Sorry for late upload, I got sick and had no energy to write. That said, going forward I'm just gonna release chapters on Saturday and Sunday for time's sake.

Translation guide from Mando'a:

aliit = "clan"
aruetii = "traitor" or "foreigner"
beskar'gam = "armor" (don't worry I won't use this every time)
The Beskar'gam and the Bes'uliik = "The Armor and the Basilisk Droid"
Beskaryc'gi = "Armored Fish"
burc'ya/e = "friend." "e" suffix indicates plural form.
braala = "hero"
Cabur'alor = "Regent." Literally means "guardian leader."
demagolka = "monster." Specifically an individual who has done terrible things. Derogatory.
Evaar'prica be Manda'yaim = "Princess of Mandalore"
Ja'hailid = "Watcher." A ceremonial and specialized role within Clan Saxon to tend to the Hall of Tyrants
Kom'rk = "Gauntlet"
Kyr'tsad = "Death Watch" (will only used when a character is speaking Mando'a)
Laamyc'buir = "Patriarch" or "High Father." The head of the clan if they were male.
Mand'alor = "sole ruler"
ori'ramikad = "supercommando." Both an official and unofficial title, signifying the best of the best
ori'vod = "big brother" or "special friend"
oriya/e = "city." "e" suffix indicates plural form
rugame = "balls"
Ruug'verda = "Ancestors." Literally means "old warriors" but is more commonly used for the former
Solus'alor = "Councilor." Literally means "united leader."
Taakuir'tsad = "Horned Watch" (will only used when a character is speaking Mando'a)
verd/e = "warrior." "e" suffix indicates plural form.
vod = "sibling" or "brother" or "sister." Used affectionately, especially for younger siblings.

XXX

Tiber Saxon

XXX

From the catwalk hanging so close to the vaulted ceiling, Tiber could admit to his admiration for the architectural marvel that was the Vaunted Hall of Mand'alore. Mandalore the Preserver, in his plans to unite the splintered clans at the height of the Sith Wars, had constructed three such halls across the planet: one each in Keldabe, Sundari, and Brassin. Their staggering height and complexity were meant to emulate the grandeur of the Mand'alor, to remind the people what a great leader could be capable of.

Tomorrow afternoon, it would ironically remind them how divided they all still were.

Speaking into his comlink, Tiber said, "Move the stage eleven meters northwest."

"It'll be off-center," the event organizer, an elderly Awaud, complained back. "We'll then have to be the ornamental statues and seating of the Laamyc'buire back to—"

"It'll also bring it within perfect angle of the catwalks and rear podiums," he interrupted, keeping his tone hard and final. "My men need to be ready to respond to any danger that arises. Tell me which you'd rather be upset at: an off-center stage or dead candidates?"

The comm shut off as a reply; the woman had some bark for having few remaining teeth. He leaned on the rail, observing the ongoing setup with passive eyes. His part was largely done: the men knew where they were to be stationed, fast respond craft were hidden in a nearby structure, and the final sweeps for hazards were scheduled.

But confident as he was in his arrangements, the burden of paranoia was still present. To let another disaster unfold—especially one he was overseeing so publicly and closely as this—would cripple his career and bring into question if he even deserved to be the Kando'al'verde of Mandalore.

A finger began to tap on the railing as an outlet for the barely contained energy. All will be fine, he told himself. Everything is in place or will be soon. I'd love to see the insurgents punch through all of this.

But Tiber did not move from his position, a hawk surveying the landscape below. His finger continued to tap, though his self-commendation had reduced its anxiety reasoning. Now he was just impatient.

How long was he going to keep him waiting for?

His thoughts drifted to Sarri and Gar. Why had she suddenly decided to steal him away? To wish him luck for the First Primary? To uncover information from her unsuspecting brother to then transfer to Bo-Katan?

No, she's not a serpent, and her reaction to his billboard was hardly favorable. He frowned, but he could not piece together anything more than that. Turns out he didn't have a very strong understanding of his sister.

