A pair of massive, ancient doors loom at the entrance to the throne room. Upon opening, they give way to a large chamber with a high ceiling carved smoothly into stone. The chamber itself is the size of a professional holo-ball court but the hard-tile flooring has been sandblasted to perfection and patterned symmetrically throughout. Tall, rounded pillars frame a center dais that forms an elevator platform. Perfectly centered on the low platform is the heart of Clan Arcona's power—the Serpentine Throne. The ornate throne stands several feet above the head of even the tallest Shadow Lords. The dais is back lit by an ever glowing wall of flame that attunes itself to the order-color of the current Consul. A sable carpet trimmed with white lays down over the shallow steps and continues all the way towards the entrance doors.

The Throne Room is completely soundproofed and almost feels like entering a vacuum. Voices carry easily, but never leave the chamber. A combination of alchemy and engineering allow the room to be shut off from the rest of the Citadel while maintaining proper ventilation for the unique curtain of flame. It maintains a steady if not warm room temperature, ignorant to the climate outside and throughout the Citadel's ancient walls.

Perhaps the most defining feature of the Throne Room is the wall of flames that curtain behind the throne itself.

Sashar Erinos, di Tenebrous Arconae strode into the Throne room as if he owned it.

“That’ll be all, lads.” he said to the two Summit Guardsmen who stood flanking the ornate doors he’d just passed through. They spared a look between them, but one didn’t countermand one of the Shadow Clan’s paragons easily. They left without a word, and the Mandalorian turned his attention to the other end of the cavernous chamber, where a few courtiers were assembled in a small group before the vacant throne. He strode towards them, his boots clicking on the polished floor, echoing slightly, drawing their attention.

One was Major Helder Kemp, a Senior Analyst in the Dajorra Intelligence Agency who acted as a liaison to the Clan. He’d also served under Sashar during his tenure as Consul, and had risen quickly under the Elder’s supervision: an ally.

He was talking to a representative of the Merchant Guild - a corpulent Duros of middling years who’d somehow clung to his wealth and position for years, ensuring that the coffers of the Clan were kept well stocked despite the constant upheaval. Sashar’s sources also confirmed that he’d lined his own pockets in the process, and everything the man touched seemed to turn to gold. He still hadn’t figured out how. Definitely not an ally.

Finally, there was a Devaronian standing between them, his pointed teeth glinting, reflecting the red flames from the back of the throne room in homage to Arcona’s new Consul.

“Gentlemen, I need the room for a few minutes,” Sashar said brusquely.

“I’m sure whatever it is you need to do, we won’t get in the way.” the Duros said back with an air of supreme irritation in his tonal voice.

He clearly didn’t think much of Sashar’s current political stock, and figured he could get away with it.

“I’m sorry, I think I misspoke,” Sashar replied, looking down briefly.

The Duros smiled in a decidedly oily manner, and turned back to the conversation, assuming that the Arconae was done.

“Get out. Now.”

The air seemed to thicken and cease its movement as Sashar slowly looked up, his visage stony and unmoving.

The Major nodded and beat a hasty retreat. The Duros’ resolve held for a moment before he nodded, babbling apologies and waddled after Kemp. This left only Sashar and the Devaronian.

Sashar stared at him pointedly, expecting him to follow his colleagues.

“I don’t scare that easily,” The humanoid said eventually, grinning, making his expression decidedly more sinister.

Inwardly, the Mandalorian cursed. He needed at least five minutes of unfettered, unobserved access to the throne room if he was to manage to get into the Consul’s private archives, located just off the rear of the room. The entire exercise would be for naught if he were observed.

“And you are?”

“Maaz. Guardsman.”

Sashar blinked in confusion. All of the Summit Guardsmen were human clones of his brother, Kieran Erinos. They were led by Guard Captain Bly, and the Adept had made every effort to reacquaint himself with their numbers. There were no Devaronians in the Guard.

“Try again,” Sashar said, his tone hardening, staring up at the taller being.

