The market outside Keldabe was alive with noise, color, and the smell of roasted nerf meat turning slowly on spits. Kaelen walked between his parents, clutching his father's hand with one and a satchel of supplies with the other. To him, the bazaar was as exciting as any battlefield—chaotic, unpredictable, filled with strange faces and stranger words.
Vendors barked prices in Basic, haggled in Mando'a, and cursed in Huttese when deals went sour. A Trandoshan trader, scales glinting under the sun, hissed to a Rodian customer in his guttural tongue. Across the way, a pair of Wookiee mercenaries rumbled deep Shyriiwook growls that made Kaelen's chest vibrate.
Kaelen's wide eyes flicked between them all. "How do they even understand each other?" he asked.
Caden chuckled, the sound like gravel rolling in a barrel. "Credits speak louder than tongues, ad'ika. And if that fails—blasters do."
"Ba'jur bal beskar'gam, ara'nov, aliit…" Kaelen repeated quietly, reciting one of the Resol'nare's verses. "Education, armor, weapons, clan."
His father gave him a proud nod.
But Elira's lips pressed thin. "Remember, Kaelen—every word spoken here, in every language, tells a story. Not all stories end with blasters."
They stopped at a stall where a squat Toydarian hovered impatiently, his wings buzzing. His voice was sharp in Huttese:"Chuba naaka! Wanga da peecha, no bai! Ha ha!"
Kaelen blinked. "What did he say?"
Elira frowned, but Caden smirked. "He said if we're not buying, we should get out of his sight. Which means his wares are overpriced."
The Toydarian sneered. "Overpriced?! Bah! These are finest starship parts, straight from Corellia!"
"In Corellia," Caden shot back in Basic, "they'd be worth half that."
The two fell into sharp bargaining, switching languages as quickly as blades in a duel. Caden barked in Mando'a, the Toydarian cursed in Huttese, and Kaelen felt dizzy trying to keep up. His mother placed a calming hand on his shoulder.
"This is the galaxy, Kaelen," she whispered. "Voices raised, credits exchanged, lives interwoven. Not all battles are fought with weapons. Some are fought with words."
Kaelen glanced at his father and grinned. "He's winning this battle, though."
By midday, their packs were heavy with supplies. They walked the winding road back toward the stronghold, but tension hung in the air.
Elira spoke softly, her voice cautious. "Caden, the Death Watch have been sighted closer and closer to the capital. We should—"
"They won't come near our land," Caden interrupted. "We're Ordo. They know better."
"But they don't fear Jedi, or Republic soldiers. What makes you think they'll respect us?"
"They respect strength," Caden growled. "And we are strong."
Kaelen stayed silent, sensing the edge in his father's voice. He didn't understand politics or Death Watch, but he'd heard whispers—merciless warriors who claimed to honor Mandalore's past with blood and fire.
He thought of the Wookiee mercenaries at the market, their growls shaking the air. He imagined Death Watch must sound like that, only sharper, darker.
That evening, Kaelen sat cross-legged in his mother's study, a dim glowrod flickering beside him. Elira held up a datapad, scrolling through old texts.
"Read this passage," she instructed.
Kaelen groaned. "Again?"
"Yes. Knowledge is armor too."
He sighed and read aloud: "The Jedi are guardians of peace in the Republic. They wield the Force, not for conquest, but for balance." He frowned. "But… if they have all that power, why don't they use it to stop wars?"
Elira's gaze softened. "Because wars are not always ended by power. Sometimes power only fuels them. Balance, Kaelen—that is the greater battle."
He tilted his head. "And what about Mandalorians? Father says strength keeps us alive."
Her lips curved faintly. "Your father and I do not always agree. But maybe one day you'll understand both sides—and choose your own."
Later that night, as the stronghold quieted, Kaelen crept to the balcony. The moons hung heavy above, casting pale silver light on the plains. He leaned on the stone rail, whispering the words his father had drilled into him in Mando'a:
"Verd ori'shya beskar'gam."A warrior is more than his armor.
But he added another line, one his mother favored:"The Force flows through every choice."
Two truths, from two parents, echoing in his small voice.
He didn't see the shadow watching from the ridge. A pair of binoculars gleamed in the dark, catching the faint glow of beskar plating. The observer's voice crackled over a commlink, harsh and cold:
"Target confirmed. Clan Ordo stronghold. Death Watch will strike soon."