There was a commotion below, the workers turning their heads towards the massive front door. This was out of sight from where he currently was, but his brief distraction had successfully abated his impatience: familiar sounds of shuttle landing in the courtyard drowned out all other noise.

Right on time, his right gauntlet began to ping with the indicator of an incoming holocall. He accepted it, deciding to keep his helmet on for the blankness of its feature. Keeping the distaste for Moore out of his face was becoming a real chore, these days.

Only it wasn't Moore, but Verideon. "Good evening, Marshal," he said in cool Basic. "How goes the preparations?"

"They go fine," he replied cautiously. He craned his helmet to the side; no, he was not mistaken. The shuttle had landed, but there were no further sounds of other transports or gunships. "Forgive my lack of enthusiasm, but I was expecting the Commodore."

Verideon's hands went to his hips. "Yes, about that. Perhaps you should come down and we can talk about it."

"Fine." He cut the transmission and jogged down the length of the catwalk. Where he passed his men he gave them orders to hold place for an hour more, then they were free to be replaced by the night watch.

The uniformed man was waiting for him at the end of the service stairs, and Tiber briefly commended the foreigner for navigating the massive hall so quickly. But then he was back to business. "Where is Moore?" he asked sternly, dropping his formality.

Verideon didn't mind; the two had talked often, and casually at that. However, his dark complexion was now a mask of annoyance and stress. "Commodore Moore is… away," he said heavily.

"Away?" Tiber echoed. "What does that mean?"

"You won't like it, Saxon." Moore leaned against the steel wall, uniform crinkling as he crossed his arms. "There was a distress call from the orbital station at Gargon. Another pirate attack."

Tiber started. "That's all the way at the edge of the sector. There's no way that he—"

"He has. The 97th jumped an hour ago."

A wetness on his forehead; the heat of the sudden anxiety was making him sweat underneath the helmet. He took it off and tucked it underneath his shoulder. "He can't do this. I was promised the fleet's presence and half-a-legion of clone troopers to garrison the First Primary. Now he gets one call from one of the most backward, run-down planets of the sector and he just leaves?" He bit back a snarl. "He couldn't have at least delivered the soldiers?"

"The report stated the pirates had actually made landfall, and with a crew of one thousand no less."

Tiber's eyes practically bulged. "A thousand? There's no way any of the known pirate groups in this part of the galaxy could mount that and still keep their ships running. It has to be an exaggeration."

"Convenient, isn't it?" Verideon's eyes glittered dangerously, but not with any malice towards his Mandalorian companion. It took Tiber a second to catch on, feeling his heart rise to his throat.

"A purposeful exaggeration. They're luring Moore away."

The commodore's aide nodded grimly. "My thoughts exactly."

Uttering a venomous oath, Tiber slammed a glove fist into the wall. "Damn him. Damn him. How could Moore fall for such an obvious bait?! This is ridiculous, I was counting on those men!"

Somehow, Verideon's gaze darkened further. "Will your Mandalorian warriors not be enough to protect the First Primary?"

"There's enough of them," Tiber ground out. "But that didn't stop the terrorists from attacking the Scilla Art Gallery. Having an Imperial presence would've changed things a lot."

"There were clones present that day, too," Verideon pointed out.

"Only after I privately requested them from you last minute. There was no way the insurgents could have had warning on that."

Both men relapsed into a terse silence, their minds racing. Tiber could already imagine the giddy expressions on the insurgent leaders, their simple bait having paid off so rewardingly. Not only were there less obstacles now, but they could demolish the whole building without taking out a single Imperial now. And if there was one thing Tiber had learned about the Empire so far, it was that they did not care nearly as much about a subjugated planet's population as they did their own men, clone or not.

Two diverging thoughts unfolded, but one was more immediate. "Why are you here, then?" he asked, trying to keep himself from sounding blunt. "If Moore is pulling out?"

Verideon offered a humorless, thin-lipped smile. "Like I'd miss fireworks as spectacular as the ones tomorrow."

A stab of fury in his stomach. "Funny," he said without a trace of the humor. "Now…?"

