Chapter Text
Dawn breaks over Keldabe in shades of amber and rose.
Shaak stands in the training yard, feeling the cool morning air on her skin and trying to center herself. The yard is spacious—packed earth surrounded by stone walls, weapon racks along the perimeter, training dummies that look like they've taken years of abuse. Already, a dozen Mandalorians are scattered across the space, warming up with stretches and practice forms.
She rolls her shoulder experimentally. The wound has healed to a minor twinge, barely noticeable unless she moves wrong. The bacta did its work. She's ready for this.
Or she should be.
The truth is, she spent most of the night lying awake, staring at the ceiling of her quarters and thinking about Jaster's words. Welcome home. The way he'd looked at her, the warmth in the Force around him, the confidence in his voice when he said she'd surprise them.
She needs to focus. This assessment isn't just about proving herself to the Mandalorians. It's about maintaining her cover, gathering information, staying close enough to be useful to Master Plo without revealing what she is.
No pressure.
"Ready?"
Shaak turns to find Montross standing a few feet away, arms crossed over his broad chest. Without his helmet, she can see the hard set of his jaw, the way his dark eyes assess her with cold calculation. In the Force, he's that same churning darkness—not malevolent exactly, but turbulent. Unstable.
"Ready," she confirms.
He gestures toward the weapon racks. "We'll start with staff work. Grab one."
Shaak moves to the rack and selects a training staff. The moment her hands close around it, wrongness crawls across her palms. Beskar. The metal is beskar, and it feels off in the Force. Like biting into food with the wrong texture, like trying to hear music through static. The weight distribution is different from a lightsaber too—heavier at the ends, requiring different balance, different flow.
She grips it tighter, trying to adjust, trying to find the weapon's center. But the beskar keeps distracting her, pulling at her awareness in ways she can't quite articulate.
Montross takes his own staff and moves to the center of the yard. "Come on then. Show me what you can do."
Shaak follows, hyperaware of the other Mandalorians pausing their own training to watch. This is a test. Not just of her skills, but of whether she belongs here.
She settles into a ready stance, staff held diagonally across her body. Montross mirrors her position, and for a moment, they're both still.
Then he moves.
Fast. Faster than she expected from someone his size. His staff whistles through the air toward her ribs, and Shaak brings her own weapon up to block. The impact jars her arms, sends vibrations through the beskar that make her teeth ache.
She pivots, trying to create distance, but Montross is already pressing forward. Another strike, this one aimed at her head. She ducks, sweeps her staff low toward his legs. He jumps it easily and counters with a thrust to her shoulder.
The strike connects. Not full force, but enough to make her stumble back.
"Focus," Montross says, his voice flat. "You're distracted."
She is. The staff feels wrong in her hands, the beskar keeps pulling at her Force sense, and she's too busy trying to hide her lightsaber training to actually defend herself properly.
Another strike comes—high, then low, then a feint that nearly catches her off guard. Shaak blocks, parries, tries to find rhythm in the chaos. But Montross doesn't go easy. Each strike comes with full power behind it, testing her limits, pushing her past comfortable margins.
She adjusts her grip, tries to compensate for the weight difference. The staff isn't a lightsaber. It won't cut through anything, won't move with the same weightless precision. She needs to work with the weapon, not against it.
But in the heat of the moment—trying desperately not to get hit—she stops thinking about hiding. Stops worrying about revealing her training. Her body takes over, muscle memory from years of lightsaber forms bleeding through despite the different weapon.
She flows through a Makashi parry sequence, redirecting Montross's strike and spinning to counter with her own. The staff whistles past his head, missing by inches. He grins—sharp and predatory—and redoubles his assault.
The world narrows to this: the dance of combat, the ring of beskar on beskar, the burn in her muscles as she fights to keep up. Montross is better than her. She can feel it in the Force, see it in the effortless way he controls the fight. But she refuses to back down.
A high strike. She blocks. A low sweep. She jumps.
