Chapter Text
The Triumphant shuddered as it exited hyperspace, and the massive Venator loomed over the planet it approached like a predator closing in on unsuspecting prey.
Inside the control room on the top spire, Clone Commander Wolffe shifted his weight uncomfortably next to Plo Koon as he listened to the Jedi Council brief them on the mission they had been assigned. Ten hazy figures flickered in and out of focus on the computer's holoprojector before them.
"From our messages with this civilization, it's clear their limited contact with the rest of the galaxy could be detrimental to our goals," Mace Windu advised, his flickering blue hologram leaning forward in his char with purpose. "Your mission is to persuade the royal family to join The Republic, through any means necessary."
“With all due respect, Master Windu,” Plo Koon replied, his brows furrowing above the rim of his mask, “why is the Council so adamant about these negotiations?”
Wolffe was wondering the same thing. Royal family, negotiations, attending a banquet. This is a mission for Cody and his General, not the Wolfpack, he grumbled in his thoughts. He'd already listened to enough lecturing on court behavior, bloodline members, and the like to last him the rest of his shortened lifetime. They were clones, soldiers, engineered for battle; this sort of drivel was best left to the Senate and other soft-handed flimsi pushers.
"The Republic is struggling to meet the demands of war," Mace began, steepling his fingers together. "To put it simply, the Senate has cut funding to support our troops."
“And with so many Jedi lost,” Ki-Adi-Mundi added pensively, “we lack both credits and capable Generals. This kingdom is rich in both. Primitive, yes, but their warriors are said to be unmatched. And their vaults, according to intel, rival Dooku’s fortune on Serenno. They could be a tremendous asset.”
So they're spoiled and entitled. Wolffe couldn't think of a worse combination.
Plo Koon tilted his head, thoughtful. “I see. And if the Separatists reach them first…”
“They would quickly become a grave threat,” Mundi confirmed.
“Speaking of threats...” Master Windu brought up a file on the control panel embedded in his chair. A soft chime signaled its arrival on Plo Koon’s comm. “You should be aware; there have been unverified reports, whispers of individuals on Talhira who wield powers outside the known Force.”
“The locals call it magic,” Depa Billaba said quietly, her expression troubled. “It may simply be superstition, or it may be something else entirely. If real, it could prove dangerous.”
“Or valuable,” Plo said quietly, arms folded over his chest. “Is that why the Council chose to send a Jedi Master, rather than a diplomat?”
Yoda’s ears twitched. “Trust, you inspire. Calm, you bring. If true this power is…better that one with patience greets it.”
“I understand.” Plo bowed his head. “If this is the beginning of something more than politics, I will proceed with care.”
“Do not let curiosity cloud your judgment,” Windu said. “If there is such power hidden in Talhira, others may already be searching for it.”
Plo Koon inclined his head again, and his claws disappeared into the sleeves of his robes. “The Wolfpack and I will remain vigilant. We're honored to be chosen for such a profound mission."
Honored was not the term Wolf would have used.
"A member of the Royal Family will greet you once you've landed on the city's outskirts. It will most likely be one of the princes," Billaba informed them, and Wolffe didn't miss the way the Jedi exchanged a fleeting glance with her former Master, Windu.
If they're doubting our capability to handle this, why not send a Galactic Senate member with private security? Wolffe questioned in his thoughts, his nose crinkling at the subtle slight.
“It would also be useful to understand how far behind they are, technologically," Mundi added, a dash of zeal entering his tone. "Please keep a careful log of your observations on customs and advancements. May the Force be with you, Master Koon.”
Wolffe saluted automatically, while Plo Koon bowed and echoed the Jedi Council’s parting words.
Once he straightened out of his bow, the General eyed him, clawed hand tapping against his arm. "You have thoughts on the mission."
Wolffe let out a short breath through his nose, brow furrowing over his mismatched eyes. His gloved hand flexed against his helmet propped on his hip. "Respectfully, Sir, wouldn't another battalion be better suited for this mission's delicate nature?" His gaze wandered across the clone troopers piloting The Triumphant. The pack wasn't known for their political savvy, and it was obvious the Council thought so, too.
Plo Koon chuckled, the mask causing the noise to warble slightly. "I wouldn't say we were the last pick, but considering that the 212th—"
"And the 501st," Wolffe added dryly.
"—are both currently unavailable, the duty falls to us." Plo Koon put a clawed hand on Wolffe's shoulder, his gaze softening behind his meshed goggles. "Think of it as a learning experience, Commander. Not everything can be solved with a blaster," he chided.
