The stars above Forge-Hell 3V shimmered faintly, hidden behind the planet's churning cloud systems. In the twilight between dusk and dawn, Mand'alor Dren Vheyla stood at the edge of the southern ridgeline, scanning the wasteland below with his HUD active.
Three hours ago, the outer scouts had triggered an alert. Motion detectors registered a small, armored convoy moving toward the basin from beyond the southern crater rim.
But it wasn't droids.
It wasn't remnants of the Drone Lord's forces either.
It was something new.
Contact
"They're broadcasting a signal," Sira said as she approached, datapad in hand. "Encrypted, but not hostile. They want a meeting. One-on-one. Just you."
Jax frowned. "Classic bait. This smells like an ambush."
Dren's eyes stayed on the distant ridge. "Maybe. But it could be our first contact with another Lord. We can't stay isolated forever."
Braal grunted. "If you go, take me and a squad. Just in case they try something."
"I go alone," Dren replied. "But with backup watching from the shadows. Sira, you're with me in comms. Braal — pick your best. Keep them cloaked."
The Mandalorians prepared swiftly. A simple envoy — a speeder, a diplomatic banner, and Dren in ceremonial matte-black beskar armor with a crimson visor line. No tricks, no arrogance.
Just strength.
The Lord of Wrath
At the basin's center, where the ridges flattened into glassy black sands, a single flag had been planted. A horned crimson sigil flapped in the sulfuric wind.
And standing beside it was a Zabrak.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in dark, tribal combat robes over cortosis-threaded plate. Twin vibroaxes rested across his back. His horns were carved with ritual lines, like the grooves of a predator's teeth.
His eyes gleamed yellow.
"So the rumors are true," the Zabrak said, his voice guttural. "The Mandalorian Lord walks among the damned."
Dren stopped five paces away, keeping his posture open but wary.
"And you're one of us. Another who was... summoned."
The Zabrak gave a grin filled with cruelty and pride.
"I am Kar'zok of Dathomir. Lord of Clan Bloodspike. Summoned by flame. Fed by pain. My people, my warriors — we carve through the weak like blades through silk."
"Then why ask for peace?" Dren asked, eyes narrowing.
Kar'zok tilted his head. "Because even blades need whetstones. We've claimed four zones east of here. Exterminated the droid vermin in two days. Now I test the other Lords — see which are worthy of alliance... and which are simply prey."
Test of Strength
Kar'zok pulled an object from a pouch — a crude bone token carved with his clan's symbol.
He threw it at Dren's feet.
"Kill one of my champions in ritual combat, and I'll honor you with a treaty. Decline... and I assume you're too afraid to be of use."
Dren looked down at the token. "You want a duel."
"I want blood. And a reminder that only the strong rule in this new galaxy."
Arena of the Dead
At dawn, the duel was held in a cleared ring near the Mandalorian base.
The Bloodspike convoy had arrived — nearly two dozen Zabrak warriors in ritualized red armor, their weapons bound in ceremonial chains. They stood silently as Kar'zok's chosen champion stepped forward: a brute named Vezh'kar, wielding twin chainblades and a beast skull helm.
"I'll handle this," Braal said, stepping forward.
Dren shook his head. "No. I have to show them we don't flinch. Not from war. Not from pain."
The duel began.
Duel of Lords
Vezh'kar came in like a boulder — all fury and mass, chainblades screaming.
Dren sidestepped the first blow, parried the second, and countered with a jetpack-assisted kick to the gut. The Zabrak staggered but recovered fast, slamming his blades in a cross-slash meant to bisect.
The crowd roared.
Braal watched tensely. Sira tracked vitals from the ridge. Bloodspike warriors grinned in anticipation of Dren's death.
But Dren was faster. Smarter.
He let the champion press close — then triggered a short-range magnetic pulse from his vambrace. Vezh'kar's chainblades locked for half a second.
Enough time.
Dren's beskad blade whipped up and under — cutting deep across the Zabrak's ribs.
Then again — a brutal downstroke to the leg.
Vezh'kar roared and lunged. Dren rolled, came up behind him, and struck the base of the skull helm — shattering bone, denting armor.
Vezh'kar dropped to one knee.
"Do it!" he spat, bloodied.
Dren stepped back.
"No," he said, voice flat. "This was not a fight to the death. You lost. You live. And you remember."
A Thin Alliance
Kar'zok nodded slowly. "You honor your strength with mercy. I would have gutted him."
"I don't need you to become me," Dren replied. "Only to respect me."
Kar'zok offered his gauntlet.
"Then I welcome the Mandalorian Lord to the Circle of Flame. For now."
They clasped wrists.
Just then, Dren's comm pinged. Sira's voice crackled through the internal channel.
"Mand'alor... new readings from the east. Three more lords just lit up the map. One of them is building starship yards. It's starting."
Dren's eyes shifted to the rising sun.
So it begins.