Bly X Reader - Blog Posts

“Painted Gold”

Commander Bly x Twi’lek Reader

⸻

Your lekku ached by the end of the day—dust, sun, and tension clinging to your skin like static. The Republic base on Saleucami wasn’t built for comfort, especially not for Twi’leks. The durasteel walls felt colder, the clone stares felt longer.

But not his.

Commander Bly didn’t stare. He observed. Quietly. Constantly. With that golden visor that gave nothing away—and still, somehow, everything.

You’d first met him patching up his troops in the med bay you ran. Your hands worked quickly—practiced, efficient—but Bly’s attention never left the soldier on the table. Not until you touched his shoulder.

“Commander,” you’d said, “he’s stabilized. You can breathe.”

His helmet turned slowly toward you. “I am breathing.”

You hadn’t been so sure.

Now, weeks later, you’d come to expect him. He brought his troopers in for treatment like clockwork. Always formal. Always quiet. Always… watching.

Tonight, the base was quiet. Too quiet. Even the droids had stopped advancing—pulling back, regrouping. A storm was coming. You could feel it in your bones.

So could Bly.

He stood near the perimeter, hands behind his back, helmet off for once. His golden markings shimmered faintly in the dying sun, and his gaze was turned toward the horizon like it had something to answer for.

You walked up beside him, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“You always stand like that,” you said softly.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re bracing for something to hit you.”

He was quiet a moment.

“I usually am.”

You turned to look at him. His face was as hard as durasteel, but the lines were tired. Older than he should be. Too much war. Not enough sleep. Not enough peace.

“You’re not just watching the horizon, are you?” you asked. “You’re thinking.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Yes.”

“About what?”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“About you.”

That stopped you.

“I’ve seen a lot of medics,” he continued, his voice low, gravelly, careful. “But I’ve never seen someone patch a man up like she’s stitching together something sacred. You treat every soldier like they matter.”

“They do matter.”

“I know. That’s what scares me.”

You looked away, heart tight. “Because they die?”

“Because I could.”

You turned back. He was staring at you now—truly staring. No visor. No armor. Just him.

“And if I did,” he said, softer now, “I wouldn’t want to go without… knowing what this is.”

You didn’t breathe.

“I don’t know how to say it right,” he added. “Never learned. But when I see you—it’s like there’s a part of the war that isn’t ugly.”

You reached out, fingers brushing his hand. “You don’t need to say it right, Bly. You already did.”

His hand curled around yours. Warm. Rough. Real.

And there, on the edge of battle, surrounded by silence and fading light, Commander Bly leaned in and pressed his forehead gently to yours—Twi’lek to clone, soldier to healer, broken to breaking.

And you let him.

Because love didn’t always come with declarations.

Sometimes, it came painted in gold.

⸻

Command Batch and other clones/characters Material List 🏆

|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |

Gregor

X Reader “The Brightest Flame”❤️

- x Reader “Synaptic Sparks”❤️

Commander Doom

- x Jedi Reader❤️

Jango Fett

- x reader “cats in the cradle”❤️

Commander Bacara

- x Reader “Cold Front”❤️

- x Reader “War on Two Fronts” multiple parts

Commander Bly

- x Jedi reader “it’s on again”❤️

- x Twi’lek Reader “Painted in Gold”❤️

Commander Neyo

- x Senator Reader “Rules of Engagement”❤️

- x Reader “Solitude and Street Lights”❤️

Command Batch (Clone Commanders)

- x Reader “My Boys, My Warriors” multiple parts 🏡

- x Reader “Steele & Stardust” ❤️

- x “Brothers in the Making” multiple chapters 🏡

- Helmet Chaos ❤️🏡

Overall Material List

“My Boys, My Warriors” pt.5

Clone Commanders x Reader (Platonic/Motherly)

Warnings: Death

⸻

The room was silent save for the rustling of robes and the faint hum of hoverchairs shifting in place. The Jedi Council chamber was vast, intimidating, and awash in golden morning light—but you stood in the center like a wraith returned from war, shackled and disarmed, your beskar armor dulled by ash and grief.

Master Windu’s voice was sharp, clipped. “You attempted to assassinate the Chancellor of the Republic.”

You said nothing at first.

“He is a threat,” you replied finally, your voice calm but tired, laced with something far deeper—haunted rage, maternal despair. “I’ve seen his true face.”

The Council shifted. Windu’s eyes narrowed.

“You accuse the Supreme Chancellor of deception?”

You didn’t look away. “I don’t accuse. I know. He’s manipulating this war. Playing both sides. He won’t stop until it destroys everything—including your Order.”

Obi-Wan, standing near the window, tensed. You saw the flicker in his eyes. Doubt. Pain. A memory of you at Satine’s side. Protective. Loyal. Fierce. Now here, branded a traitor.

Master Yoda, ancient and watchful, finally spoke.

“Hm. Evidence, do you have?”

“No. Just truth no one wants to hear.”

You took a breath. “But ask yourselves… how did he rise so quickly, so quietly? How did a million sons born for war appear at just the right time?”

That hit a nerve.

The room was heavy. Silent.

Yoda’s ears twitched. “Your words… clouded by fear, they are. But not wrong, perhaps…”

You looked him dead in the eye. “I fought in the wars that shattered Mandalore. I know what evil smells like before it has a name. And it reeks from him.”

Windu finally stood. “That’s enough.”

⸻

They didn’t sentence you. Not yet.

But they locked you away.

Solitary. Cold. A durasteel cell with only your memories and ghosts to keep you company. Your beskad, your helmet—gone. All you had was your silence.

And your voice.

You sat on the narrow bench, back against the wall, and closed your eyes.

And then—

You hummed.

Low. Soft. Familiar.

That lullaby.

“You may not know me because I changed

But mama will not stop lookin' for her baby

When the river takes, the river gives

And mama will search as long as she lives”

You didn’t know anyone was listening.

Fox sat alone in the darkened security station, staring at the holo-feed from your cell.

He’d patched in a secure line. Untraceable.

And quietly… he’d sent the link out.

To every one of your boys who’d ever looked up at you with those wide, wondering eyes.

Wolffe. Bacara. Cody. Rex. Neyo. Thorn. Hound. Doom. Gree. Bly. Ponds. Even the ones far from Coruscant. The ones with scars and stories and old memories of you ruffling their hair and calling them “vod’ika.”

They all watched. Quietly. No one spoke.

