Was delayed in posting because of the degrading health and death of a family member early Easter Sunday. Probably will be sporadic for a bit because of this.

For early access to chapters and for other stuff, feel free to join my Discord. Link to my Discord, just remove the space because FF do be the big stupid: discord /2XN2rzuFpM

Also, I have art for Kane on my server. Feel free to have a look.

xRSxxRSxxRSx

(6 months after Kane has been adopted)

The ship dropped out of hyperspace with a smooth ripple of motion, revealing the lush curve of Corsin hanging just beneath the viewport. It was beautiful, too beautiful for the kind of life I had lived lately. Verdant forests stretched out across wide continents, broken by silver rivers and turquoise oceans that glittered in the sunlight. The sight of it almost made me forget the acrid dust of Nar Shaddaa and the jagged black metal of the fighting pits.

Almost that is.

Pre was already keying in the landing codes. His posture looked relaxed, but I could feel his awareness sweeping over the cockpit like a quiet current. He didn't ever truly let his guard down, which was respectable enough. Complacency in this sort of business gets you consigned to a dirt nap.

Corsin's port bustled with traders, freighters, and all sorts of rough types. Pre didn't linger. We were there to refuel, grab supplies, and get back into space. But I didn't mind. I liked the clean air without the faint hint of recycled ship air. I stretched out with the Force like a web of invisible threads, feeling people brush past me without ever touching. Excitement. Tension. The thrum of life. It had become a habit, reaching out and listening to the world.

A year ago, I could barely sense strong emotions without giving myself a headache. Now, I could sense the shift in a man's emotions before he opened his mouth. It wasn't easy. It never was. But it was mine, and I had earned it the hard way from Malgus.

Pre let me handle most of the bartering now. The vendors talked fast and loud, but I held my own, some even nodded in approval when they noticed how young of a human I was. It made me stand taller.

And I was taller, another inch or two since Nar Shaddaa. I was starting to fill out more too, with a little bit more filler on my arms and legs. I still carried the scars though and still got the occasional phantom aches that were diminishing over time, but I wasn't the same in pain and hair trigger animal who had crawled out of the pits.

Training had been brutal as was usual as well. Pre didn't go easy on me just because he adopted me. If anything, he pushed harder. Blade drills every morning, blaster practice until my arms shook, hand-to-hand until I could barely stay upright. But it paid off. The muscle memory from my old life, the way to clear a room, how to steady my breathing, the instincts when someone was about to shoot, it all came back after more training. It was like I had two lives layered on top of each other now. Marine and Mandalorian.

We stocked up on ration packs, ammo, tools, replacement parts, and a few medkits. I grabbed a new set of gloves and some thermal wraps for when we hit colder space. Corsin might have been paradise, but Mandalore was another story.

As we lifted off and punched back into hyperspace, I sat in the co-pilot's seat, staring out at the stars.

"Dwell on the beauty of life." I whispered to myself, too quiet for Pre to hear, remembering it as what I had paraphrased to Anakin before everything went wrong. "Watch the stars, and see yourself running with them."

I didn't know where the road would lead. But for the first time since Shmi died and Anakin fell silent, I felt like I wasn't just surviving.

I was becoming something.

Someone.

And I wasn't going to stop.

The stars stretched into lines, the blue tunnel of hyperspace swallowing us in silence. I leaned back in the co-pilot's seat, arms crossed, trying not to doze off. My body ached from the morning's training and the minor repairs we'd done on Corsin, but my mind was restless.

Pre didn't say anything for a while. Just sat there in the pilot's seat, his helmet resting on the console beside him, his expression unreadable as ever. I'd learned not to interrupt him when he got that look, like he was tracking something far off in his head.

Eventually, he broke the quiet.

"You've been asking what the plan is for when we get to Mandalore," he said, still watching the swirling blue. "Might as well give you the full picture now that we're on approach."

I sat up straighter. "Alright."

I had started asking the last couple weeks about what ''our' plans were on our way to Mandalore, but he had declined to answer until, as he put it, he had everything planned out.

He nodded slightly. "I told you in your other lessons that Clan Vizsla controls most of Concordia, yes?"

"I do." I nodded.

"My men discovered a Beskar vein," He said, his voice low. "Not a big one, but more than rnough to prove a common theory of Concordia."

I momentarily froze completely, trying to digest what I'd just heard. That was not the case in Legends and I don't recall that being the case in TCW unle-, maybe there were mines there in TCW? Actually, I think I remember that now… But Pre made it sound like finding Beskar was a surprise.

"What theory?" I asked, though I already had a bad feeling from my earlier thoughts.

"That Concordia was formed from Mandalore itself. Long ago. Some think a planetoid struck the planet and the debris became Concordia. No one really believed it… until now."

I blinked and stared at him. "That's… not what I remember from—" I cut myself off. I still didn't know where exactly I was. Legends? Canon? Or some twisted hybrid?

"That's why it matters," Pre said, misreading my silence. "If Beskar runs through Concordia, then it's more than just a moon. It makes it leverage."

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. "Leverage for what?" I suspected what he was going to say, but I waited patiently.

"Unity," he said simply. "The clans are scattered. Too many banners not devoted to a single cause like what it was in the civil war between Mereel's forces and the Death Watch. The Beskar gives us something to rally around, and Clan Vizsla is in position to lead that charge."

There was a fire under the calm in his voice. Not desperation, but determination.

"I'm the head of the clan," he added, having already said it before. "Ever since my brother's death. Which means, for all practical purposes, I'm the ruler of Concordia. Republic envoys and politicians refer to me as 'Governor' in official talks. It's not a title I asked for, but it works."

