The ancient vault of Clan Vizsla stood carved into the living rock of Concord Dawn's northern face, its entrance guarded not by warriors but by reputation alone. No sane being would dare assault the holiest site of Mandalore's oldest clan. Even the approach required passing under three successive arches of weathered beskar, each inscribed with the names of fallen warriors who had given their lives to protect what lay within.
Tarek Vizsla passed beneath them now, his footsteps echoing against stone worn smooth by generations. The weight of tradition pressed down on his shoulders far more heavily than his armor.
"You're scowling again," said Ruhr Vizsla, his mentor and father's cousin, walking beside him. The older man's armor bore the scars of a hundred battles, yet he moved with the fluid grace of a predator half his age. "This is a day of honor, not execution."
"Is it?" Tarek replied, unable to keep the edge from his voice. "Because it feels like being chained to a rock for the rest of my life."
Ruhr stopped, placing a hand firmly on Tarek's shoulder. His voice lowered. "The Mythosaur Amulet has been our clan's sacred trust since before the Republic existed. You should be humbled to become its guardian."
Tarek met the older man's gaze through their T-visored helmets. "I am a warrior, not a vault keeper. My place is on the battlefield, not buried in this tomb performing rituals for a dead beast."
"Is that what you think this is?" Ruhr's disappointment came through clearly, even through the helmet's modulation. "The amulet contains the essence of what makes us Mandalorian. It's said the first to tame the Mythosaurs wore it into battle."
Tarek turned away. He'd heard these stories since childhood, myths and legends, nothing more. His generation fought with jetpacks and blasters, not riding giant beasts into battle.
"The old ways " he began.
"The old ways endure for a reason," Ruhr cut him off. "And tonight, you'll understand why."
They continued in silence to the innermost chamber. Six warriors in ceremonial armor stood at attention around a circular platform where a simple pedestal rose from the floor. Upon it, sealed in a transparisteel case, lay the Mythosaur Amulet, a medallion of pure beskar, its surface etched with symbols so ancient few living Mandalorians could even read them. Despite himself, Tarek felt a prickle along his spine at the sight of it.
The gathered members of Clan Vizsla turned as they entered. At the front stood his mother, Matriarch Dala Vizsla, her silver-streaked hair pulled back severely, her face carved from the same unyielding stone as the vault itself.
"Tarek Vizsla," she announced, her voice filling the chamber. "Step forward."
He did as commanded, standing before her with shoulders squared. Though he towered over her physically, he had never once felt taller in her presence.
"Since the days when our ancestors first tamed the Mythosaurs, the amulet has passed from guardian to guardian," she recited. "Today, you will take the oath and become its protector, as is your birthright and your duty."
She gestured, and an attendant brought forward an ancient text. Tarek recognized it, the hand-written journal of the first guardian, passed down alongside the amulet itself. The clan believed its pages contained secrets about the amulet's power, though no one had been able to decipher all its passages.
"Will you swear to protect the amulet with your life? To observe the sacred rituals? To keep the night vigil on the solstice and equinox? To pass it only to your rightful heir when death approaches?" she asked.
Around him, the assembled clan watched, faces expectant. In their eyes, this was the highest honor. To Tarek, it was a prison sentence.
"I will," he said, the words tasting like ash.
His mother's eyes narrowed slightly, she knew him too well to miss his lack of conviction. Nevertheless, she nodded.
"Then approach the amulet."
Tarek stepped forward. The ceremonial guards parted, allowing him to stand before the pedestal. Up close, the amulet seemed to almost pulse with an inner light, though he told himself it was merely a trick of the ancient illumination systems.
"Place your hand upon the case and speak the words," his mother instructed.
Tarek removed his right glove and pressed his palm against the cool transparisteel. He spoke from memory the words he'd been taught since childhood:
"Ni kar'tayl Manda. Ni kar'tayl dar'manda. Ni gaa'tayl Mythosaur a'den. Haat, ijaa, haa'it."
I know the soul of Mandalore. I know the soulless state. I guard the Mythosaur's rage. Truth, honor, vision.
As the final syllable left his lips, he felt a strange warmth spread from his palm up his arm, not unpleasant, but unsettling. The amulet seemed to briefly shine brighter.
"It recognizes you," his mother said, the faintest hint of pride breaking through her stern demeanor. "Tonight, you will stand your first vigil as guardian. The rest of us will withdraw, as tradition demands. At dawn, the transfer will be complete."
Ruhr stepped forward. "I will stay to instruct him in the vigil's proper observance."
Dala nodded. "So be it."
The ceremony concluded with the clan members filing past Tarek, each offering a traditional phrase of respect. Last came his childhood friend Kira Wren, her eyes meeting his with understanding.