The Imperial frowned, considering him for a few moments. "Do you care about your homeworld?" he asked jarringly.

What sort of question is that? But something in the other's gaze, the intensity of it, perhaps, struck Tiber as odd. It was a genuine question, not a distraction mean to throw off from the original. Verideon was somehow going to connect it back to his answer.

Which meant, how was he to answer? How a Mandalorian would? How an Imperial would? How he would? All three answers could affect the outcome.

Tiber pursed his lips while the other gave him a patient look. No, it was even more than the outcome itself. The face of an Imperial, the basest of aruetii asking for Tiber to be truthful with him. He imagined no other Mandalorian had had the chance to have an intimate moment like this with an Imperial, to earn trust.

To earn respect. Standing. Influence.

Power. Power, the root application of the Empire. Power, from a turbolaser blast that could vaporize beskar. Power, from a legion of troopers that could overwhelm any clan of Mandalore.

That had overwhelmed a clan. Clan Darvwar hung clearly in his mind. Perhaps then Tiber had made his choice on where his loyalties and ambitions wanted to go. Bearing that in mind, the answer was suddenly magnified clearly.

"I feel little for Mandalore. It clings too strongly to its antiquated ideas of warriorhood, isolationism, and ancestry. Once these were a source of strength for all Mandalorians, but the Siege proved how outdated they had become. Kryze would not have won without the Republic coming to her aid. She could not do it alone."

It felt good to say it all, to confess the hidden displeasures he'd long had. Verideon was a good listener, not interrupting as he continued to spit on the regent and the Ways he had been diligently raised to put his whole identity into.

But the Duchess had failed. Pre Vizsla had failed. Then Maul. Now Kryze was. They all claimed to be leaders representing the identity of Mandalore, what their people needed to heed and follow into the faces of whatever threats arose.

None of their faces adorned the Vaunted Hall of Mand'alore. None had provided a lasting, stable legacy.

And in the midst of the clan banners and emblems raised from the hall's tall ceiling lied the biggest of all: a waving, blue and white insignia of the Empire.

When his admission of cultural betrayal was over, Verideon clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I knew you could be the one I could trust," he said plaintively. "From the moment you led the attack on Clan Darvwar, I felt it. It is why I have gone to lengths to make sure your measures have gone to pass with Moore."

Tiber nodded knowingly; he had long suspected the aide's hand in some of Moore's actions. He had even seen it himself, when Verideon had forced through the dispatch of clones and ground vehicles to the Scilla Art Gallery. Theirs had been a clandestine alliance, now fully made aware between each other.

"I am here to oversee all goes well for the Empire's designs for Mandalore," Verideon continued, guiding Tiber down the service hallway. "I have strict, confidential orders from above, and so I cannot explain my presence much more than that. But I've been needing someone I can trust within the Provisional Council, so take even this highly sensitive admission, however small, as a sign of my faith in you."

"I understand. But this doesn't change our current dilemma."

The Imperial grimaced. "It does not. But with my being here, I hoped you would find a way to mitigate Moore's mistake."

"Me?" Tiber found it hard to keep the amusement from his voice, even with this overbearing situation.

"Yes, you," Verideon countered, matching his tone. "Why, you don't think you can?"

"Not at all. You just might not like my plan."

"So you do have one?"

Tiber tapped his temple. "A Mandalorian I may be, I still use my brain adequately enough. But it brings me to a counter-question."

"Which is?"

The ooze of confidence dissipated somewhat. This would be tricky ground to cover. "You are not purely Moore's aide?"

"I already told you as much."

"Then you won't mind me speaking… poorly of him." Verideon cocked an eyebrow but said nothing; Tiber took a breath of anticipation. "To have become a commodore, even if his rank was entirely the product of pulling political favors, Moore cannot be stupid. Which begs as to why he fell for such a simple trap as to be lured out to Gargon."

Verideon frowned, but it was one of contemplative thought, not anger. "You think he is in league with the insurgents?"

"Possibly. I can't see it as any other way."

