Dynasty

i. TRUTH, HONOUR, VISION

i.
TRUTH, HONOUR, VISION

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"Everything I am is tangled up in myself, such that no part of me knows how to be."
— Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

Haat, ijaa, haa'it. Fallon Kryze repeated the words in her head, again and again. Haat, ijaa, haa'it. Truth, honour, vision. Words used to seal a pact, in the native tongue of Mandalore, Fallon often returned to them when things were difficult. In this instance, things weren't exactly difficult, but she found comfort in them nevertheless. The desert planet of Phindar was scorching, and the heat seared through her robes like acid. Running the Mando'a over again and again and again kept her focused.

Built for peace but weaned on war, Fallon was the fifteen-year-old intersection between conflict and calm—if not by blood, then by her upbringing in the Jedi Order. Mandalorians were warriors, and they always had been, but in recent years, Clan Kryze had chosen to wear pacifism instead of Beskar-steel armour. Fallon was a warrior of a different kind. Two sides of the same coin.

A coin she was unwilling to toss. Truth, honour, vision.

Would you leave your destiny up to fate? Would you let the cosmos decide what you're going to be?

Who you're going to be?

Sometimes, it was difficult to understand not just the conflict within her, but the one around her, too. The Clone Wars had been raging across the galaxy for just over a cycle now; Fallon could remember the moment it had begun, the exact second the Republic began to falter. Her Master of a few months, the reputable Kil Vizsla, a man of perfect words and perfect appearances, had been called away to Geonosis on a rescue mission to help retrieve the captured Obi Wan Kenobi.

By the time he returned, the war had begun.

She didn't know who the enemy was, at that point. Even now, she only truly understood the enemy when it was right before her, at lightsabre's length, when she didn't have to stop and think.

Moments like these, on planets like Phindar, where even despite the sizzling heat that formed false pools of water in her vision, she could see clearly who the enemy was.

The enemy: a droid. Sand-coloured, it was a lone puppet of fuses, wires, and pre-programmed intelligence. The heat rippled in the surrounding air as it trudged in Fallon's direction, her position still undetected.

She watched it, eyes narrowing. A bead of sweat dripped down her temple as she rose slightly above the sand. It would notice her in a moment—she had to act swiftly, before it alerted her presence to others. And there would be others.

Fallon stood quickly, sand shifting off her robes as she pulled her lightsabre from its home on her hip. The droid lifted its skull-like head with mechanical ease, its blaster lifting as well—but it was too slow. Fallon lunged forward, activating the weapon as she hurled the sabre through the air. A flash of blue light and the distorted cry of a droid—

The cut was clean. Closing her fist, Fallon compelled her lightsabre back into her palm before advancing to crouch by the hissing mess of circuitry. She stowed away her weapon, giving it a gentle pat as it clicked comfortably back into its place on her side. Fallon wondered why she even bothered to reassure herself with her adage. Taking down the droid was easy, and if she weren't on Phindar, she'd have barely broken a sweat.

Still. When the droid army had flooded Geonosis, the planet well known for its red earth and arid heat, the Republic—and the Order—had quivered, terrified of what their arrival meant.