They watched their buir—now chained and branded a traitor—sit alone, and hum the song she used to sing when their bones ached from training. When they cried at night and you sat on their beds and promised they were more than weapons.

The melody reached them like a forgotten heartbeat.

Wolffe sat on his bunk, clenching his fists.

Bacara stared at the screen until tears blurred his vision.

Cody turned off his comm after the fifth replay—couldn’t bear to hear it again, but couldn’t not remember.

She was still fighting for them.

Even now.

⸻

The thunder of artillery filled the air. The ground quaked beneath each tread of their bikes. Dust painted the sky in shades of rust and smoke.

Commander Neyo stood at the edge of a ruined ridge, visor glowing crimson, posture carved in stone.

He didn’t flinch when the ground shook.

He didn’t turn when blasterfire cracked through the comms.

He was always composed.

But something was wrong.

He hadn’t spoken in three hours.

His troops didn’t question it. They followed orders, watched his gestures, executed movements like clockwork.

But his Jedi General noticed.

General Stass Allie approached, her silhouette cutting through the dust cloud. She said nothing at first—only stood beside him, watching the horizon of another broken world.

Finally, her voice, calm and knowing:

“You haven’t said a word since we left the rendezvous. That’s unlike you.”

Neyo didn’t move. “There’s nothing to say, General.”

“There’s always something,” she said softly. “Especially when someone’s hurting.”

He stiffened.

She didn’t push. Just stood with him, patient. Let the silence stretch like a held breath.

Then—

“There was a woman,” he said finally, the words dry and brittle, like he’d scraped them off a forgotten shelf. “A Mandalorian. She trained us. Before the war.”

Stass turned, curious.

“She wasn’t like the Kaminoans,” he said. “She saw us. Treated us like we mattered. Like we weren’t just gear for the Grand Army. She—”

His jaw clenched. “She was our buir.”

Stass blinked. “Your mother?”

He nodded once.

“What happened to her?”

“She was arrested. Tried to kill the Chancellor.”

The Jedi’s eyes widened. “And you believe she would do that?”

“I don’t know what I believe anymore,” Neyo muttered.

He finally turned to her, his voice low. Raw.

“She used to sing to us, General. A lullaby. I hadn’t thought about it in years. But last night… Fox sent it out. To all of us. A commlink file, just her voice, humming the song.”

He looked away, something flickering behind the red glow of his visor.

“I couldn’t sleep after that. I couldn’t breathe.”

“You miss her,” Stass said gently.

“She was the first person who told us we were more than this.” He gestured to the battlefield, the armor, the broken sky. “And now she’s locked away. Branded a traitor. And I’m here, doing exactly what she feared.”

Stass placed a hand on his shoulder. “Your choices still matter, Neyo. What you feel matters.”

He didn’t reply.

But the silence wasn’t hollow anymore.

It was full of ghosts and lullabies and a thousand questions he’d never dared ask before.

⸻

The lights in her cell flickered faintly, a quiet rhythm in the stale, recycled air. Her wrists rested on her knees, ankles crossed, body still—except for the soft hum that slipped past her lips.

The song echoed faintly in the walls, brushing through the cold steel like a memory refusing to fade.

A quiet chime at the door.

She stopped humming.

The door hissed open.

Mace Windu stepped inside, arms folded beneath the weight of his dark robe. He said nothing at first, just looked at her—like he was trying to see beyond the armor, the Mandalorian blood, the criminal label stamped across her file.

She looked back. No fear. Just tired eyes.

“I was wondering which one of the high-and-mighty Jedi would come first,” she murmured, voice rough but dry with sarcasm. “Let me guess. You’re here to interrogate me like the rest?”

“No,” Mace said simply. “I came because I understand.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I had a Padawan once. Depa Billaba. She was strong. Proud. Brilliant. A better Jedi than I’ll ever be,” he said, stepping closer. “And I loved her like my own.”

He stopped just outside her reach. “When she went to war, I thought I could prepare her. That I could keep her from the worst of it. But war doesn’t care who trained you. Or how much someone loves you.”

The reader tilted her head, studying him now with less suspicion. “So you came to offer sympathy?”

“I came to offer truth,” he said.

She stood slowly, shackled wrists hanging between them. Her voice dropped. “I trained them. I fought for them. I protected them from Kaminoans who saw them as cattle and from a war they were born into without choice. You tellin’ me I should’ve let them go? Like it’s nothing?”

“No,” Mace said, firm but gentle. “But I am telling you—they’re not boys anymore. They’re soldiers. Men. Commanders of legions. They face things you trained them for. And they stand because of what you gave them. Your job is done.”

Her jaw tightened. Her voice cracked.

“They’re still my little boys.”

Mace was quiet for a moment. Then said, “They always will be.”

He sat on the edge of the bench across from her, letting the silence fill in the cracks.

“You can’t stop what’s coming,” he said eventually. “But you can trust in what you built. And maybe—just maybe—you still have a part to play. But not if you let vengeance blind you.”

She looked away, staring at the wall—at nothing.

“You still believe in the Republic?” she asked.

“I believe in people,” Mace replied. “And I believe in second chances. Even for you.”

She scoffed. “That’ll make one of us.”

He stood. “Your story isn’t over.”

As he turned to leave, her voice came after him—quieter this time.

“Windu…”

He looked back.

“If anything happens to them—I’ll burn this galaxy to the ground.”

He didn’t smile. But there was something softer in his eyes.

“I’d expect nothing less.”

⸻

The metal door hissed shut behind Mace Windu. He took a deep breath. That woman—she was fury wrapped in armor, iron forged by war, motherhood, and betrayal. She reminded him of his younger self in a strange, haunting way. But she was right: if anything touched those clones—her boys—she’d scorch the stars.

He turned the corner of the sterile hallway and found Commander Fox standing at his post, helmet off, arms folded tight across his chest, back against the wall like he’d been waiting to be angry.

“Commander Fox,” Mace said with a nod.

Fox didn’t move. “General Windu.”

A pause.

“You’ve been watching,” Mace said.

“I made sure they could all see her. Thought they deserved it,” Fox replied, his voice flat but edged. “And I wasn’t watching you.”

Mace studied the clone’s expression. Cold. Worn. Eyes like someone who hadn’t slept right in years. A soldier pressed too hard, too long.

“She means something to you.”

“She means everything to us.” Fox looked away, jaw clenched. “She was the only one who saw us before the armor.”