He uses her mid-air vulnerability, her momentary distraction with the wrongness of the beskar, and sweeps his staff low and hard. It catches her legs just as she's landing, and suddenly she's airborne in the wrong way.
The ground slams into her back with enough force to drive the air from her lungs. Pain explodes through her spine, her ribs, rattling her teeth. She lies there gasping, staring up at the morning sky, trying to remember how breathing works.
Montross's face appears above her. No concern. No apology. Just cold assessment.
He picks up her fallen staff, waits for her to struggle to her feet. When she's finally standing—unsteady, aching—he holds the weapon out.
Shaak reaches for it. Her fingers close around the beskar.
And Montross pulls her forward, yanking her off balance so she stumbles into his space. They're close enough that she can see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes, smell the sweat and metal on him.
"I'm watching you," he says quietly. Too quiet for the other Mandalorians to hear. "Don't think I'm not."
Then he releases the staff and steps back, raising his voice. "Again. And this time, pay attention to your footwork."
---
By the time blaster training begins, Shaak's entire body aches.
She has bruises forming on her shins, her back, her shoulders. Places where Montross's staff connected with more force than necessary. Places where he tested her pain tolerance along with her skill.
But she's standing. And she's determined to do better with the blaster.
The targets are set up along the far wall: stationary circles at various distances, some larger, some barely bigger than her fist. A handful of Mandalorians have gathered to watch, drawn by word that there's a new recruit being assessed.
Shaak picks up the training blaster from the rack. It's heavier than she expected, the grip slightly too large for her hand. Not a weapon designed for precision. But she can work with it.
She takes her stance, raises the blaster, and fires.
The bolt goes wide, missing the target by inches.
Frustration flares hot in her chest. She's better than this. With the Force to guide her aim, she could hit every target dead center without conscious thought. But she can't do that. Can't reveal how unnaturally accurate she could be.
But she also can't afford to look incompetent. Not after the disaster with the staff.
She reaches for the Force carefully, letting it flow through her just enough to steady her hand. To compensate for the unfamiliar weapon and the morning's exhaustion. Not enough to make every shot perfect, but enough to make them good.
She fires again. The bolt hits the outer ring of the target.
Better.
She continues down the line, adjusting her aim with each shot. The Force whispers guidance—slightly left, account for the wind, steady your breathing—and she listens. Her shots cluster toward center mass, close enough to be impressive without being suspiciously perfect.
When she finishes the sequence, she lowers the blaster and turns to find—
Jaster.
He's standing at the edge of the training yard, arms crossed, watching her with those grey eyes that seem to see everything. How long has he been there? Did he see her struggle with Montross? Did he see her fail with the staff?
Heat floods her face. She wants to prove herself to him, wants to show she's worthy of his faith. And now he's here to witness her assessment, to judge whether she belongs.
"Not bad," one of the watching Mandalorians calls. "You shoot like someone who's had actual combat experience."
Shaak forces a smile, trying to ignore the way her heart rate picks up with Jaster's attention fixed on her. "I've had to defend myself before."
"I can see that." Jaster pushes off from the wall and approaches. "But let's see how you do with something more challenging."
He gestures to another Mandalorian, who immediately starts adjusting the targets. Some move to new positions. Others begin tracking back and forth on mechanical rails. Suddenly, the stationary practice has become a combat simulation.
"Whenever you're ready," Jaster says, and there's something almost playful in his tone. Like he's curious what she'll do. Like he's enjoying this.
Shaak raises the blaster again. This time, she lets the Force flow more freely, using it to predict target movements, to compensate for the weapon's quirks. She fires in rapid succession: one shot, two, three, each bolt finding its mark but never quite perfect. Always slightly off-center. Always non-Jedi in its imperfection.
When the last target falls, she lowers the weapon and tries not to show how much effort that took. Tries not to let on that splitting her concentration between shooting and deliberately missing perfectly is harder than just shooting perfectly would be.
Jaster nods, something like approval in his expression. "Good instincts. Fast reaction time. You'd do well in a firefight."
