Chapter 33: The First Battle of The Clone Wars
Obi-Wan Kenobi had always appreciated a good entrance.
He preferred his own to involve measured footsteps, calm introductions, and perhaps a modest exchange of philosophical disagreements before anyone attempted to dismember anyone else. It was a civilized system. Predictable. Sustainable.
The Separatist fleet did not share his aesthetic sensibilities.
The sky above Sundari rippled—once, twice—like a pond disturbed by something much too large to be polite about it. Then the first Munificent-class frigate tore free of hyperspace, followed by another, and another, angular silhouettes blotting out the pale Mandalorian sun.
Obi-Wan exhaled slowly.
Count Dooku had not sent a strongly worded protest.
He had sent a droid army.
The alarms began a fraction of a second later—deep, resonant pulses rolling across the capital dome. Below the transparisteel observation window, citizens scattered in disciplined waves, the Mandalorian instinct for order asserting itself even in panic.
Orbital cannons fired.
Blue lances of light streaked downward from the Separatist ships, slamming into shield generators and communications towers. Infrastructure. Power relays. Military targets.
Not residential districts.
Obi-Wan watched the pattern for several seconds, mapping trajectories in his mind. Calculated. Restrained. Dooku wanted to make a point, not a massacre.
Legitimacy mattered to the Confederacy. Slaughtering unarmed citizens tended to poll poorly.
He felt Satine step up beside him before he heard her. Her presence in the Force was steady—bright, controlled, threaded with steel.
"He would not dare," she said quietly.
"He absolutely would," Obi-Wan replied, equally soft. "He is simply being selective about it."
Another impact shuddered through the dome. The lights flickered. Somewhere deeper in the complex, a support strut groaned like a wounded animal.
Satine did not flinch.
"They will not break Mandalore with intimidation."
"No," Obi-Wan agreed. "They will attempt to break it with sustained orbital bombardment."
She turned to him, chin lifting in that infuriatingly familiar way. "I am not evacuating."
Of course she wasn't.
He regarded her calmly, folding his hands into his sleeves as if they were discussing trade tariffs instead of invasion. It was an old reflex—meet stubbornness with composure, never escalation.
"You are," he said gently.
"I am the Duchess of Mandalore."
"And I am a Jedi Knight currently responsible for ensuring you remain the Duchess of Mandalore." His gaze softened only slightly. "Preferably alive."
The floor trembled again. This time, dust sifted down from the ceiling in faint silver threads.
Satine's jaw tightened. He knew that look. It was the same one she wore before walking into a hostile Senate chamber alone. The same one she had worn years ago, arguing that pacifism was not weakness.
She was not afraid.
That, he reflected, was often the problem.
A Mandalorian officer hurried into the chamber, helmet tucked beneath one arm. "Your Grace, outer defense grid is down. Clones are requesting immediate deployment authorization."
There it was.
The word hung in the air heavier than the tremors.
Clones.
Not Republic assets. Not Kaminoan property. Not theoretical military complications.
Mandalorian citizens.
Obi-Wan felt the moment stretch thin.
Only days ago, the Republic had debated whether these men could legally possess names. Now they were requesting permission to die for a planet that had chosen them.
The officer shifted awkwardly. "They… are awaiting orders."
Satine did not look at the officer.
She looked at Obi-Wan.
In her eyes he saw calculation, pride, defiance—and something else. The awareness that history had accelerated beyond anyone's comfortable projections.
"If I authorize them," she said quietly, "the Republic will call this an act of war."
Obi-Wan considered the sky, where another barrage of blue light carved into Mandalore's defenses.
"I believe the Republic will find that particular declaration somewhat redundant."
A faint, unwilling breath of laughter escaped her. Even now.
Outside, smoke began to curl from a distant tower.
Satine turned back to the officer.
"Inform the clones," she said, voice carrying the full weight of a sovereign declaration, "that Mandalore calls upon its citizens to defend their home."
The officer straightened instinctively. "Yes, Your Grace."
He hesitated only a fraction. "Under whose authority shall I record the order?"
Satine's expression did not waver.
"Mine."
The word settled into the room like a seal pressed into hot wax.
Obi-Wan felt it in the Force—the shift. Not loud. Not explosive. But decisive.
The clones would not deploy as borrowed soldiers.
They would deploy as Mandalorians.
Another officer's voice crackled over the comm array. "Clone battalions standing by. Awaiting confirmation."
Satine inclined her head once.
"Confirmed."
Far below, blast doors opened.
Through the window, Obi-Wan could just make out the first lines of white-armored troopers emerging into the streets, Mandalorian sigils freshly painted over standard issue plating. They moved in tight formation, rifles raised—not hesitantly, not uncertainly.
Purposefully.
Somewhere in the Force, something aligned.
Obi-Wan allowed himself a single, measured breath.
This was no longer a shadow conflict. No longer assassination attempts and plausible deniability.
This was war.
He unclipped his lightsaber from his belt. The metal felt familiar in his palm—comforting in its constancy, if not in its implications.
Satine stepped closer, her shoulder brushing his sleeve. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
"I will not hide," she said.
"I know," he replied.
Another barrage streaked downward. In the distance, anti-air batteries flared to life, Mandalore answering fire with fire.
The first exchange of open hostilities between clone troopers and Separatist droids had begun.
Obi-Wan ignited his lightsaber. Blue light filled the chamber, steady and unflinching.
"Then," he said softly, watching the fleet burn against the sky, "let us welcome our guests."
...
The armor still smelled new.
Not factory-new. Not Kamino-sterile. Not that chemical, ocean-brine scent that clung to everything grown in a tube and issued with a serial number.
This armor smelled like paint.
Fresh Mandalorian sigils — the stylized Mythosaur skull — had been hand-marked over Republic white. Some were precise. Some were slightly crooked. One trooper in the third line had painted his slightly too large and now looked faintly surprised every time he glanced down at his own chest.
Cody stood at the head of the formation and pretended he did not notice.
