Translation guide from Mando'a:

aliit/e = "clan." "e" suffix indicates plural form
aruetii = "traitor" or "foreigner"
beskar'gam = "armor" (don't worry I won't use this every time)
Cabur'alor = "Regent." Literally means "guardian leader."
Evaar'prica be Manda'yaim = "Princess of Mandalore"
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"
Taakuir'tsad = "Horned Watch" (will only used when a character is speaking Mando'a)

XXX

Tiber Saxon

XXX

Looking through the infrared sensors of his helmet had the effect of tricking his mind into thinking the heat building inside his armor was worse than it already was. That was to say nothing of the warmth building from his anxiety as he saw Gar be released from his ray shield trap and take the blaster from the old traitor's hand.

All upside down, of course. His magnetic boots were firm against the ceiling and he even felt a sense of comfort in it, that the trick had worked.

The betrayal had been so smooth that even he was nearly got up in it. His only indication something had gone wrong was the earlier hesitation from Braxxis when he had reported on Verideon's lack of appearance. He had not suspected his lieutenant to begin with, but to trust someone was just difficult to do. Trust got you killed, regardless if the people were at peace or war. That moment of indecision had cost Braxxis what little trust Tiber had in him, and from then on he had operated on the assumption the insurgents had taken Verideon captive.

What he had not counted on was the totality of the betrayal. Every one of his men seemed involved in Primir's scheme, and he had not caught a hint that it was that widespread. It was poetic, he felt, that he had trusted them all so little and they had repaid him in kind. All guarded faces when interacting with him, helmet on or off.

All for show. Not an honest face among them. Oh well.

Braxxis and Jules were on the catwalk he had left the moment Primir had brought Verideon on stage. They spoke in hushed voices, but with the enhanced hearing of his helmet he could make out snippets.

"… checked the backrooms and aft…"

"… already outside? Maybe he got the reinforcements…"

They had lost him entirely, perhaps thinking he had already fled. They thought him a coward, and for that he had already sworn to kill them.

Not that he wouldn't have fled and left everything behind in another situation. His skin was more valuable than all the candidates combined.

It's just not more valuable than Verideon's right now. He gently touched the right side of his helmet and stroked it, enhancing the heat sensors. The orangey-yellow blob of Gar was holding the pistol but making no further action. He almost seemed at a loss of what to do.

Tiber knew he wasn't. For all the meatheadedness of Gar, he knew his brother was smart enough to know shooting Verideon would be catastrophic, and Gar hadn't even met Moore.

Moore, whose antipathy for the Mandalorians was infinitely clearer than the toxic atmosphere of Mandalore. The Imperial commodore would bombard Sundari for his aide's death without any pause, just as he had ordered Tiber lead the extermination of Clan Darvwar the moment they had defied him. To go against the Empire was to destroy oneself; that was the most important lesson Tiber had learned in the early days.

He prayed Gar could understand that. Because if he was going to take that shot, Tiber was going to kill him before he could make it.

After silently marking all the hostile bodies he turned off the infrared sensors, instead bringing to his face the scope of his sniper. He had originally hoped he would have safe use of it from the comfort of the catwalk—let alone be able to use it right side up—but this would still do.

Don't do it, brother. I need him, and so does the Empire. Don't be an idiot.

He switched the scope over to Verideon. Their eyes briefly met and the tight, nervous grin of the other came back. Verideon had managed to pick him out as Tiber flew off the catwalk, knew his position. He alone had the knowledge that there was an ally in high places.

No doubt he also thought Gar had done the same, and that Gar was going along with Primir's orders as part of some unspoken strategy between him and Tiber. Tiber snorted at the thought; Verideon was right to trust him of course, but Gar? Well, Tiber supposed he had his moments of intelligence, but a meathead he would always be.

And if he was going to squeeze that trigger, all the meat in his head was going to be blown open for them all to see.

Slowly, Gar raised the pistol to point at Verideon. The Imperial looked back to the Saxon on stage and offered the knowing smile, a smile Gar could only comprehend as pride in the face of death. Tiber nuzzled the sniper to her shoulder, taking the breath for calm. Had to be in front of Father, too. It's just too perfect.

The scope blinded him and he recoiled with a stifled curse. No, the scope hadn't acted up, the stage itself had detonated. How Tiber could not see, though he guessed the sudden motion by Gar had meant he'd taken action—and he didn't even know Tiber was up here! You suicidal fool, but at least you got the bigger picture.