"Lucky me," Wolffe muttered under his breath. The overhead comms chimed to life, the announcement drifting down from multiple speakers.
"Attention all personnel. The Triumphant has begun the descent into atmosphere. Report to your assigned work stations immediately."
Plo Koon turned towards the bridge, hands clasped behind his back serenely. "Gather Boost and Sinker. We'll take a small team to meet the Royal Family; everyone else stays on board. If Master Windu's suspicions are correct, we don't want to overwhelm the natives with a flamboyant entrance."
"Yes, Sir." Wolffe saluted the Jedi and turned crisply on his heel, his boots ringing against the durasteel floor.
He passed by Boost and Sinker near the hangar doors, both already in full armor and checking their blasters. “We’re heading down. Light detail—just us and the General.”
Sinker grinned, bumping an elbow against his vod's side. “First contact, huh? Think they’ll throw flowers or spears?”
As Boost sniggered, Wolffe rolled his eyes. Maker help me. “Just keep your mouths shut and your weapons stowed,” Wolffe muttered, striding past them. “We're guests, apparently." Whether we like it or not, he added in his thoughts with a curl of his lip.
The two clones entered the transport vessel first, checking systems and getting the engines heating up. Wolffe secured his helmet over his head as General Plo Koon approached and followed the Jedi aboard. With only a small pack filled with personal items, a few ration bars, and only two blasters, Wolffe felt ill-prepared, almost bare, going into uncharted territory.
The Commander's uneasiness only grew; a knot formed in the pit of his stomach as their shuttle launched from The Triumphant and aimed towards the planet's surface. The Council's warning kept interrupting his thoughts, pushing his focus away and distracting him. Wolffe stared impassively out the nearest viewport, though his eyes were consistently drawn to the waiting city below.
As their transport capsule broke through streaks of sparse cloud cover, the nation of Talhira shone like a jewel unearthed in desert sands. Carved from the ochre rock of the surrounding cliffs, the city stretched outward in soft-hued spirals, its sandstone walls catching the sun light in shades of rose and gold. Behind the city, looming like a sentinel, the royal palace towered in majesty—an ancient structure crowned with domes of burnished brass and delicate filigree.
"Didn't the Council say this place was, y'know, still discovering flimsi?" Boost asked slowly, eyes widening as he took in the city carved into stone.
Sinker let out a long whistle, leaning over the flight controls to get a better view. "Those buildings look fancier than anything we've stayed in."
"The Council's use of 'primitive' can be disillusioning," Plo Koon hummed, and the Kel Dor's tone implied he didn't approve of the Council's definition in the least. "Don't let your judgement fool you; these people are proud and independent. They lasted generations without needing assistance from the Separatists or the Republic."
So we need to grovel to get what we need? The mission looked less and less appealing with each additional detail Wolffe discovered.
The Venator's transport shuttle landed a good distance outside the city, and the landing gears groaned when they settled into the sloping dunes. Dust and sand whipped at their legs and the sun beat down on them as the Wolfpack descended the lowered boarding ramp.
Wolffe stayed close to Plo's side as Boost and Sinker flanked them. The arid climate was a vast difference from the clones' home world. Wolffe found his teeth grinding behind his helmet as sand immediately wormed its way underneath his clone armor and irritated his skin.
"Remember, gentlemen, this is a diplomatic mission," Plo Koon repeated. "We must be on our best behavior as we represent the Galactic Senate and the Republic." While his tone was fond, there was a harsh reminder underneath the words.
A chorus of "Sir, yes, sir," and "Yes, General," echoed back at him.
They began their trek towards the city's gate, and past the sun's glare, Wolffe spotted a party was already on its way to them.
A bearded man that seemed to be twice the height of the six guards around him was approaching. HIs white linen pants, tunic and crimson sash fluttered in the hot breeze like a mirage. The sun's rays glinted off a massive gold and topaz signet ring on the man's right hand, and his dark brown hair and full beard had started to pepper with silver at his temples and sideburns.
The six guards tensed as both parties stopped a few feet away. Hands tensed on wooden shafts, and wickedly-curved blades atop spears catching the sun in blatant warning. Their gazes darted from the Jedi, to the armored troopers, and then landed on the transport ship behind them.
Plo Koon hesitated as he stepped forward, and his mask's filter hissed as he took in a short, surprised breath.
Wolffe instantly noticed; there wasn't much they hadn't seen this deep into the war, and anything that made the Jedi Master pause was worth caution. Boost and Sinker mirrored Wolffe's subtle tension, gazes scanning their surroundings more carefully.