I nodded slowly, letting that settle.

"And the Republic?" I asked. "Will they just let you sit on a Beskar vein?"

Pre smirked. "They're watching of course, but nobody but I and a select few know of the discovery. But measures must be taken, especially now that the New Mandalorians are getting funding and support."

They were quite unforgettable… New Mandalorians. Pre had mentioned them in passing, usually with disdain for good reason. Pacifists, politicians. People trying to turn warriors into diplomats. Not that I needed to hear his view of them to know about them because I knew the idiots existed from TCW, unfortunately.

Unrealistic to the nth degree and a disgrace to the EU continuity, and now the dodos in human form actually existed!

Such naive cunts. Civilization and thus peace extends as far as your guns reach and the depths of your will in using them.

"They want to remake Mandalore in the Republic's image," he continued. "They get aid, influence, and a shiny seat at the table. But the vode on the ground? They're angry and want them dead."

I could feel the tension building under his words, like coals beneath the surface. This wasn't just politics. This was something deeper. Identity. Pride.

"And you want to change that," I said.

"I will change it," he said. "The Beskar gives us the means to get things rolling. If we can unify the clans, then we can rebuild something stronger. Something real. And without the issues of the previous civil war."

He turned to look at me fully now, blue light flickering over the sharp angles of his face.

"You're part of that," he said. "Whether you're ready or not."

I didn't answer right away. The idea of being pulled into Mandalorian politics wasn't exactly what I imagined when I escaped Nar Shaddaa, but it was something I had indeed come to terms with if I was wanting to do what I had promised.

Still, the whole Beskar-on-the-moon thing threw me. That wasn't how it was supposed to be. Not in the version of Star Wars I remembered. But this galaxy wasn't following any script. Maybe it never had.

I met Pre's gaze.

"I'm ready," I said.

He didn't smile openly, but the shadow of one was enough.

We slipped deeper into hyperspace, heading straight for Mandalore's shadow. And I couldn't help but feel like the war I'd been born for was only just beginning.

xRSxxRSxxRSx

The ship rattled slightly as we dropped out of hyperspace, the blue tunnel snapping away to reveal the planet.

Mandalore.

Even from orbit, it was breathtaking.

It was a sharp and varying shade of greens and light browns, with a few sections of tan, red, and silver crags streaking across the surface like scars in some sections.

I could already imagine the brutality of the jungles. Harsh. Proud. Unforgiving. The kind of place that forged warriors. That burned the weak out of its people like a crucible. It wasn't beautiful in the way Corsin was, or Naboo, or any of the garden worlds I'd seen through Holonet searches. This was the kind of beauty that made you bleed when you touched it.

I stood at the viewport, eyes wide. The realization hit me harder than I expected.

I was here. Really here.

Not as a tourist. Not as some outsider watching from the sidelines. I had a place now, and a name that carried weight. And a man standing behind me who was shaping the future of this world one calculated step at a time.

Pre walked up beside me, arms crossed. "Seeing it from space for the first time is unforgettable, isn't it? Our people were forged and molded by it, where we became what are and will always continue to be." His tone dropped low as he kept talking, and I knew the man cared; about his people, and all that they were.

I nodded, but something inside me twisted.

Because in that moment, gazing down at the vibrant, defiant world below, a thought crystallized in my mind with terrifying clarity.

I will be powerful.

It wasn't just an ambition. It wasn't some childish dream. It was a fact, cold and real as the steel under my boots. I had the tools, the will, and most importantly the Force. Training that sharpened me every day, the old instincts from another life and new ones honed in the pits of Nar Shaddaa. Pre was grooming me for something, even if he didn't see the full shape of it yet.

And then there was Malgus.

The holocron still pulsed in my memory like a warning beacon, even when away from it. I hadn't unlocked all of it yet, but I knew what else was hidden that I had not been made privy to yet. A collection of knowledge from a monster who had waged war on the Republic and nearly torn the galaxy apart.

There were maps. Coordinates. Caches of weapons. Armories, black sites, facilities long thought buried or erased. If I could unlock it fully… I wouldn't just have power. I'd have leverage.

My heart thudded harder in my chest.

Pre was already poised to unite several clans, together if he wasn't overestimating his chances. With the Beskar discovery, with his claimed influence, he could spark something real.

And I could shape it, mold it, and most assuredly lead it.

The thought should've thrilled me. It did. But there was a spike of guilt, sharp and bitter, buried beneath the fire. Because of the promise I had made to myself for the failure to protect them. And I knew what I was to do to bring about that, what I would become.

Mand'alor.

The word sat in my chest like an unlit fuse.

Not tomorrow. Maybe not for years. But it would happen. The Force whispered it in moments of silence. My instincts screamed it when I fought. It was my path, whether I wanted it or not.

I breathed in, slow and steady, trying to let the weight of that truth settle.

Below us, the planet turned slowly, unaware.

Or maybe it knew.

Pre turned to me, nodding toward the cockpit. "Get your gear. We're landing at Keldabe. Need to get you to an armourer and we'll be meeting one."

I nodded, forcing the thought away, for now.

But even as I walked away, the vision stayed with me.

Steel. Fire. A blade of pitch black and a penumbra of white, the signet of a leader. Of a conqueror.

Of Mand'alor.

And I knew… I wouldn't run from it.

I was standing in the ship's small armory bay, fastening the last strap on my cuirass when the ship began its descent. The thrumming hum of the repulsors shifted pitch, and Pre was guiding us in.

The armor wasn't full beskar. Not yet. But it was mine.