“You don’t trust Jedi,” Mace said plainly.

“No, sir,” Fox said without hesitation. “And after what I’ve seen—what I’ve been ordered to do—I don’t think I ever will.”

Another pause.

“You think I’m here to use her. Same as the Kaminoans did.”

“I don’t think,” Fox said. “I know.”

There was no venom in it. Just weariness. Truth from a man who’d walked through hell with a gun and a number instead of a name.

“I’m not here to control her,” Mace said. “But I won’t let her destroy herself.”

“You won’t have to. The Republic already did that.”

Mace’s gaze hardened slightly. “You’re not wrong. But the war isn’t over yet. And she may still have a role to play.”

Fox pushed off the wall. “Yeah, well. When you figure out what that role is, maybe tell the Chancellor. Because he’s the one that locked her up like an animal for protecting us.”

He grabbed his helmet and slid it on.

Mace took a step forward. “She doesn’t see herself as a hero.”

“She doesn’t need to,” Fox replied through the vocoder. “We already do.”

With that, Fox walked away, crimson armor disappearing into the shadows of the corridor. Mace stood alone, the silence heavier now, full of all the things they hadn’t said.

⸻

The light from Coruscant’s upper levels spilled in through the large window panes, casting long, clean shadows across the briefing room. A war table flickered in the center, displaying the projected terrain of Utapau, with Grievous’ last known coordinates.

Commander Cody stood at the edge of it, helmet tucked under his arm, lips set in a thin, unreadable line. His armor was freshly polished, but the circles under his eyes betrayed sleeplessness.

Obi-Wan Kenobi entered the room quietly, robes billowing gently behind him.

“You’re early,” Kenobi said, voice light, but with a trace of concern beneath it.

“So are you, sir,” Cody replied without turning.

Kenobi walked up beside him and studied the projection for a long moment. “You seem troubled, Commander.”

Cody hesitated. “I’ve been having trouble… focusing, General. The men are ready. We’ve prepared. But something feels wrong. Off.”

Kenobi glanced sideways at him, then moved to sit at the edge of the war table.

“You’ve never brought doubts to me before.”

“I didn’t think they mattered before,” Cody said. “Now—I’m not so sure.”

The Jedi waited, giving him space.

Cody inhaled slowly, then said, “It’s her.”

Kenobi raised an eyebrow. “Your… Mandalorian?”

“My buir,” Cody corrected quietly. “She would’ve hated that title, but she earned it.”

Kenobi nodded solemnly. “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting and fighting alongside her. She was a warrior who trained you before the war.”

“She trained us to survive the war,” Cody said, voice strained. “Not just fight it. She said… she said we weren’t bred for someone else’s throne. That we were more than their weapons. She called us her children.”

Kenobi leaned back, expression softening. “She saw what we didn’t.”

“She tried to kill the Chancellor.”

That silence hit hard between them.

“She didn’t give a reason,” Cody went on. “Just that he was a threat to her boys. That’s all she ever said. Not to the Jedi. Not to the Senate. Just… us.”

Kenobi folded his hands. “I believe her. I shouldn’t, but I do.”

Cody looked at him, surprised.

Kenobi’s eyes were tired. “There’s a… darkness growing in the Senate. In the Force. Master Yoda feels it too. Perhaps your Mandalorian simply saw it with mortal eyes. Sometimes that’s all it takes.”

Cody clenched his jaw. “I want to believe she was wrong. That the Republic is worth this. That you Jedi—” he paused, “—that you’re fighting the good fight.”

Kenobi looked away, thoughtful. “We are. But we’ve lost so much of ourselves in the fighting. I sometimes wonder if we’ve already lost what we were trying to protect.”

The silence stretched.

“I wish she could’ve seen us now,” Cody said, almost bitterly. “Maybe then she wouldn’t have tried to burn the galaxy down to save us.”

“She might have anyway,” Kenobi replied. “Mothers rarely wait for permission to protect their children.”

Cody blinked hard and nodded. “You’ll be careful, sir?”

Kenobi smiled faintly. “Always.”

Cody straightened, put his helmet on. “Then so will I.”

⸻

The storm of war was always preceded by silence.

Kenobi led the assault like a figure of light—focused, poised, graceful even in the chaos of fire and collapsing duracrete. General Grievous was dead. The battle was won.

Cody watched from a cliffside vantage point as the Jedi descended into the underbelly of the sinkhole city. It should’ve felt like a victory.

But instead…

He paced away from his men. The battle chatter crackled in his ear; Wounded evac requests, ammo tallies, the final mop-up reports. He tuned it out.

And then his comm buzzed.

A direct transmission. Not encrypted. Not even a voice. Just a code.

EXECUTE ORDER 66.

His blood ran cold. His HUD flickered with new directives. Jedi. Traitors. Terminate.

The message repeated. Execute Order 66.

Cody didn’t move.

The other clones around him began shifting. One of them called his name. “Commander?”

He didn’t answer. His mind spiraled. Her face. The Mandalorian woman who used to train him, who used to wipe the grime off his cheek and tell him, “You are not just a weapon. You are my boy.”

Her voice echoed in him now like a ghost:

“You will always be my little boys, even when you stand taller than me in armor. And if the day ever comes where someone tells you to kill without question, I hope you remember my voice first.”

Cody clenched his fists.

“Commander?” one of the troopers asked again, this time louder. “Do we engage?”

Kenobi was on his lizard mount—heading toward the surface. A perfect target.

His hand hovered over the detonator for the cannon.

Seconds ticked by.

The image of her again. Singing in the dark barracks. That lullaby.

He pressed the detonator.

The explosion lit up the sinkhole. The beast howled. Kenobi fell.

And Cody’s heart shattered.

He stood still for a long time after. Staring at the smoke.

⸻

In the deep, dark of her cell, she stopped humming.

Something had happened. She felt it in her bones. Her chest tightened. Her hands gripped the bench beneath her.

She didn’t know what—but something had been taken from her.

⸻

Time doesn’t pass in the depths of the detention block. It congeals.

She could hear whispers. Whispers of something terrible—distant screams in the lower levels, the echo of warships streaking overhead. Something had shifted in the galaxy’s bones. She felt it like a tremor in her own marrow.

And then she stopped feeling them.

Her boys.

One by one, their presence—so familiar to her soul, so deeply tethered it was like knowing the beat of her own heart—disappeared. Or worse, went quiet.