The courtyard outside Sundari's government complex had been converted into a landing zone. The domes gleamed under a hard, bright Mandalorian sky. Wind skimmed over the polished surfaces and tugged at kama fabric and shoulder capes.
His men stood in ranks.
Not property.
Not inventory.
Ranks.
He could feel the difference in them. It was subtle. Posture mostly. A fraction less rigid. A fraction more grounded.
Some of them were staring at their armor like it might disappear if they blinked.
Some of them were furious.
Cody understood both reactions.
Across the plaza, Duchess Satine stood flanked by Bo-Katan and a scattering of newly defected Nite Owls. Obi-Wan Kenobi lingered nearby, hands tucked into his sleeves, wearing the expression of a man who had not slept enough and had opinions about everything.
The vote had passed.
The Senate would protest. The Republic would stall. There would be committees.
But Mandalore had declared the clones citizens.
Citizens.
The word felt heavier than plastoid.
A transport screamed overhead.
Every helmet tilted upward in unison.
Cody's HUD tracked incoming signatures automatically — multiple contacts dropping out of hyperspace beyond the atmosphere. Moments later, the sky began to burn.
Separatist landing craft.
Of course.
The first wave punched through the upper cloud layer like falling knives, engines shrieking. Their descent was not subtle. It was theatrical. Triangular shadows streaked across the polished dome city.
A tactical part of Cody cataloged silhouettes. Droid deployment carriers. Light troop transports.
Count Dooku, apparently, had opinions about Mandalorian citizenship.
The men shifted.
Not breaking formation. Just… adjusting.
Some helmets turned toward him.
Waiting.
For orders.
For permission.
For identity.
He stepped forward.
He did not raise his voice. He did not need to.
"We were made for this," he said.
The wind caught the edge of his kama and snapped it once behind him like punctuation.
"That doesn't mean we were made to be owned."
Silence.
The kind that settled into bone.
He saw it land. In shoulders. In spines.
He didn't mention Kamino.
He didn't mention Jango Fett's televised debate about whether they counted as sentient beings or high-end military equipment.
He didn't mention the Republic's legal hesitation.
He didn't have to.
The first landing craft hit the plaza perimeter with a bone-rattling impact.
Ramps slammed down.
B1 battle droids spilled out in loose, clattering formations, E-5 blasters held at what might generously be described as confidence.
One of them looked around, optics adjusting.
"Wait," it blurted in its nasal monotone, "I thought we were the surprise attack—"
The first volley from the clone line erased it from existence.
Cody did not smile.
But several troopers did, just slightly.
"Open fire," he ordered.
And history obliged.
Blaster fire cut the air in disciplined lines. No wasted shots. No dramatic charges. Just controlled bursts, target acquisition, forward advance in measured steps.
The clones moved like they had trained for since birth.
Because they had.
The B1s returned fire in chaotic sprays, bolts scorching stone and glancing off armor. A trooper to Cody's left took a hit to the shoulder and went down to one knee. His squadmate dragged him back behind a low barrier without breaking cadence.
Professional.
Clean.
Efficient.
The droids attempted a flanking maneuver that might have worked on civilians. It did not work on men bred with tactical doctrine fed to them alongside nutrients.
Cody's HUD flagged a droideka deployment mid-courtyard. The destroyer droid unfolded with mechanical menace, shields snapping online in a shimmering blue dome.
"EMP charge," Cody snapped.
A trooper already had it primed.
The grenade arced perfectly.
The droideka's shields flickered once, twice, then collapsed in a shower of sparks. Concentrated fire reduced it to scrap before it finished recalibrating.
Above them, Mandalorian fighters streaked across the sky, intercepting additional landers. Bo-Katan's voice crackled over an open channel, sharp and delighted.
"This is what you get for threatening my sister."
Cody allowed himself exactly half a second of appreciation for the absurdity of it all.
A year ago, he had not existed.
Six months ago, he had existed as a number.
Today, he was a Mandalorian citizen defending his adopted planet from an invading droid army led by a former Jedi Count with aristocratic cheekbones and questionable life choices.
Life was strange.
A B1 droid attempted to vault a low wall directly in front of him.
It tripped.
Cody shot it mid-fall.
Somewhere to his right, a trooper shouted, "For Mandalore!"
The words carried awkwardly at first, like boots not yet broken in.
Then another voice picked it up.
"For Mandalore!"
The line advanced three meters.
Droids crumpled in heaps of tan metal.
Smoke began to thicken the courtyard, blaster impacts scoring the pristine stone. The gleaming domes of Sundari reflected firelight now.
War had arrived not as prophecy.
But as paperwork denied.
Cody keyed a squad-wide channel.
"Hold formation. Controlled advance. Watch crossfire."
Acknowledgments flickered green across his display.
He felt it then — the shift.
Not in tactics.
In ownership.
They were not fighting because a Prime Minister on Kamino had activated them.
They were not fighting because the Senate had authorized deployment.
They were fighting because this was their city now.
Their Duchess.
Their sky.
A B1 droid tried to rally its remaining units.
"Retreat in an orderly fashion—"
A stray bolt from a Mandalorian sniper removed its head.
Orderly fashion was not on the agenda.
The last of the first wave collapsed in scattered pieces across the plaza.
Silence returned in fragments — broken only by the distant thunder of aerial dogfights and the crackle of burning debris.
Cody raised a hand.
"Cease fire."
The line stilled instantly.
Smoke drifted upward in thin spirals.
He scanned for casualties.
Minimal.
Acceptable.
Behind him, he heard movement. Soft boots on stone.
He did not turn immediately.
He knew the presence.
Obi-Wan Kenobi stopped at his shoulder, gaze surveying the wreckage.
"Well done, Commander," the Jedi said quietly.
Not ownership.
Not command.
Acknowledgment.
Cody inclined his helmet slightly.
"We held."
"Yes," Obi-Wan replied. "You did."
Above them, another wave of Separatist ships pierced the clouds.