Plo Koon bowed, taking the guard's open-mouthed stares and the man's quickly-veiled shock in stride. "I am Jedi Master Plo Koon. Thank you for inviting myself and my men into your splendid city."
"Welcome," the behemoth of a man greeted them in deep, accented Basic, bowing in return. A twisting circlet of aureate leaves was visible from his thick hair, and a matching triangular gold earring swayed from his left ear, encrusted with some type of ruby flower. "We've been expecting your convoy eagerly."
At least we don't need a protocol droid to translate, Wolffe thought, though it was a fleeting comfort as sweat began to drip down his temples.
"This is my Commander, Wolffe. Behind him are Boost and Sinker; they are my best soldiers," Plo Koon introduced his Wolfback with pride coating each name.
The mountain turned to the clones and bowed slightly in greeting. Wolffe removed his helmet, as did Boost and Sinker, and his eyes immediately went to the massive scar that split the man's face almost in half. It went from his hairline, down through his left brow and onto his cheek; a jagged, fresh wound that had healed barely rotations ago.
Wolffe instantly snapped his eyes back to meet the gaze of the Prince. He knew first-hand the abrasiveness and self-ridicule someone experienced when an injury was openly gaped at by anyone who passed. Oddly, the wound mirrored Wolffe’s scar almost exactly, except it ran down the other side of the man’s face.
"I am Jarah, Crown Prince of Talhira, next in line for the throne," Jarah said with a kind smile that was at odds with his height, stature, and rumbling voice. His topaz eyes darted between the clones' identical faces curiously. "Please, accompany me to the palace."
Wolffe hesitated a split second mid-step as the name clicked in his thoughts, then continued with the envoy towards the city. Sweet Maker. If this was the Bear Cub of Talhira, what the hell did the Bear King look like?
The sun bore down as they followed Prince Jarah through the city gates, passing under a towering archway carved with flowing script and etched artwork. A gust of wind swept over the multi-colored tiled walkway as they entered Talhira, the sandstone buildings glowing with sun-baked warmth. Stone aqueducts and wind towers littered the city, channeling cool breeze and fresh water through shaded courtyards and bustling streets. The city's high walls protected its inhabitants from the blowing sand.
Wolffe took it all in—the distracting fluttering of sun-bleached awnings, the riot of color spilling from bolts of displayed silks, the scent of saffron, rosewater, and charred spices rising from street stalls. Crowds parted at the sight of Jarah, all bowing in clear reverence, but they stared openly at the Jedi and his soldiers. Some gasped. Others whispered behind henna-stained hands as children were herded inside and shutters were firmly closed.
The clones, for their part, moved in disciplined silence. Wolffe walked half a step behind Plo Koon, always watching. He felt their attention cling to their armor like heat. The gaze of a people who had never seen a starship. Never seen another species.
And they were all looking at him like he was the alien.
Ahead, the palace rose from the back of the city like a beacon; built directly into the cliff side, it shimmered with veined marble, sandstone, and polished metal. Turrets rose like towers of flame-touched stone, while domes inlaid with gemstone mosaics caught glints of blue and green—each a reflection of the oasis that fed Talhira’s heart.
Inside the palace gates, the outside noise softened. Shade and mist from hidden fountains brought sweet relief from the desert heat. The scent of blooming citrus trees lingered in the breeze. Servants in flowing, pale garments lined the inner courtyard, each bowing in unison as Jarah passed while sneaking glances at them.
“Please forgive the gawking,” Jarah said, glancing back at them with a wry smile. “It's not every day we receive visitors from beyond our borders.”
Wolffe raised an eyebrow, but Plo Koon chuckled in good nature along with the Prince.
“It must be a great deal to take in, and your peoples' nervousness is to be expected,” Plo replied, his voice even beneath his mask. "But we are here in the name of diplomacy and peace, Your Majesty."
Wolffe's sharp gaze caught the way Jarah's expression hardened behind his pleasant mask. "That will be determined in time," Jarah murmured, stopping before a towering door of lacquered wood and gold filigree. Two guards pulled it open with effort, revealing the inner sanctum of the palace: the throne room.
It was cool and vast. The ceiling arched high above them, painted in the likeness of a desert sky at dusk, with stars gilded so precisely into the paint that they seemed to pulse faintly in the dim light. On either side of the hall, white drapes billowed gently, revealing glimpses of courtyards and enclosed gardens through open spaces built into the walls. Two thrones loomed at the far end, carved seamlessly from the very stone the palace had been built upon.