She pressed her forehead against the cell wall, trying to reach them. Neyo. Bacara. Rex. Wolffe. Fox. Cody.

Gone.

The humming in her throat died.

⸻

The sound of boots. Precise. Purposeful. Too many.

She stood, slow and cautious.

The door opened with a mechanical hiss. Blue light spilled into the room. And standing at the threshold was him—his face now ruined and blistered, cloaked in shadow and power.

Chancellor Palpatine. No. Sidious.

Behind him stood Commander Fox—helmet off, his face pale, unreadable, strained.

“Such loyalty,” Sidious said softly. “Even when betrayed.”

She stepped forward, fists clenched. “What do you want?”

“I came to honor our… agreement. The clones, your precious sons—they have served their purpose, as you have served yours.”

Her voice dropped into a snarl. “You said they’d have freedom. You said they’d be safe.”

“I said they’d be prepared.” A smirk curled on his ruined face. “But of course… that was never truly your concern, was it? You needed a purpose. A legacy. And now, dear Mandalorian, you have it. A galaxy reborn—on the backs of your sons.”

Fox flinched.

He stepped forward, but she noticed the twitch in his jaw, the tremble in his hand as it hovered near his sidearm. His face was tight, like something inside was breaking—trying to claw its way to the surface.

She looked at him, pleading. “Fox. Ori’vod. Don’t let him do this to you.”

His eyes flickered.

“She’s in on it,” Sidious said softly, as if coaxing a child. “She knew. From the beginning. The Mandalorian woman you trusted, who called you her son. She helped me create this.”

Fox’s breath caught, his expression cracked, raw confusion blooming in his face like a wound. He looked at her—searching, desperate.

“Tell me it’s not true,” he whispered. “Tell me you didn’t… help him.”

Her voice cracked like old armor. “I didn’t know what he truly was… not until it was too late.”

Sidious spoke before she could continue. “But she stayed, Fox. She trained you for this. The weapon she made you into—was always meant to serve me.”

Fox shook his head. “You said you’d protect us. You said we were yours.”

Tears stung her eyes as she reached for him, but the guards raised their rifles.

“You still are,” she whispered. “Always.”

Fox turned away—ashamed, broken.

Sidious gave her one last look. “You should be proud. Few in this galaxy will ever shape destiny like you have. You created the perfect soldiers. And now, they belong to me.”

The doors closed behind him. Fox didn’t look back.

She dropped to her knees, hollow.

She had trained them to survive.

She never thought she’d have to teach them how to remember.

⸻

There were whispers again.

But these weren’t the trembling rumors of war—no, this was fear, crawling in hushed voices down the sterile white corridors of the detention center. The woman in cell 2187 was gone.

No signs of a breach. No weapons found. Just a sealed door… and an empty room.

She moved through the shadows of the lower levels like a ghost—her armor no longer Mandalorian, not Imperial, just black and scorched, a patchwork of memory and rebellion. Her face was gaunt, her eyes sharper than they’d ever been.

She was dying.

Not from wounds, not yet. But from the weight of betrayal. Of knowing her boys—her sons—were now weapons in the hands of the monster she once served in ignorance.

She wouldn’t allow it any longer.

She struck at twilight.

No theatrics. No grand speech. Just steel and flame.

Explosions ripped through the senante’s lower levels, drawing troopers away as she ascended through emergency lift shafts and ancient, forgotten maintenance passages. Her body ached—wounds reopening, muscles screaming—but her purpose burned hotter than pain.

When she finally reached the Emperor’s chamber, she didn’t hesitate.

She threw the door open, weapons drawn—

Only to find the air grow colder.

And him standing there.

A towering shadow of rage and machinery—Darth Vader.

She didn’t know who he was—not truly. Just another nightmare conjured by Sidious.

“You will not touch him,” Vader intoned, voice as deep and hollow as a tomb.

She snarled, gripping her blades. “You’re just another puppet.”

She attacked.

It wasn’t a fight. It was a last stand.

She darted, spun, struck—but he was relentless. Her blades sparked against his armor, and the lightsaber was a streak of red death in the air. He disarmed her in seconds, crushing one blade in his fist, the other sent clattering to the floor.

But she didn’t stop.

She grabbed a vibroknife from her boot and lunged—screaming the names of her sons.

And then—nothing.

The red blade pierced through her chest.

She staggered, eyes wide, choking on the air.

Vader held her there, impaled, silent.

“I was their mother,” she rasped. “They were mine.”

“You are nothing now,” he said coldly—and let her fall.

⸻

News spread in whispers—first in shadowy halls of high command, then quietly through encrypted clone comm channels.

They all heard it.

Commander Cody, stationed at an outer rim garrison, held the news report in shaking hands. The woman he once saw as indestructible—his buir—was gone. Killed by the Empire she had once served, the same one that had twisted him.

He didn’t cry.

But he didn’t speak for days.

Commander Wolffe, stoic and silent, slammed his fist into the wall of his quarters hard enough to fracture the durasteel. When his men asked what happened, he said nothing. He only muttered her name once, like a prayer, like a curse.

Fox, still on Coruscant, didn’t speak to anyone. He stood outside her former cell, empty now, silent. The humming he once hated hearing was gone. So was the warmth behind it.

He had made the report. He had confirmed her corpse.

And when no one was looking, he put a small knife through the wall of the Emperor’s propaganda poster.

And Rex.

Rex sat alone on a quiet, forgotten moon. Hiding. Free.

He listened to the old lullaby once more, from a broken recording tucked into his armor.

He didn’t move for hours.

He just let it play.

Her voice—soft, ancient, loving.

Their buir… was gone.

But the fire she left behind—still burned in all of them.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

“My Boys, My Warriors” pt.3

Clone Commanders x Reader (Platonic/Motherly)

⸻

The fires in the Kalevalan mountains burned low, the cold wind howling through the high passes. The Death Watch camp was bustling—more recruits, more stolen weapons, more rumors.

And then, the arrival.

Obi-Wan Kenobi and Duchess Satine Kryze.

Uninvited.

You stood with Vizsla on the high ridge as he drew the blade from his hip. The Darksaber hissed to life like a living flame—black as night, glowing at the edges like the promise of death.

The effect on the Mandalorians below was instant: awe, devotion, fevered whispers.

But your stomach twisted.

“This isn’t the way,” you muttered under your breath.

Vizsla grinned, eyes gleaming. “It’s our way now.”

You didn’t answer. Not yet.

