Prologue

There was a reason hope was an abstract, spiritual thing, Narir Van knew, and this was it.

Standing with his gloved hands clasped before him, Narir watched silently as a line of people marched past. Trying to avoid making eye contact with any of them, he pulled his helmet on—an angular, bucket-shaped thing called a Buy'ce—relished the feeling of solitude and warmth the thing suddenly brought, and gave the crowd a slow nod. Heads dipped down, gazes lowered and shoulders hunched and sagging, most probably wouldn't notice; and given the grim task laid ahead of them, wouldn't care even if they did. Most would just continue trudging on in grim silence to the spot where a single Buy'ce was set above the ground, beskar surface ringing with the pitter-patter of rain that was pouring down from the Mandalorian sky to pay their last respects.

Narir tried to push aside a sense of throttling hopelessness, but it was no use. The helmet, now surrounded by throngs of somber, armored Mandalorians like himself had belonged to the planet's leader, Deven Obrim, and after seeing it on him for so long, it wasn't right for it to be disembodied like that. Yet it was, and, as they'd all feared, the black and orange streaked Buy'ce was the only part of Obrim that had survived after clash with the Chiss—all traces of the strong, independent-minded leadership the man had provided had already been severed, cut off like the pieces of him they'd found scattered across the Mando plain now painted crimson with his blood. The only thing that even echoed of their beloved leader—their Manda'lor—was the tiny, ethereal figure of the woman hovering over his helmet, her full lips quivering in the attempt to keep herself under control.

Someone that no Mando in his or her right mind would rally to automatically.

But they hadn't had a choice. Not really. The woman, unhelmeted face young and fair while she jerked it away from Obrim's Buy'ce, looking barely old enough to retain any sort of office, had been the only one to stand against the giant sea breaker that had been the Manda'lor's death-and since no one else was keen to rise to the occasion, she had. An overwhelming vote had poured in for the petite, blond-haired woman, elevating her from meager rank of court-lady to full Manda'lor—Duchess to off-worlders, the aruettii. Her presence was probably only political, her tiny frame looking awkward and ungainly in the full set of fuchsia besker'gam armor and putting her at odds with the image of their old, battle-minded leader, but nevertheless he knew she was just as saddened as he from the news. Wasn't sure what this would mean for her people with the absence of strong leader.

You're an honest little a'dike, Narir admitted, bringing his Buy'ce around to study her. I'll give you that.

An hour later, most of the line had trudged by, lowering only a few stragglers who didn't seem all that amped to be there in the first place hovering around. The Manda'lor—the new one—met his gaze for a moment while they dredged away, appearing to him, draw something out—even if he knew that was impossible. Hidden by the geometrically-shaped t-visor breaking up his helmet's beskar surface, she'd only be seeing pocked blue metal and tinted transparisteel, another reason why he preferred keeping the thing on and sealed. It was private, pure, sound-proofed glory. But nevertheless, the gesture unnerved him, his hands straying to the Verpine blaster rifle strapped over his chest until she finally tore it away, flicking it like blue fire over the crowd.

"I know it's going to be difficult," she began, throwing her melodious, lilting voice over the field, "but we'll have to push forward. We're Mandos—we have to. And I knew that I may not be the best one to do it, but you have my confidence on one thing: I'll try my best to keep Mandalore at peace while she is under my control."

On most planets, her speech would've prompted a loud round of thunderous applauds, encouragements of hearty oya's, 'let's go'. But this wasn't most planets, and it never would be. Mandos were doers, not talkers, and any public speech was merely an opportunity to size up a leader—or question his or her aptitude for the job. Apparently, at least some one was thinking that, a gloved hand and scarlet beskar-armored arm slidding out of the crowd only a moment after, drawing an icy glare from the Manda'lor's dazzling blue eyes.

"Yes…?"

"I wondering how you were going to get through that last part, Manda'lor," a man's voice, presumably the same man who'd raised his hand, asked. "You don't a military record, and…" The top of his crimson Buy'ce inclined toward her beskar-clad form. "…it doesn't look like you've worn armor, either."

Slicing through the peal of harsh chuckling that erupted after the statement with a searing glower, the Manda'lor nodded. "Yes, yes. I know. I've never been to battle before, and I've never was trained to fight my predecessor, but I can learn." Her gaze softened for a moment as she added, "I will learn."