Verideon, arm still on his shoulder, eased them both to a halt. They were only a meter or two away from emerging out of the service tunnel back onto the main floor. "Let's say that Moore is involved, which I doubt as I've seen no sign of it," the man said. "What does that have to do with your plan?"

Tiber's lips curled. "My idea isn't foolproof. In the event that it goes wrong and something does happen, I'll need someone to blame."

Now it was the Imperial's turn to slowly catch on. "You want to pin Moore as a traitor so he can take the political fall instead."

It wasn't a question, and Tiber didn't try to treat it as one. "Will you corroborate that?"

For a moment only a quiet, unreadable gaze from the fake aide. Tiber felt a bead of sweat roll down the back of neck, gratefully out of sight of the other.

"You have a very Imperial mindset, Tiber Saxon." Verideon chuckled before clapping his hand down on the other's shoulder again. "I think you'll go far in the Empire, given the opportunity. Yes, I'll agree to that.

"Now, tell me of your plan."

XXX

Festus Hark

XXX

"Still fifteen hours until exit, Lieutenant."

"Thank you." Hark stared out at the blue-and-white tunnel of hyperspace, his hands on the guard rails before the crew pit. He just could not believe they were traveling to Gargon.

Out here. Away from Mandalore.

This is madness. I can't let this stand.

His stride to the turbolift from the bridge was full of a straightforward sense of duty. It was only as he stepped into the turbolift did the first flicker of doubt clouded his judgement; was this going to be insubordination, challenging Moore so overtly?

The flicker turned out to be only that. Orders and judgement of Moore be damned, this couldn't be left unfettered.

The trip was almost as short as the doubt. Finding the same two clone troopers guarding the commodore's office, he rapped his hand twice on it.

"Enter." The door slid open from the controls within; giving both clones a brief look, Hark stepped inside. The metal closed down behind him, trapping him within.

Moore was at his desk, one of his wartime trophies before him. His face bore pleasant surprise. "Lieutenant, I wasn't expecting you."

He looked carefully around the room, but there was nowhere the commodore's aide could be out of sight. "Where if Aide Verideon?"

Moore shrugged. "He requested to head down to Mandalore to supervise the First Primary. There's not going to be much of a need for him at Gargon, so I allowed it. Lets me say the Empire was present at the thing, anyways."

He sounded so dismissive that Hark could hardly remember to be cordial. "Commodore, with all due respect, we should be down there with him. The chances that a terrorist strike hit the Mandalorians is practically guaranteed without us there." He swallowed. "I think this is a vast error we're committing to, going to Gargon."

"The people there still need our help, Lieutenant. Didn't you tell me when we last spoke that our duty as Imperials ought to be to help them?"

If the other was being purposefully obtuse, Hark could not tell through his calm expression. "The crisis on Mandalore is much more important, and bears the risk of causing many more casualties than a pirate raid."

"But as the report to High Command will explain, a confirmed incident at Gargon overtakes a supposed one on Mandalore. The 97th has to react accordingly."

"You don't actually—" Hark caught himself. The way Moore had phrased it… "No. You don't actually believe that."

Moore gave him a wide smile. "Congratulations, Lieutenant. Yes, you're getting it! Now, what will happen as a result of us going to Gargon?"

Was this a game to the man? Did the lives on the line mean nothing? Perhaps it was time to remind him of them. "Hundreds, if not thousands will die if the attack happens on the First Primary. Among them your own aide!"

"Exactly." Moore stood from his desk, abandoning the trinket there to beckon Hark to a side panel. Disbelieving, Hark approached it and stood next to his commanding officer. With a few taps on the control panel, a detailed map of the Mandalore sector appeared. Certain notes had been made with attaching lines. Hark understood only some through the thinly legible Aurebesh, but one stood out in particular, scrawled near the planet Krownest: "Icy environment requires snowtrooper reinforcement. Fortifications antiquated but uses reinforced doonium, traditional siege unwise. Planetary shield generator only Class C. Orbital bombardment followed by swift strike incision likely to yield surrender."