When Kenobi and Satine confronted Vizsla, words were exchanged. Accusations. Pleas.

Then lightsabers.

Vizsla went for Kenobi—sloppy, showy. It was never about skill with him. It was about spectacle.

You intervened. Not to protect Vizsla. But to test Kenobi. To understand.

Your beskad clashed against his blade, sparks flying. He was strong, but not unkind. Precise.

“You trained the clone commanders,” he said mid-duel, surprised. “You’re her.”

You didn’t answer. Only pushed him harder.

He deflected and stepped back, breathing heavy. “They still speak of you.”

Your guard faltered. Just a beat. But he saw it.

“Cody is my Commander.”

You let them go. Kenobi and Satine escaped into the mountains under cover of night. Vizsla fumed. Called it weakness. Called you soft.

You didn’t respond.

But later, in secret, others came to you—Death Watch members uneasy with the fanaticism growing in Vizsla’s wake. You weren’t the only one with doubts.

You weren’t alone.

Not yet.

⸻

“General?” Cody asked, voice low.

Obi-Wan glanced up from the datapad, still damp from the rain on Kamino. The war had kept them moving—campaign to campaign—but this conversation had waited long enough.

“What happened on Kalevala,” Cody said. “You recognized someone.”

Obi-Wan studied him a moment, then nodded. “Yes.”

Cody looked down, exhaling.

“I think…” Kenobi paused, unsure how to soften the blow. “I think it was your buir.”

Cody’s breath hitched. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. For a long moment, he said nothing.

“I didn’t believe it at first,” Kenobi went on gently. “But her fighting style. Her presence. It was unmistakable.”

Cody sat on the crate beside him, helmet in his lap. “She used to sing to us,” he said quietly. “Used to say we’d be legends.”

Obi-Wan’s voice softened. “I don’t think she’s lost. Not entirely.”

“She joined the Death Watch.”

“She didn’t kill me when she could have.”

Cody blinked hard. “She always said if you had to fight… you fight for something worth dying for. Maybe she thinks she’s doing that.”

Obi-Wan nodded. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s trying to protect something she already lost.”

Later That Night

Cody stood outside his quarters, datapad in hand. He stared at the encrypted channel. No new messages. Nothing in months.

But still… he keyed in a short phrase.

Just two words.

Still there?

He sent it.

And waited.

The barracks were quiet tonight.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that only happened right before everything changed.

Cody sat on the edge of his bunk, polishing his helmet even though it was already spotless. The other troopers in his unit were mostly asleep, some murmuring in dreams, others shifting restlessly. Outside, thunder rolled low across the skies.

And then—

Ping.

His datapad lit up.

An encrypted file.

No message. No words. No source.

He stared at it.

He knew that signature. Knew the rhythm of its encryption—she’d taught it to them. Said it was how Mandalorians passed messages in the old days. Heartbeats in code. A kind of song.

And now…

A file.

Cody clicked play.

And the room was filled with a voice from his childhood.

“Do you still dream? Do you, do you sleep still?

I fill my pockets full of stones and sink

Thе river will flow, and the sun will shine 'cause

Mama will be there in the mornin'”

Her voice was soft, low, carrying that rough edge it always had—like wind against beskar. He remembered hearing it in the cadet bunks, late at night, when the storms outside made even the toughest of them curl tighter under their blankets. He remembered her kneeling beside the youngest, brushing a hand over their short buzzed hair, humming softly.

He remembered how it made them feel safe. Like they were home.

And now, years later, on the edge of the Clone Wars…

He was hearing it again.

“Slumber, child, slumber, and dream, dream, dream

The river murdered you and now it takes me

Dream, my baby

Mama will be there in the mornin'”

He blinked, chest tight.

Cody didn’t cry. Not in front of his men. Not in front of anyone.

But tonight, he pressed the datapad to his chest and closed his eyes.

You okay, sir?”

It was Waxer, leaning in from his bunk. Boil sat up too, eyes curious.

Cody cleared his throat. “Fine.”

Boil tilted his head. “Was that…?”

Cody nodded once. “Yeah.”

The others didn’t press. But slowly, one by one, troopers across the barracks stirred. Listening.

No one spoke.

They just let her voice fill the room.

⸻

On Mandalore’s moon, the woman who had sent the file stood beneath the stars.

Helmet tucked under her arm.

She watched the horizon and murmured to herself, “Fight smart. Fight together. And come back.”

She would never send them words.

They already knew them.

But she could still sing them to sleep.

⸻

The fire crackled low in the mouth of the cave, throwing shadows across the jagged stone walls. Outside, the frost of the moon’s night crept in, but inside, the warmth of the flames and the quiet hum of her voice kept it at bay.

She sat cross-legged by the fire, her helmet resting beside her, eyes unfocused as she sang under her breath. The melody was soft, familiar, drifting like smoke.

Behind her, a few Death Watch recruits murmured amongst themselves, throwing glances her way, unsure of what to make of the rare lullaby from a warrior like her.

One of them approached. Young. Sharp-eyed. Barely out of adolescence, with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove.

“Buir,” he said cautiously, the word catching awkwardly in his throat. “That song. You sing it a lot.”

She didn’t look at him. Not right away. She just nodded, still staring into the flames.

“Who was it for?” he asked. “Someone on Mandalore?”

Her voice came low, worn. “No.”

The recruit waited. He didn’t sit, but he didn’t leave either. After a moment, she gestured for him to join her by the fire. He sat slowly, hands resting on his knees, trying to act like he wasn’t still scared of her.

She let the silence sit a little longer before she answered.

“I trained soldiers once. Before the war broke out. Children, really. Grown in tubes, bred for battle. They were mine to shape… my responsibility.”

“You mean the clones?” he asked, surprised. “The clones?”

She nodded slowly.

“They were… good boys,” she said, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “Too good for what the galaxy would ask of them.”

“You cared about them,” the recruit said, almost like it was an accusation.

“I still do,” she replied without hesitation.

He looked at her—this woman in weathered beskar who fought harder than anyone in Death Watch, who’d left behind her name and her history to walk the path of insurgency. The woman who could break bones without blinking… and yet sang lullabies to shadows.

“They’re fighting for the Republic now,” he said. “Isn’t that… the enemy?”

She looked at him then. Really looked at him.

“I didn’t train enemies,” she said. “I trained survivors. Sons. And no matter where they are, or who they fight for, they are mine.”

The recruit shifted uncomfortably.