The praise settles warm in her chest, and she hates how much she wants more of it.
"Now hand-to-hand," Jaster continues. He's already removing his outer armor, stripping down to the underlayer that allows for better mobility. "Let's see how you fight without weapons."
---
They circle each other in the center of the yard.
The other Mandalorians have stopped pretending to do their own training. They're all watching now—some openly, some trying to be subtle about it. Their Mand'alor is sparring with the new recruit. This is entertainment and evaluation rolled into one.
Shaak tries to ignore them. Tries to focus only on Jaster, on the way he moves, the set of his shoulders, the careful placement of his feet. He's testing her, learning her patterns, giving her the first move.
She doesn't take it. Waits instead, watching him watch her, feeling the Force move between them.
Then Jaster attacks.
His strike comes fast but controlled—a testing blow rather than a finishing one. Shaak blocks, deflects, counters with a palm strike to his ribs. He twists away, and they separate.
They come together again. Block, strike, dodge, counter. The rhythm builds between them, faster now, more complex. Jaster is good—years of combat experience evident in every movement. But Shaak has something else: the Force flowing through her, whispering warnings and opportunities, helping her predict his next move before he makes it.
And something else too. Something she's never felt before.
The Force between them starts to sing.
It's not loud. Not obvious. But as they move together—as Jaster strikes and Shaak counters, as he feints and she doesn't fall for it, as their bodies find rhythm in the violence—the Force resonates like a perfectly tuned instrument.
Combat compatibility. She's read about it, heard other Jedi mention it in passing. The way some people just fit together in a fight, anticipating each other's movements, creating openings the other can exploit, moving like two halves of the same weapon.
She's never experienced it. Not even with Master Plo, who knows her better than anyone.
But with Jaster, it's effortless. When he drops his guard on the left, she's already striking there. When she overextends on a kick, he's there to catch her ankle—but she's already spinning out of it, using the momentum to launch another attack. They flow around each other like water, like dance, like something the universe designed to work perfectly together.
Everything else fades away. The watching Mandalorians, the training yard, her mission, her deception—all of it dissolves until there's only this: Jaster and her and the space between them that keeps collapsing and reforming.
She catches his wrist, redirects his momentum, uses it to pull him off balance. He goes with it, turning the fall into a roll that brings him back to his feet. But she's already there, already pressing the advantage, already forcing him back.
His heel catches on uneven ground. He falls.
And Shaak follows him down, her momentum carrying her forward until she's pinning him to the earth. One knee between his legs, hands on his wrists, her weight holding him in place. Victory position.
They're both breathing hard. Both flushed with exertion. And they're close—faces inches apart, close enough that she can feel his breath on her skin, close enough to see the flecks of darker grey in his eyes.
For a moment, they both freeze. The Force still singing between them, still humming with that perfect compatibility. Jaster's gaze drops to her mouth, just for a second, and heat floods through Shaak that has nothing to do with the sparring.
She feels his body beneath hers, solid and warm. Feels the way his pulse hammers against her palms where she pins his wrists. Feels something in his presence in the Force that might be desire, might be interest, might be—
No.
Panic crashes through her like cold water, dousing the heat, killing the singing Force. She scrambles back, releasing him, putting distance between them so fast she nearly trips over her own feet.
"I'm sorry," she gasps. "I didn't mean to—I should have pulled that last strike—"
"Shaak." Jaster sits up slowly, and she can feel his confusion in the Force. His disappointment. The way he wanted to settle into that moment, and she ran from it. "You didn't do anything wrong. That was good sparring. Really good."
But there's a question in his voice. An uncertainty that wasn't there before.
She can't look at him. Can't meet his eyes and see whatever emotion is written there. Instead, she fixes her gaze on the far wall and tries to remember how to breathe normally.
"I should—there are others waiting to spar. I don't want to take up your time."
"Shaak—"
"Thank you for the match, Mand'alor."