A mix of durasteel and salvaged plating, all polished and fitted to me somewhat with some adjustments as I filled out more. Matte grey with cobalt trim, the plates sat snug over the flight suit Pre had given me weeks ago. It wasn't perfect, but it was functional.

The gloves hissed as I sealed them, and I grabbed the helmet off the rack, still plain and still unpainted. I hadn't decided what symbol would mark me yet.

I jogged toward the cockpit, helmet tucked under one arm as I slipped into the co-pilot's seat. Pre was already mid-transmission, his voice flat and clipped in Mando'a.

"Vizsla ori'sol. Landing request at Keldabe, southern approach vector, code five-nine-eight-Viszla-Resh. Transport designation: Raptor One."

There was a static-crackle, and a clipped voice came back. "Copy, Raptor One. You are clear for landing. South pad is open. Transmitting beacon."

Pre flicked a switch, cut the comms, and glanced at me.

"Nice of you to join me."

I shrugged, adjusting the vambrace on my left forearm. His eyes darted over my gear. There was approval in them, but it was the quiet kind, the kind that didn't need to be said.

He angled the ship downward, and the viewport filled with the wild chaos that was Keldabe.

Nestled on a rocky hill beside a river, the city looked like it had been poured together with equal parts defiance and ingenuity. Buildings jutted out at odd angles, metal structures patched with stone and vice versa. Walkways connected rooftops like a spiderweb, and bursts of steam hissed from vents below. It was a far cry from the sterile perfection of Republic cities, and it gave off the perception of a permanent military encampment that eventually turned somewhat into a city because the camp followers decided to bed down and stay with the soldiers.

Pre pointed ahead with a gloved hand. "There. That building, that's Oyu'baat. The oldest tapcaf on Mandalore. You'll find half the planet's history in its stone."

I leaned forward slightly, watching the landing pad come into view. Mandalorians bustled along the walkways in full kit, some old and some young.

My fingers tightened on the armrest, and I realized my heart was beating faster than I expected.

And not in fear.

Pre guided the ship in smoothly, landing gear thudding against duracrete with a practiced touch. A plume of dust kicked up from the heat vents, and then the ship settled.

He powered down the engines and unbuckled.

"Ready?"

I stood and set my helmet on, hearing and feeling it click into place. "Yes."

Pre grunted, stepping past me toward the ramp controls. "Good."

I followed him down the ramp, the dry wind catching my hair. The scent of smoke, oil, fuel exhaust, and metal filled the air.

This was it, it seemed, Mandalore beneath my boots and the Oyu'baat ahead.

I felt the Force hum at the edges of my awareness. The fire was still there, the vision, the weight of what was to come.

But for now?

I walked behind Pre Vizsla, still over half a foot shorter than him and letting him take the full lead because I was a newbie here.

We stepped off the landing platform, descending a grated ramp into the maze of walkways that led toward the city proper. The platform guards, two Mandalorians in dull green and black, nodded as we passed. Not salutes. Not stiff military protocol. Just a tilt of the helmet, like you give someone you see.

We kept walking. Keldabe wasn't a polished capital with wide plazas or sweeping towers. It was dense, compact, and layered. The streets were busy, chaotic, and every other one seemed to be measured and made from different eras, looking like one was closer to Earth standards and another being downright medieval, and Mandalorians in all colors of armor moved with purpose, some carried crates, others walked with children in tow, and a few just watched from behind visors as we moved through.

It also seemed to be especially busy today with people carrying crates or a few hover dollies of heavier crates being pulled to sell at market.

A trio of younger warriors, maybe a couple years older than me in varying blue and red armours stood near a vendor stall, sipping something hot from metal cups. One of them gave a small, respectful nod when he presumably recognized Pre. The other looked at me, hesitated for a second, then gave the same.

Twenty minutes passed like nothing. Our path wound through the outer districts into the city's heart. The smell of food started mixing with the hint of resin trees that permeated the air, grilled meat, spiced stews, fresh bread. My stomach growled and I remembered I hadn't eaten yet.

Then I saw it.

Oyu'baat.

Three stories tall and rather broad, built from a mix of stone and wood, the tapcaf looked like it had been a collection of multiple other buildings that had slowly merged into one. Its dome-shaped roof was tiled and the walls were plastered over with noticeable chips in them and occasional blaster burns marred the edges of the walls near the front entrance, scars left unpolished, like trophies.

A sign over the door displayed its name proudly etched Mando'a and the word Universe in galactic basic underneath it. As I was not an idiot and was also capable of speaking and somewhat reading conversational Mando'a, I didn't need Pre to translate it.

It also said that strills were not allowed inside and that barter was an accepted payment.

I could already tell I was going to love this place.

Pre slowed and came to a stop in front of the heavy, blast-scored doors. The fact they didn't change the doors out or cover it with new paint made me snort under my breath.

"We will be meeting an armourer to discuss fitting you with a more permanent set." He told me, his voice directly into my helmet as our comms were synced together. "Odds are, it will be a design that you can somewhat grow into."

I just nodded.

"Any advice for entering this humble abode?" I asked, looking up at who was basically, on paper or the Mando equivalent, my adoptive father, mentor, and guardian all in one.

"Don't start a fight, but you have permission to finish one." Was all Pre said, a slight uplift to his tone enough for me to tell he was smiling as he said that. Probably an inside joke I'd ask him about later.

The doors opened with a groan, old hinges straining against their age. In front was a short and broad staircase that we walked up and once we got to the top, we entered the main hall. A few heads turned, mostly helmets, but no one gave us more than a passing glance. Pre led the way in, confident, casual, like this was just another Tuesday.

I followed him inside and immediately felt like I'd walked into a warlord's dream of a sports bar.

