Cousin?
Duchess Satine?
Omen and the Wren clanspeople stood frozen.
They’d known Kurt as the Vizsla clan’s exile — that much was common knowledge.
What nobody had guessed was that he shared blood with Satine Kryze, one of Mandalore’s two rival claimants to power.
Kurt said nothing about it.
As a child, he and Satine had been close — but ever since he’d gone into hiding to take in these orphaned children, he’d kept his distance from her, careful not to drag her into whatever trouble followed him.
Even so, supplies meant for children had a habit of turning up near his base every so often, with no explanation attached.
Now, though, he had no choice but to open a channel to his cousin.
In Sundari, inside the New Mandalorian stronghold, the mood sat heavy in the air.
Satine Kryze stared at the holomap, watching Death Watch’s territory creep further in by the hour, her brow drawn tight.
Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan stood nearby, having already reported what they’d found in the southern district.
“A transforming fighter…
devastating firepower…
a young Mandalorian, Force-sensitive…” Satine murmured half to herself.
“It has to be him.
Kurt Vizsla.
There’s no one else it could be.”
Just then her personal guard leaned in and murmured something quietly.
“Patch him through,” she said.
A holographic projection of Kurt Vizsla flickered to life above the command console.
“Been a while, Cousin.
I’m sorry about your father.” Kurt spoke first.
“It’s all right.
That’s behind us now — he died for Mandalore, and it’s been far too long since we last spoke anyway.
Bo-Katan’s been asking about you.
How are you and the children holding up?”
“Getting by.
Though yesterday we hit one of their squads directly.” Kurt didn’t waste time getting to the point.
“Cousin, I need you to help protect these kids.
I can’t shield them alone — but I’m confident I can help you win this war.”
“It really is you.” Satine’s breath caught — she’d only been guessing until now.
Qui-Gon studied the projection of Kurt as though his gaze could reach clean across the distance between them.
Obi-Wan studied him too, this Mandalorian barely younger than himself, already leading a clan of his own through open war.
“Get everyone ready to move.
I’ll send fighter-transports to help with the evacuation right away.” Satine didn’t overthink it — she simply gave the order.
“Thank you, Cousin.
Everyone here is grateful for your help.” Kurt closed the transmission.
Qui-Gon’s gaze drifted out toward the war-lit sky beyond the stronghold walls.
“The Force moves strangely around him — clouded, and full of possibility.
Your cousin is…
unusual, Your Grace.”
Before long, three Kom’rk-class transports arrived at the base’s perimeter.
The children gathered what few belongings they had and boarded.
Five ships in total set off for Sundari.
Back to Sundari again, Kurt thought.
Came here yesterday to save people.
Today I’m throwing myself on my cousin’s mercy.
Funny how things turn out.
The five ships settled at the temporary command post in the rear of the stronghold.
The moment Kurt stepped off the ship, he spotted Qui-Gon — not yet returned to the Force, very much alive — and a beardless Obi-Wan Kenobi standing beside Satine.
“Cousin Kurt!” A small shape burst out from behind Satine and launched itself straight into his arms.
“Bo-Katan!
It’s been almost a year.
You’ve gotten so tall.” Kurt ruffled her orange-gold hair.
“Cousin.” He gave Satine a small bow.
“And the two Jedi Masters.”
“This is your cousin?” Obi-Wan asked Satine, glancing at the boy standing nearly a head taller than most grown men — Satine had told him Kurt was only eleven.
“Mm.
He’s always been a bit different.” Satine nodded.
The instant Qui-Gon laid eyes on him, something sparked behind his gaze — he could feel the boy’s presence in the Force plainly now.
Powerful.
Overwhelming, even.
And almost entirely untrained.
“A hero, and so young.
To have accomplished this much already — it’s a pleasure to meet you, Kurt Vizsla.
I’m Qui-Gon Jinn.” Qui-Gon stepped forward, clasping Kurt’s hand, reading his Force signature more carefully through the contact.
“A pleasure, Master Qui-Gon.
Let’s continue this inside — it isn’t safe out here.” Kurt led the group in, wary of what else might be lurking beyond the walls.
Inside the stronghold, looking over the thin guard and the threadbare weapons stockpile, Kurt felt his patience with his cousin’s pacifism start to fray.
“Cousin,” he said quietly as they walked the corridor, “don’t you see how badly outnumbered and outgunned we are against Death Watch and the traditionalists?”
“Kurt, we’re pacifists.
Everything you see here is defensive by design — before this war, these people were simply Sundari’s city guard.” Satine sounded tired even saying it.
“Then we need more hands, and more weapons.
Without them, we can’t protect anyone — peace is just a word until it’s backed by strength.”
“I’ll think about it.” Satine had already made up her mind on where he’d fit.
“For now, stay close to me — as my advisor, and as first commander of Sundari’s forces.
Your people can go on serving under you.
I trust you.”
Night in Sundari brought no real quiet.
The heaviest fighting near the city’s core had died down for now, but scattered explosions and the shriek of energy weapons still cut the air at intervals, like the city’s own uneasy breathing.
Satine’s temporary quarters in the stronghold had extra guards posted, but the tension in the air refused to lift.
Kurt was given a room on the stronghold’s upper level with a partial view of the city — Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan’s room right next door.
Not a coincidence, clearly.
He stood at the window, helmet set aside, brow furrowed in thought.
Then something brushed against his senses — faint, cold, edged with malice, like a stone dropped into still water.
This wasn’t Death Watch’s fevered battle-hunger.
This was something colder.
Purer.
Killing intent, bought and paid for.
“Bounty hunters!” Kurt’s eyes snapped wide.
He spun toward the bed, snatched up his helmet, and slammed it on — almost in the same instant—
CRACK.
Shatter—!
The wall beside his room — the outer wall of Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan’s quarters — blew open in a gaping hole.
Superheated bolts and a wave of debris and smoke tore through the breach.
The target wasn’t him at all.
It was the Jedi next door.
“Assassins!
Protect the Duchess!” Alarms tore through the stronghold, guards shouting over the crackle of blaster fire.
The shockwave staggered Kurt sideways, static and dust washing across his helmet display.
He didn’t hesitate — drawing both pistols, he rolled through his own doorway and out into the corridor.
Chaos and smoke filled the hall.
Two New Mandalorian guards lay in spreading pools of blood.
Three figures moved like ghosts through the shattered hole in Qui-Gon’s wall — armor mismatched in style but unified in purpose, every motion precise and merciless.
A hunting team, and a well-practiced one at that.