The hall wasn't empty. Another was waiting for them.
As soon as Wolffe got eyes on the other, the relationship between the two men was clear. The older one was no less handsome, the same height as Jarah, but built like a massive oak tree, his chest the shape of a barrel and his arms thicker than a maiden's waist. His auburn hair and beard was heavily streaked with silver, and the roped silver and gold circlet on his forehead proclaimed his status as a Royal.
Light green eyes swept over the Crown Prince first, then swung to Wolffe and his boys. The Commander felt his spine arch, posture stiffening as he found himself staring down the Bear King. His hands tightened on his helmet, and his fingers itched to confirm his blasters were still at his sides.
"Father," Jarah greeted him. "These are the emissaries from the Galactic Republic. Jedi Master Plo Koon, and his soldiers."
Plo Koon bowed once more, this time holding it a bit longer, as they were in the presence of the country's king. "As I told your son, thank you for your generosity in hosting us."
King Braum had to tilt his head down—all the way down—to look at the new arrivals to Talhira. Braum's hands were easily the size of dinner plates as he reached out and grabbed Plo Koon by the shoulders, making Wolffe and the boys tense immediately, hands shifting to their blasters.
Their suspicion wasn't necessary. Braum dragged the Kel Dor forward into his chest in a tight embrace, to the Wolfpack's joined surprIse. "There's no need for such formalities, Plo. Our guests have arrived from the stars! Get the whiskey!" the king barked out, startling a nearby maid with the sheer volume.
"Father, it's not even noon," Jarah pointed out, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Bah, fine. You're worse than your mother. Bring the mead, then!" Braum ordered. Servants began to rush around with idle laughter as a variety of meats, fruits, and breads were set on the long table in front of the twin thrones, and several mead barrels began to get rolled in.
Wolffe's brow ticked up at the informality and camaraderie the King displayed. Maybe I can get used to this diplomacy thing, he snorted to himself in his head. Anyone who offered to feed his men was a decent person, royal or commoner.
"Mead for breakfast?" Boost sighed in a tone that was almost dreamy.
"This place might not be so primitive after all," Sinker muttered in agreement from behind him.
"Boys, we're on a mission," Wolffe reminded them with a low growl and disapproving scowl. "You know the rules. No more getting trashed on foreign planets."
"Come!" Braum demanded on a loud boom that echoed through the hall. "Join me at first meal, and tell me everything about these worlds you spoke of in your letters." The King had a death grip on Plo Koon's shoulders, not so much guiding the Jedi as carrying him up the steps and around the massive wooden table.
Wolffe caught the crown prince's eye and he fought a smirk as the man rolled his eyes at the King's insistence and boyish eagerness.
He found himself seated next to Jarah's left, while Boost and Sinker followed Plo Koon to sit on the King's right. There was an empty chair on Wolffe's left, clearly meant for someone who should be present. They set their helmets on the table's worn surface, and Boost cheerfully handed his to the King as the man eyed it curiously.
The meat was heavily spiced and delicious, and the fruits were sweet and sticky from honey and powdered sugar dusted overtop.
Wolffe was engaged in an easy, surprisingly pleasant conversation with the Crown Prince about their favorite authors. Talhira had its own share of talented native writers, and both the heir and clone commander admitted to stealing quiet moments for reading when they could. When Wolffe asked what genre Jarah preferred, the prince stammered and claimed he didn’t know the word in Basic. That only deepened Wolffe’s suspicion—along with heavy amusement—the answer was romance.
Then, the massive throne room doors opened again with a low, resonant creak.
Conversation died at once, the air shifting with a charge as two women entered, their presence as commanding as a storm on the horizon. Draped in layers of iridescent silk that moved like oil over water, they glided in with practiced, unshakable grace. The fabrics clung and flowed in equal measure, painted in hues of midnight blue, burnt gold, and molten copper, the fading colors of a desert dusk. Their skin was deep umber, kissed gold by the sunlight streaming through gauze-draped windows high above.
The elder of the two walked ahead, her spine straight and proud, a thin tiara of hammered gold and silver resting in tangles waves of rich mahogany. Her gaze was cautious, assessing, but not unkind as she eyed the newcomers.