The Oyu'baat was big, really big. The lighting was warm but just dim enough to give everything a cozy, lived-in feel, which was impressive considering half the customers looked like they could gut you if they wanted to without spilling their drink in their other hand.

It reminded me of some of the seedier sports pubs I'd been dragged into in my old life, back on Earth. Except this place was better. And louder. And somehow more civilized despite the amount of firepower packed into the room. I clocked a minimum of six people in full beskar within spitting distance of the entrance. Helmets off, plates scuffed, most of them armed to the teeth and drinking something thick and frothy out of glass mugs.

One of them looked up and gave Pre a subtle nod. I got one too, after a longer look and was seen to be with Pre.

Dominating the far wall was a massive holoscreen playing what looked like some kind of combat sport, two athletes in jetpacks, slamming into each other midair with blunted axes while dodging stun nets. Not a clue what it was, but the crowd was into it. Around it, smaller screens buzzed with local newsfeeds and what I guessed were updates from other clan territories. Much of it was in Mando'a, but I kept up well enough now that I didn't feel like a complete outsider.

The bar, or technically bars as there were two that curved in the center of the hall, had plenty of available seats and was staffed by a mix of helmeted bartenders and a few older people with no armor at all, just heavy cloth and scarred hands. Bottles lined the wall behind them, some labeled, some not. And I saw what appeared to be bounty posters behind the bar, a mix of actual printed ones and ones on a holoscreen.

Off to the left were booths tucked behind retractable wooden screens, where quieter conversations took place. Private ones. A few heads turned when we passed, voices dropping just a notch before rising again once we were gone. Not hostile, not yet. Curious. Measuring.

There was a second section just past the bar, and it was packed with Mandalorians. It was a giant log fire and the sight of it sent a jolt of memory through me, of my unit on shore leave, when we 'requisitioned' several kegs of booze from the Navy and set up a massive bonfire out in the woods, drinking and celebrating another day of life, and living for the sake of the brothers not with us…

"Kan'ika." Pre's voice pulled me from the memory, and that was when I realized I had stopped walking.

"Was thinking of something." I said, hating the slight waver in my voice. I wondered if I had joined the cadre of the fallen who were remembered in each somber and less somber celebrations of survival.

Then I looked elsewhere and saw a few playing a game of… something going on. No idea what it was called, but there were four people stabbing knives into a board.

Pre glanced over his shoulder at me as we walked. "The game is called Cu'bikad, rather fun actually."

We passed by the main bar and someone gave Pre a nod of greeting as he passed. He returned it with a brief tilt of his helmet, then jerked his chin toward a staircase leading to the upper level.

"Come on. The armourer's waiting. You'll want to be fitted properly before we head to Concordia."

We climbed the stairs to the second level, the downstairs sounds of conversation and clinking mugs fading just a little with each step. Up here, things were quieter, less of the public bravado and more of the kind of hush you'd find in barracks or cheap motel corridors. The walls were the same stone and wood as below, but thinner here, and I could hear snippets of conversation behind some of the doors we passed. A few laughs. A heated argument in low Mando'a to my right, and someone snoring like they were half-dead in another room.

Pre stopped outside a door about halfway down the hall and gave it a short, two-knock pattern. The door hissed open a second later, manual override on a piston-locked hinge. Cheap, effective, and not built to impress. It matched the rest of the room.

The place was about the size of a mid-tier hotel room. Bed in the corner. Fold-down desk. A plain metal chair. Single dim light overhead. Nothing to write home about, but it had a view of the street from a window that was probably reinforced just enough to not shatter if someone threw a chair at it.

And standing in the middle of the room was the man we'd come to meet.

He looked like a hammer that had been hitting steel since the day he was born. Human. Late fifties, maybe sixties. Steel gray hair cropped short, a widow's peak cutting deep into his forehead. His face was hard in a way that didn't come from war, but from work. Coarse, callused hands rested on the top of a metal crate as we stepped inside, and his dark eyes fixed on me the second I crossed the threshold.

Didn't say anything. Didn't smile. Just… sized me up.

Pre stepped forward and the two clasped wrists, and Orid pulled him into a one armed hug and smacked his shoulder in a friendly gesture.

"Good to see you again, Viszla."

"You too, Orid."

"The kid yours I assume?"

"Aye." The then released each other and Pre turned to me.

"Kane," Pre said simply, nodding in my direction as he stepped aside, letting the door close behind us with a pneumatic hiss. "This is Orid. He's one of the few who knows how to work Beskar, and he still does full custom sets on short notice. I sent him your measurements a week ago."

'So this is one of the legendary smiths.' I thought internally. The man in front of me held secrets in his mind that I had no doubt were locked behind a trained will that would endure the shattering of his body and mind.

No connection to the Force, and yet this man was one of a select elite that could craft armor and weapons that could contend against the most elite of fighters the Galaxy could ever muster. A sizable chunk of what made Mandalorians what they are could be laid at the feet of this man and those who he learned such a gift from.

He would be afforded the respect that such an honored member should receive from me.

After that thought, the last part of Pre's introduction of Orid caught up to me.

'Hmmm, so that's why he checked my height and weight.' I thought to myself.

Orid gave a small grunt in acknowledgment, then turned and walked back before he crouched beside the crate. With a couple of deft motions, he popped the seal and lifted the lid.

Inside was a neat stack of plates. Not painted yet. No sigils. Just… wait, those looked like they were semi flexible. These were prop pieces I think.

"Those supposed to be an outline to see what fits me best?" I ask, continuing to eye what I now could confirm upon closer inspection.

