Linen bandages clung to Hakon Fett’s skin beneath the torn bodysuit and bacta flowed through his veins in great volume. His chestplate, shattered by his Jedi adversary, lay in ruins, sent to the forges; his visor, cracked and half-broken, revealed a single bloodshot blue eye peering out–haunted, seething, fixed in silent, feverish contemplation.
The constant invocation of Kad’Harangir, of forgotten gods and ancient rites, made Hakon’s eyes roll in quiet disdain. Ormbyr Rook, no doubt, was basking in the fervor of his people’s beliefs, their zeal for the old ways. Fett considered himself a man beyond such superstition, a creature of reason and will.
Yet, he could not fully deny it—could not dismiss the strange, primordial force that surged through him in the heart of battle. It gripped him, as if some ancient fire, long buried, burned within his blood; a fire coded into his very existence. In those moments, it was as though he became something else, something bound to a power far older than his conscious self, a flame ignited by the very chaos of war.
Fett observed his kin, their faces alight with the intoxicating joy of honor won, the satisfaction of a fight deemed worthy. Even their subtle disputes over the value of the Queen’s death held a kind of fervor, a pride that pulsed beneath every word. But as he watched them, unease stirred within him. Their vision seemed narrow, focused too intently on the immediate triumph. They basked in the glory of the moment, unaware, perhaps, that its dazzling light might blind them. He worried they were already too absorbed in the intoxication of victory to see the darkness creeping at the edges of their triumph.
And so his beskar spear began to strike the ground, the sharp metallic echo cutting through the air, but its sound was swallowed by a grating melody that droned from the mercenary’s music box. The aruetii, lost in his peculiar dance, seemed almost like a specter in his towering armor. Hakon’s eyes narrowed, and just as the irritation mounted, a blast rang out. The music sputtered and died, the box exploding in a flash of sparks. Thorin Vizsla, the Hound of Concordia, stood beside him with a smoking barrel in hand, his gaze as sharp and cold as ever. A childhood rival, but today, their mutual disdain for jizz music outweighed even their dislike for one another.
The final thud of Hakon’s spear echoed in the sudden, welcome silence, drawing the eyes of the gathered warriors to him.
“
Perhaps,” he began, slowly, deliberately, “
some of you do not yet understand, or perhaps you have forgotten — the aruetiise choose their leaders through means foreign to us. Some ascend through the clamor of popularity, others by the accident of bloodline, as did the Queen of Onderon.” His single eye leering through the half-broken visor swept across the throng of Mandalorians. He did not need to say it outright; the disdain in his voice spoke louder than any claim of superiority. These methods, these strange customs—how weak, how absurd they seemed against the Mandalorian creed of merit and strength.
“
Revel in your victories,” Fett’s voice grew colder, cutting through any lingering euphoria, “
in the honor and glory you have claimed, but do not deceive yourselves into believing this was a true victory.” He lifted his spear, its tip pointed skyward, toward the planet looming above, a world that still breathed under the shadow of defeat. “
Onderon still stands, unvanquished.”
A pause, thick with unspoken truths. “
Yes, they will mourn their fallen leader, as they do. But do not think them broken. They have seen our strength, they have felt our presence—but this is only the beginning.” His gaze hardened, as though he could see the future struggles already taking shape. “
We are at the dawn of our great crusade, a return to what we once were. The battles ahead will be fiercer, the challenges greater. And to conquer the aruetiise, we must know them—understand what drives them, what weakens them.”
He let the words hang for a moment, then softened, just slightly, as though inviting them to reflect on the weight of their purpose. “
So, yes—revel in your glory. But also, share what you have learned. For it is through knowledge that we will sharpen ourselves, and in the battles to come, be truly prepared.”
Sig Dryggo
Ninurta Slaabur'r
Carduul Akahl
Grissuk Ung Kusp
Gulranor
Feydrik Munin
