Wind scoured the plain beyond the fortress walls, carving new lines through the black dust and gravel. In the dawnless light of the storm-wreathed sky, the land looked half-dead—like a graveyard before the first funeral. But inside the walls, life stirred.
The fortress had a name now: Kote'tuur, the Day of Glory.
And its people were beginning to earn it.
Massive haulers—six-legged beasts of metal and hydraulics—moved across the southern yard, dragging pallets of alloy plating and raw stone to the construction zones. Scaffolding crawled up the towers like vines, guided by crews of summoned engineers in stripped-down armor, their hands steady as they cut, welded, and sealed.
The Foundry was the first to come alive.
Set into the base of the southern wall, the building resembled a circular bunker with venting stacks shaped like fang-tipped towers. Within, molten metal hissed and roared, poured into casts by massive mechanical arms. The Foundry's smiths—grim, broad-shouldered Mandalorians with burn scars and bionic fingers—moved with precision, shaping the ore into armor plates and weapons parts.
It wasn't beskar, not yet. But it would do.
In the central courtyard, a new building began to rise: the Barracks.
It was utilitarian and brutal—low to the ground, reinforced with thick duracrete and steel ribs. Inside, converted storage halls became bunk spaces lined with sleeping pallets, lockers, and weapons racks. Drill instructors barked orders as the first batch of young Mandalorians marched in formation, rifles held stiffly, their armor half-complete but pride already shaping their posture.
Some of them were no older than seventeen. Others bore the lines of long campaigns burned into their eyes.
All of them had answered the call of the Hall of Founders. All of them had bent the knee.
And now, they were becoming warriors.
Atop the fortress walls, the Alor stood beside Vheyla—his scout commander—watching the early stages of fortification unfold. She had a datapad in hand, flicking between construction schematics and population metrics.
"We're stable," she said. "Food production is up. Hydroponics are yielding enough for a few hundred more. The Foundry's running at seventy percent efficiency. I've allocated the next wave of summoned labor to power relay expansion and sensor arrays."
He nodded slowly. "Barracks?"
"Drilling's begun. Instructors report decent discipline. Some of them remember field tactics from… before."
Earth, he thought. Memories bleeding into instincts. The summoned Mandalorians weren't just carbon copies. Something deeper guided them. Maybe not full memories, but echoes of experience. Training.
A gift—or a trap.
He folded his arms over his chest, watching a drop-crane swing a fresh steel panel into place along the northern bastion.
"Any sign of the scavenger drones?"
Vheyla's expression tightened. "The recon team hasn't reported back yet. They went dark an hour ago."
His eyes narrowed.
"Prep two Basilisk scout frames. I want air recon. If we're being watched, I need to know by who and why."
"Understood."
She turned, giving a brief salute before striding down the rampart steps, cloak fluttering behind her.
He stayed where he was, silent.
Below, hammers rang out against steel. Welding torches hissed. The scent of molten ore and oil filled the air. Mandalorians shouted across scaffolds and gantries, building not just walls—but legacy. It wasn't home yet. But it was beginning to feel like something more than a ruin.
Inside the command tower, the Alor walked the halls alone. The fortress was still unfinished, but its core rooms had shape—war rooms with holographic tables, barracks with open bunks, forge-wings with half-built armor suits. He entered a side chamber—part tech-lab, part war archive.
Crates lined the walls: relics, schematic slates, fragments of language and code. Some bore the stylings of ancient Mandalorian history. Others were faintly familiar, like pieces of the galaxy's past had been rewritten and scattered like puzzle shards.
A lone tech-priest stood at a data terminal near the wall, an older Mandalorian with pale eyes and greying hair bound in tight braids. His armor was half ceremonial, draped in script-laced cloth.
"Alor," the tech-priest rasped, nodding as he turned. "The Research Center is nearly operational. We're wiring the main node to the core generator now."
"What can we study?"
"Plenty. More than I expected." He tapped a screen, displaying a branching network of fields. "Basic metallurgy, advanced power conduits, weapon templates… But also ship design. Pre-imperial era. Mandalorian, mostly. Frigates. Light corvettes. Partial schematics. If we can expand the Center, we could begin actual prototype work."
"How long until we can construct orbital yards?"
"With time? A few weeks. We'll need a resource surge. Better power infrastructure. But the foundations are there. If we commit."
The Alor studied the glowing lines.
The Kandosii dreadnaught—his goal—lay far beyond the current tech. Locked behind layers of engineering, starship theory, and raw power demand. But one day it would rise. That he swore.
"Prioritize infantry upgrades," he said. "I want new blaster patterns, shielded armor, and environmental suits. Give me warriors who can fight on any world."
"As you will, Alor."
That night, as the fortress lights dimmed and artificial dawn began its cycle, the Alor stood once more before the Hall of Founders.
The runes on the summoning platform glowed softly, waiting.
He entered the command sequence by instinct, fingers tracing patterns burned into his blood. The light returned—bright, clean, filled with memory and fire.
And once again, the ancestors answered.
From the light came more people—warriors, yes, but also builders. Children. A few aged veterans with long scars. He watched them arrive, one by one, without panic. Without hesitation. They looked up at him and waited.
"What now, Alor?" one of them asked.
He looked past them toward the sky—gray, broken, endless.
He spoke softly, but every voice in the hall heard him.
"Now," he said, "we build a people that can never be broken again."