“I thought you joined Death Watch to protect Mandalore,” he said. “To fight the pacifists, the weakness Satine brought.”

“I did,” she said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I stopped loving the people I left behind. Sometimes war splits you down the middle. Sometimes you fight with one half of your soul… while mourning with the other.”

The fire crackled between them.

After a long pause, the recruit finally asked, “Do you think they remember you?”

She smiled, just a little.

“I hope they remember the song.”

⸻

The air on Mandalore was thin and sterile—peaceful in a way that felt almost unnatural.

Walking through Sundari’s wide, shining corridors in full armor again, the reader felt the stares of pacifist advisors, senators, and citizens alike. A Mandalorian warrior hadn’t walked these halls in years. Not since they were exiled—branded relics of a bloody past the new government had tried to bury.

She kept walking.

Each step echoed with restraint, but not regret.

When she reached the palace gates, the guards blocked her path, hands twitching toward the stun batons at their sides.

“I seek audience with the Duchess Satine,” she said, voice even. “Tell her an old warrior has come home to bend the knee.”

The guards exchanged skeptical glances, but one of them relayed the message through their comms. A beat passed. Then another.

Then: “The Duchess will see you.”

Satine Kryze sat tall on her throne, draped in royal silks, her expression unreadable.

The reader approached slowly, helmet in hand, her armor still painted in the battle-worn shades of Death Watch—though the sigil had been scorched off.

Satine’s eyes narrowed. “You walk into my court bearing the same steel that once stood with Vizsla and his radicals. Why should I hear a word from your mouth?”

The reader dropped to one knee.

Not in submission.

In promise.

“I left them.”

Satine arched a brow. “And I’m meant to believe that?”

“You’ve heard what Vizsla plans. He wields the Darksaber like a hammer, believing Mandalore’s strength is only measured in fire and conquest.” Her voice was low but sure. “But true strength is not brutality. It’s knowing when not to strike. It’s survival. Legacy.”

Satine rose from her throne slowly. “That sounds more like my philosophy than that of a sworn Mandalorian.”

The reader’s head lifted.

“I am sworn to the Creed,” she said. “The whole Creed. Not just the warmongering chants of the fallen, but the heart of it—the protection of our people. The survival of our world. That is the way.”

Satine studied her.

Something in her eyes softened.

“You pledge yourself to me?”

“I pledge myself to Mandalore,” the reader answered. “And right now… you are the only one keeping her heart beating.”

A long pause.

Then Satine stepped forward, extended a hand.

“Then come,” she said. “If you would stand for peace, walk beside me. I leave for Coruscant in the morning.”

⸻

The duchess’s starcruiser hummed steadily through hyperspace, bound for Coruscant. Peace had no place in the stars anymore—pirates, bounty hunters, Separatist saboteurs—any one of them could strike at any time. Satine’s diplomatic voyage needed more than security.

It needed Jedi.

And hidden among the entourage was a shadow in Beskar.

You.

You stood silently behind the duchess, armor painted anew—neutral tones, a far cry from your old Death Watch markings. Most on board didn’t recognize you, especially with the helmet on. But Obi-Wan had looked twice when he boarded. Said nothing. Just gave you a subtle nod—acknowledgement… and warning.

You were a guest here.

But you were also something dangerous.

t started when the droid attacked. The assassin model, slinking through the ventilation shafts like a ghost.

The ship rocked as explosions tore through the hull—one hit dangerously close to the engines. Screams echoed down the halls.

As the Jedi and clone troopers mobilized, you were already moving, your beskad drawn from your hip in a practiced motion. The moment you cut through the access panel and leapt into the ducts after the droid, Obi-Wan barked, “She’s with us—don’t stop her!”

You burst from the duct with a grunt, landing in a crouch between clone troopers and the assassin droid that had been pinning them down. In one quick move, you flipped the beskad in your hand and hurled it—metal slicing through the droid’s neck and sending sparks flying.

The clones blinked, surprised.

Then one of them spoke, stunned.

“…Buir?”

Your eyes met his.

Cody.

He looked older now. Sharper. War-worn. But the way he said that word—the softness beneath the gravel in his voice—stopped your heart for a beat.

“Cody,” you breathed.

Before you could say more, another explosion rocked the ship and the Jedi shouted orders. You both surged back into motion, fighting side by side as if no time had passed. Rex appeared at your flank, helmet on but unmistakable.

“Never thought I’d see you again,” he said through the comms.

“You look taller,” you shot back.

“Still can’t outshoot me,” he quipped.

“Let’s test that once we survive this.”

Later, when the droid was destroyed and the ship stabilized, you stood with your back against the durasteel wall, helmet off, sweat dripping down your brow.

Cody approached slowly. His armor was scraped, singed.

He stood in front of you silently.

“You left,” he said.

You nodded. “I had to. It wasn’t safe. Not with the Kaminoans growing colder… not with what was coming.”

His jaw clenched. But then he exhaled slowly, nodding.

“You’re here now,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”

A pause.

“You were right, you know,” he added quietly. “We weren’t ready for the galaxy. But we survived. Because of what you gave us.”

You looked at him—really looked at him—and placed your hand on his chest plate.

“I’m proud of you, Cody. All of you.”

Rex joined, helmet tucked under one arm, a crooked grin on his face. “Buir’s gonna make us get all sappy, huh?”

“I’ll arm-wrestle you to shut you up,” you smirked.

They laughed.

For the first time in years.

⸻

Coruscant never changed.

Even from orbit, it looked like a city swallowing itself—buildings stacked on buildings, lights never fading, shadows never still. You stood by the Duchess’s side as her diplomatic cruiser descended toward the Senate landing pad, flanked by Jedi, Senators, and clone guards, all navigating the choreography of politics and danger.

The moment your boots hit the durasteel of the Senate rotunda, you felt it—that tingle down the back of your neck.

You weren’t welcome here.

But you didn’t need to be.

You were here for Mandalore.

And for them.

As Duchess Satine prepared to speak, you fell back slightly—watching her take the grand platform before the Senate assembly, her calm, steady voice echoing through the chamber. She spoke of peace. Of neutrality. Of independence.

The words stirred an old ache in you—half pride, half grief. She was strong in her own way. You respected that now.

But while the chamber listened, your eyes scanned.

And locked on him.

Standing at attention near the perimeter, crimson armor gleaming under the Senate lights, was Marshal Commander Fox. He hadn’t seen you yet. Too focused, too professional. But you approached him like a ghost walking out of the past.