Opportunity never escaped him. Bringing the sniper back to his eye, he quickly began to gun down the confused guards protecting Verideon. Once they had fallen, he quickly brought it over to Primir.

But the old man was fast to recover, even faster on his feet. "Up there!" he shouted, blasting off with his jetpack so that Tiber's yellow bolt of death splattered to the ground where he had just been. The ring of guards reacted sluggishly, coming to life like drugged birds ruffling their wings. Tiber's rifle was high-powered and penetrated the beskar breast and backplates easily enough. The weapon was Imperial stock, a gift he had allotted himself from the 97th Task Force's armory during the purge of Clan Darvwar. As he blasted down a third, he wondered if the weapon had been designed with the intention of killing Mandalorians.

Either way, it worked well. A fourth traitor fell, but Primir was going to get away. He brought it up, but the other was soaring above the stricken reporters—

Primir's jetpack exploded, a smaller yellow blaster bolt from Gar striking it as he made to turn in midair. With a cry the old patriarch plummeted and crashed into one of the heavy cams. The reporters immediately fell upon him, to tend to him or bash his skull in Tiber didn't have time to ask, because a blast pinged right next to him.

Braxxis and Jules had finally become aware of him. Tiber activated his own jetpack and whirled about, spraying random fire to the catwalk. Jules dove for cover while Braxxis jumped off the catwalk, returning two shots from his pistol before stopping his fall with the flames on his back.

"Should've come quietly, Kando al'verde!" he shouted, saying his title derisively. His pistol spat another double burst, one of them clipping Tiber on his left shoulder. It burned, but the beskar had thankfully absorbed it; Tiber once again recalled why he ultimately put up with the bloody stench of the suit.

Tiber veered left through the air, cartwheeling through the air to throw off Braxxis' aim. The Wren warrior fell for it and his next shot went wild—

As a bolt singed right past his head. "Sorry, move!" Jules barked from the catwalk, lining up her larger rifle.

"Aim better!" Braxxis shot back, turning his head slightly to address her. Tiber lifted the sniper back to his vizor in that moment and lanced out a bolt that tore straight through Braxxis' own faceplate. The helmet shattered in sparks, shreds of beskar, and red matter. The dead man's body quickly spiraled out of control in midair, ultimetly crashing into a pillar and detonating as the jetpack's propulsion suddenly met a hard surface.

Tiber let loose another blast, but Jules had already went for cover again. Tiber guessed she would hold for the moment and took off to come above the wrecked stage.

Where Gar's podium had been was a smoldering hole, and the stage itself had caved into it slightly to make a miniature valley. Gar himself was in there with the pistol taken from Primir, as was Verideon with one of the rifles taken from his captors. The entirety of the guards were arrayed around them; Gar's perfect takedown of Primir's flight had evidently dissuaded any of them from going for a height advantage.

Which meant they had also conveniently forgotten about Tiber. He rained death from above, but it was much harder to aim with the micro fluctuations of the jetpack. Two of his six shots connected, unfortunately alerting the rest to his survival. Some shouts in a local Mando'a dialect he wasn't familiar, and then six of the warriors were in the air with him. Two immediately fell out of the air by precise shots from Verideon, who snapped a jesting salute up at Tiber.

Where'd you learn to shoot like a marksman, aide? Tiber though dimly. He then remembered the other had lied on his position; what role, then, did this now obvious soldier fill for the Empire?

Provided he live, Tiber would get to the bottom of that.

At this range, the sniper wasn't going to be of much help. Reluctantly he threw it with all his might at the nearest green-and-white warrior, but they were quick-witted; they dodged the incoming hunk of long metal and brought up their rifle.

Tiber was faster, or at least his wrist was. Lining up a shot with the wrist dart was difficult, but clearly some divine presence was with him. It lodged itself perfectly in the exposed neck of the other and they dropped like a fly.

Unfortunately, his tricks ended there. Now it was left to brute force. Unholstering his own blaster pistol he dove through the air, firing back at his three pursuers as an overwhelming volley of yellow fire came back at him. The Vaunted Hall was luckily massive and he had the wide-open space of it to fly about in.