Cody looked up.
The war had begun without Senate authorization, without official declaration, without dramatic speechifying in the Rotunda.
It had begun because someone had decided clones could not be people.
He opened a battalion-wide channel again.
"Reload. Defensive positions. They're coming back."
Blasters clicked. Power packs slid into place.
Troopers shifted into new cover points — fluid, disciplined.
Mandalorian sigils gleamed through the smoke.
For the first time, Cody did not feel like he was standing at the front of a manufactured army.
He felt like he was standing at the beginning of something that would not fit neatly into a Republic requisition form.
The next wave descended.
He raised his rifle.
"Welcome to Mandalore," he muttered beneath his helmet.
And when the sky answered in fire, the clones answered back — not just as soldiers.
But as citizens.
...
Sundari had always been beautiful from above.
Now it was on fire.
Bo-Katan angled her jetpack thrusters and shot between two curved transparisteel towers as a Vulture droid screamed past her left shoulder, laser fire stitching molten lines across the plaza below. The heat washed over her armor. The smell of scorched stone followed.
So much for a quiet political transition.
She twisted midair, locking onto the Vulture's rear stabilizer. Her wrist rockets flared.
The explosion was satisfyingly immediate.
Shrapnel rained down in a glittering arc, clattering off domes and scattering across the courtyard where clones and Mandalorians fought back-to-back.
Back-to-back.
That alone would have sounded like treason a month ago.
Another Vulture dove. Bo-Katan cut her thrusters, dropped ten meters in freefall, then reignited just above the ground, skimming low enough that the droid overshot her and slammed into a tower with a shriek of tortured metal.
She landed hard beside a line of clone troopers advancing in disciplined formation.
One of them glanced at her armor — blue owl sigil still fresh — then nodded once before pivoting and firing in controlled bursts at an advancing cluster of B1s.
Professional.
No hesitation.
No resentment.
They fought like Mandalorians.
Across the plaza, a group of Death Watch loyalists burst from a side corridor, armor painted in harsher blues and blacks, sigils sharp and familiar and wrong all at once.
Her former brothers.
Her former certainty.
They opened fire on clones first.
That made the choice easier.
Bo-Katan ignited her jetpack again and surged forward. Blaster bolts snapped past her visor. She tackled one loyalist mid-stride, driving him into a stone column. Her gauntlet vibroblade punched through the seam of his shoulder plate.
He went still.
She rolled, came up firing, and dropped another who had been lining up a shot on a clone medic.
Somewhere above her, something orange and blue flipped through the air like gravity had filed a complaint and been ignored.
Ahsoka Tano landed on a narrow archway railing, one hand balancing casually while her other deflected three blaster bolts in rapid succession. The green blade of her lightsaber hummed with cheerful menace.
She kicked off the railing, somersaulted over a pair of droids, sliced both in half mid-spin, and landed between Bo-Katan and the advancing Death Watch splinter cell.
Terrifying child, Bo-Katan thought.
The Togruta grinned at her as if they were sharing an inside joke instead of wading through a civil war.
"Left flank!" Ahsoka called, already moving.
Bo-Katan pivoted without argument.
They fell into rhythm with unsettling ease. Jetpack bursts and acrobatics. Blaster fire and lightsaber arcs. Ahsoka vaulted off Bo's shoulder at one point, using the extra height to decapitate a super battle droid that had just rounded the corner.
Bo-Katan didn't comment on it.
She simply adjusted her stance to make it easier next time.
A Vulture droid strafed low again, its cannons chewing across the plaza. Bo-Katan grabbed Ahsoka by the back of her tabards and yanked her clear an instant before the stone beneath them disintegrated.
Ahsoka twisted mid-pull, somersaulted out of Bo's grip, and hurled her lightsaber. It carved through the Vulture's cockpit in a clean, glowing line before snapping back into her palm.
They hit the ground together in a controlled slide.
Bo-Katan found herself laughing.
Actually laughing.
Blaster bolts lit the air around them, Death Watch and droids pressing from opposite sides, and she felt—
Right.
She felt right.
For years, she had told herself Mandalore needed strength. Needed fire. Needed to stop pretending pacifism would protect it.
She had not been wrong.
But she had been incomplete.
She saw it now in flashes between explosions: Mandalorian armor beside clone armor. Blue and white moving as one. Clones covering civilians evacuating through lower corridors. A Mandalorian warrior hauling a wounded trooper to safety without hesitation.
This was strength.
Not purity.
Not isolation.
Unity.
A super battle droid lumbered into their path, cannons spooling.
Before Bo-Katan could fire, the machine lifted off the ground.
Then two more rose with it.
They hovered there for half a second, metal limbs twitching in confused protest.
And then they slammed into the plaza hard enough to crater stone.
Bo-Katan looked up.
Maris Brood stood at the far end of the courtyard, pale face impassive, yellow eyes faintly reflective in the firelight. She brushed nonexistent dust from her sleeve as if Force-slamming three war machines at once had mildly inconvenienced her afternoon.
Another cluster of B1s tried to rally.
Maris flicked her fingers.
They hit a wall simultaneously.
Bo-Katan blinked behind her visor.
"Is she always like that?"
"Unfortunately," Ahsoka replied, already sprinting forward to join her.
Bo-Katan followed, jetpack roaring.
The Death Watch loyalists were faltering now. Some retreated toward side passages. Others doubled down, rage overriding survival instinct.
Bo-Katan recognized one of them — a veteran from Concordia, visor scarred from a skirmish years ago. He locked eyes with her across the smoke.
Betrayal burned there.
She met it steadily.
He charged.
She intercepted.
Their clash was brutal and close. Vibroblade against gauntlet shield, boots scraping across scorched stone. He fought like he always had — aggressive, relentless, convinced righteousness alone could bend reality.
She disarmed him with a twist and drove her helmet into his faceplate.
He collapsed.
She did not finish him.
There would be trials. Or exile. Or something that resembled justice instead of vengeance.
