The sky cracked again—another jagged flash of pale light beneath the cloud-choked heavens. Dust kicked up in waves, rolling across the plain like mist from a dead sea.
Two Basilisk scout frames burst through the haze, their engines low and humming like ancient beasts. Not the full-scale war droids of legend—these were stripped-down recon variants, lightweight, unarmed, and fast. Sleek and skeletal, with tight cockpit harnesses and sensor masts like antennae bristling along their backs.
The Mandalorians riding them were just as silent.
Vheyla crouched low in the pilot saddle, visor flicking through thermal and magnetic scans. Her eyes narrowed behind the HUD. The sensor returns were faint—too faint.
"Scan team, report," she said into her helmet mic.
Crackling static.
Then a single burst of data: a ping from the last known position of Recon Team Aurek.
That was all.
She kicked the Basilisk into a steeper glide. The second scout followed her flank, hugging the ravine that carved through the canyon floor like a wound. As they crested a rise, the ruins came into view.
Dark shapes. Burned metal. A scent like scorched ozone and melted bone.
The remains of Team Aurek's crawler lay twisted at the bottom of the pass.
Back at Kote'tuur, the war room was quiet.
The Alor stood with his gauntlets resting on the edge of the holotable. The map projected above it flickered with shifting heat patterns and faint radar ghosts. Vheyla's voice came through on encrypted frequency, tight and clipped.
"Team Aurek is gone. Vehicle was destroyed by high-yield plasma. No survivors.""Signs of energy discharge consistent with combat droids—autonomous. Hostile.""Sending data burst. Scanning local ruins for further evidence."
The Alor's fingers tightened on the edge of the table.
"They were scouts," he muttered. "Not soldiers. Whoever or whatever killed them wanted to send a message."
One of the tacticians—Dren, former sergeant major from a forgotten war—spoke up. "Might be rogue remnants. We've seen a few pre-collapse signal bands in the ruins. Possibly a corrupted system. Maybe worse."
"Droids?" the Alor asked.
"Could be. Could be another Lord."
That made the room go still.
They'd all felt it since arrival. A sense of presence. Not just the Mandalorians—others. Dozens of other worlds had flared into life across the stars. Not all Lords would be patient. Not all would value honor.
Some would see this place—this world—as ripe for the taking.
The Hall of Founders lit once more.
This time, the summoned figures wore training harnesses and mechanic gear—engineers and operators, rather than warriors. Their eyes were tired but sharp, filled with instinctive loyalty. They barely hesitated before saluting the Alor and taking their oaths.
He nodded to each one in turn.
These were the builders. The ones who would give the fortress its breath and bones. Who would forge the airlocks, the reactors, the landing bays, and the steel veins of ships yet unborn.
He had no need for empty numbers. He needed purpose.
And they had brought it.
Within a day, the Research Center powered on fully.
Blue light pulsed across the chamber's holo-spires, projecting branching knowledge trees across the air like spiderwebs of light. The system core buzzed softly, its machine-voice whispering the first results into the tech-priest's ear.
The Alor arrived in time to see the first branch activate:
Research Unlocked: Modular Armor PlatesProgress: 12% – Acceleration possible with dedicated personnel.
Technology Path Revealed: Starship Theory I.
The screen flashed again, and another prompt appeared:
[Ship Schematic Fragment Recovered – Class: Mandalorian Assault Frigate]Status: Incomplete. 37% structural match.Recommend: Continue archaeological excavation for remaining data.
The tech-priest turned to him. "We've stirred old ghosts, Alor. But they're speaking to us."
"Then we listen," he said quietly.
Outside, in the training grounds, the first squads of footsoldiers were forming.
Not yet veterans. But disciplined, organized, and quick to adapt. They'd learned to modulate their blaster fire for arid conditions. Learned how to form phalanxes. How to spot the shimmer of camouflaged drones in the distance.
And now, the first Vanguard Squad trained beside them—heavier armor, curved vibroblades on their backs, gauntlet-mounted scatterguns barking thunder at reinforced targets. Their instructors nodded in grim approval.
The Alor walked the lines.
"Your war is not in the past," he said. "It begins here."
"We are Mandalorian," one of the vanguards said, helmet off, blood on her cheek. "We were born in war."
"Then survive it."
Later that night, the scouting team returned.
Vheyla was first off the Basilisk, helmet still on. She approached the Alor with something in her hands—a broken drone core, still faintly glowing.
"We tracked the source of the attack," she said. "They weren't scavengers. They weren't just droids."
She handed it to him. It pulsed weakly. Hacked, but still readable.
The symbol etched onto its outer shell was unmistakable:
A jagged gear, surrounded by binary script.
A droid faction. Independent. Possibly another Lord's army.
"They've already started their expansion," she said. "And they're not waiting for diplomacy."
The Alor looked out at the dark horizon. Beyond it lay a thousand unknown threats, each waiting to stake their claim.
But they had no idea who they were facing.
He raised the drone core toward the forge light and whispered:
"Let them come."