His chasers had the same idea. One of them broke off and was soon out of line of sight, lest he let the other two finally get a shot on him. Worryingly enough one blast did score along his side. It caused no damage or pain, but it was a blunt reminder his situation was not improving.

Running out of fun gadgets here. He zipped between two banners, the blasts of the two Mandalorians zinging holes through it as they broke out on either side to fire at him in the middle. Running out of room, too—kriff.

The third Mandalorian that had gone to outflank him was at the other end. The rifle raised, as the other two blasted from the side. Tiber raised his pistol, but the other was already lining it up—

Abruptly the third's jetpack spluttered as figure soared past him from behind. A moment of confusion as one hand went to feel the pack, and then it abruptly kicked into full power and shot the Mandalorian right into the ceiling within a second, where he crunched and then fell all the way down to the floor, limbs failing.

"Need a hand?" the rescuer called. Tiber hesitated, unsure of a trap—

"Don't just stand there, boy, look alive!" That voice he recognized and Tiber flew out from between the banners—

Aurelius was just finishing gunning down one of the other insurgents who had been on the outside of the banner. Tiber's actual rescuer, who he now recognized as the Laamyc'buire of Clan Ruber, gave him a nod of acknowledgement before returning fire to the ones attacking Gar and Verideon.

"How in the stars did you let this come to pass?" Aurelius demanded of him, flying in close. His helmet did nothing to conceal the anger beneath. "Do you have any idea what this fiasco will for Clan Saxon's reputation?"

"It's under control," Tiber returned coolly. Thanks for asking if I was alright.

"You're a lunatic, just like your brother," Aurelius growled. "Why I ever trusted either of you is—"

Tiber pushed him, and before the first word of fury had left Father's mouth the yellow stream of bolts from Jules tore in between them.

"Maybe we finish this conversation after this?" Tiber invited.

"No need. This is all on your head, boy." Aurelius returned fire, forcing Jules back to cover. "Whatever happens, you just make sure you absolve the aliit of the fallout. Or you'll be just like your brother to me."

Is that what you call a threat? Tiber shook his head, but the idiocy of his father could wait. He briefly spat about a few random blasts at Jules, then cut across the hall. He could see fresh reinforcements spilling from one of the side doors, though the stillness of some of them as they entered told him that they had not been intended to be reinforcements. The state of the battle outside might have begun to shift, driving the insurgents inside for the safety and guidance of Primir.

Not that there was any to be found. Tiber could see him grappling with the entirety of the holonews team, who were armed only with their equipment while the old man staggered about with a shimmering yellow vibrosword.

Your imitation of the Darksaber? Please. He instinctively reached on his back for the sniper rifle he had already thrown aside. Biting back a curse, he swam through the air for the stage instead, which was again becoming hounded by the arriving traitors and renewed fury from the mounted blaster cannons.

Gar was polite enough. "What the devil took you so long?" he sneered. A piece of shrapnel stuck out of his forehead, somehow having not managed to pierce his skull and kill him. The blood constantly ran over his left eye, the area smeared with a dozen wipes.

"Should've brought your own jetpack," Tiber countered sweetly.

"Funny."

"Are there more coming?" Verideon bit out, slinking down from the rim of the crater they were in. "I feel like we were just starting to thin them out."

"There are," Tiber confirmed, transitioning to crisp Basic. "My forces outside have begun to respond in full, and I had a gunship called in beforehand. Once it arrives—"

"You mean the one you commissioned from Primir?"

"Yes, wh—ah."

Verideon groaned. "That gunship could level this entire building. At best it's just going to do nothing and let Primir's group escape."

"Loyalty is hard to come by these days," Gar said bitterly, his adaption of Basic considerably rougher, as if the "c's" had to be strangled before exit. "What do we do, then? We can't fight a couple thousand warriors if they're pulling back to here. There's already too many for us to deal with now."

As if to prove his point, a fresh pounding by the cannons came. "Kryze, give me a position!" Gar shouted.

Tiber started; he'd practically forgotten that the other three living candidates were still very much trapped within their ray shields. But by the same virtue of being impenetrable from within, so were they being protected by the chaos around them. The only harm could still come from Primir, who was still busy with his own fight.

"Three degrees east, out seven-and-a-half meters from you," the Cabur'alor shouted back. "If the Kando al'verde has an explosive, he should just lob it there. Battery pack might take out some others."

Gar looked to his brother and made a grandiose gesture. "If you would oblige the lady, brother?"