Above them, Mandalorian fighters strafed the remaining Vultures. Clone troopers tightened their perimeter, pushing the droids back step by disciplined step.
Bo-Katan stood in the middle of it and understood something with a clarity that felt almost painful.
This was what Mandalore was supposed to be.
Not a relic of endless infighting.
Not a weapon hired out to the highest bidder.
A people.
Warriors who chose who they fought for.
Citizens who decided their own fate.
Ahsoka landed beside her again, breathing hard but smiling.
"Your sister's safe," the Togruta said. "Master Kenobi's with her."
Bo-Katan nodded once.
Good.
Another explosion rocked the outer wall as a fresh wave of droids attempted to breach.
She ignited her jetpack again, feeling the familiar vibration through her spine.
Family business, she thought.
But for the first time in a long time, it did not feel like a curse.
It felt like inheritance.
She angled toward the breach, Ahsoka and Maris converging on either side, clones forming up behind them.
"Let's finish this," Bo-Katan muttered.
And together — Mandalorian, Jedi, warriors — they surged forward into the smoke.
...
He was not assigned to Mandalore.
He had been told this very clearly.
In fact, Master Windu had used the phrase "strategically unnecessary." Obi-Wan had used the phrase "probably for the best." The Council as a whole had radiated the general sentiment of "please do not escalate a politically delicate situation."
And yet.
Here he was.
Anakin cut a B2 super battle droid cleanly in half and didn't even slow down.
The two pieces clanged to the ground behind him as he pivoted, blade flashing in tight, efficient arcs. Three B1s fell in rapid succession, limbs scattering across the polished Mandalorian street.
He hadn't meant to escalate anything.
He had just… stayed.
Which was different.
Very different.
Blaster fire streaked overhead, forcing him to deflect on instinct. Red bolts ricocheted back into a cluster of advancing droids. He stepped forward through smoke and sparks, boots skidding slightly on scorched stone.
Somewhere to his left, a group of civilians rushed toward a transport, guided by clone troopers and Mandalorian volunteers. And at the center of that coordinated chaos—
Padmé.
Of course she was there.
Of course she had refused to evacuate.
She stood near the transport ramp, sleeves rolled, datapad in one hand, directing traffic with the calm authority of someone who had decided panic was for other people.
"Left corridor is compromised," she was telling a Mandalorian officer. "Reroute them through the lower galleries. And get medical priority on the wounded trooper near the north dome."
Blaster bolts struck the wall behind her.
Anakin's vision narrowed.
He surged forward, carving a path through two more droids, each swing a little harder than strictly necessary. He felt it — the aggression creeping in at the edges. The sharp satisfaction of metal giving way under his blade.
He told himself it was tactical efficiency.
He knew better.
A B1 raised its rifle toward Padmé.
It did not finish that motion.
Anakin's saber split it vertically.
He stepped into position at her side without breaking stride.
"You were supposed to be on a ship," he muttered.
"You were supposed to be on Coruscant," she shot back, not even looking at him.
He grimaced.
Fair.
Another wave of droids rounded the far corner, accompanied by a handful of Death Watch loyalists who had decided shooting at civilians was an acceptable political statement.
Anakin advanced before thinking.
His blade became a blur — high guard, low sweep, pivot, thrust. He moved faster than he needed to. Harder than the situation strictly required.
Each impact felt personal.
Because it was.
This wasn't a distant border dispute. This wasn't a diplomatic escort gone wrong.
This was Mandalore. Satine's world. The clones' new home. Padmé standing in the open because she refused to look afraid.
He felt something shift in the Force.
Not the chaotic surface-level violence of battle.
Something deeper.
Colder.
A pressure building at the edges of perception.
He faltered half a step.
There.
Beneath the roar of engines and blaster fire — a pulse of darkness. Intent. Focused. Moving.
His stomach tightened.
He did not like that.
He cut down another droid almost absently, eyes scanning rooftops and upper balconies.
Padmé noticed the shift in him. She always did.
"What is it?"
"Something's coming."
That was all he could articulate. Not ships. Not reinforcements.
A presence.
Heavy.
He hated that he couldn't see it yet.
Another transport lifted off behind them, civilians secured. A clone captain signaled that this sector was nearly clear.
"Good," Padmé said. "Then we hold until the others are through."
Anakin turned fully toward her.
"No."
Her brow arched.
"If I leave, it looks like I'm afraid."
"If you stay," he shot back, "it looks like I'm going to commit a war crime."
She actually smiled at that.
In the middle of a battlefield.
"You're a Jedi."
"I'm flexible."
A super battle droid crashed through a nearby archway, cannons spinning up. Anakin hurled his saber. It pierced the droid's torso and ricocheted back into his hand in one fluid motion.
He stepped closer to Padmé without conscious thought, positioning himself between her and the open street.
"I mean it," he said, lower now. "This is different."
She studied him.
And for a moment, the humor faded.
She saw it too — not the presence itself, but the way it coiled under his skin.
"All right," she conceded quietly. "We relocate. But we do not retreat."
That was the compromise. It always was.
They moved together down the side corridor, Anakin clearing the path ahead, Padmé coordinating through her comlink as they walked. A pair of clones fell in behind them, covering the rear.
Blaster fire erupted from an upper balcony — Death Watch holdouts. Anakin leapt, deflected two bolts midair, landed on the railing, and sent the attackers tumbling with a Force shove.
He landed again beside her.
Too close.
He realized he had been fighting not like a Jedi mediator.
But like a man defending something that was his.
The darkness in the Force pulsed again.
Closer.
He could almost taste it now — sharp and metallic, like ozone before a storm.
His jaw tightened.
He would not lose anyone here.
Not Ahsoka.
Not Obi-Wan.
Not her.
Kriff, not even the sand-throwing brat who was probably somehow responsible for this.
A Mandalorian fighter roared overhead, blasting a cluster of droids that had been converging on their position. The explosion rocked the street. Smoke curled upward in thick columns.