Beside them were bundles of fabric and armored underlayers, gauntlet shells, the segmented collar piece that marked it out unmistakably as Mandalorian design. Yeah, this was everything needed for a good outline.

"Aye." The man grunted, his voice rough and gravelly. "Would rather not reshape the Beskar after a sizing mistake. It's not like it's only going to be bracers."

Wait, full Beskar?! I was expecting at best maybe a bit of weave and maybe a Beskad.

I looked up at Pre, his head tilting to face me.

"It will be a full Beskar kit, Kan'ika." He said shortly, but I caught a faint softness and brief spark of an emotion through the Force that he was one of a select few who showed it towards me.

Care. He genuinely cared.

Full Beskar would cost a fortune, even if it was freshly mined from Concordia. You could buy an entire ship with that money.

"Lose the plates you're wearing," Orid said finally, voice a rough grind and it pulled me from that rather jarring realization. "We'll adjust the fit once I see how you move in it. You're still growing, so the design will include measures for you to grow into it some."

He didn't say it like an insult. Just fact.

I moved forward and knelt beside the crate, fingers brushing over the cold metal.

"All of this is custom?" I asked, not looking up.

"All of it," he replied. "Scaled to you. Modifiable, if you put on bulk. And modular, slots are built for additional attachments. Jetpack, plates, tools. You'll grow into it, but you'll also make it yours."

Pre leaned back against the wall, arms crossed.

"Told you he was good," he said.

I stood up and took a step back from the crate, the weight of what this meant settling into my chest. My first real armor. My kit. And it was going to be beskar. I exhaled slowly, then reached up to the collar of my current cuirass.

The magnetic clips released with a muted click, and I slid the chestplate free, setting it carefully on the desk behind me. Next came the pauldrons, one after the other, unclipped and stacked on the corner of the table. My vambraces followed, then the thigh and shin guards, all laid out in neat, practiced order, just like I'd done a hundred times before.

My helmet came off and I pushed my hair back that had fallen out of the bun I had put it in, catching the slight upturn of Orid's brow as his gaze flicked to the shrapnel scars on the side of my face.

The sword came next.

I unsnapped the mag scabbard harness from my hip and slid the sheathed blade off with both hands, setting it down flat with a quiet clack. It was a strange moment, laying down the weapon that had saved my life in the last pit fight I had been in. Like handing off a part of my spine.

My blaster was still strapped to my hip. I popped the release on the holster and lifted the whole rig free in one motion, then set it gently beside the sword. The leather creaked softly as it settled.

Finally, I stripped off the padded layers beneath the plates until I was left in the flight-grade jumpsuit underneath. Worn but clean. The cloth clung to my frame and I shifted a little too much, making my ribs ache from the last real sparring match I'd taken too far. I flexed my shoulders, loosening them.

Then I turned back to the crate and crouched.

The trial plates weren't uniform, there were variations laid out like a buffet of design styles. Different cut styles for the chest, variants in shoulder shape, different gauntlet depths. Some more angular, others sleeker, minimalist. Even the thigh plates had multiple contour styles for mobility versus coverage.

I reached in and pulled out a test cuirass with a central ridge and slight forward-swept edges, looked like the Beskar kind of it would deflect blaster bolts nicely, while still allowing for shoulder freedom. Snapped it into place with the test harness.

The weight was lighter than I expected.

Next came the shoulders. I tried on a rounded pauldron first, but it sat awkward on my right side, brushing too much against my neck. I swapped it for a more sloped one, better.

I tested a few gauntlets, finally settling on one with reinforced plating on the outer forearm and a modular socket rail near the wrist. Would be good for a flamethrower or a line launcher down the line. The shins were next, lightweight, with additional kneecap articulation. I did a few quick crouches, checking the flex.

The plates moved with me.

Pre stayed quiet the whole time, but I could feel his gaze. Measuring. Maybe a bit Proud.

I reached for a final piece, the gorget. I held it for a second in both hands, then clipped it into place around my neck.

It locked in with a clean snap.

I looked up at Orid.

He gave a slow nod. "We'll tweak the measurements, then start the full forge work tomorrow."

I rolled my shoulders again, testing the fit.

Orid stepped forward, eyes scanning the assembled plates now strapped to my frame. His gaze lingered on the chest piece, then drifted down to the gauntlets and shin guards. He circled slowly, arms crossed, squinting like a man surveying a ship's hull for warping.

He grunted once, sharp and short. Approval.

"Strip 'em off. Set 'em there." He gestured to a cleared patch of floor beside the crate.

I unclipped each piece with care, returning them to a standing stack in the order I'd worn them. When I finished, I straightened up just in time to see Orid reach back into the crate and withdraw something that looked like a heavy-duty stapler crossed with a hole punch.

He knelt and grabbed the cuirass first. Pressed the tool to the underside near the ridge and I heard a sharp metallic punch, and a small embossed sigil marked the test plate's edge.

Identification mark. These were going to be the molds.

He moved with the ease of practice, stamping each piece in sequence, the shoulders, gauntlets, thigh guards, shins. Every one got the mark, precise and deliberate.

Then he looked up at me, meeting my eyes for the first time since I stripped down.

"What color?" he asked.

The question was blunt, but not without weight. It wasn't just paint, not to most Mandalorians at least.

"Gold," I said without pause, steady. "And the weave, black."

There was no hesitation. I'd thought about this long before the offer was ever made. Gold for vengeance. Black for justice.

Orid nodded like he approved, though that might've just been his default expression, and started sliding the stamper back into the crate.

"I want scarlet markings too," I added.

He paused, glancing over his shoulder. "Why?"

"To show the scars." I met his gaze. "I want them marked."