“Look, I have no idea who you are, and frankly, I don’t care. Why do you need to be alone in here? You’re not the Consul.”

Sashar responded by punching the Devaronian in the face, sending him reeling.

Faster than he believed possible from a mundane, a rifle was swung out at him, firing blindly. Sashar’s eyes widened and he threw himself laterally, rolling over his shoulders and came up on one knee, a trio of throwing knives loosed half by reflex, half by prompting from the Force. None landed.

“That was rude,” Maaz said, clicking his prominent nose back into place with one hand, waving the rifle in Sashar’s general direction with the other, as if to ward him off.

Sashar shrugged an admission and stood slowly, quietly impressed at how the ‘Guardsman’ had kept his cool despite being struck.

“You’re in my way,” He said simply.

“Not gonna change anytime soon, short stuff.”

Strangely, Sashar laughed at the insult. “Okay pointy, you’ve officially caught my attention.” “I’m thrilled,” Maaz replied, his voice flat.

He unslung the concussion rifle from its place across his back and checked the charge on the weapon before turning his attention back to the wary Devaronian. “So you’re going to fight me just out of sheer stubborn refusal to move?”

“The pint-sized mando boy talks about being stubborn? Glass houses and throwing stones, now put that down before you hurt yourself,” Maaz replied testily, gesturing at Sashar’s oversized rifle.

Sashar smiled, all teeth and no warmth, and took aim. Maaz did the same, firing before the Mandalorian could get off a shot, forcing the smaller being to duck down and scrabble to get to cover behind the nearest pillar. Maaz kept up the fire, scouring hits which bit into the floor, causing foul-smelling bursts of smoke to rise up, marking the Mandalorian’s progress.

As soon as Sashar made cover, Maaz ceased trying to hit the preternaturally fast Elder and walked swiftly up the stairs to the dais, never turning his back on the Grey Jedi. He grimaced briefly at the lack of cover, but ducked down by the side of the Serpentine Throne, keeping his crosshairs firmly locked on where Sashar was hidden.

Maaz took each breath slowly, keeping his weapon trained at where he had last spotted his opponent, ensuring that his aim only crept slightly with each inward and outward motion. He took only a moment to think over the events of the last few seconds and consider what he knew: his opponent was fast, too damn fast, and in the moment that the Mandalorian had drawn his rifle Maaz had spotted the lightsaber hanging from his belt.

Karking Force user, should have guessed, he thought, keeping his attention focused. He knew better then to rely on his eyes alone; his opposition could have any number of ways to fool his senses, cloaking himself or some other trick to throw him off. Instead, he waited. He had to hope and rely on his instincts to protect him long enough for someone to figure out something was going on in the Throne room. He couldn’t rely on Kemp — the Intelligence agent had obviously recognized whoever the Mandalorian was and had followed his orders blindly. He had to hope that the Duros Felzom’s hasty departure would raise some concern.

In between beats of his heart, the air escaping his lungs as he exhaled, he saw the concussion rifle swing from around the pillar first, and he squeezed his trigger in a short burst yet as the deafening roar of the W-90 went off. Maaz instictively ducked behind the throne and tensed, expecting to still feel the impact despite his cover. Instead, the shot went wide and, without hesitating, he spun back and opened fire as the shadow behind the pillar began to move. The blaster shots chipped and dug into the stone as the Elder slipped back into cover.

The hell did he miss on purpose for?

---

Sashar cursed. He didn’t care about much, but he wasn’t prepared to damage the Throne just to deal with this irritation. A smile crept across the Arconae’s face despite the situation; he had to admit he was mildly impressed by the Devaronians tenacity to get in his way. Just means I need to remind this new generation of who I am. Shrugging his way out of his coat, he slipped the sling of the rifle over his head.

“Hey, Osik! I’m going to enjoy beating you to the death with that gun,” the Mandalorian shouted.