She retreats before he can say anything else, before she has to confront whatever just happened between them. Her heart still pounds, and her skin feels too warm, and the Force is still humming in the back of her mind with echoes of that perfect compatibility.
She's never felt anything like that. Growing up in the Temple, she learned to release romantic attraction into the Force. Attachments lead to suffering. Desire clouds judgment. The Jedi way is one of peace and serenity, not passion and longing.
But that moment with Jaster—pinning him down, feeling his body beneath hers, seeing the way he looked at her—
She doesn't know what to do with it. Doesn't know how to process feelings she's spent her whole life learning to release.
So she does what she's been trained to do: she meditates. Lets the emotion flow through her and dissipate. Finds her center again, finds calm.
It doesn't work as well as it should. The collar restricts her, makes the meditation harder. And underneath the attempted calm, the feelings linger like embers that refuse to fully extinguish.
Shaak positions herself near the edge of the yard, watching other Mandalorians spar. She keeps her attention firmly away from where Jaster has resumed his own training. Refuses to let herself look, refuses to seek him out in the Force.
She stays there for the rest of the morning, watching others fight, learning their patterns, and absolutely not thinking about grey eyes and perfect combat compatibility and the way Jaster's presence still hums warm in the back of her awareness.
---
By late morning, Shaak has moved to a quieter corner of the yard, practicing forms alone where no one will bother her. She's trying to rebuild the center she lost, trying to find peace despite the morning's chaos.
She's mid-sequence when she senses him approaching.
Montross stops a few feet away, arms crossed, watching her with those cold, analytical eyes. Waiting.
Shaak finishes her form before acknowledging him. "Can I help you?"
"We need to talk." Not a request. "Somewhere private."
She follows him to the far corner of the yard, where the stone wall creates a small alcove away from the other trainees. When they're out of earshot, Montross turns to face her, and his expression is pure contempt.
“Have I offended you somehow?” Shaak asks before he can speak. "Because if I have, I'd like to apologize. I want to at least be on pleasant terms with someone who's clearly important to Jaster."
Montross's laugh is sharp and humorless. "Pleasant terms. Right." He steps closer, using his size to intimidate. "I don't believe your nice mask. I'm watching you. And the moment you slip—the moment you reveal what you really are—I'll be there."
The words hit like physical blows. Shaak's heart rate spikes, but she keeps her expression carefully neutral. "I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do." His voice drops to something cold and dangerous. "Your involvement with Jango and Jaster is too convenient. You got close to our Mand'alor too fast. I don't know if you're Death Watch, or something else, but I'm confident you're not who you claim to be."
Fear crawls up Shaak's spine. He suspects. He doesn't know—doesn't know she's a Jedi—but he knows something is wrong. And he's watching her, waiting for her to make a mistake.
"I don't intend any harm to Jango or Jaster," she says, and at least this part is true. "I really do like it here. I'd like to stay. Is that so hard to believe?"
"Yes." Montross's eyes bore into her. "Because nothing about you makes sense. The way you fight, the way you carry yourself, the way the Mand'alor looks at you—none of it adds up."
Before Shaak can respond, a child's voice cuts through the tension.
"Montross! Spar with me!"
Jango appears from around the alcove, bouncing on his toes with pre-adolescent energy. He's in light training armor, a practice blade strapped to his back, and his expression is bright with anticipation.
And something in Montross shifts.
It's subtle. Barely there. Without the Force, Shaak might not have noticed. But his rigid posture softens fractionally. The anger in his presence dims to something almost tender. He looks at Jango, and for just a moment, the cold calculation in his eyes warms.
"You think you can keep up, ad'ika?" Montross's voice is still gruff, but there's no edge to it. No threat.
"I know I can." Jango grins. "I've been practicing the sequences you showed me."
Montross nods, already moving toward the training rings. "Let's see it then."
He walks away without looking back at Shaak, his attention entirely fixed on Jango. And Shaak stands there, confused and slightly off-balance, watching a man who moments ago threatened her now engaging gently with the child who technically displaced him.
