He gave a short, dry chuckle, though his one good eye remained sharp on her.
"Peaceful doesn't mean harmless. You'd be wise to remember that."
At the mention of his armor, he shifted his weight, thumb brushing over a scar on the breastplate.
"It's Mandalorian, yes. Pieces of it, at least. The rest I reforged, re-purposed. A soldier's skin should tell their story."
His gaze hardened, voice carrying a familiar edge of cynicism.
"As for Jedi and Mandalorians… hatred runs deep, sure. But it's not the iron that hates... it's the people who wore it. I take what's useful. I keep what's mine. If someone has a problem with me standing among the Jedi while bearing beskar, they're welcome to try and make me take it off."
Then, quieter, almost an afterthought...
"The Jedi didn't ask me to forget who I was. That's the only reason I stayed."
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