He turned fully now, brow raised slightly. "Other than the one on your eye, what've you got?"

I lifted an arm and touched my chest. "Three-claw mark, left side." Then to my leg. "Two slashes here. One on the other." I tapped my stomach. "Downward cut, just above the gut." Raised my right arm. "Two slashes." Then my left forearm. "And one long one here."

Orid stared at me for a breath. Then nodded once more. "I'll remember 'em."

With that, he shut the crate lid with a dull thunk, latched it, then braced his legs and lifted the whole thing with a practiced grunt. Gave Pre a short nod.

"Vizsla."

"Orid."

No extra words exchanged. He hauled the crate under one arm and walked out, the door hissing open and shut in his wake.

Pre exhaled, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he pushed off the wall. Then he clapped me on the shoulder, solid and warm.

"Well, Kan'ika," he said. "You hungry?"

I looked at him, stomach rumbling in agreement.

"Yeah," I said. "I could eat."

xRSxxRSxxRSx

A week had passed since the meeting with Orid and we were now on our way to his shop/forge out on one of the small mountain ranges along the edge of a jungle I couldn't recall the name of, all I knew is that we had been driving for about 4 hours now.

The rented speeder cut low over the hillside, skimming just above the scrub and rock. It was an old model, built more for function than comfort and my back was currently letting that be known to me now after the long drive. Its repulsors whined with a high, sharp pitch as it banked over a curve in the valley road, the view opening wide beneath us.

Pre sat behind the controls, hands relaxed on the yoke, completely at ease like we weren't speeding across a plateau at over eighty klicks an hour. His helmet was off, tucked behind his seat, and the wind rolled through his hair as we passed a group of herders guiding massive, horned beasts across the trail.

He hadn't said much since we left the room we'd rented at Oyu'baat. Just pointed out a few things now and then—"That ridge is where clan Vizsla won during a dispute with the Saxons," or "My grandfather hunted in that forest decades ago."

We'd spent the last few days crisscrossing the region. I'd been introduced to smiths, warriors, farmers, hunters, and a couple of people who didn't give me their names but acknowledged me as one of Pre's . Friends of his, allies, and people who knew how to fight, how to survive, and who didn't ask questions.

It was quieter now. A lull.

Orid's shop came into view as we crested a rise. Set into the base of a rockface, it was more bunker than storefront; reinforced duracrete walls, metal shutters over the windows, antenna array bristling on the roof. A blast door marked the front, and beside it, a red sensor light blinked in time with the camera moving.

"The armour should be done," Pre said finally, eyes fixed ahead. "Final touches like engraving are things he's better at than the other smiths. Orid's an artist."

I nodded, the wind tugging at my collar.

"What about the clan meeting?" I asked. "You said that was in a few days, still Concordia?"

His jaw shifted slightly, like he was thinking through how much to say.

"Yes," he said after a beat. "Secure ground. Each clan will send someone. Most send more than one, so expect some to be your age. Sons and daughters of clan heads."

The speeder dropped altitude, coasting into the narrow canyon where Orid's shop waited. Dust kicked up in our wake, spiraling into the early afternoon light as we slowed to a hover.

The speeder settled with a low whine, repulsors kicking up a swirl of dust as it touched down in front of the shop. Pre cut the engine with a flick of his fingers along the control, and it was totally silent for the first time in over an hour since we took a pitstop; thick, heavy, broken only by the soft hiss of cooling metal under the hood.

We stepped out, boots crunching against gravel and sunbaked duracrete. The wind had teeth this morning, biting even against the jumpsuit. I adjusted my belt out of habit, eyes tracking up the thick metal wall of the building.

The place looked like your typical mountain bunker. Mean. Functional. Looking like it could take a mortar shell point blank and stay standing with nothing but scuffed paint.

Pre reached the blast door first and slammed a fist down on the worn red button set into the console. It clicked loud and half a second later, a deep, braying horn blared from somewhere inside.

Pre didn't flinch. Just leaned in, cupping a hand around his mouth.

"Orid!" he barked. "We're here."

A pause. Then a faint metallic ding echoed from behind the door, followed by the sharp clank of pressure seals disengaging.

The blast doors groaned open on heavy tracks, metal grinding against metal as the heat from inside met the outside air like a punch to the nose.

We stepped in.

The scent hit immediately, chemicals and scorched oil, ozone and metal shavings. It was hot in here, and loud, and cluttered in a way that made it feel like the whole shop was alive and mid-breath.

Wooden mannequins stood like sentries along the walls and workbenches, half-dressed in varying stages of armor; gauntlets without gloves, chestplates with no backings, helmets still missing T-visor inserts. Patterns were painted in grease pencil, small notes jotted in Mando'a scrawled across each one like battlefield scribes.

Some were sleek. Some were brutalist. All of them were works in progress.

A shape moved across the corner, and then it barked out Pre's name.

Orid emerged. He moved with the slow, deliberate gait of someone who had been hunched over something for hours and wasn't quite ready to step away, but had anyway, because we'd arrived.

His helmet was on. Matte black, scorched around the edges, with a thin vertical stripe of durasteel down the center of the faceplate like an old scar. His gloves were coated in smears of what I couldn't identify.

And underneath all of that… I could feel it.

The moment he rounded into full view and I reached out with the Force, it hit me like a rising tide.

He was radiating energy.

Not the kind born of adrenaline, or heat, or focus. No, this was something brighter. Warmer. Passion. It flowed off him in waves, almost blinding. It licked at the edges of my senses like liquid sunfire, golden and raw and joyful. It wasn't the kind of joy you laughed with. It was the kind that lived deep in the bones, anchored in a craft.