She should leave. Should take this opportunity to escape the confrontation. But curiosity keeps her rooted in place.
Montross and Jango take positions in a training ring. The boy settles into a ready stance—not perfect, but not bad for his age. Montross circles him slowly, assessing, and Shaak can feel the shift in the Force. The way Montross's attention becomes simultaneously sharper and softer. Focused entirely on teaching, on protecting, on ensuring this child learns what he needs to survive.
"Guard up," Montross instructs. "You're leaving your left side open."
Jango adjusts. Montross nods approval.
They begin to spar, and Montross doesn't go easy—not exactly. But his strikes are controlled, calculated to push Jango to his limits without exceeding them. When the boy makes a mistake, Montross corrects it immediately. When Jango lands a successful counter, Montross acknowledges it with a grunt of approval.
It's harsh training. Jango will leave with bruises, will ache tonight. But there's no malice in it. No cruelty. Just rigid structure designed to keep this child alive when violence eventually finds him.
During a pause in the action, Montross reaches out and ruffles Jango's hair. The gesture is quick, almost embarrassed, but undeniably affectionate.
Jango shoves him away, but he's smiling. In the Force, his presence glows warm and content. Safe.
Shaak watches and feels something complicated settle in her chest. Montross suspects her, threatens her, might even hate her. But he loves this child. Even though Jango took his place as heir, even though the boy's adoption changed Montross's entire future, he can't help but care.
It's so deeply Mandalorian. This reverence for children, this instinctive need to protect and train them. Even someone large and angry and suspicious can't override it.
Shaak stands there watching until she sees movement in her peripheral vision. Jaster and Myles, standing near the yard's entrance, speaking in low voices. Their postures are tense, and she can feel concern radiating from both of them in the Force.
She glances back at Jango and Montross—still training, absorbed in their work—and makes a decision. If something's wrong, she should know about it. Both because she's supposed to be gathering intelligence, and because she genuinely cares what happens to these people.
The realization stops her mid-step. She cares. Not just as a Jedi gathering information, but as someone who's started to feel invested in this community's wellbeing.
That's dangerous. That's exactly the kind of attachment she's supposed to avoid.
But it's also true.
Shaak crosses the yard and approaches Jaster and Myles. When she gets close enough, Myles looks up and manages a smile. It's strained, tight at the edges. The concern on his face is obvious, and tension radiates through his posture.
"Is something wrong?" Shaak asks. "Can I help?"
Jaster's expression is troubled. He exchanges a glance with Myles, then seems to come to a decision. "Walk with us."
They move away from the training yard, into a corridor where their conversation won't be overheard. The stone walls are cool, the air still carrying the morning's chill. Shaak waits, giving them space to explain.
"There was an attack," Jaster says finally. His voice is carefully controlled, but she can feel the anger beneath it. The guilt. "Death Watch. A few days ago, while we were still in the Outer Rim."
"What happened?"
"There's a settlement outside the capital. Was a settlement." His jaw tightens. "Group of Twi'lek families from Ryloth. Eleven families, sixty-two people total. They'd requested permission to settle here peacefully almost a decade ago. I granted it, as long as they followed our laws and respected our ways."
Myles picks up when Jaster pauses. "They integrated well. Contributed to the community. Started learning our language, our customs. They were becoming Mandalorian in all the ways that matter."
"Death Watch didn't see it that way." Jaster's presence in the Force flares with fury. "They view any outsiders as enemies. As corruption of the Mandalorian way. They demanded submission. The Twi'leks refused."
Shaak's stomach sinks. She can already guess where this is going.
"Twenty-three adults dead," Jaster continues, and his voice cracks slightly. "Sixteen children captured. Four adults taken as well, probably to be used as leverage or examples. The rest scattered—if they survived at all."
The numbers hit like physical blows. Twenty-three dead. Sixteen children stolen. Four more adults facing Force-knows-what treatment at Death Watch's hands.