"Try not to fall asleep," she whispered with a small smile. "I'll be nearby if you need anything."
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"Breaking tradition already?" he murmured back.
"Always." Her eyes crinkled before she turned away, following the others out of the chamber.
When only Tarek and Ruhr remained, the older warrior sighed heavily and removed his helmet, revealing a weathered face lined with old scars.
"Now we begin the true work," he said, moving to a small alcove where ceremonial items were stored. "First, you must purify the chamber."
"With what? Magic words?" Tarek couldn't keep the sarcasm from his voice as he removed his own helmet.
Ruhr turned, fixing him with a hard stare. "You think this is all superstition, don't you?"
"I think we're Mandalorians, not mystics," Tarek replied. "We're warriors, not priests muttering over relics."
"And yet the greatest warriors in our history have always respected the old ways." Ruhr returned with a small burner and aromatic herbs. "Your father understood this."
The mention of his father stung. Dren Vizsla had died five years earlier in a clash with Imperial forces, taking seventeen stormtroopers with him before falling. He had been guardian of the amulet, passing the responsibility to Ruhr temporarily until Tarek came of age.
"My father died with a blaster in his hand, not hiding in a cave," Tarek said coldly.
"Your father died protecting our people's future," Ruhr corrected. "As guardian, he understood that some treasures are worth more than glory in battle."
He lit the herbs, sending fragrant smoke spiraling toward the ceiling. "Now watch. The vigil has stages, each with its purpose."
For the next hour, Ruhr demonstrated the rituals, the positioning of ceremonial weapons at compass points around the pedestal, the recitation of the clan's lineage back twenty generations, the symbolic cleansing of the chamber's entry points.
Tarek performed each task half-heartedly, his mind elsewhere. Outside these walls, the galaxy was changing. The Empire tightened its grip on Mandalorian space. Rival clans jockeyed for Imperial favor. Real battles were being fought while he played at being a priest.
"You're not focusing," Ruhr chided, interrupting his thoughts.
"I'm doing everything you've shown me," Tarek protested.
"With your hands, yes. Not with your mind or heart." Ruhr shook his head. "The first night's vigil is the most important. The amulet must be watched continuously until dawn."
"Why? Is it going to sprout legs and walk away?"
Ruhr's expression darkened. "Mock if you must, but understand this, in the three thousand years since the amulet came into our clan's possession, it has never once been left unattended during a transfer of guardianship. Not once."
"And what disaster would befall us if tradition were broken?" Tarek challenged.
Instead of answering directly, Ruhr gestured to the amulet. "Look at it, truly look. What do you see?"
Tarek glanced at the pedestal with impatience. "I see an old piece of metal that my clan worships for reasons no one can properly explain."
"Then you see nothing." Ruhr's voice carried an edge of finality. "I had hoped you were ready for this responsibility. Perhaps I was wrong."
The words struck deeper than Tarek wanted to admit. Despite his rebellion, he had always craved the approval of the clan's elders, particularly Ruhr, who had been like a second father.
"I'll complete the vigil properly," he said stiffly.
Ruhr studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "I believe you will try. That will have to be enough." He gathered his helmet. "I must join the others for the Feast of Transfer. You are to remain here, alert and watchful. The night hours can be... trying. If you feel yourself growing weary, use the meditation techniques I taught you."
"I won't fall asleep at my post," Tarek said, insulted by the suggestion.
"It's not sleep that concerns me," Ruhr replied cryptically. "Remember your training, and remember who you are."
With that, the older warrior left, his footsteps receding down the long corridor until silence enveloped the chamber.
Alone with the amulet, Tarek settled cross-legged before the pedestal. Hours stretched ahead, the longest night of the year, chosen deliberately for the vigil to test the new guardian's resolve. Already, he could feel restlessness building.
"Just a piece of metal," he muttered to himself. Yet in the chamber's dim light, the amulet seemed to watch him, judging his worthiness.
He tried to maintain the proper meditative state Ruhr had shown him, but his mind kept wandering to more practical concerns. How many opportunities for real combat would be missed during his guardianship? Would he be expected to live in this old cave like a hermit? The thought was suffocating.
As midnight approached, Tarek's irritation grew. This whole ceremony felt like a relic from a primitive past, unsuited to modern Mandalorians. He stood and paced the chamber, glancing occasionally at the amulet as if it were an adversary.
"What's so special about you anyway?" he asked aloud, his voice echoing strangely. He approached the pedestal, studying the amulet more closely. The symbols etched into its surface seemed to shift subtly in the flickering light, forming patterns that drew the eye in circular motions.
He pressed his palm against the case again, feeling nothing of the earlier warmth. Just cold transparisteel and his own reflection staring back at him.
"This is ridiculous," he decided, straightening. "I'm a warrior of Clan Vizsla, not a superstitious old man."