Padmé reached for his hand briefly — grounding, steadying — then released it before anyone else could notice.
"You're doing that thing again," she murmured.
"What thing?"
"Where you decide the galaxy is personally attacking you."
He exhaled sharply.
It felt like it was.
Another tremor in the Force.
He ignited his saber fully again, stance shifting.
The war had begun as politics.
As legality.
As debate.
Now it felt intimate.
Someone had decided Mandalore needed to burn.
Someone had decided the clones were expendable.
Someone had decided fear was a tool.
Anakin Skywalker did not respond well to that.
"Stay behind me," he said.
Padmé lifted her chin.
"Try and make me."
Blaster fire erupted at the far end of the corridor.
He stepped forward anyway.
The darkness surged.
And for the first time since the battle began, Anakin stopped feeling like a Jedi who had overstayed his welcome.
He felt like a weapon that had been pointed at something he loved.
And that, more than anything, made this war personal.
...
There are moments in your life when you imagine returning home.
Triumphant.
Victorious.
Possibly wearing dramatically improved robes.
Maybe with a subtle orchestral swell in the background.
This was not that.
Sundari's skyline — normally sleek, polished, aggressively pacifist in architecture — was currently doing its best impression of a war documentary narrated by someone with a very calm voice and deeply concerned eyebrows.
Explosions rippled across the plaza below. Vulture droids screamed overhead. Clones and Mandalorians fought back-to-back in tight formations that would have made every single political analyst on Coruscant choke on their caf.
And I was standing in the middle of it holding two lightsabers like an idiot.
Green blade in my right hand.
The Darksaber in my left.
In theory? Intimidating.
In practice?
It felt like trying to conduct an orchestra while someone else kept changing the sheet music.
A B1 droid lunged toward me, blaster raised.
I crossed both blades to block, which worked.
What did not work was the follow-through, because the Darksaber pulled heavier than expected and my balance shifted half an inch too far left.
I corrected.
Overcorrected.
Nearly fell.
The droid stared at me.
I cut it in half out of principle.
"Focus, you must."
I froze mid-step.
Oh no.
I turned.
Master Yoda stood three meters away, cane absent, green lightsaber ignited, expression unreadable except for the faintest glimmer of what I strongly suspected was amusement.
He flipped forward in a blur of ancient gremlin chaos and bisected a super battle droid midair before landing lightly beside me.
"Showoff," I muttered.
"Trying to be, you are," he replied calmly, deflecting three blaster bolts without looking at them. "Impressive, it is not."
I scowled and swung again, decapitating another B1 that had been winding up to take a shot at a clone squad advancing behind us.
Clones.
Mandalorian sigils freshly painted over white plastoid.
Fighting for Mandalore.
For citizenship.
For a home.
The image hit harder than the explosion that rocked the eastern dome.
This was not how I imagined coming home.
Technically, I had been home for… what, twelve hours? Maybe less? Long enough to switch places with my PROXY, nod at Obi-Wan like I had not been running a shadow Sith Empire across three Outer Rim systems, and then immediately get thrown into a planetary invasion.
Very relaxing.
A droideka rolled into the courtyard ahead of us, shields snapping online.
I stepped forward automatically.
"Footwork," Yoda said mildly.
I blinked.
"What?"
"Too wide, your stance is. Balance, you lose."
There was a droideka charging its cannons.
This did not feel like the moment.
He flicked his wrist. The droideka lifted off the ground and slammed sideways into a wall hard enough to crater durasteel.
"Now," he said, as if we were in a Temple training hall. "Again."
I tightened my grip on both hilts and adjusted.
The Darksaber hummed differently from a standard lightsaber. It wasn't just weight. It resisted slightly. Demanded intent. Like it wanted to know if I deserved it.
I probably didn't.
But I had stolen it from Pre Vizla after beating him unconscious in front of his own men, so at this point we were committed.
A cluster of B2s advanced in formation.
I moved.
Green blade first — standard deflection, tight arcs, precise cuts. The Darksaber followed half a beat later, carving through metal torsos in dark, jagged strokes that felt almost… hungry.
I nearly tangled my own wrists on the backswing.
"Patience," Yoda advised, hopping onto a fallen droid and using it as a springboard to vault into another cluster. "Power, not always more blades means."
"That feels targeted," I shot back, ducking under a blaster bolt.
He landed behind me, back-to-back, small but unmovable.
"Compensating, you are."
I sputtered.
"For what?"
A super battle droid answered by firing a wrist rocket.
We both leapt in opposite directions.
The explosion sent shrapnel skittering across the plaza. I rolled, came up on one knee, and hurled the Darksaber in a tight spinning arc. It sliced through the droid's torso and embedded briefly in the wall behind it.
I reached out with the Force.
It resisted for half a heartbeat.
Then snapped back into my hand.
Okay.
That felt cool.
I allowed myself exactly one second of smug satisfaction before a wave of B1s rounded the western corridor and opened fire.
Blaster bolts filled the air.
Yoda deflected with calm, efficient movements. I… did not.
I blocked most of them.
Most.
One grazed my shoulder.
"Great," I muttered. "Now I look dramatic."
Across the plaza, Maris walked forward like the apocalypse had filed a polite request for supervision.
Her expression was bored.
Actually bored.
Three B1s fired at her simultaneously.
She didn't even raise her hands.
The droids lifted off the ground, twisted midair, and collided with each other in a metallic knot before slamming down in a heap.
A super battle droid attempted to flank her.
She glanced at it.
It disassembled.
I felt the Dark Side ripple under her control — not unleashed, not wild, but coiled. Restrained.
Darth Nox energy.
Barely leashed.
A Mandalorian squad paused mid-advance to stare at her.
Yoda glanced at her, ears twitching. "Strong, she is."
"You have no idea," I muttered.
I cut down another pair of droids and exhaled sharply.
This was my fault.
Not the battle itself. Dooku would have found a reason eventually. Politics always did.