“Shu-”

The moment Sashar confirmed the guardsman's location hadn’t changed, he concentrated, the rifle slipping from his grasp and moving around the wide stone pillar as he turned and motioned as if pulling the trigger. The rifle hung suspended by the Force and blindly fired another round across the throne room. Sashar smiled as the return fire began cratering the pillar where the rifle was.

He spun around the opposite side of the pillar, the W-90 impacting the ground, forgotten. His footsteps hammered against the hard surface under him, the distance closing between him and his opponent. The Devaronian tried to swing his rifle back, and Sashar grimaced and pushed himself. He could feel the Force flowing into his every movement, every muscle contracting as he watched the shots coming closer, creating a series of pockmarks and burns in the space he inhabited just a moment before.

The steps of the dais were directly in front of him and he was now staring down the smoking barrel of the TL-50. His foot came down and he contracted his entire body like a spring coiling and threw himself forward, the scattered red bolts blazing through the air underneath him as he cleared the steps and distance in a single bound only made possible by the gift of the Force coursing through him.

Sashar felt the impact of his gloved fist as he drove his weight and momentum into his opponent's sternum. He felt as a satisfying crack as the plates of the armor splintered from the force of the impact, sending the Devaronian tumbling backwards. The audible exhalation of the air in the alien lungs brought a sense of pleasure to the Mandalorian as he listened to the strangled gasps of air.

The Elder didn’t waste any time in closing the distance as Maaz struggled back to his feet, gasping for breath. Reaching out and taking hold of the strap for the TL-50, he pulled with enough force to strip the rifle away and send it scattering across the dais and down the steps. He swung his fist in, aiming for the abdomen to ensure his opponent didn’t get the chance to catch his breath.

He smirked in appreciation as his hand was battered away and a familiar counter was thrown at him. The two began exchanging blows and, to Sashar’s surprise, his opponent's knowledge of Mandalorian Core appeared equal to his own. For the briefest of moments, the two stood as equals.

Until the Elder’s amusement faded and he drew on the Force, his blows beginning to become a blur, his strikes slipping under guards and his counters impacting Maaz's limbs and driving the Devaronian back.

There was a moment in every fight Sashar had fought in during his time with Arcona where his opponents suddenly realised what he’d known all along; that they were going to lose. For some, it came over them gradually. They tried trick after trick to overpower Sashar, or trick him into misstepping and as he rebuffed each one. It was almost comical to watch the dread slowly overtake them, to watch their mocking smiles turn to frowns of concentration and then finally see that very real shiver of true fear run up their spines.

For others, it came all at once. They’d suddenly realise that they were in over their heads, and there was a very real chance that they wouldn’t be leaving the fight alive. Sashar had - in his prime - enjoyed it, and sometimes bet with himself to see how long it took to happen. Since returning from the proverbial other side, he’d found his former self to be an arrogant di’kut.

Sashar pushed aside the introspective reverie as he slipped around a particularly nasty elbow jab, then slammed his fist into the Devaronian’s side twice, driving his knuckles into the vulnerable soft flesh of his midsection where a Human’s kidney would’ve been. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem that the horned being was wired the same way. Beyond getting hit, he didn’t register any extraordinary pain and was still able to shove Sashar back, interlocking an ankle behind Sashar’s, tripping him.

The Mandalorian stumbled back but kept his feet beneath him, chastising himself for losing focus for even a second. Maaz smiled indulgently and fell back into a ready stance, both hands held up, elbows bent , fists at eye level. His feet were planted and steady, leading with his right foot, again knees bent and supple, ready to flow into an attack or backpedal where necessary.

Sashar grinned. He had to admit, this was fun. It had been a while since he’d encountered a mundane would could keep up with him. A thought struck the Mandalorian.

“You enjoying this as much as I am?”

Maaz shrugged, not dropping his stance. “Hey, I could whale on you spoonbenders all day. Makes no difference to me.”