"Shut up," Bo-Katan and Tiber both said, one annoyed and one plain furious. Tiber clicked on his jetpack, and with a roar of the exhaust he shot into the air again. He had one such thermal detonator at his belt; following Kryze's direction, he saw the cannon in a nest of overturned tables, chairs, and random debris. The spherical muzzle tilted up to follow him, thick red bolts that would incinerate him on contact tracking him.

Its targeting radius was very limited and he simply flew overhead and dropped the detonator like a bomber. Frantic cries came from below, but the device had been cooked to perfection. The explosion shredded armor and flesh, and moments after the battery pack hidden further back lit up into a dazzle of orange and blue fireworks. The three warriors near it panicked and ran, but only one was fast enough to escape the radius; Tiber finished him with four blasts of his pistol.

He flew back around back to the stage, taking in a quick aerial view. What he saw didn't make him happy and he reported as much back to them, Kryze an indirect third listener.

"We just have to hold," Gar said tightly. "Nothing else for it. I'll try and free the candidates, lead them out the back."

Verideon sighed. "Dying for Mandalore instead of the Empire isn't what a signed up for, Saxon. Leave them, we need to escape ourselves."

"The thirteen most important Laamyc'buire and candidates are right here in the crossfire!" Gar retorted, stricken. "We leave them to Primir and our planetary leadership is decapitated right here and now. No, we can't let that happen."

Verideon stared at him a moment, then looked to Tiber. "Don't you two have a plan?" he said crossly.

"Plan?" Tiber asked blankly.

"Yes, a plan," Moore said impatiently, reflexively ducking as some debris rained on their heads. "Weren't you two coordinating that ploy with Gar taking the blaster from Primir to 'shoot' me?"

Tiber glanced at Gar; Gar looked away. "It's a work in progress," he said unconvincingly.

Verideon's dark eyes widened as he saw through the lie. His lips pursed and he gave a curt nod. "I see. I'll reserve my thanks, then, if you don't mind."

Above them, Kryze laughed madly. They looked up at her, but she was lost in her own mirth now. Tiber would've been angry enough to blast her if he weren't so stressed now. Perhaps he would have to leave them behind after all—

"No offense taken," Gar said tiredly. "Doesn't seem like we're going to live long enough for me to be hurt by it."

Underneath the helmet, Tiber grimaced. No, it was too late to escape now. Not with probably hundreds of insurgents in the hall now. Already he could see many more Mandalorians in the air, exchanging fire with Aurelius and the other two armored Laamyc'buire.

The three peeked up over the rim of the crater to exchange fire with those surrounding them. Some attackers fell, but their fire only encouraged a horrendous volley back. One blast took Tiber in the forehead, knocking the beskar helmet off as he tumbled back into the crater. He fell on his back, utterly dazed as the cacophony rose to a pitch. Kryze was still laughing—at me? You bitch—and Gar was shouting if he was alright and Verideon was silent, a deadly machine as he grimly raked fire at their enemies—

"ENOUGH!"

The shout rang with eerie finalty, enough that even those in the air ceased their rapid movement. The spell of the word brought a silence to the blaster rifles and heavy cannons, the cries of the wounded. Even the outside battle seemed muted.

Gar came down and offered Tiber a hand, and he gratefully took it as his vision was still swimming. His forehead burned and yet felt cold and slimy; a moment later blood tricked down the bridge of his nose. He guessed himself lucky to be alive.

Together they crested to peek over the top. Primir stood on top of the table where the Laamyc'buire had been seated. Behind him, all of the reporters and operators lied in either dead or unconscious heaps. The Laamyc'buire who had not had the vigor to flee or ardor to resist cowered below him.

Primir's left wrist was raised for those on the stage to see. His right hand's fingers hovered just above the three green squares on the gauntlet's panel. "Not another move," he hissed. "Or three more dead will be on all your conscience."

XXX

Bo-Katan Kryze

XXX

"As if that weighs on our minds when we've just blasted down a couple dozen," Tiber scoffed over the iron sights of his pistol. Bo-Katan could see one finger playing back-and-forth on the "stun" and "kill" switch. "You can't bluff an escape. Surrender."

"Your bargaining posture is no stronger," Primir retorted. "Lay down your weapons—all of you—and the lives of the candidates will be spared."