But the timing? The acceleration? The clones being discovered early. Mandalore offering citizenship. The Republic panicking. The Separatists reacting.
Butterfly effect, meet war.
I watched a clone trooper drag a wounded Mandalorian behind cover without hesitation. Watched a Mandalorian return the favor seconds later. The line between them had already dissolved.
And somewhere out there, my PROXY was currently running a Sith Empire in my name.
I was not qualified for this level of chaos.
A Vulture droid screamed overhead, cannons blazing. Yoda leapt onto its wing mid-flight, carved through the engine housing, and flipped off just before it spiraled into a tower.
I stared.
"I'm going to need to practice that."
"Practice more basics first, you will," he shot back.
A pair of super battle droids boxed me in. I crossed my blades again—deliberately this time. Green and black met in an angled guard. I shifted my stance lower, adjusted my footing like Yoda had drilled into us a thousand times.
The Darksaber still tugged.
But I didn't let it pull.
I stepped inside the first droid's reach and severed both arms in one clean motion. Pivoted. Green blade through the second's torso.
Better.
Yoda hummed approvingly as he dismantled another cluster with alarming cheerfulness. "Hmm. Learning, you are."
"Under extreme circumstances," I replied.
The ground trembled.
Not from explosions.
From something heavier.
The sky above Sundari darkened — not with smoke.
With shadow.
Every instinct I had tightened at once.
Maris felt it too. I saw her head snap upward, eyes narrowing.
The clouds split.
A sleek solar sailer descended through the smoke like it had been invited.
Elegant.
Deliberate.
Arrogant.
It touched down at the far end of the plaza with insulting precision.
The ramp lowered slowly.
Clones adjusted formation automatically. Mandalorians shifted to cover angles.
Yoda's posture changed — subtle, but unmistakable.
The air itself seemed to thin.
He stepped forward slightly, placing himself half a pace ahead of me.
"Ready, you must be."
The figure emerged from the ship with measured grace.
Cape immaculate despite the chaos.
Curved-hilt saber resting lightly in one hand.
Count Dooku surveyed the battlefield like a disappointed aristocrat reviewing a poorly arranged dinner party.
His gaze passed over clones.
Over Mandalorians.
Over Maris.
And finally—
Over me.
It lingered.
Recognition flickered there. Not of identity.
Of potential.
Of disruption.
"Well," Dooku called across the plaza, voice carrying effortlessly over the crackle of burning debris. "This is… unexpected."
I tightened my grip on both hilts.
Beside me, Yoda's blade hummed steadily. "Begun," he murmured softly, "it has."
And as Dooku ignited his crimson saber with a refined snap-hiss, I realized something deeply inconvenient.
This was no longer a political incident.
This was a duel.
And I was standing at the center of it.
...
Count Dooku had always enjoyed an entrance.
Mace Windu watched the solar sailer settle onto the burning plaza of Sundari and felt a familiar, restrained irritation rise beneath his composure.
The cape.
It was the cape that did it.
There was something profoundly theatrical about wearing a cape into an active war zone.
The ramp descended with deliberate slowness. Smoke curled around polished boots as Dooku stepped forward, curved-hilt saber resting in his hand like a conductor's baton.
Opera villain royalty.
The Force around the man did not swirl chaotically like lesser dark siders. It coiled. Controlled. Aristocratic. Every step measured.
The clones tightened formation. Mandalorians shifted to cover angles.
Yoda stood ahead and to the right, green blade humming, small and immovable.
And farther behind him—
Skywalker.
Naturally.
Didn't they strictly forbid the boy from coming? Obi-Wan owed the boy a serious lecture assuming they all survived this. But it wouldn't compare to half the dressing down Mace was going to give Obi-Wan for not house training his Padawan.
He felt the ripple in the Force. Dooku's attention sharpened, narrowed like a blade aligning with its target.
Not Yoda.
Not the Nabooian Senator.
Not the Mandalorian Duchess.
The Chosen One.
Mace exhaled slowly.
Why was he not surprised?
He stepped forward before Dooku could take more than three strides into the plaza. Purple light snapped into existence with a precise hiss.
"If you have come to perform," Mace called evenly, "you'll find Mandalore a difficult audience."
Dooku inclined his head with maddening civility. "Master Windu. I had hoped you might attend."
Their blades met with a crack that cut through the noise of battle like a gavel striking stone.
The impact rippled outward in the Force — controlled fury meeting refined malice.
Dooku's expression did not shift. "Still clinging to form VII, I see."
"Still clinging to treason, I see." Mace replied.
He pressed forward, not to overpower, but to redirect. To angle. To contain.
Dooku pivoted gracefully, disengaging rather than contesting the strength of Vaapad head-on.
He was not here for Mace.
That realization settled with cold clarity.
A roar of engines tore through the sky.
Mace did not break focus, but he felt the new presence immediately — familiar. Conflicted.
A Firespray gunship cut low across the plaza and landed hard behind Mace's position. The ramp dropped before the engines had fully powered down.
Jango Fett stepped out into the smoke.
Blasters drawn.
Helmet gleaming.
He did not fire at the Jedi.
The pause in the Force was almost audible.
For a heartbeat, the battlefield seemed to hold its breath.
Mace spared him a glance.
Fett looked back.
There were entire debates compressed into that Look.
Kamino.
Ownership.
Citizenship.
Betrayal.
Children who had been told they were property.
Dooku's blade pressed against Mace's, forcing the moment to fracture.
From the left flank, a squad of BX-series commando droids burst into the plaza, sleek and lethal, vibroswords igniting.
Dooku disengaged with a flick of his wrist, cape swirling.
"I will not be delayed," he said calmly.
And then he moved.
Not toward Mace.
Past him.
Toward Skywalker.
Mace felt the spike in the Force as clearly as a physical shove.
He stepped to pursue—
And the BX commandos intercepted.
Three of them at once, movements fluid and unnervingly precise.
Vibroswords slashed in coordinated arcs.
