Chapter Text
The forest should not have been silent.
Korda Six was a world that groaned and breathed and complained. Its ancient trees creaked under their own weight. Its canyons funneled the wind into low, mournful howls. Its
ground trembled with the slow shifting of tectonic plates. Even in the darkest hours of night, the planet never slept.
Yet now, in the aftermath of betrayal and fire, the world held itself unnaturally still.
Smoke drifted in thin, wavering strands above the clearing where the True Mandalorians had made their stand. The air tasted of scorched metal and burned soil. The ground was
littered with shattered armor, broken weapons, and the bodies of warriors who had followed Jaster Mereel into battle with unwavering loyalty.
Jaster stood at the center of the devastation, helmet tucked beneath one arm, the other braced against his thigh as he forced breath into bruised lungs. His armor was cracked
and blackened. His ribs ached with every inhale. His muscles trembled from exhaustion and the fading rush of adrenaline.
But he was alive.
Barely.
A familiar voice cut through the stillness.
“Jaster.”
Kal Skirata approached with the uneven gait of a man who had fought too long and refused to fall. His blond hair was matted with sweat and ash. His armor bore deep scorch
marks. His eyes, sharp even through exhaustion, scanned Jaster from head to toe before anything else.
Jaster exhaled, a sound that was half relief and half disbelief.
Kal reached him and lifted a hand to Jaster’s jaw, thumb brushing soot from his cheek. His voice was rough. “You are standing. I thought I had lost you.”
Jaster leaned into the touch. “I am here, cyarika.”
Kal stepped closer until their armor touched. He pressed their foreheads together, a grounding gesture that steadied them both. For a moment, the battlefield fell away. There
was only breath and warmth and the quiet certainty of a bond forged long before this war.
When Kal finally pulled back, his hand lingered on the cracked edge of Jaster’s chestplate. “We need to gather the wounded. Count the dead. Make sure the traitors did not leave
any surprises behind.”
Jaster nodded. “And then we rebuild.”
Kal huffed a tired breath. “Always.”
A shout broke the fragile stillness.
“Mand’alor. You need to see this.”
Jaster and Kal exchanged a look, one that carried a dozen unspoken questions, and moved toward the voice.
They found Myles kneeling beside a wounded warrior, hands stained with bacta and ash. His medkit lay open beside him, tools arranged with the practiced precision of a man who had spent years saving lives in the middle of chaos. His dark curls clung damply to his forehead. His voice, soft and steady, was the only calm thing in the clearing.
Jango crouched beside him, one hand resting lightly on Myles’ shoulder. His posture was protective, his eyes constantly scanning the treeline even as Myles worked. Their
closeness was effortless, the kind that came from years of shared battles and shared nights.
When they heard the shout, both men looked up sharply.
Jango rose first, sprinting toward the source of the call. The others followed, Myles grabbing his medkit without a word.
A True Mandalorian knelt in the dirt, helmet off, face pale beneath streaks of soot. He stepped aside as Jango dropped to his knees.
Jaster’s breath caught.
Jango was kneeling in front of two small bodies.
Two children.
One was tiny, barely more than a toddler, small enough to fit easily in Kal’s arms. The other was older, perhaps four or five, curled protectively around the smaller one.
Both wore thin, sleeveless training blacks. Both trembled. Both were far too quiet.
But it was their faces that struck Jaster hardest.
The older boy had dark hair and a thin vibroblade scar across his right temple. His eyes were sharp and terrified, but controlled in a way no child should ever be. The younger
one had pale blond hair that stuck up in soft tufts and eyes that were glassy with fear. He clung to the older boy with desperate strength.
Myles inhaled sharply. “By the stars...”
Kal’s voice dropped into a disbelieving whisper. “What kind of monster leaves children on a battlefield?”
The older child reacted instantly to the sound. He shifted, placing himself between the adults and the toddler with a precision that was trained, not instinctive. His stance was defensive. His eyes tracked every movement.
Jaster raised both hands slowly. “Easy, adika. We will not harm you.”
The child did not relax.
The toddler whimpered and buried his face in the older boy’s back.
Jango swallowed hard. “Buir. They were not here before. They were not part of the fight. They just appeared.”
Myles approached with deliberate slowness, hands open. “Let me check them. Only to make sure they are not injured.”
The older boy’s eyes flicked to the medic sigil on Myles’ armor. Recognition. Wariness. Fear.
But he did not pull away.
Kal knelt, removing his gloves. His voice softened into the tone he used only with frightened foundlings. “Kuur, adike. You are safe.”
The older boy swallowed. “We did not mean to be here.”
Jaster’s heart twisted. “What is your name?”
The boy hesitated. Then whispered, “CC-2224.”
Kal’s expression darkened. “That is not a name.”
The boy flinched.
Jaster softened his voice. “Do you have another one?”
A pause.
“Kote.”
Jaster nodded. “A strong name.”
“And him?”
Kote tightened his arms around the toddler. “CT-7567.”
Myles leaned closer. “And his name?”
Kote hesitated longer this time. As if the word itself was dangerous. “Rex.”
The toddler peeked up at the sound of his name. His pale hair caught the light, making him look impossibly small.
Jango’s breath hitched. “He is so little.”
Jaster glanced at him.
Jango’s expression had shifted. Fear had been replaced by something fierce and protective.
Kal spoke gently. “May I pick him up?”
Kote hesitated, then gave a tiny nod.
Kal lifted Rex carefully, supporting his back, murmuring soft reassurances in Mandoa. Rex pressed his face into Kal’s chestplate, tiny fingers curling into the fabric beneath.
Myles checked him quickly. “He is freezing. Exhausted. Underfed.”
Jaster crouched in front of Kote. “You are safe now. I promise you that.”
Kote stared at him with wide, hollow eyes. “Are we in trouble?”
The question struck like a blow.
“No,” Jaster said firmly. “You are not in trouble.”
Kote blinked rapidly, as if the concept was foreign.
Jaster extended a hand.
Kote stared at it for a long moment, then reached out with a trembling touch.
Jaster closed his fingers gently around the small hand. “Come with us. We will take care of you.”
Jango stepped closer, removing his helmet. “You can stay with us. With our Clan.”
Kote looked between them. Jaster. Kal. Jango. Myles. Something in his posture loosened, just a fraction.
“Okay,” he whispered.
Jaster lifted him carefully. The boy stiffened at first, then slowly relaxed against him, exhaustion winning over fear.
Kal shifted Rex to one arm and brushed a hand over Jaster’s shoulder. “We will figure this out.”
Jaster nodded. “We will.”
Myles fell into step beside them, already assessing the boys’ breathing and posture with a medic’s eye and a guardian’s heart. Jango hovered protectively at his side.
As they walked back toward the camp, Jango glanced at the boys with a strange, fierce intensity.
“Buir,” he said quietly. “Whoever they are, we will protect them. Right.”
Jaster looked down at the two small bodies in their arms. Fragile. Trembling. Alone.
“Whatever it takes,” he said.
Behind them, the smoke of Korda Six drifted upward as Clan Mereel carried their new foundlings away from the ruins of war.