"So…" Galaar says to Wilks as they watch their combined men form up for the next job. "Since the Colonel is… dead… why haven't you and your men been reassigned? I know Lord Aucht has been bankrolling Cerar, but does he have the leverage to keep a spec ops team on?"

"Of course not. We're under Major Jannon's command now."

Galaar rubs the back of his helmet. "Isn't he just a sniper?"

Wilks tilts his head to the side. "Rumor says he has Intelligence connections. I never ask too many questions in these circumstances."

"Wise."

They say nothing else and Galaar's thought drift back to his last conversation with his father.

Give yourself more credit. I'm not surprised things are going well, Taldin said. You can learn strategy, no one can teach leadership. It's more than just Cerar that'll follow you into the abyss, ad.

He shakes the memory away and gives the signal to move out. The Imps are securing the perimeter and while he and an infiltration team break in and set the charges in the rebellion base. He stands at the back of the room, watching his men set the charges. Simple. Routine. But something picks at the back of his mind. It feels like his armor is a half-size too small and something just niggles and he can't shake it off.

"Timer's set. Out we get." Jakra says, his probe droids circling his shoulders.

Galaar signalled the movement, but stood still himself, staring at the far wall. He looks at the timer ticking down and time seems to slow, each number burning into his skull as they change.

Jakra opens the comm line to repeat his warning to Galaar, but the alor'ad shouts through the connection instead. "Get back in here! Deactivate the charges. Now!"

Though confused, his men sprint back into the room and deactivate the timer. Galaar ignores their bustle and walks slowly up to the wall. He places his hand against it… and then pulls it back before slamming a hydraulic-powered fist through it. The false wall grumbles around his fist and he starts tearing at it with both hands, his men joining in without instruction.

"Refugees." He breathes the word out as a huddling mass of dirty, skinny people is revealed. He clears his throat. "We need medical and evac teams in here," he orders Wilks.

Shaking under his armor, he walks out of the facility and into the dying dusk light. Jakra follows him and visibly shakes himself once they're outside. "How'd you know they were there? We almost slaughtered a bunch of innocents!"

Galaar didn't have an answer. "Just… gut instinct, I guess."

Jakra claps him on the shoulder. "If your guts stays that good, you'll be the next Mandalore."

Xalonie's claims of his Force sensitivity prevent him from finding anymore humor the comment. If she's right, it's more like the next Demagol...


"Hey Xa- Lalat. Are you… okay? You're looking… more green, but also kind of less?" Galaar isn't sure how to act around her.

"Lord Aucht thinks the poison has almost finished running its course. I am so much weaker than when I first woke, but at least I am alive." She runs her hands over her arms, as if it would wipe the color away.

"If it was supposed to hide Sa'alle's techniques, it's pretty terrible. I mean, it's been weeks. If we'd wanted to extract dar'jetii secrets from you, we could have done it by now."

She shrugs. "I am not dead, though. Maybe it works differently in a corpse."

Galaar struggles in the wave of emotions that sentence brings. "I… Yeah. You're probably right."

"I am not dead, Galaar."

"I know."

"And having the Force doesn't make you Demagol."

He whips his head to face her so quickly his neck hurts. "Don't bring him up."

"You cannot run from this. Even if it was not in you, it would have been in any child you had with her." She has her hands on her hips as she lectures.

"She- we-" Galaar shakes his head, at loss. "It doesn't matter now. I could never be with anyone else."

She touches him, then, her open palm against the center of his breastplate.

Galaar looks in her eyes and sees only pride and determination. His mind plays back a reel of the conversation: her speech pattern is almost it was before. His lungs burn with every breath as the temptation scorches him.

"You wouldn't be with anyone else, Gal."

A howl of grief tears itself from his throat. "Stop. Please. You're not her. I'll accept the Force in me, but please, just… leave me alone." He staggers out of the room before she can protest.


"Cyare."

Galaar hears the name in the quiet of his mind. It stirs him from his dreams, but only because it makes him remember. His heart tightens in his chest and he thrashes, trying to push the pain away.

"Cyare." Louder, more insistent.

He snaps his eyes open to break the spell, but the nightmare refuses to end. Xalonie, Lalat, his cyare stares down at him in the dim predawn light in his quarters. He swallows the lump in his throat to keep from crying and brushes her hair out of her face while waiting for the vision to fade.

"Gal. It truly is me. I remember." She touches his cheek, just under his eye, with only two fingers.

He holds his breath, suddenly unwilling to let this vision fade. This kind of torture is new, but he can't bring himself to end it.

"This is not a dream, di'kut, stop staring as if I will disappear." She grins, wide and wicked. "Unless I am too burk'yc to be your cyare anymore."

Galaar pulls her mouth down over his before she finishes the last word. Face held tight to hers, he shifts in his bed until she's laid out on top of him. When he breaks their kiss, it's just to hold her face against his. He feels his tears press against her skin. "I missed you, cyare."

"Why miss me? Mhi solus dar'tome."

He holds his eyes tightly closed to keep from sobbing. "Stop talking, cyare, I don't think my heart can handle anymore."


Mhi solus dar'tome. - We are one when parted. (Significance being that this is the second line in Mandalorian marriage "vows" which need only be said by both parties for them to be married in Mandalorian culture.)