The sky burned.
Or it should have. A sunless dome of storm clouds loomed above, casting cold silver light over a world that had no name—at least, not yet. Black soil stretched in every direction, cracked and raw, littered with stone debris and rust-red weeds that sprouted like scars. In the center of it all stood a fortress—not ancient, not new, but half-born. Walls of gray durasteel rose like broken teeth, scaffolding wrapped around towers still under construction, and in the heart of it stood a man cloaked in silence and steel.
He didn't remember his name.
Not the old one, anyway. The memories of Earth—the shouting, the flash of light, the pain behind his eyes—faded like smoke in the wind. What remained now was this place… and a voice that had whispered a single title into his skull when he awoke.
"You are Alor.""You are Mandalore.""Lead."
The man clenched his gloved hand. The armor he wore was foreign—dark, matte, and incomplete. Chestplate and vambraces bore the faint sigil of the mythosaur, barely etched into the metal, as if it too waited to be earned. His helm rested beneath one arm, its T-shaped visor reflecting the flickering lights of the great hall.
The wind howled beyond the broken towers. Inside, the fortress was silent save for the low thrum of generators powering construction drones. Barely a dozen warriors stood within, watching him. Some bore full beskar armor, others wore patchwork gear with exposed circuits and leather straps. They looked to him not with certainty—but with hope.
He was the first. But not the last.
At the far end of the hall stood a circular platform of black stone and glowing circuitry. It pulsed with a rhythmic light, slow and deliberate—like the heartbeat of a slumbering giant.
This was the Hall of Founders.
He stepped toward it, boots echoing against duracrete and metal plating. One of the warriors, an older Mandalorian with faded green armor and a rifle slung over his back, followed him silently.
"We've been waiting for days, Alor," the man said. "The Hall responds to your presence. No one else's."
He didn't reply. He reached the platform's edge and raised a hand. The runes ignited at once—burning red and blue, flickering like a living forge. He didn't need instructions. The knowledge unfolded inside him like an instinct, as if buried in his bones.
Command issued.Summoning Initiated.
Light poured from the center of the platform. A vortex formed—blinding and spiraling, like a reactor spinning backward through time. Then came shapes. Bodies. Warriors. Artisans. Builders.
One by one, Mandalorians emerged from the light, not birthed but recalled, as if drawn from the ancestral echo of a thousand battles. Each wore the clan's armor, some in full, others in minimalist variants suited for labor or construction. No two were alike. They looked around, dazed—but unafraid. They saw the banner above the Hall. They saw him.
They knelt.
The old warrior beside him exhaled slowly. "The Founders answer your call. That means something."
He didn't speak for a long time.
Then, in a voice raw but steady, he answered.
"It means we begin now."
* * *
The fortress's command level was crude but functional. Generators hummed in the bowels of the central tower, fueling flickering lights and basic power to half-finished corridors. Construction droids patrolled uneven walkways, welding joints and laying stone tile beneath metal skeletons. Through a cracked window port, the landscape stretched out in ruins—a planet abandoned, waiting to be forged.
The Alor—no, he—wasn't a Mandalorian. Not truly. But he was something now. He didn't need to remember Earth to understand the weight of the armor he wore. In the barracks below, newly summoned initiates prepared for training. In the forge wings, summoned smiths had begun laying out blueprints and shaping steel for the first run of proper gear.
The fortress was alive.His people were alive.
But time was not on his side.
From fragmented broadcasts echoing through the system, he'd gleaned enough: there were others. Other lords—other humans, pulled from Earth and dropped into strange bodies, strange powers, each with dominion over a species from some impossible galaxy.
Some would build.Some would conquer.Some would burn worlds simply to mark territory.
The Mandalorians would not be prey.They would not kneel.
"Alor."
A woman stepped into the chamber. She wore light crimson armor with a helmet clipped to her belt. Short brown hair framed a young but hardened face. Her voice held the clipped edge of a soldier trained since youth.
"We've received scouting data from the drones. Resource veins confirmed in Sector Three. Also… movement."
"What kind of movement?"
"Not local. Not natural. Scavenger drones from another faction, maybe. No visuals. Too far to confirm."
He nodded. "Send a team to investigate. Two warriors and a tech. I want stealth priority. If they're other Lords, we observe—not engage."
"Yes, Alor."
"And tell the engineers to prioritize the Barracks and Foundry. The next wave we summon will need arms. We'll train them ourselves if we have to."
She gave a crisp nod and left without question.
He turned back to the window.
Soon, the other Lords would come. With ships. Armies. Perhaps even fleets. But for now, this world was his forge. These people—his clan. And until death or glory, he would lead them.
For Mandalore.