“Still standing tall, I see,” you said, voice low enough not to draw attention.

Fox turned, his sharp gaze meeting yours—and then widening. “No kriffing way.”

You smirked.

He stared, then let out a small huff of disbelief. “You vanish for years and that’s the first thing you say?”

“You didn’t need me anymore,” you said. “You were always going to be something.”

Fox’s jaw tightened, emotion flickering. “We needed you more than you think.”

“Marshal Commander,” you said, mock-formal. “Look at you. I leave for a couple years, and you’re babysitting Senators now. Impressive.”

He rolled his eyes but smiled. “I thought I was hallucinating. You’re supposed to be dead, or exiled, or something dramatic.”

“Only in spirit,” you replied. “Congratulations, Fox. You earned that armor.”

He hesitated.

Then gave you a quiet nod. “It’s not the same without you.”

“It’s not supposed to be,” you said softly. “You were always meant to outgrow me.”

He looked away for a second, then back, voice lower. “The others talk about you sometimes. Cody. Rex. Bly. Even Wolffe, and that man doesn’t talk about anyone.”

“Tell them I remember every one of them.”

“You’ll tell them yourself,” he said, then added, almost too quickly, “Right?”

You didn’t answer. Just touched his shoulder lightly. “You did good, Fox. Better than good. You lead now. That means you carry the burden… but you also get to set the tone. The next generation of vode? They’re watching you.”

He blinked a few times. “You always were the only one who said things like that.”

“And meant it,” you added.

He nodded, slower this time. “It’s good to see you. You look… older.”

You smirked. “Try keeping your head above water in a sea of Vizsla fanatics and tell me how fresh you look after.”

“Fair.”

⸻

The danger came in silence.

You and the Duchess had returned to the Senate landing platform, flanked by Jedi and clone escort. The diplomatic skyspeeder waited, gleaming in the light.

The moment Satine stepped into the speeder, a faint whine filled the air—subtle, but wrong.

Your instincts screamed.

“Don’t start the engine!” you barked, lunging forward—too late.

The speeder blasted off—far too fast, veering wildly.

“Something’s wrong with the repulsors!” Anakin shouted. “The nav systems are locked!”

You were already sprinting toward a nearby speeder bike, Obi-Wan mounting another. “We have to catch her!”

Fox was shouting into his comms, coordinating pursuit and clearance through air lanes.

You and Obi-Wan flew through the sky, weaving around towers as Satine’s speeder dipped and jolted erratically.

Your voice cut through the comms, “Hold her steady, I’m going in.”

Obi-Wan gaped. “You’ll crash!”

“Yeah. Probably.”

You leapt from the bike.

Time slowed.

Your gauntlet mag-grip latched onto the spiraling speeder as you crashed hard against the hull. Satine inside looked up, startled.

You smashed the manual override, pried open the control panel, and yanked the sabotage node free—sparks flew, and the speeder jerked before leveling out.

By the time it landed, your shoulder was dislocated and you were covered in soot.

Later, in the quiet aftermath, you sat against a stone column inside the Senate’s private halls, shoulder hastily reset, your armor scorched. Satine was alive, thanks to you. Obi-Wan sat on the edge of a bench nearby, breathing slow and deep.

“She saved you,” he told Satine softly.

“She tends to do that,” Satine said with a tired smile.

You looked up at him, brows raised. “Surprised?”

He shook his head. “Not at all.”

Fox approached quietly, handing you a fresh water flask.

“You didn’t have to jump out of a speeder,” he muttered.

You took a long drink. “Didn’t want you to miss out on another tragedy.”

He rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall beside you. “You’re the worst role model, you know that?”

You nudged his shin with your boot. “Yet somehow, you turned out alright.”

He gave you a rare smile. “Welcome home. At least for now.”

⸻

The speeder explosion had rattled the city, but Satine had emerged alive. Shaken, but composed.

You hadn’t left her side once.

Now, with the Senate’s mess behind her—for now—Satine prepared to return to Mandalore. You stood outside the diplomatic chambers, speaking softly with Fox while waiting for her departure documents to be signed. That’s when he said it:

“They’re here. Wolffe and Bacara. I told them you were on-planet.”

Your breath caught.

“I wasn’t sure if I should have, but—”

“No,” you said quickly. “Thank you.”

He didn’t press further. He just gave you a nod and walked off to oversee the Senate Guard rotation.

You didn’t wait.

⸻

The military side of Coruscant always had a different air—colder, louder, filled with tension that clung to the skin like storm-wet armor.

You found them in a quiet corridor beside their departing ship. Wolffe leaned against a crate, arms crossed, helmet at his side, expression unreadable as ever. Bacara sat on a lower bench, hunched, hands folded between his knees.

They looked up at the same time.

It took less than a heartbeat before Bacara stood and crossed the space to you.

“Buir.”

You wrapped your arms around him before he could finish exhaling the word. It was like hugging a rock—solid and unyielding—but you felt the slight tremble in his breath. That was enough.

“You’ve grown,” you said.

“You say that every time.”

“Because you always do.”

Wolffe approached more cautiously, arms still crossed, but the faint flicker of softness in his expression gave him away.

“You didn’t think to send a message?” he asked.

“I couldn’t,” you said honestly. “Too much would’ve come with it. You boys had to become who you’re meant to be without me hovering.”

“We were better with you hovering,” Bacara muttered.

Wolffe gave a grunt. “I thought you were dead, for a while.”

“I know,” you said, quieter. “That was the idea, at first.”

Wolffe stepped forward, finally breaking that last bit of space between you. His brow was tense, eyes shadowed.

“We talked about you. Even now. When things get bad.”

“You remember the lullaby?” you asked.

Bacara scoffed. “You think we’d forget?”

You grinned.

“Where are you headed?” Bacara asked, nodding to your sidearm and armor, half-concealed beneath a diplomatic cloak.

“Back to Mandalore. With the Duchess.”

Wolffe gave you a long, searching look. “Back with the pacifists?”

“No,” you said. “Not as one of them. As her sword. Her shield. She’s not perfect—but her fight is worth something. And if Mandalore’s going to survive this war, it’ll need more than weapons. It’ll need balance.”

Wolffe’s jaw ticked. “And if you’re wrong?”

“Then I’d rather die standing beside hope than kneeling beside zealotry.”

Bacara snorted. “Still stubborn.”

“Still your buir.”