"Death Watch thinks strength is brutality," Jaster says. "That fear equals respect. That honor means acquiring victory at any cost, and leadership is only legitimate if claimed through dominance." He looks at Shaak, and his grey eyes are haunted.
Myles shifts uncomfortably. "There's been graffiti around the capital. In the hidden alleys, places where the artists think they won't be seen. Supporting the attack. Saying things like 'We were gods once. And we will be again under Vizsla's rule.' Claiming Jaster's a pretender, that bloodline is the only true path to leadership."
"Not in the main markets," Jaster adds. "Not where they'd be caught easily. But enough places that we know there are citizens who agree with Death Watch's ideology."
Shaak processes this, trying to piece together the political implications. "How many people do you think actually support them?"
"A minority. Definitely a minority." But Jaster doesn't sound entirely certain. "Most Mandalorians understand that conquest and supremacy destroyed us before. That the old ways—the ones Death Watch wants to resurrect—led to generations of suffering."
"But a vocal minority can cause a lot of damage," Myles says quietly.
"My council is advising retaliation." Jaster's hands curl into fists. "Strike back at Death Watch with equal force. Show them we won't tolerate attacks on those under our protection."
"Will you?" Shaak asks.
"I don't know." The admission seems to pain him. "I believe we should learn from our past. That escalating violence with worse violence only perpetuates the cycle. But I also believe the Twi'leks deserve retribution. They were under my protection. Their deaths, their children's capture—that's on me. It impugns my honor as Mand'alor that I couldn't keep them safe."
He turns to face Shaak fully, and the weight of his attention is almost overwhelming. "What do you think I should do?"
The question catches her completely off guard. "I—what?"
"You're one of us now," Jaster says. "Your opinion matters. What would you advise?"
Shaak's mind races. This is exactly the kind of political question she should deflect, should avoid answering directly. But Jaster is looking at her with such open honesty, such genuine desire for her perspective, that deflection feels impossible.
And maybe this is an opportunity. To influence him toward a path that the Jedi could support. To demonstrate that he's not the warmonger the rumors claim.
She reaches for the Force, letting it guide her thoughts. Combining her diplomatic training from the Temple with instinct, with what feels right.
"The graffiti suggests there's support for Death Watch," she says slowly, working through it out loud. "But it's hidden. In alleys and back streets, not public squares. That tells me the people writing it know their views aren't popular. They're afraid of being seen."
Jaster nods, listening intently.
"Which means the majority of your people probably don't agree with Death Watch's methods. You said most Mandalorians understand that conquest and supremacy failed before—I think you're right about that." She pauses, organizing her thoughts. "So maybe instead of retaliation that could be seen as stooping to their level, you appeal to that majority. Remind them why the old ways didn't work. Remind them what makes someone truly Mandalorian."
"And the Twi'leks?" Jaster's voice is quiet. "They deserve justice."
"They do," Shaak agrees. "But justice doesn't have to mean slaughter. What if you combined a public appeal—something that addresses the children who were harmed, the dishonor Death Watch has brought upon themselves—with a targeted strike? Not to kill, but to capture. Rescue the children and adults they took. Show your people that strength can be disciplined. That you can defend the weak without becoming the same
kind of monster Death Watch is."
The silence that follows feels weighted. Shaak holds her breath, wondering if she's overstepped, if she's revealed too much of her Jedi training.
Then Jaster's expression shifts. The tension in his shoulders eases slightly, and something like relief flickers across his face.
"My council had me convinced there were only two options," he says. "Do nothing and look weak, or retaliate with equal brutality and become what we're fighting against. Neither felt right." He looks at Myles. "But this—this feels right."
Myles nods slowly. "An appeal to the people's better nature, combined with a rescue operation that demonstrates your principles. It could work."
"It has to work." Jaster's voice firms with determination. "Our children deserve more than graves. Our people deserve better than endless war."
He turns back to Shaak, and the gratitude in his expression makes her chest tighten. "Thank you. I needed that perspective."