Hark's mouth dropped some centimeters. "This… this is a war strategy for capturing Krownest," saying the obvious conclusion in hopes Moore might refute it.

"Indeed. I expect it to be one of the worst hotzones of the war. I was hoping for a chance to examine the Clan Wren stronghold to see if there was an underground system to withstand such a bombardment, but that chance will soon pass."

Soon pass. "There is no war with Mandalore," he said mechanically.

"Not yet." Moore sounded almost gleeful, the energetic tone betraying his mildly controlled expression. "But when the democratic candidates are all killed alongside Verideon, I will be able to doubly declare that Mandalore's democracy has become endangered and that the insurgents have furthermore directly attacked one of the Empire's own. It'll be a good enough casus belli for High Command."

It could not be the case. It just couldn't Slowly, Hark turned to meet the other's eyes, to find something within them that betrayed an alternate conclusion. But all he found there was some confusion as to why the lieutenant was not practically jumping up and down with excitement. "Commodore, you've been playing into the insurgents' hands. To… to trick them into starting a war against the Empire."

Moore nodded, but did not say anything else. His confusion at Hark's reaction was growing; he was waiting for an explanation.

And Hark just couldn't believe he had to give one. "We just ended a galactic-scale war that ravaged this planet a year-and-a-half ago, and you want to start another one with them? It's… it's insane." Hark actually took a step back. "By the holy star of Mimbam, how could you?"

"We are both vehicles of war, Lieutenant." Moore shut down the display, looking crestfallen. "How could you not appreciate the dangling opportunity before us? Without conflict, how are men like us to have an occupation? No, more than that; how are we to feel the exhilaration of battle, that of which we have been raised for?"

"No… I take no exhilaration in it. It's a necessity, and a painful and terrible one at that." Hark shook his head, as if the whole conversation might disappear or be warped into something else. "To engineer a war just for that selfish goal—"

"Selfish? You go to far." Hark became grateful for his earlier backstep as Moore approached and breached his personal space. "The men and women of the 97th will thrive in the coming environment. The clones were created for the sole purpose of battle, they will love the chance for it. The Mandalorian culture was constructed for war, man! Do you think they made these lures for fun? No, they want to duel our fleet just as badly!

It seems my only miscalculation was thinking you were of the same sound mind as I. That is the only error I have made throughout this operation."

Hark reeled back. He thought of the clone officers, carefully concealing their love for gambling on the Contessa's bridge. Of the Mandalorian Gar Saxon, desperate to be acquitted of crimes he had not committed so that he might run in his people's attempt at democracy. Of the dozens of interactions he had since and before these, of clones and Mandalorians expressing behavior of anything but a innate need for violence.

There were sound minds in this equation, but Hark found himself no longer believing the one in front of him was one of them.

"I will not remove you from your position; I believe you merely need a reminder as to the thrill of combat. But you will from now on be escorted by a pair of troopers. Your communications are to be monitored, as is your travel. No word of this is to reach High Command or Kryze, am I clear?"

Hark raised his head, suddenly feeling old. "Is that a threat or a command, Commodore?"

"It is both," Moore said evenly. "You have disappointed me, Festus. This is the best I can do for you.

"For all of us."

XXX

Bo-Katan Kryze

XXX

In the mirror, she looked beautiful. The tailor had made the flowing aquatic dress reach down to her feet, giving her liberal movement to walk without tripping on the unusually long attire. The indent on the chest caved in just enough for a hint of something that Primir insisted would certainly strengthen her younger male voters. Fenn had averted his eyes entirely, but not for that. It was unfitting for the Cabur'alor to present herself so vulnerably to the masses, especially when other candidates had already professed they would be arriving armor.

Privately, she agreed. A dress of any kind had been absent from her wardrobe for over a decade; to wear it now felt alien, odd. The weight and tightness of the armor was like a second skin to her, one she could shed at will yet replace as needed. This dress was…

"Mandalore needs to see you, not the armor," Primir had calmly explained after the early rebuffs from Fenn and her. "They associate the armor you wear with the recent debacles, not its earlier victories. A fresh presentation is needed."