You embraced them both, tighter this time.

“I’m proud of you,” you whispered.

They didn’t say anything. They didn’t have to.

As you turned to leave, your boots echoing against the durasteel floor, you let your voice rise—soft and familiar.

The lullaby.

Altamaha-Ha.

A haunting thread of melody that followed them into war before.

Now, it lingered behind you like a ghost in the mist.

Wolffe didn’t look away. Bacara closed his eyes.

They would carry that sound into every battle.

Just like they carried you.

⸻

The return to Mandalore was quiet. Satine had dismissed her guards—except for you. You stood at her side now, not as a threat, not as a rebel, not as a Death Watch traitor, but as a Mandalorian, reborn in purpose.

It hadn’t been easy convincing the Council to allow it. The Duchess had vouched for you, which meant more than words. But still, whispers followed in your wake. Once a warrior, always a weapon. You heard them. You ignored them.

Inside the domed city, pacifism still ruled. A beautiful, cold kind of peace. No blades. No armor. No fire.

You wore your beskar anyway.

“You’re unsettling them,” Satine said quietly beside you, overlooking the city from the palace balcony.

“I’m protecting them.”

“They don’t see it that way.”

“They will, when someone decides to test your boundaries again.”

She looked at you, eyes soft but steeled. “You’re still so steeped in it. War. Blood. Even your presence is a threat to them.”

“I’m not a threat to you, Satine.”

“No,” she said, voice nearly a whisper. “Not to me.”

A pause. Her hand rested gently against the railing. “You could have joined Vizsla. His path would’ve made more sense for someone like you.”

“I did,” you admitted. “But sense doesn’t mean truth. His war is born of pride. Yours… is born of hope. That’s harder. But stronger.”

She turned toward you. “You really believe that?”

You nodded once. “Only the strongest shall rule Mandalore. And I’ve fought in enough wars to know that strength is more than the blade you carry. It’s knowing when to sheathe it.”

A long silence settled between you. She looked away, clearly fighting some retort, but in the end… she let it go.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Satine said softly.

You didn’t smile, but your silence meant everything.

⸻

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

“It’s On Again”

Commander Bly x Jedi!Reader

⸻

There were moments—even in war—that felt still.

In the jungle shadows of Saleucami, as the sun threatened to rise, the camp was a blur of hushed voices and clicking equipment. But for you, standing at the edge of it all, it felt like the world had paused. Just long enough to breathe. Just long enough to feel the weight of your purpose settling heavy on your shoulders again.

You always stood alone when you could. Not out of pride. Not out of habit. But because solitude had always made more sense than letting others carry the burden with you.

You’d never been one to chase recognition. The battles you fought were never about victory. You fought because others couldn’t. You carried pain so others didn’t have to.

And still, the loneliness crept in—like frost under your skin. You were a Jedi. A general. A friend. A weapon.

But never just… you.

⸻

“You’ve got that look again,” Aayla said, stepping beside you in the fading moonlight. Her blue skin shimmered under the pale light, her voice teasing but knowing.

“What look?” you murmured, not looking away from the horizon.

“That one where you pretend you’re not breaking apart inside,” she said softly. “I know it better than you think.”

You let out a breath, slow and careful. “If we break, who picks up the pieces for everyone else?”

“Who picks up your pieces?” she asked.

You didn’t answer.

She turned fully to you, voice stronger now. “You’re not alone. Not really. I see the way Bly looks at you.”

That earned her a glance, half amused, half exhausted. “Bly is… complicated.”

Aayla smiled faintly. “So are you.”

⸻

Commander Bly had always been disciplined, precise, and steady—a wall in a storm. You respected that about him. Needed it, even. In your world of sacrifice and selflessness, he was one of the few constants who didn’t ask anything of you… except that you live.

He watched you the way soldiers watch for landmines—carefully, constantly, with the knowledge that one misstep could end it all.

He wasn’t vocal with his concern. He didn’t have to be. It was in the way he stood between you and danger, just a fraction closer to the line of fire. The way he followed your orders, but his eyes always scanned you first after every blast. The way he touched your shoulder when you didn’t realize you were trembling.

It was in the moments between missions—when your hands brushed in passing, when his armor was at your back as you meditated in silence, when he stayed up longer than necessary just to match your exhaustion.

You both carried the same truth: you couldn’t afford selfishness.

But love? Love didn’t wait for permission.

⸻

The ambush came fast.

You didn’t think. You never thought when lives were at stake.

The supply convoy hit the mines. Fire erupted. Screams followed. Troopers scattered.

You threw yourself into the blaze. Your saber lit the way. You pulled one soldier from the wreckage, then another. Smoke filled your lungs, but you kept moving.

Bly was shouting behind you. He didn’t wait either. He followed you into the flames, gunning down droids with lethal precision, cursing under his breath as you took a hit to the arm shielding a clone from shrapnel.

“That’s enough!” he growled, catching you as your legs faltered.

“I’m not done,” you rasped.

“You are to me,” he snapped. “You’re enough. You’re alive. That’s all I care about right now.”

But you couldn’t stop. You never stopped. Your life wasn’t yours to guard. Not when theirs hung in the balance.

⸻

Later, when the battlefield went still again, you sat by the med tent, arm wrapped in bacta gauze, head heavy with more than just exhaustion.

Bly knelt beside you, helmet off, eyes burning with frustration and something deeper.

“You think you have to carry the whole damn galaxy,” he said. “But I need you to hear this—you matter too. Not just your sacrifice. Not just your service. You.”

You swallowed hard, guilt rising like a tide. “I can’t stand by and do nothing. I won’t. If I can save them—”

“You saved me,” he said, quiet and fierce. “Every day, you make this war mean something. But if it costs you your life—then what am I even fighting for?”

You looked at him then, and for the first time, let him see it—the cold, lonely part of you that had grown too familiar. The part that wondered if you’d ever be more than just a shield for others.

“I’m tired, Bly,” you whispered. “I’m so tired of being the one who runs into the fire.”

“Then let someone run into it for you.” He reached for your hand, gloved fingers curling gently around yours. “You don’t have to be alone in this.”

A tear slipped down your cheek. You hadn’t meant to let it.

But Bly just wiped it away, his touch reverent. “You’ve already given enough. Let someone fight for you.”

⸻

The next morning, the wind shifted again, colder than before.

But when you stood at the front of the battalion, Bly was beside you.

And for once, you didn’t stand alone.