PURPOSE | The Mandalorian

EPILOGUE

A FEW DAYS LATER

Din had been gone for a few hours, but that was to be expected. Even though the Imp that had targeted me and the child was dead, my riduur still wanted to be safe and land the ship least an hour away from any nearby cities. After leaving Nevarro, we survived for as long as we could on what we had, but now the dregs were empty. We needed to fuel up and get supplies to survive another week or two in space before we decided what to do next.

As the thick heat of the jungle planet wafted through the opened side door of the bay, I held my helmet in my hands, absentmindedly running the pads of my fingers across all the tiny scratches scattered on its surface. Some of the scratches were old, from battles and training sessions from before my banishment. Some were as old as a few days, from the still-smoldering battle on Nevarro. Each little scratch and cut had their own story, ones that I probably couldn't even begin to remember.

And by the time I completed painting the golden patterns on it, I would be ready to add new scratches to my armor, with new stories to be remembered. New stories to be told in epic tales and legends and myths.

I was to become a epic tale. A legend to be remembered, a myth that children born several millennia in the future would ask for their parents to tell them bedtime stories about.

Jeyna Ryn-Djarin. The Mandalorian Jedi that brought her scattered and broken people back together to avenge her family and take back Mandalore. To restore the powerful Mandalorians to what they once were, when they were in the zenith of their power.

But I had to survive the upcoming battles and missions ahead. If I didn't, it would all be for nothing.

So I dipped my paintbrush into the bowl of golden paint the Armorer had gifted me, and began to paint. I let my hand have a mind of its own, creating epic lines and swirls across the beskar, letting the gold clash with the deep black to create a fearsome image that would be recognized all across the galaxy.

I used to hate being recognized everywhere I went. It brought attention I didn't want, attention that would get me and my new clan killed if we weren't careful.

But now, people needed to know the consequences of getting in my way. I was a woman on a mission, and I could not be stopped. Find the Darksaber. Become the Mand'alor. Avenge my family. My father. Riona and Marcella. My mother. My entire clan. My brothers and sisters by Creed.

All of them, vaporized by the Empire.

I would gladly kill anyone that thought they could stand in my way.

"I didn't know you could paint."

I slowly lifted my gaze to Din, who was standing in the opened door of the bay with a large crate of supplies in his hands.

I gave him a small smile. "It's just lines and swirls," I said, brushing off his compliment. "Anyone can paint that."

He chuckled, walking up to the bench to set the large crate down. Then he said, "You'd be surprised how hard it is for someone like me to paint lines and swirls."

Careful not to make an erratic mistake with the paint, I set the paintbrush in my hand on the floor beside my leg. "Have you actually tried painting before?"

"Not a chance," He replied with a small laugh, making a beeline for the ladder to the cockpit. Half way done with the paint on my helmet, I decided a break was in order, so I quickly closed the side door to the bay and joined Din in the cockpit.