Mace deflected the first strike, severed the second droid's arm with a tight counter, then pivoted as the third attempted to flank.
Blaster fire erupted at his side.
Jango.
The bounty hunter moved with lethal economy, twin pistols barking in controlled bursts. One commando droid's photoreceptors shattered under the impact. Another staggered as a shot punched through its torso plating.
Mace did not look at him.
He did not need to.
"Temporary allies?" Mace asked, blade carving a clean line through a droid's midsection.
"Extremely," Jango replied, voice filtered but unmistakably dry.
A commando droid leapt between them, blades crossing in an X formation. Mace ducked low as Jango fired over his shoulder. The droid jerked midair, then Mace's saber removed its head in a clean, efficient motion.
A more civilized beheading, he thought grimly.
They shifted without discussion — back-to-back.
It was deeply uncomfortable.
Jango's armor was solid against Mace's shoulder blades. Solid and real and heavy with implications.
For years, Mace had argued that the clones were not merely assets. That they possessed agency, individuality.
And here stood the template of their DNA, who had publicly claimed they were equipment.
Now firing in defense of them.
War rearranged principles with unsettling speed.
Another commando droid darted forward, vibrosword humming. Mace parried high, drawing it in, while Jango fired at the exposed knee joint. The droid collapsed and Mace finished it with a downward stroke.
Efficient.
Unspoken.
Jango pivoted to cover the rear, jetpack flaring briefly to adjust position as two more droids attempted to encircle them.
"This is uncomfortable," Jango muttered.
"Profoundly," Mace agreed.
Blaster fire and violet light formed a tight perimeter around them as the last of the commando squad pressed in.
Mace allowed the dark edge of Vaapad to surface — not anger, but the controlled channeling of it. The commando droids were precise, adaptive.
So was he.
He stepped inside one's guard and severed both arms in a single fluid rotation. Pivoted. A low sweep took another at the knees.
Jango's pistols barked twice more. A droid toppled.
Silence fell around them in the immediate radius.
Across the plaza, Mace saw it.
Dooku advancing toward Skywalker with measured inevitability.
Yoda was already moving to intercept, green blade a blur of motion.
But Dooku's gaze never left the younger Jedi.
The Chosen One.
Mace felt the tension in the Force spike — threads converging.
This was no opportunistic strike on Mandalore.
This was a test.
A probe.
A move on a board far larger than this plaza.
Jango followed his line of sight.
"That one's yours," Jango said quietly.
"Yes," Mace replied.
He stepped forward—
Then paused.
A squad of B2s rounded the far archway, cannons spinning up, targeting a cluster of evacuating civilians.
Jango moved first, jetpack igniting as he launched toward the threat.
Mace followed without hesitation.
Whatever Dooku intended with Skywalker would have to wait for one more breath.
...
Anakin had imagined meeting a Sith Lord before.
Ever since that monster on Naboo… what he did to Master Qui-Gon. He built it up in his head. Dreamed of it, if what he would do, where they would be. There would be thunder. Maybe chanting. Definitely dramatic lighting.
Instead, Count Dooku walked onto the battlefield like he had arrived early for a formal dinner and found the staff unprepared.
Cape immaculate. Boots unscuffed. Expression mildly disappointed.
This was the man who had decided Duchess Satine needed to die. This was the man who had nearly destabilized Mandalore in a single afternoon. This was the man who was—
Old.
Not frail. Not weak. Just… dignified. Silver hair pulled back. Beard trimmed with surgical precision. A curved-hilt lightsaber hanging at his belt like an accessory, not a threat.
Anakin adjusted his grip on his own saber.
He could take him.
"Skywalker," Dooku said, voice smooth, aristocratic. "I was wondering when you would insert yourself into matters beyond your comprehension."
Anakin bristled.
He did not insert himself. He was strategically proactive.
"I know who you are," Anakin shot back. "You used to be a Jedi."
"Many have been. Few remain worthy of the title. Case in point."
That did it.
Anakin lunged.
He had speed. He had strength. He had instincts that Master Kenobi insisted were "reckless" but which had saved lives more than once. His blue blade came down in a tight arc aimed to overwhelm, to dominate, to end this quickly.
Dooku stepped aside.
Not a leap. Not a spin.
A step.
Their blades met once—brief, almost polite contact—and then Dooku's wrist rotated with surgical economy. The curved hilt slid inside Anakin's guard. A twist. A flick.
Anakin's lightsaber went skidding across the stone.
Thirty seconds might have been generous.
Anakin stared at his empty hand.
That… had not been part of the plan.
Dooku regarded him the way a professor regarded a promising but exhausting student.
"Form V," Dooku observed. "Aggressive. Overcommitted. You telegraph your anger."
"I'm not—"
Dooku's boot connected with Anakin's knee. Not hard enough to break. Even if he wanted to, Anakin wasn't sure he the physical strength to follow through in that. But it was hard enough to fold Anakin to the ground.
Anakin scrambled for the Force, reaching for his fallen weapon.
A blur of white and crimson moved between them.
Padmé Amidala did not carry a lightsaber. She carried a blaster, hands steady despite the chaos.
"Step away from him."
Anakin's brain stalled.
She was not supposed to be here. She was supposed to be somewhere safe. Preferably behind several walls and at least one battalion of clones who were now technically Mandalorian citizens and therefore politically complicated.
Dooku turned his head slightly toward her, as though acknowledging a social equal at a gala.
"Senator."
He did not ignite his blade.
He extended a hand.
The Force struck Padmé like a physical wall. Not brutal. Not lethal. Just efficient. She flew backward and hit the stone hard enough to steal the breath from Anakin's lungs.
She did not move.
The world narrowed.
There was a roaring in his ears. Heat in his veins. A pressure behind his eyes that felt suspiciously like every warning Master Yoda had ever given him condensed into a single moment.
Dooku sighed.
It was not theatrical. It was weary.
"You are predictable."
Anakin did not think.