Beside her was a vision sharpened to brilliance. The younger woman—tall, regal, and devastating—wore her beauty like a blade. Her silks clung like fire-painted glass, and she wore a more intricate diadem. An eight-pointed golden sun rested on her brow, the flares spanning out across her forehead. Ribbons of gossamer fell in delicate loops from the crown's body, and a web of gold chains were latticed across the top of her head. Her face was fierce and elegant: high cheekbones, a full mouth, and kohl-lined eyes that cut through the air like obsidian. Every step she took was deliberate, feline, magnetic. Her gaze cooled the room as she scanned it, pausing on the foreigners seated at the table.
Wolffe felt the moment her eyes landed on him, heavy and assessing. A weight settled in his chest like he was being inspected down to his bones.
Braum suddenly stood, chair scraping against the sandstone floor, and leapt over the wide table. Jarah moved the cup away just in time so his father's boot didn't knock it over, apparently completely used to the chaotic morning routine. Boost and Sinker paused, mouths full of seasoned meat, both looking over to their Commander and Jedi.
"My heart! My ebony desert rose, you look even better than the day I first saw you," Braum exclaimed as he jogged over to where the women had emerged.
Which one is he talking to? Wolffe thought, a furrow developing in his brow.
Jarah raised his glass to his mouth, glancing at the soldier with sympathy. "My mother, the Queen," Jarah murmured to him quietly, nodding towards where the Bear King had stopped in front of the older, no less stunning, woman. "The First Princess, my younger sister Isla, is beside her."
The Queen? Shit. Wolffe instantly stood at the same time Plo Koon moved. A sharp glance ensured Boost and Sinker scrambled upright as well, the clones standing to attention. Queen Farrah was the royal family member Plo Koon had been in contact with, who had invited them to Talhira in the first place.
Again, Wolffe caught his General taken aback.
He wasn't sure if anyone else noticed. Plo Koon's brow furrowed over the edge of his goggles, and his claw scraped against the back of his hand in a nervous tell.
Wolffe couldn't see anything dangerous in the perimeter; the guards were at the door, and there weren't any signs of a trap. Before Wolffe could question it, the Jedi pushed through whatever had startled him.
"Your Grace," Plo greeted her politely, bowing once more over the table; a smooth action that was hastily followed by the clones. "it is good to meet you in person. Your husband and son have made us feel most welcome."
"Master Plo, the pleasure is all mine," the Queen chided, beaming up at her husband as her words became muffled from affectionate kisses rained across her brow and cheeks. "And please, call me Farrah—enough, Braum, you’ll embarrass the children,” Farrah hummed with a genuine blush, pushing Braum's face away.
“Bah! They've seen worse,” Braum snorted as he guided his wife to sit in the spot he had been occupying.
As Wolffe and Plo Koon both sank back down into their chairs, Wolffe noted that his younger brothers were still standing.
And staring.
Gaping was a better term for it, wide-eyed and open-mouthed as the two desert blossoms joined them at the table and settled in. Even Wolffe had to admit that age had done nothing to diminish the Queen's beauty, though he was far more subtle in looking than his subordinates. It was hard to believe that between the two, they were old enough to have five children, with the first two well into adulthood and the others past coming-of-age.
"You can sit down, shinies," Wolffe drawled, and he chuckled quietly to himself as the two clones flushed brightly and hastily dropped back into their seats with loud clangs.
"Shinies?" Jarah repeated with a curious tilt of his head.
"A nickname we give new soldiers," Wolffe explained with a tilt of his cup towards Boost and Sinker. "They go into the battlefield with shiny armor and shiny faces. But some of us don't leave that way," he added after a moment, with a wry gesture to his own facial scar. The corner of his mouth threatened to twitch into a full-blown smile as Jarah blinked a few times, then laughed.
"Isa," Jarah greeted the First Princess brightly, still chuckling over the inside joke the Commander had told him.
The First Princess had come to the Prince's side to lean in and kiss his cheek in greeting. Shrewd topaz eyes flitted to the empty seat next to Wolffe, and then narrowed on the Crown Prince with lethal focus.
"I see your new shipment of silk arrived," Jarah continued pleasantly, almost too cheerfully, trying to keep the Princess distracted from something. "Your outfit is stunning, a true work of art as usual—"
Wolffe watched with growing discomfort as sharp, manicured nails dug into the Prince's shoulder.
"Don't play coy with me. Where is she?" Isla hissed.
The Commander's brows shot up over his mismatched eyes, and he quickly hid his reaction to the private conversation beside him. There were three royals missing from the table, and Wolffe could easily guess which one was the topic of the First Princess's interrogation.
Maybe there's more trouble lurking around this mission than I first thought, Wolffe began to hope as anticipation curled in his gut.