Hyperspace streamed past the viewport of the lead Accumulator in long, silver-blue ribbons. The ten cruisers formed a tight arrowhead formation, fifty thousand clones and their equipment secured in the vast troop bays. In the flagship's private command alcove, I sat alone at the holotable, the blue glow of the starlines reflecting off my scarred armor. Ahsoka still rested in the medical wing—her presence a steady, warm thread through the new bond—but the rest of the legion was already moving with purpose.
I opened the first channel.
"Ragnos."
The Zabrak captain's hologram snapped into focus on the bridge of the *Terminus*, still in orbit above Va'aart. Behind him the familiar shapes of the original fleet waited—*Akagi*, *Kaga*, *Shōkaku*, *Midway*, the Aegis Hammerheads, the captured Hardcell transport. All of them.
"General," Ragnos said, straightening instantly. "We received your earlier transmission. The fleet is ready."
"Good. Bring everything to Coruscant. Full combat escort. The moment I receive High Jedi General status, the entire Thirteenth Sector Army falls under my direct command. That includes every ship, every trooper, every asset currently under Dittmar and Kinaun. I want the transition seamless. No gaps. No questions from Sector Command."
Ragnos's tusks flashed in a sharp grin. "Understood. We'll jump the moment you give the word. The boys are already painting new markings on the hulls—'High General Marek's Legion.' Thought you'd like that."
I allowed myself half a smile. "Paint them after the Senate ceremony. For now, just get here. We'll need the firepower when the real orders start coming down."
"On our way, sir."
The channel closed. I opened the next two simultaneously.
Dittmar and Kinaun appeared side by side—Dittmar on the bridge of his Acclamator squadron, Kinaun aboard the *Independence*. Both snapped to attention.
"Gentlemen," I said without preamble. "New orders. The moment the Senate confirms my rank as High Jedi General, the Thirteenth Sector Army becomes my personal command. That means your squadrons, your troops, your logistics chains—all of it. Bring your fleets to Coruscant immediately. Full strength. We'll coordinate the transfer in orbit above the planet. No delays."
Dittmar's eyes widened slightly, but he answered without hesitation. "Copy that, General. We'll be there before you land."
Kinaun simply saluted. "The *Independence* and her sisters are already plotting the jump. We'll arrive with the rest of the fleet. The Thirteenth Legion is yours, sir. Always has been."
The holograms winked out. I leaned back, exhaling. The pieces were moving exactly as planned. When Palpatine pinned that rank on me tomorrow, the entire sector army would already be under my flag—no bureaucratic tug-of-war, no Senate second-guessing. One command structure. One purpose.
The door to the alcove hissed open. Puck, Lucky, Devil, Blam, and three senior clone engineers stepped inside, carrying a heavy durasteel crate between them. The lid was already open. Inside lay the remnants of Durge's armor—twisted, half-melted slabs of beskar, still faintly warm from the lightning that had finally ended the immortal Gen'Dai.
Blam set the crate on the table with a heavy clank. "We salvaged everything we could before the rain cooled it, sir. Pure beskar. Mandalorian-forged. The stuff doesn't melt easy, but your… storm… did a number on it."
I ran a gloved hand over one warped pauldron. The metal sang under my touch—cold, resistant, almost mocking. "Beskar resists the Force. Lightsabers, lightning, even Battle Meditation—none of it cuts cleanly. That's why Durge lasted as long as he did. The armor was part of him."
Lucky tilted his helmet. "So… we can't forge it into new plates? The engineers say the molecular structure is too dense for our forges anyway."
One of the engineers—a sergeant with grease-stained hands—nodded. "We could try, sir, but it would take months and specialized Mandalorian tooling we don't have. And even then…"
I looked up at the clones. All of them were watching me, waiting.
Puck voiced the question the others were thinking. "Begging your pardon, General… but why us? Why not you? You're the one who actually fought the bastard. You're the one who needs better protection. We're just clones. Armor's already good enough."
I let the silence sit for a moment, fingers still tracing the melted beskar.
"Because this isn't just armor," I said quietly. "This is Mandalorian iron. The last living Mandalorian who wore it died more than two hundred years ago—killed by Durge himself. The armor we recovered is the final piece of that legacy. Durge hunted them to extinction. He took their beskar, melted it into his own shell, and kept killing. Now it's ours."
I lifted one warped vambrace, turning it so the faint Mandalorian sigils still visible on the inner curve caught the light.
"The clones asked why they need the armor, not me. Because I already fight with the Force. You fight with discipline, with training, with brotherhood. If we're going to war on this scale—High Jedi General or not—we need every edge. Beskar can't be cut by lightsabers. It laughs at blasters. It shrugs off lightning. You wear it, and the next Durge, the next Nightsister, the next Sith who comes for us will have to work a lot harder to kill you."
Devil shifted his weight. "So… we're supposed to become Mandalorians now?"
I set the vambrace back in the crate.
"No. You're supposed to become unbreakable. The Mandalorians are gone. Durge made sure of that. But their iron is still here. We honor what's left by putting it to use. The first full sets go to the ARC troopers—Puck, Lucky, Devil, the rest of Alpha Squad. Then the line commanders. Then every trooper who wants one. We'll find a way to work the metal. Even if it takes years. Even if we have to trade favors with the few Mandalorians still scattered across the galaxy. But we start now."
Blam nodded slowly, respect in his eyes. "Understood, sir. We'll begin cataloging every piece. The boys will fight for the right to wear it."
I closed the lid of the crate.
"Good. Because when we reach Coruscant tomorrow, the Senate will give me a title. But titles don't stop blasters. Beskar might. And the Thirteenth Legion is going to need every advantage it can get."
The clones saluted as one—sharp, proud, ready.
I returned it.
"Dismissed. Get some rest. Tomorrow the whole galaxy watches us arrive. Let's make sure they remember who we are."
They filed out, the crate of ancient Mandalorian iron between them.
I remained alone, staring at the starlines streaking past.
The bond with Ahsoka stirred gently in the back of my mind—still healing, but awake enough to send a single, quiet thought:
*They'll wear it like a second skin. Just like you said.*
I smiled faintly into the empty room.
*They already are.*
The *Terminus* and the rest of the original fleet were already jumping to join us. Dittmar and Kinaun were en route. Ten Accumulators carried fifty thousand clones and a prisoner who would change the Senate tomorrow.
And somewhere in the cargo hold, the last beskar of the Mandalorians waited to be reborn.
The war wasn't over.
It was only changing hands.