He launched himself forward barehanded, pulling with the Force. His saber snapped off the ground and into his palm mid-stride. He swung in a furious diagonal meant to split Dooku from shoulder to hip.
Dooku met him cleanly.
This time there was no gentle correction. No instructional flick.
Their blades clashed in a blur of blue and red. Sparks spat against durasteel and stone. Anakin pressed, driving with raw power, forcing Dooku back a step.
Another step.
He had him.
He just needed—
Pain exploded through his wrist.
Dooku had disengaged at precisely the wrong moment. Or the right one, depending on perspective. The red blade slipped past Anakin's guard in a movement so tight it barely seemed possible.
There was no dramatic windup. No shout.
Just clean motion.
Blue blade fell.
Something else fell with it.
For a fraction of a second, Anakin did not understand what he was looking at.
His lightsaber clattered against stone beside a severed hand that still twitched, fingers curled as if gripping a weapon that was no longer there.
The pain arrived a heartbeat later.
White. Blinding. Total.
He hit his knees. The world tilted. Sound dulled into a distant hum.
He had lost fights before. He had been knocked down, restrained, scolded.
This was different.
Dooku stood over him, red blade casting an ugly glow across the stone.
"You have talent," the Count said quietly. "But talent without discipline is meaningless."
Anakin forced his vision to focus.
He would not scream.
He would not beg.
He would remember this.
Somewhere behind him, he could hear shouting. Blasterfire. The battlefield returning like a tide rushing back in.
Dooku deactivated his blade.
"For what it is worth, Skywalker," he added, almost conversationally, "you will make an excellent weapon. Your Order must be so proud."
Then he stepped away, cape swirling as if this had been a minor interruption to a much more important evening.
Anakin pressed his remaining hand to the cauterized stump and stared at the space where his fingers had been.
He had wanted to prove himself.
He had.
Just not in the way he intended.
...
The word retreat had always sounded orderly to Obi-Wan.
Measured. Tactical. Intentional.
There was nothing orderly about this.
Smoke rolled across the Mandalorian courtyard in greasy waves. Blasterfire stitched the air in erratic bursts as clone troopers formed a defensive perimeter around the wounded. Their armor—newly declared Mandalorian by law and yet still very much Republic by supply chain—moved with disciplined precision.
They held.
They did not advance. They did not pursue. They simply held the line while LAAT gunships descended through the haze.
The Separatist droids did not press the advantage.
They withdrew.
That was what troubled him most.
Count Dooku had not come to conquer Mandalore today. He had not even stayed to ensure Duchess Satine's death.
He had come to make a point.
And he had succeeded.
A gunship touched down hard against scorched stone. Medics rushed forward. Stretcher teams fanned out with brisk efficiency, lifting the injured while clones fired controlled bursts to discourage any sudden resurgence from the retreating CIS forces.
Obi-Wan moved through it all with outward calm.
Inside, calculations unfolded.
Mandalore can bleed.
The capital had been breached. Death Watch splintered. Political divisions laid bare in front of the Republic and the Confederacy alike. The illusion of insulated neutrality was gone.
The Jedi are vulnerable.
He felt the truth of that one like a bruise.
A ripple in the Force had cut through the battlefield minutes earlier—sharp, violent, wrong. He had turned just in time to see blue light tumble across stone.
Anakin.
Forced Republic involvement.
There would be no more debates about clone citizenship in quiet senate chambers. No more hypothetical discussions about whether Mandalore's independence could be respected while maintaining stability.
The Confederacy had attacked a sovereign world in the middle of a political transition.
The Republic would respond.
Because it had to.
Obi-Wan found him near the base of a fractured archway.
Anakin Skywalker was conscious. Pale. Jaw clenched so tightly it might have cracked a tooth.
A medic was finishing the cauterization seal, movements swift and professional. The severed hand was already gone. Collected. Cataloged. Reduced to evidence of escalation.
Obi-Wan knelt beside him.
For a moment, he said nothing.
There were words available—reassurances, chiding remarks about recklessness, thin attempts at humor to soften the blow.
None felt sufficient.
Anakin's eyes flicked toward him. Defiant. Humiliated. Burning.
"I had him."
Obi-Wan considered the statement.
"You engaged a former Jedi Master and Sith Lord without support," he replied evenly. "You lasted longer than many would have."
It was not praise.
It was not condemnation.
It was fact.
Anakin's breathing hitched as the shock began to ebb and the pain settled into something more permanent.
"He pushed Padmé."
Obi-Wan followed the glance. Across the courtyard, Senator Amidala was being helped into another gunship. Bruised, shaken, alive.
A calculated push. Non-lethal. Controlled.
Dooku had been demonstrating restraint.
That, somehow, made it worse.
"You allowed your focus to narrow," Obi-Wan said quietly. "He exploited it."
Anakin looked away.
The gunship engines roared louder as another transport lifted off. Clones began falling back in coordinated pairs, the perimeter shrinking with disciplined precision. No rout. No panic.
They had held.
Obi-Wan placed a steady hand on Anakin's shoulder.
"You are alive," he said. "Hold to that."
Anakin's remaining hand curled into a fist against the stone.
Obi-Wan rose as medics secured him to the stretcher. The ramp lifted. The gunship climbed.
Around him, the battlefield exhaled.
The Confederacy forces were gone. No dramatic last stand. No desperate counterattack.
They had come.
They had struck.
They had left.
Obi-Wan lifted his gaze to the Mandalorian sky, still hazed with smoke and distant engine trails.
Dooku had forced the Republic's hand without firing a single shot at Coruscant.
Satine's government would demand protection. The Senate would demand accountability. The Jedi Order would be asked why one of their former Masters had just severed the hand of the Chosen One in open combat.
There would be inquiries. Committees. Mobilizations.
War did not always begin with declarations.
Sometimes it began with a clean cut and a quiet withdrawal.
Obi-Wan lowered his eyes back to the scorched courtyard.
This had not been an assassination attempt.
It had been an announcement.
And it was only the beginning.