He checked the time, barely past midnight, with hours still to go. The feast would be continuing in the main hall; he could hear faint echoes of celebration filtering down the passageway. His friends would be there, drinking and telling stories while he sat alone in the dark with a piece of metal.
The thought hardened his resolve. He would fulfill his obligation as guardian, but on his terms. Surely the point was simply that the amulet remain safe—and what safer place than a sealed vault within their most secure stronghold?
Decision made, Tarek donned his helmet and moved toward the entrance. He would make a quick appearance at the feast, show his face to maintain morale among the younger warriors who looked up to him, then return before anyone realized the vault had been left unattended.
As he reached the doorway, he hesitated, glancing back at the amulet. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw the engravings pulse with faint light.
"Just reflections," he told himself, and stepped into the corridor.
The passageway felt different without Ruhr beside him, longer, the shadows deeper. Tarek quickened his pace, telling himself it was eagerness for company, not discomfort at the oppressive silence. His footsteps echoed oddly, sometimes seeming to continue after he paused.
Halfway to the main hall, he heard a sound that stopped him cold, a metallic scrape from behind, back in the direction of the vault.
Tarek turned, hand instinctively moving to his blaster. The corridor stretched empty behind him, shadows dancing in the light of wall-mounted flame sconces.
"Who's there?" he called, voice steady.
No response came, but as he listened intently, he caught another sound, a whisper of movement, too deliberate to be settling stone.
Drawing his blaster, Tarek moved cautiously back toward the vault. The sound came again, closer now, boots on stone, moving with practiced stealth. Not one person, but several, spreading out to flank him.
He dropped into a defensive crouch just as a shadow detached itself from an alcove ahead. Tarek fired without hesitation, the blaster bolt illuminating a figure in armor unlike any Mandalorian design he recognized, ancient-looking, with red accents that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
The figure dodged with impossible speed, returning fire with a weapon that discharged not energy but something that hissed through the air. Tarek rolled sideways as the projectile embedded itself in the wall behind him, releasing a cloud of pale gas.
"Intruders in the vault!" he shouted into his helmet's comm. "Unknown hostiles, multiple signatures!"
Static answered him. His communications were being jammed.
Two more armored figures emerged from side passages, weapons trained on him. Their movements were fluid, synchronized, clearly trained combatants working as a unit. Tarek fired again, catching one in the shoulder, but the armor absorbed the hit with barely a scorch mark.
"The guardian," one of them said, voice distorted through an unfamiliar helmet design. "Take him alive if possible."
Tarek laughed coldly. "Not possible." He triggered his flamethrower, sending a cone of fire into the narrowest part of the corridor. The attackers fell back momentarily, giving him the opening to activate his jetpack in a controlled burst, launching himself over their heads toward the vault.
Landing in a roll, he came up running. If these were thieves after the amulet, they'd have to go through him first.
He rounded the final corner and froze in horror. The vault door stood open, bodies of the ceremonial guards strewn across the floor. In the chamber beyond, more of the red-accented warriors surrounded the pedestal where the amulet had rested.
The transparisteel case lay shattered. The amulet was gone.
With a roar of fury, Tarek charged. He caught the first enemy with a shoulder tackle, smashing them into a wall with bone-breaking force. The second he engaged with his vibroblade, the weapon's ultrasonic edge seeking gaps in the strange armor.
He was good, one of the clan's best fighters but he was outnumbered. A blow to his back sent him stumbling. Another caught his helmet, cracking the visor. Through the damaged display, he saw one figure different from the others approaching the door, taller, moving with the confident grace of a commander.
This one's armor bore more elaborate markings, and in one gloved hand, the Mythosaur Amulet dangled from a chain, seeming to pulse with internal light.
"No!" Tarek lunged toward the figure, only to be caught by two of the warriors. He fought savagely, breaking free with a desperate surge of strength, but not before the leader had reached the doorway.
For a moment, their gazes locked through their respective visors. Though he couldn't see the thief's face, Tarek had the distinct impression the other was smiling.
"Your clan's time as guardian is ended," the figure said, voice melodic despite the helmet's distortion. "Kad Ha'rangir's will shall be fulfilled."
Then alarms began blaring throughout the complex as the clan finally realized they were under attack. The leader gestured sharply, and the remaining warriors disengaged, throwing down smoke grenades that filled the chamber with choking white vapor.
By the time reinforcements arrived, the intruders had vanished. All that remained was Tarek, battered and disarmed, kneeling beside the empty pedestal where the clan's most sacred treasure had rested for millennia.
And around him, among the bodies of the warriors he had failed to protect, lay Ruhr Vizsla, his mentor's unseeing eyes fixed on the ceiling and his life's blood pooling on the ancient stone floor.