The Mandalorian’s grin widened, turning predatory. He closed in, letting the Force seep into him, guiding his blows, his head moving a fraction to the left, dodging a brilliant counter from Maaz. The Devaronian smiled in return, his devilish features lending him a decidedly sinister air and didn’t cede an inch of ground. Despite the obvious advantage the shorter being had, he was still holding his own.

Distantly, the analytical part of his mind, honed from a lifetime of fighting the Force sensitives of the galaxy, wondered why the lightsaber hadn’t come out yet. Their glowsticks of doom were their hallmark. It was a game changer, but Sashar hadn’t fallen to his yet.

Answering the unasked question between a furious exchange of elbows, arm locks and aborted palm strikes, Sashar backpedalled once, his breathing slightly laboured. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to use it.”

Maaz blinked, wondering if Sashar had read his mind, then realised his eyes must’ve lingered on the weapon for a split-second in between exchanges.

“Makes things much more fun. Besides, a redshirt like you doesn’t warrant it.”

The Guardsman’s smile turned ugly and he swung a wide haymaker, letting the Adept bring his guard up in preparation for the hit, but he pulled the blow and instead drove a knee into Sashar’s gut. Hard.

The wind shot from Sashar and he doubled over, grunting in pain. Maaz shoved the Elder down the steps from the dais, smiling in grim satisfaction when the Mandalorian’s head bounced off a step or two on his journey down.

“You might want to rethink that strategy, but then again, I’m just a redshirt in your way, right?”

Sashar managed to get on all fours, sucking in breaths in a vain attempt to regain his composure, but despite it all, he chuckled - an unpleasant wheezing sound. “You know, you might be right, but you forgot two things: first, I’m as hard as coffin nails. It’ll take more than a knee to the stomach to take me down. Second, I can fire weapons with my mind.”

Maaz didn’t hesitate. He didn’t think; he threw himself down the stairs towards the Mandalorian as the sound of the concussion rifle firing filled the throne room, echoing off the walls and pillars, shaking the Guardsman’s head like a temple bell. He hit the floor as the bolt passed a few meters right of where he’d been standing and slammed into one of the rear supporting pillars, shattering the beautifully crafted marble, sending shards raining down on them both.

He landed atop Sashar, who collapsed under the unexpected weight, and Maaz was dimly aware of the rifle clattering back to the floor, the Elder’s telekinetic grasp lost. Sashar squirmed beneath him, trying to elbow the Devaronian in his horned head, but couldn’t get a decent angle with enough sweep. Maaz punched him in the back of the head twice and pushed off him, standing shakily.

Sashar shook his head, groaning at the pain from the punches, then wheezed louder as Maaz kicked him in the gut, rolling him onto his back. Despite it all, he laughed and didn’t try to defend himself.

“Y’know, I came here for a completely different reason, but I guess this was what was meant to happen,”

“What?” Maaz asked, wondering if his opponent had actually cracked his head too hard on the steps.

“How would you like a job?”

“What?!” Maaz repeated, his expression one of complete befuddlement.

Sashar slowly stood, nodding his head in admiration. “The pay’s osik, but the hours are long. Seriously though, I’ll need someone of your talents if I’m going to pull this off.”

“Pull what off?”

Sashar’s grin turned decidedly sinister as he winced slightly, his hand checking the back of his head for blood. “Oh, you’ll find out once I have your answer.”

Maaz frowned, unsure if it was another ploy, but slowly nodded, not lowering his guard. This crazy Mandalorian’s offer would be of import one way or another, and once he gained his trust, he could always turn him in if he didn’t like the sound of things.

Hopefully.

Well, should’ve seen this coming.

Maaz slid backwards from another impact, barely keeping his footing as he found himself dangerously close to the edge of the platform. He flexed his fingers out, curling them back into fists as he heard the popping of joints and cartilage underneath his bruised and battered flesh. Spitting a glob of shimmering black metallic blood out, he rolled his tongue along the inside of his mouth, feeling for any missing or loosened teeth.