Kryze felt the urge to be sick on the spot. It was not that the prospect of death was now suddenly choosing to disturb her, but once more it was the underlying sense of disbelief that Primir Wren might actually be the one to do it. Not only hers, either, for Hr'renek and Lorka were utterly innocent. They had only sought to make a bid for running Mandalore; rivals, yes, but enemies? No. They were fellow Mandalorians.

Just like the dozens of dead strewn about the room were. She had stomached murdering others during the Siege, shoved off the pain by telling herself they were venomous scum who were trying to drown the planet in the blood Maul would inevitably spill.

There's none of it here. Primir isn't psychotic or deranged, he just sincerely believes what he's doing is right. All of these people fighting under him share the vision of needing a Mand'alor.

A vision they would shed innocent people for. Had already done it—were there, among the thousands dead and wounded in Keldabe and the Scilla Art Gallery, those who were happily dead for this cause?

She doubted it, just as she knew Primir, just as she had during the Siege, was pushing away doubts about it. His eyes were piercing, his jaw set, his back straight. He would press the detonator without hesitation.

Gar Saxon seemed to know it, too. "Tiber does not speak for me," he cut in quickly. "I may have been deceitful now, but I still hold true to thinking I am what Mandalore needs. And it can be done, but without the carnage you are going to bring." He actually held out a hand to Primir. "We can bridge this, now, before the Imperials return. Think, Primir—what will happen to Mandalore when he returns?"

"Mandalore will fight," Primir said evenly. "What will you do when Moore arrives? No, don't answer. You've already made the choice." He jerked his head to the commodore's aide. "You've forfeited your right to be Mand'alor, let alone viceroy. You are the true aruetii, Gar Saxon."

"Now who's sticking too hard to tradition?"

Shut up, Saxon. You know he'll press the trigger. She flicked her eyes to the slumped reporters. They had put up a terrific fight for only having their own recording equipment to fight with, and shattered cams littered the floor next to the bodies. But one was still upright, a healthy blue light still burning bright to indicate the connection to the holonews. They'll pin it on you if you die.

It felt odd, trying to preserve Gar's reputation. But she could not shake two damning considerations. First and easiest, it was Primir who was now risking bringing the Empire's wrath down on Mandalore. Though she did not know just how or why he would be the shadowy man with the Darksaber directing the bombing of Sundari as she had seen in the vision, she could no longer envision Gar as that person any longer when he was actively fighting against that madness.

Secondly and more soberly, if Primir hit that trigger, only Gar would be left of the candidates. Mandalore could not be left to Primir's designs now, nor whoever it was he groomed to be the "Mand'alor" of his design.

"Primir." The name left her throat hoarsely, a leaf ripped from the branch by a stark wind.

The old patriarch glanced to her. No reply, but she had his attention. It would suffice.

"As… old friends. Please. Leave this place. You've done enough damage to our culture and society today. Your goal has been achieved: Mandalore is once again at war." Hearing the words from her own mouth stung, and as Bo-Katan continued to speak she could not keep the frustration and anger from her tone.

All these past months rebuilding, thrown away. We could've been so close to healing our world, but you couldn't help yourself. You had to do it your way. You couldn't trust me, you could only use me!

Without really thinking about it, her bare hands braced against the ray shield as she leaned her face close to it. Electric fire scored through her skin and veins in sinewy rivets, but the pain was dulled by the rage.

"Leave. This. Place. Aruetii."

They all seemed taken aback by her fury and nonsensical move to crisp her hands. Primir looked crestfallen, but through the haze of the ray shield holding her in place she wouldn't have cared if he surrendered after all. The only thing that would make this right was a blaster bolt straight through his stupid, unhappy face.

"Well said, Bo-Katan," Tiber said loftily. "But you're wasting your time. He's not going to kill you."

A bomb going off outside followed the end of his sentence, bringing everyone out of their reverie. Even Bo-Katan was thrown off; she pulled off the field. "What are you talking about, fool? He's not afraid to—"

"The Laamyc'buire and reporters did not to be around for the wait. He has no need for hostages. He chose not to kill them, because they're important to the Mandalorian people." Tiber rolled his head back to Primir, lining up his blaster's sights. "The old man isn't a reckless murderer. Killing you would turn the whole planet against him, too."

Kryze frowned, looked back to Primir. There was a guarded front to his face now. "Another bluff, then? You can't talk your way out of this, Kando al'verde."

