime evaluating metal constructs for danger before ever daring to trust them. The memories of the war had carved those reflexes into her, and she had long learned not to pretend otherwise.
"You will have to forgive me," she continued, her voice lowering just slightly, "if part of me remains cautious. I came from a time when independent machines, no matter how sophisticated, were often accompanied by circumstances that demanded vigilance. The galaxy of my childhood was not kind to those who mistook such forms for harmless."
She left the words there—not apologizing, not justifying, simply stating the truth as it lived in her.
Even so, her stance softened by a degree, a clear sign that she intended to listen rather than close herself off.
"I understand you follow the Maker," she said, a thoughtful note entering her voice, one that hinted at the scholar she once had been. "And that your philosophy ties deeply into creation, purpose, and the nature of being. I would like to hear it from you directly."
A long, steady breath eased from her chest.
"I would also like to understand you—beyond the metal, beyond the surface. Whatever you choose to call yourself, whatever it is you believe yourself to be… I'm willing to listen."
The words hung between them gently, without accusation or fear, shaped by honesty.
She did not trust easily. But she was here. And for Iandre Athlea, that meant she was willing to try.
Lord Mettallum