They had relented, and so she had sulked through the fitting and appraisal by her two friends. It was only after she inquired the separate opinions of Sarri and Ursa Wren, who both exclaimed their glowing praises, did she finally warm to it.

She now looked over it for herself, for two reasons. First, just to appreciate her own form and the quality of the dress itself. She was certain that in terms of flare and glamor she would outshine the other candidates.

Secondly, to steel herself that this would be the last time she would have to wear such a thing.

The last time she had worn an elegant dress had been for Adonai's funeral. Her teenage years were only just beginning, yet the signs of even more royal responsibilities were already blooming. The Great Clan War had scarcely begun a few months ago; the wizened man with the warrior's spirit held so confidently and proudly to his chest, had been one if its earliest casualties.

The royal courtiers had forced Bo-Katan to wear the dress, saying that wearing armor with Satine's declaration to continue Adonai's pacifist ideals would be counterproductive. She had resisted the whole way, determined to acknowledge their father the way he was meant to be.

It had led to breakage of trust with her sister.

"Bo…"

"I won't do it, Satine. It isn't right. Our Ruug'verda would disown us—Father would disown us!" She trembled on the edge of the bed, feeling Satine's soft hand rubbing her back gently in an attempt to soothe her. "We can't let politics dictate what we do with our family. Not when it already controls everything else of our lives."

Satine gave her a small, sad smile. So young, and already with so much pressure upon her shoulders. The future of the royal family as eldest daughter, the victory of the New Mandalorian cause to manage, and assassinate attempts from the errant Kyr'tsad always present. Bo-Katan was certain that if it weren't for the Republic's kindly donation of two Jedi Knights to defend her, her sister would have been dead the moment she had returned from Coruscant.

But she leaned into her role as leader so readily. "Bo, I know it's not fair. None of this is. But we have to do it this way."

"Because they want it to be that way," Bo-Katan said bitterly. "What about what we want? Have they ever considered that?"

"Would you listen to two teenagers to lead your cornered ideology?" The joke finished without a laugh from either of them. Bo-Katan felt the rage building inside her: their childhood stolen, their planet being torn apart, their father gone, and now the genuine sister she had felt she could always count on was fully giving herself over to bureaucrats and other interest parties.

As if feeling the anger inside, Satine withdrew the hand as if it had been scalded. "Bo, please. Try to understand—"

"No, I don't need to." She stood up from the bed and approached the discarded jade dress on the floor. "Fine, I'll wear your damned dress. However much it hurts."

Relief flooded Satine's voice, and with that died Bo-Katan's last hope Satine would see through the politics to the pain in her sister. "Thank you, thank you. I'll make it up to you, I swear."

"You won't have to."

The bridge of unity that had been there since birth was broken that day, though Bo-Katan had not realized that until much later. But by then she had already been attracted to the ideology of Kyr'tsad, of Mandalorians with backbone Satine apparently did not have to show against those around her. The only time she could push back was for the pacifist ideology.

But when before she had stood up for her sister, made the time for her no matter what… those were gone. Never to appear again after the funeral. Bo-Katan Kryze was sidelined.

Perhaps Satine, too, had recognized the bridge had been severed.

And now here Bo-Katan stood again in the dress. The garb of the Evaar'prica be Manda'yaim. The role she had come to hate enough to leave everything of her early life behind to escape.

She swore now, eyes reflecting at themselves in the mirror with a killer's intent, she would not return to it. It was the viceroyship that awaited her, not some diluted and coarse honorific. She would kill him before she let him take power.

For she had concluded who the man of her vision in the Living Waters was. She had not spoken of it aloud to anyone, but Primir and Fenn could see the new fire driving her, the fresh fuel poured into the engine. If it cost her wearing a dress whose mere description hurt her soul, then so be it. It would be worth it a thousand times over the ruin that would rain upon her people.

A fiery battle would be waged before she let Gar Saxon rule Mandalore.