Tiber shrugged. "Prove me wrong, then."

"At the cost of the other two candidates—?"

"You're the terrorist. It's your choice to kill them. I'm just saying you're not going to blow up Kryze."

Gar grabbed his brother's shoulder desperately, but Tiber threw him off. Kryze could not see his face with his back to her, but his posture was too relaxed to be nervous. He was certain. On what, a hunch? Something he had seen? Did it matter, if his bluff was wrong and she would not be alive to think on it further?

Primir sighed. "I now understand why Moore chose you to lead the extermination of Clan Darvwar."

"You're slow. Make your choice."

"As you wish." The hand splayed along the gauntlet, the green lights all running red. Bo-Katan's world lit up in a field of orange flame, white rubble, and a blast of cold air–

It was a few moments to realize she was not dead; the pain in her hands was too vibrant now for that to be the case. But she was on her rear, the blue dress a tattered mess about her. Her ears rang with a piercing whine and her eyes refused to adjust into a steady vision. Groggily, she grasped her still intact podium to hoist herself to her feet.

The Vaunted Hall's ceiling was gone, the distant disc shape of Concordia distant but recognizable. But no sooner had she grasped the moon's identity that it was eclipsed entirely by four small, revving birds—

Not birds; Kom'rks. Her eyes focused on them as they descended close to the hole. Hundreds of actual little birdlike Mandalorians, illuminated by the light of their jetpacks in the night sky, rose through the air into the fighter's waiting bellies. Primir's group was pulling out.

"Don't let them go!" Tiber's voice, dim to her senses, echoed faintly through the smoke of ruin. Yellow blasts came from nearby her from three different blasters, chasing after what she guessed was the dwindling shape of Primir and the two Mandalorians carrying him. A few bolts caught their escorts, but the old patriarch of Clan Wren safely disappeared into the bottom of the largest and loudest of the Kom'rks. Dazed as she was, it was impossible for her to forget the noise of those engines.

The Gauntlet began to drift away, its package secured. Gar, Tiber, Verideon, and the armed Laamyc'buire fired ineffectually at it, but she guessed their shots were ones of defiant frustration rather than anything practical. Just as Primir had become small and vanished, so too did the quartet of fighters until they were swallowed in the night.

"Damn it all," she heard Gar bite out. "What a damned mess. Ahh… well, get the damn Cabur'alor out of the ray shield. EMP grenade, something."

"You think I carry those around with me? It'll have to wait—"

The sound of Tiber stumbling backward, his armor clacking as he fought for balance. She could make out his approaching shape through the thinning dust, the thin bend of his hairline. "You—"

A crunch of contact and Tiber was on the ground. Gar stood over him, mostly obscured in the clouds of dust. "You shabuir. What were you thinking!"

"I was thinking straight, when you wanted to play politician." He spat something on the ground. "You kriffing broke my molar—"

"Oh, I'll do more to you than that! Hr'renek and Lorka—you want to say something to them, about how they must be feeling? Hmm? You can't! You can't, you damned demagolka! WHY!"

No. No, no. She wanted to look anywhere else, but she had to know it for certain. Fighting off a sob, she peered through the smoke—

Just red mist where there had once been two men and the bubbles of ray shields.

"Because now you have less competition!" Tiber snarled. "Because now you might actually have a chance. News flash, you're alive, Gar, and not only that, you stood up to Primir in front of everybody. If he's brought down, the election will continue. Who will the people choose then, hmm? Idiot, think for once!"

"You… you're damned—"

"I'm damned right, and you know it. Don't act like this isn't the perfect setup for you. Now, get yourself presentable before the dust clears enough for that last cam to see you. Verideon, take my comm, contact my men outside. I'll scour the bodies for an EMP…"

Kryze heard it, didn't care. She slumped to her knees, wanting nothing more to be the floating red mist that was Hr'renek and Lorka. At least now they would have it easy. At least they wouldn't have to live with what was to come.

At least they hadn't been spared because they were politically useful. Not because Primir didn't want to hurt a family friend, an ally, a second daughter after his own Ursa.

I'm just a tool, nothing has changed since Vizsla. The urge to scream died before it ever built in her throat. Leaning against the podium that had refused to kill her, she quietly tucked the tattered remains of the blue dress around her and then finally, eagerly allowed herself to pass out.