"I didn't do anything—"
"You did." He reaches out and briefly squeezes her shoulder—that same gesture of connection from the day before. "You reminded me there are more than two paths forward. That's exactly what I needed."
Before Shaak can respond, Jaster is already moving, purpose in every step. "Myles, call for a conference. Gather whoever's available. I have a message for my people."
---
The broadcast room is chaos organized into something functional.
Technicians adjust cameras and lighting. Communications specialists run final checks on equipment that will beam Jaster's speech across Mandalore's comm networks. Mandalorians in formal armor stand at attention, providing both security and symbolic weight to the moment.
Shaak stands near the back with Jango, who appeared sometime during the preparations and attached himself to her side. The boy practically vibrates with nervous energy, excited to watch his father address the clans.
"He's going to be amazing," Jango whispers. "You'll see. When buir speaks, people listen."
Shaak places a gentle hand on his shoulder, offering comfort and stability. The boy looks up at her with such trust, such uncomplicated affection, that guilt threatens to choke her.
She pushes it down. Focuses on the present moment.
Jaster stands before the camera array, and even though he's not wearing his full armor—just the underlayer and a chest plate—he radiates authority. The Force bends around him, drawn to his presence like metal to a magnet. Charisma rolls off him in waves, that magnetic quality that makes people want to follow him, want to believe in him.
Shaak has met politicians, generals, Jedi Masters with decades of experience. None of them have this. This isn't learned. This is born.
The head technician gives a signal. The cameras activate. And Jaster begins to speak.
"My people. My brothers and sisters. My Mandalorians." His voice carries easily, fills the room, and Shaak imagines it filling homes and public squares across the planet. "I come to you today not as your Mand'alor making demands, but as one Mandalorian speaking to others about what we are. About what we've always been, at our best."
He pauses, letting the words settle.
"Days ago, Death Watch attacked a settlement of Twi'lek families outside our capital. Eleven families—sixty-two people—who had lived among us peacefully for nearly a decade. Who had requested permission to join our communities, who followed our laws, who respected our ways. Who were Mandalorian in the ways that truly matter."
Jaster's voice hardens. "Death Watch slaughtered twenty-three adults. They captured sixteen children and four more adults. And they did this because they believe that being Mandalorian is determined by blood. By species. By submission to their ideology."
The Force around Jaster glows brighter. Shaak can feel the truth radiating from him, the genuine pain and anger at the injustice.
"They're wrong." The words ring out like a declaration. "What makes someone Mandalorian isn't blood purity. Isn't which clan your parents belonged to, or which line can trace back the furthest. What makes someone Mandalorian is choice. Training. Creed."
He gestures broadly, encompassing the room and by extension, the entire culture. "We are the people who take in foundlings—children orphaned by war, abandoned by circumstance—and raise them as our own without distinction. We are the people who say that anyone willing to live by our code, to fight for our communities, to protect the weak, can be one of us. That's who we've always been."
Jaster's voice drops to something more intimate. "Children are sacred in our culture. They're not assets to be shaped into weapons. They're not tools for war. They're the future we're fighting to protect. When we train them, it's not to make them killers—it's to give them the skills to survive, to defend themselves and others, to become strong enough to choose their own path."
Shaak feels Jango shift beside her, standing straighter. Pride radiates from the boy in waves.
"Death Watch claims to represent true Mandalorian values," Jaster continues. "But what they practice is brutality. Fear. Supremacy. They believe strength is measured in body count, that honor means winning at any cost, that leadership is only legitimate if taken by force."
His grey eyes seem to look through the camera, directly at every person watching. "Can you not see the wrongness in that? Can you not see where that path leads? We've walked it before. Generations ago, we were conquerors. Warriors who spread across the galaxy taking what we wanted, burning what we couldn't keep. And what did it give us?"
The question hangs in the air.
"Grief. Death. A reputation as monsters that persists to this day. And fewer of us—so many fewer—because we spent our strength destroying rather than building. Because conquest isn't strength. It's waste."