In purpose.

And he was brimming with it.

Like a smith who'd just forged something that made him remember why he picked up the hammer in the first place.

Orid walked forward and I heard the soft clink of metal in his step. When he reached us, he raised his arm and clasped wrists with Pre in a firm, practiced motion. No words. Just the bite of reinforced vambraces meeting midair with that dry, satisfying hit of metal against metal.

Then he turned to me.

He offered his hand, fingers gloved but, half a dozen tiny cuts visible where what looked like oil had stained the creases.

I took it after the briefest hesitation, locking grips.

His other hand came up and clapped the side of my shoulder with a muted thump, and through his helmet I could feel the grin.

"Almost don't want to part with it," he said, voice carrying that gravel-and-iron rasp of his, light with humor. "Haven't had that much fun putting a kit together in years. Full Beskar."

Then, turning to Pre, he jerked his chin toward the far end of the shop and started walking, boots scraping slightly on the worn metal floor.

"If you've got any more jobs involving full Beskar," he called over his shoulder, "I'd appreciate the heads up. It's rare I get to work with someone who has that much available."

A stray thought went through my mind, of how I knew that the Beskar mines weren't truly empty. There was so much more buried deep in the crust of the planet, awaiting a bombardment from the extragalactic threat on the horizon…

Or awaiting me searching for it at some point.

Pre didn't say anything. Just followed in silence, arms crossed, but I caught the faint shift in his posture that told me he was... amused.

Either way, I fell into step behind them, pulse beginning to climb.

This was it.

We made our way to the back room and entered. It was hotter. Not uncomfortably so, but warm enough that the smell of scorched metal and oil clung to the air like a second skin. The hum of equipment faded as we stepped in.

And then I saw it.

The armour.

It was displayed on a reinforced stand in the center of the room, facing us like a silent sentinel. And for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

I'd seen parade armour before. Worn by kings and emperors. I'd seen pieces more decorative than practical, designed to impress, not protect. But none of it, not even the most ornate relics of forgotten regimes, looked like this.

Because this wasn't made for ceremony.

It was made for me.

From the plated gorget down, it was a masterpiece of function and intent. Broad chestplate with sculpted definition. Reinforced pauldrons and subtle etchings where the scarlet marks had been painted, three on the chest, twin slashes on either leg, a downward stroke over the abdomen, double lines across the right arm, and one long gash slanting down the left forearm.

Each one where the scars lay beneath the skin.

The paint shimmered like cooled magma against a backdrop of deep, metallic gold. Not bright. Not gaudy. Just… burnished. It burned like what my vengeance was.

The gauntlets were thick, made of thick mesh, built for offense and defense. The thigh and shin plates were just perfect. There were slots I hadn't asked for, attachment points, ready for tools or upgrades. And crowning it all was the helmet.

T-visor.

The face of the Mandalorian.

And the lens, deep crimson. A hunter's gaze.

It rested atop the armour like a crown.

And in that moment, I understood. This wasn't just something I would wear. This wasn't gear.

Never before had the meaning of Beskar'gam meant more than it did now. This armour was mine, as much as the heart beating my chest was mine.

Orid hadn't said a word when we entered, not really. But through the Force, he may as well have been shouting.

Pride rolled off him in waves. Not boastful. Not arrogant. Just joy. Pure, molten passion that burned bright enough I had to narrow my senses to keep from getting overwhelmed.

He took a step forward, still wearing his helmet, and gestured to the stand.

"Go on. Put it on." He said. "I'll give you a moment for the weave, I'll be outside."

He then left, leaving just me and Pre. Though Pre looked a bit away, probably because I technically still was a kid.

Silence returned.

I exhaled.

No rush.

I walked forward, unclipping the weapons from my hips. The holstered blaster. The knife on my lower back. My sword. They hit the table with soft, metallic weight.

The plastoid plates I wore were next, one by one. Chest. Back. Thigh guards. Gauntlets. I stripped them off like I was shedding skin, each one lighter than the last.

Then I reached for the new undersuit.

The Beskar weave had a thickness to it, layered, interlocked threads that glinted faintly in the light as I held it up. It looked soft, but felt like coiled muscle. It was heavier.

I stepped into it.

And the weight settled in almost immediately.

Not crushing, but still weightier. It hugged against my frame, the joints and seams aligned perfectly.

I rolled my shoulders. Stretched. Got a feel for it.

Then the plates.

The gold gleamed brighter up close, deeper too. I clipped the chest rig first, then back, shoulders. The weight stacked, pressing down into muscle and bone, but it didn't feel bad. Just heavier than I was normally accustomed to.

The gauntlets. The thighs. The greaves. Each one clicked into place like they were meant to be there.

I turned back to the table and reached for my gear.

The blaster went back to my hip. The dagger, secured behind it. The seax slid into place at the small of my back. Then I reached for the sword.

Familiar weight. Familiar grip.

I unsheathed it in one smooth motion. The metal rasped very faintly against the scabbard's edge as it came free, catching light like a flare.

I rolled my wrist, let the blade dip low, then swept it up into a guard. Shifted my stance. Right foot forward, knees bent. Center of balance low.

Then I moved.

A horizontal slash, clean and fast. A pivot on my heel, blade sweeping around before coming around in a rising diagonal. One step back, then forward, twist, slash, pivot again.

The plates didn't slow me.

No hitch. No drag. No give.

It moved with me.

Every cut, every spin, every twist of my torso or drive through my hips, the armour adjusted like a second skin.

By the time I stopped, the sword's tip hovered steady in the air. I was breathing a little harder, but grinning.

Yeah.