He eyed the Mandalorian, who didn’t seem phased in the least. If anything the man looked like he was enjoying himself, whereas he felt himself sucking lungfuls of air into his body to quiet the ache of his muscles beginning to tire and the multitude of bruises covering his form. His opposition seemed to just be getting started.

“I suppose it’s too late for me to get out of your way now?” Maaz asked, a toothy, sarcastic grin spreading across his face moments before he sighed deeply and lowered his head for a moment, his eyes flicking to the bottom of the dais where his blaster rifle lay after tumbling to a stop.

“You have wasted my time, shot at me and insulted me and left me without the time I need to complete what I came to do, so no. I think that option has come and past for you,” Sashar stated and lunged forward again, quickly closing the distance.

Maaz didn’t hesitate to throw himself to the side, bracing himself to impact the steps and roll. Instead the moment before he expected to contact, he felt himself airborne and suddenly spinning until the moment he struck the ground a few meters away and slid to a stop. Grimacing as he opened his eyes, he saw Sashar’s outstretched hand turn from him towards the rifle. The TL-50 rose from the ground and went surging across the room, away from the two combatants.

“No, you’ve done quite enough damage to my old home.” The Mandalorian’s voice was almost mocking, an inside joke to himself almost reminiscent.

“You clearly,” Maaz took a deep breath and steadied himself between words, “don’t know me very well.” His hand shot to the peacekeeper at his side, drawing the blaster and taking a wide shooter's stance, and in the next heartbeat, he began squeezing the trigger.

Maaz cursed and continued to fire as Sashar’s face was bathed almost instantly in the brilliant teal glow of his lightsaber. Even as Maaz squeezed off the first shot the Adept had already been prepared, the effortless technique of the Soresu master batting away every shot. For his part Maaz tried every trick he could, misdirecting his fire, aiming for the furthest extended limbs, anything as he kept firing until the barrel of the blaster began to glow red.

Finally he stopped firing as the Mandalorian gripped his lightsaber in both hands and batted one of his shots back at him, the red bolt striking the ground between Maaz’s feet. “Give me a break, Mandie!” Maaz shouted in consternation, throwing his hands up in apparent defeat before placing them on his hips.

“What did you call me?”

“Yeah, I get it, you’re a Force user. Yeah, you’re stronger than me, you’ve got better tricks, you could probably thrash me without even raising a finger. Congratulations. You gonna stop screwing around and get this over with?” Maaz holstered the pistol, crossing his arms and looking at the Mandalorian who seemed to be staring back at him with a mixture of incredulity and partial amusement. The Mercenary waited, fed up with whatever game this prick was playing. His hands shifted downwards to his hips and he felt the familiar sphere of the denton charge at his belt, his hand shifting to rest just beside it, a smug smirk curving one side of his lip. Let the bastard get close enough to swing that thing at me, I’ll make sure neither of us walk out of here.

To his surprise, the Adept instead deactivated the lightsaber and straightened suddenly, his posture assuming almost a regal stance. “You and I will have words once this is through. I think you may be of use to me soon enough. Keep your mouth shut and I’ll see to your release.” Sashar’s words ended as the throne room doors boomed open behind them.

A full squad of guardsmen with rifles shouldered entered the room, sweeping the interior and quickly covering both of the combatants. Maaz lifted his hands, ensuring that they saw he was not holding any weapons. Within moments he was facedown on the throneroom floor, grunting as he felt a knee digging into his back as his armaments were stipped from him.

Glancing towards the man standing beside the throne, he watched in disbelief as the man strolled down to speak with the Guard Captain.

“Lord Arconae, are you alright?” Bly stated with a concerned edge to his voice.

Maaz groaned as he heard the name and closed his eyes, lowered his head to the floor as he felt the cuffs slipped around his wrists moments before being hauled to his feet.

“I’m alright, Bly, your intervention was perfectly timed and appreciated. I’m not sure who this individual is, but I found him attempting to tamper with the archives. Ensure he is kept under guard and I will personally oversee his interrogation.”