Jaster's voice rises, passion bleeding through. "The galaxy has changed. We have changed. We're fewer now than we once were. So why—why—are we committing senseless violence against each other? Why are we letting Death Watch tear apart the communities we've built?"
He takes a breath, centers himself.
"I'm not calling for pacifism. Weapons are part of our religion, part of who we are. We're warriors. We always have been, and we always will be. But we're warriors who choose our battles wisely. Who understand that true strength lies in discipline, restraint, unity. Not in terrorizing settlements of families who asked only to live in peace."
The Force practically glows around him now. Shaak can feel it even through her collar's restriction, can sense the rightness of his words resonating through the cosmic energy.
"I reject Death Watch's ideology completely," Jaster says firmly. "I reject their blood purity myths. Their pointless raids on those weaker than themselves. Their indoctrination of children into cruelty. These things don't make us stronger. They make us the very monsters the galaxy already fears."
His expression hardens into something implacable. "I call on every Mandalorian hearing this to reject Death Watch. To refuse their promises of past glory and recognize them for what they are: a path to destruction. If you see Death Watch activity, report it. If they approach you to join their cause, refuse them. If they threaten you or yours, defend yourselves and know that the True Mandalorians stand with you."
"Death Watch only sees power in supremacy. But strength without restraint destroys itself. Striving for endless war inevitably hollows people out until there's nothing left. The Vizsla clan has forgotten that if they burn everything for their glory, there will be nothing left to rule."Jaster leans forward slightly, and his voice drops to something both compassionate and unyielding, building into something that feels inevitable. "This is who we are. This is what being Mandalorian means. We protect the weak. We train the young. We build communities that can withstand whatever the galaxy throws at us. And we do it together—not through fear or supremacy or blood purity, but through shared choice and shared purpose."
Jaster straightens, and in that moment, he looks every bit the leader his people need. "I am Jaster Mereel. I am your Mand'alor. And I will not let Death Watch define what we are or what we will become. Stand with me. Choose the future over the past. Choose honor over brutality. Choose life over endless death."
He pauses, letting the weight of the moment settle.
"This is the Way."
The transmission ends. The cameras power down. And for a moment, the room is absolutely silent.
Then Jango breaks away from Shaak and runs to his father, throwing his arms around Jaster's waist with enough force to nearly knock the man over. Jaster catches him, his expression softening into something private and tender.
"You were amazing, buir," Jango says, voice muffled against Jaster's chest. "They have to listen now. They have to."
"I hope so, ad'ika." Jaster's hand cradles the back of Jango's head. "I hope so."
Shaak watches them from across the room and feels something settle in her chest. Something that feels like certainty.
This man—this leader who speaks of protecting children and choosing discipline over brutality, who looks at his son with such obvious love, who appeals to his people's better nature instead of their fear—he cannot be the tyrant Master Plo's sources described.
The rumors are wrong. Or deliberately spread by Death Watch to undermine him. Or misunderstandings based on incomplete information.
But Jaster Mereel is not a warmonger planning genocide. He's not a tyrant suppressing free speech. He's a leader trying desperately to save his people from repeating the mistakes of their past.
And the Jedi should help him.
The certainty glows bright in Shaak's mind, fed by the Force still humming in the aftermath of Jaster's speech. This is why she was led here. This is what the Force wanted her to understand.
Jaster is the ally the Republic needs. The leader who can unite the Mandalorians and prevent their civil war from spreading. The one worth supporting.
She needs to tell Master Plo. Tonight. As soon as she can slip away and activate the emergency comm.
Finally, after days of uncertainty and deception, she has good news. Real intelligence that will help the Council make the right decision.
Jaster catches her eye across the room and smiles—tired but hopeful—and Shaak smiles back. For the first time since this whole mission began, the guilt sitting heavy in her chest feels lighter.
She's doing the right thing. Following the Force's guidance. And soon, she'll be able to help Jaster officially, with the Council's backing, without the weight of deception between them.
Soon, everything will make sense.
The Force hums its agreement, and Shaak lets herself believe it.