This was right.

I sheathed the blade with a soft click, the grin still tugging at my mouth.

Pre watched me finish the last motion, arms crossed, helmet tucked under one arm. There was a rare softness in his gaze.

"Do you like it?" he asked, voice even.

I turned to him fully, the light catching the edges of the scarlet marks on my chest and arms. The gold shone warm in the low light, and for a second, I felt like I belonged in it. Like this was a second skin I'd always been meant to wear.

I didn't answer right away.

Instead, I just smiled.

Not the half-grins I usually gave when something felt good. Not the smirk I wore when I was confident.

A real smile.

"I love it," I said quietly. "Thank you… Buir."

The word hung in the air between us, simple and solid.

Pre blinked once, the corner of his mouth twitching. Then it spread into a full smile, genuine and unguarded, lines creasing the edges of his eyes. He didn't say anything back.

He didn't have to.

Pre then turned slightly toward the door and called out, voice carrying with that quiet authority of his. "Orid! Armour looks good."

A moment later, the Orid stepped through the walkway, helmet still on but angled just enough to suggest his head was tipped.

He caught sight of me and let out a quick, barking "Ha!"

"You move well in it?" he asked.

I grinned, rolling my shoulders as the plates settled perfectly into place.

"It's a masterpiece," I said, honest and proud.

Orid gave a satisfied grunt, the kind that only came from a craftsman seeing his work worn right.

He then stepped closer, giving the armor one last visual once-over, then tapped two fingers lightly against the side of the helmet resting on the mannequin's neck brace.

"Go on," he said. "Put it on. Need to calibrate your HUD preferences. I can push a different config if this one doesn't click, easy install."

I nodded once and reached out, fingers brushing the inside of the helmet for a second before lifting it free. The Beskar was heavier than even the heavier helmet I wore in the corps as I lowered it over my head, twisting it just slightly until it sealed with a soft hiss.

The interior came to life in an instant.

Lines and systems flared up across the visor, information filtering in like veins of light. Everything was faintly tinged in red from the lens; soft and unobtrusive, like a warm dusk overlaying the world. It read my vitals, offered a recommendation for a shot count, and showed Pre's and Orid's shape in a soft blue marker. Smooth, efficient, and it didn't crowd my vision.

I rolled my shoulders again, twisting my neck slightly. Yeah. It fit.

"It's basically the same I've been trained with." I answered, looking around still to get used to it more. "Good configuration and the tint is good."

"Glad to hear." Orid nodded, then turned to Pre. "Got the rest of the payment?"

"Credits or an ingot?" Pre asked, pulling out a credit chit from his belt and then with his left hand pulled a bar of Beskar the size of a credit card and thicker than my hand. "I will be commissioning more rigs in the future from you."

"Hmmm," Orid looked between the two, before his hand pointed to Pre's left, "The Beskar. I don't get as much to work with for myself."

Pre nodded and put up the chit and instead of tossing the Beskar to Orid, he walked forward and placed it directly into Orid's hands.

"A pleasure doing business again, burc'ya." Pre said, then let go. He then jerked his head slightly towards me before walking towards the exit. "Let's go, Kan'ika."

"It was an honour to meet you, Orid sir." I said to the smith, then hit my chest plate once with my fist. "Expect to see me again for my final set."

"Honour me by living long enough to see that day." He replied. He then went to the other side of the room to work on another project, giving a slight farewell wave with his back turned.

I took that as my cue and followed Pre out of the fortress, across the gravel, back into the speeder, and we left the place behind.

My hand was in front of me throughout the trip back, flexing as I got a good look at the Beskar weave and the feel of it, as well as inputting the make, model, and bolt intensity of my blaster for my shot counter to be set up. Even if I was going to eventually forge my own lightsaber, I was never going to be reliant upon it. Guns, knives, explosives, flames, and anything that could kill or break the scum of the Galaxy or those unfortunate enough to get in my way would be perfectly welcome, and a saber couldn't reach a target from two miles out.

The walk through Keldabe after dropping off the speeder and back to Oyu'baat was ridiculously pleasant. I was practically floating in silvery white fire, warm borderline ecstasy tingling against my senses as a near surrender to the flows of the Force had me mentally dancing on the edge. No drug could compare, no promise of enhancing chemicals, nothing could compare to what the Force was rewarding me with as I drank it in.

Pre paid little mind to me, not able to tell the thoughts dancing in my head like a roaring crescendo.

I burned with life, the armour that had the closest thing to an imprint of my soul put on it, was gleaming in the late evening sun, and the sight of this military fort turned capital of a warrior culture that was based on me, my brothers, my vode, surrounded me and I felt more at home now than I ever had since the sacrifice I had made in that dried up creek.

This felt more like home than Tatooine, than with anyone short of Anakin, and then my mind focused on my men.

I was the last. None of my unit lived here, no survivors to celebrate another day lived, another day fought, and another day ahead.

I looked around, truly looked around, Pre next to me and just before we entered the Oyu'baat. So many of them, Mando'ade, calloused in the Force compared to those throughout the other planets I had been on, sturdy and dangerous even when bereft of weapons and armour.

Just like me.

It would take time, but I could make these people my own. I had rebuilt my life from ashes once before, when I chose the Marines over prison, and before that when I chose blood dripping from my hands and shards of teeth embedded in my knuckles over hearing the screams of a girl dragged away.

I entered Oyu'baat and the weight of my armour, how I was festooned in it, a masterpiece and a beating life-source of the Mando'ade, further burned a thought through my mind, the Force answering to an unasked call.

Threats to what was mine… would break.

xRSxxRSxxRSx

End chapter:.