#clan vhett

[dreamingofstars97]

Yes, I know—it’s been forever! 🙈 This chapter decided to fight me at every step, but I finally wrangled it into submission. Thank you for being patient (and for not sending bounty hunters after me). I hope the wait was worth it—enjoy!

—————

The turquoise-blue sea of Kalevala was restless, its waters darkened, reflecting the weary grey sky above.

Bo sighed as she gazed at Castle Kryze from the distance—the sweeping courtyard, the beskad walls strong and austere, their dark stone uneven after years of wind and sun. The windows rose tall toward the sky, their pointed arches sharp as blades.

Sumptuous. Imposing. Formidable.

It stood proud atop the promontory as the waves crashed against the rocks below. A jai’galaar shrieked somewhere on the horizon, its cry tearing through the salt-laden air. Bo’s chest tightened; it sounded like mourning, as though the fortress itself remembered who it had lost.

But no. Those memories could not be allowed to take root—not in her heart, not in her mind. Even if the walls still echoed with them.

She ground her teeth and looked away, scanning the landscape through her T-shaped visor, fingers curling tightly around the hilt of her beskad.

It had been a necessary evil, she told herself. To rescue tradition. Honour. Glory. Almec had said so—and how persuasive he had been. Too persuasive. She had clung to his words like a lifeline, desperate for the recognition she had never received. Not from Satine. Not even from her buir. She told herself it didn’t matter—she didn’t need them anyway.

And yet… the castle whispered otherwise.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[dreamingofstars97]

Hi everyone!

Chapter 21 is finally here!

It took me a while to get it ready—my apologies—but amidst all the chaos, I managed to finish it! 😅

I hope you all enjoy it! 💕

And if you do, please drop a comment or some kudos. ❤️ I’d love to hear from you!

Meanwhile, here’s a little snippet:

Obi-Wan navigated through the streets of Vortallax with the practiced ease of a man who had done it many times before.

His breath curled into the wintry air as rain poured relentlessly from the darkened sky. The ground was slick with ice and water—a bitter mix that soaked through his boots and made him shiver.

Fingers numb, he drew his cloak tighter around his shoulders, the sodden hood heavy against his head.

His rucksack was already filled with supplies—enough to last at least a couple of weeks—but still, Obi-Wan’s eyes moved slowly across the dimly lit market, wondering if there was anything else he might bring home.

Stopping before a small stall, he raised a hand and pointed at the bubbling pot of stew.

“Ehn ke’sol, bat norac, tion gar copaanir?” he said—just as Satine had taught him.

The vendor—a short, stocky man with not a single strand of hair on his head—grunted, wiping his hands on a rag before reaching for three metal bowls. He filled them quickly, sealed each with a clatter of lids, and slid them across the counter.

Reaching into his pocket, Obi-Wan pulled out a handful of credits and placed them on the counter. “Ke’dinir ibic,” he said quickly and carefully, masking his accent as best he could.

He slipped the containers into his rucksack, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he imagined Satine’s face—the surprise, the delight—when she saw the stew he’d brought for supper.

The Force knew how hard he’d tried not to think of her that way—how many times he’d smothered the warmth that bloomed, untamed, in his chest at the thought of her smile, her voice, the way she sometimes looked at him from beneath her brow. And the memories… he’d tried to tear them out by sheer will, reciting his vows, repeating the Code like a mantra. But it was in moments like this—in small gestures, in tenderness—that his resolve betrayed him.

His chest expanded as he drew a slow, steady breath, adjusting the rucksack straps across his shoulders. With long strides, he moved down the street—past the crowds, away from the market—toward the edge of the city, where a dark, rain‑soaked forest waited for him.

Two hours of walking lay ahead, back to the mine hidden deep in the woods, where the VCX‑100 rested in secrecy.

A ripple in the Force—subtle, almost imperceptible—drew Obi‑Wan’s gaze toward a narrow alley behind the pub.

There, half‑swallowed by shadow, sat a lone figure. Draped in a tattered black cloak, their face hidden beneath the hood, the person sat motionless on the wet ground, hands extended as though waiting—for coin, for mercy, or perhaps for something else entirely.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[dreamingofstars97]

[Excerpt]

Obi-Wan’s grip tightened on Satine’s arms as their eyes locked. They stood frozen, silent, waiting for the hunter to pass. Focus, Obi-Wan. But his mind betrayed him. Flashes of the previous night—her voice, her warmth, the impossible longing—clouded his thoughts. What would it be like to give in? To stop fighting it, without fear or regret? But that could never be.

Then, a crueler thought. He remembered the man from the engagement picture—tall, handsome, hers. A sharp pain settled in his chest. She belongs to him.

Obi-Wan and Satine stood unmoving, bodies pressed together, faces close, breathing in sync. The worst possible moment. And yet, the nearness of her felt… right.

“By the gods!” a voice rang out from the bushes.

They jolted apart. Obi-Wan spun, shielding Satine behind him.

Dala stepped out, blaster aimed straight at him. She looked him up and down with contempt. “So, you’re the baby jetii.”

Obi-Wan squared his shoulders, jaw set. How did I not sense her? He focused, steadying himself, fixing her with an unwavering stare.

Dala smirked. “If Duke Adonai wasn’t already dead, I’m pretty sure he’d kill himself right here and now if he saw this.” Her grin widened as she pointed her blaster at Obi-Wan. “It’s one thing to mingle with scum, Princess. But this?” She scoffed. “This is pretty low.”

Satine gripped the back of Obi-Wan’s tunic. He felt her distress mounting, as tangible as his own. His heartbeat picked up, sweat forming at his brow. Confidence slipped through his fingers like sand, making way for something more dangerous—fear. Center yourself, for kriff’s sake!

Dala narrowed her eyes, trying to get a glimpse of Satine’s face.

Obi-Wan shifted, blocking her view.

“I thought you were engaged to that dreamboat of a man,” Dala taunted. “What’s his name again?” She waved a hand dismissively. “Eh, doesn’t matter. You’ll probably never see him again.” She flicked her gaze back to Obi-Wan. “Now, get out of the way, baby jetii, before I fry you.”

Obi-Wan’s expression turned cold. He tilted his head slightly, smirking. “No.”

Dala sighed, then raised her wrist to her mouth, talking into her commlink. “Videk, get back here. I found her.”

Obi-Wan’s hand hovered over his saber, eyes locked on Dala.

And then, he felt it—Videk’s presence growing closer, dark and seething.

Satine’s fingers curled tighter around his tunic, trembling.

Dala studied Obi-Wan. “I fought your kind at Galidraan,” she said. “Killed a few, actually.” Her lips curled. “But I’ve never killed a Padawan before. And I’d rather not start with you.” She leveled her blaster at him. “So be smart. Go find your Master and let me handle the Princess. I promise I’ll take real good care of her.”

Videk emerged from the brush, blaster raised. The barrel hissed, primed for a shot. “Hello, Princess,” he said, winking at Satine. “Miss me?”

Obi-Wan felt her shrink behind him.

“You stupid puppy.” Dala arched a brow, deep lines cutting across her forehead like canyons separating her face from the rest of her head. “I’m giving you a chance to walk away.”

Obi-Wan didn’t move.

Dala’s patience snapped. Her nostrils flared. “Fine. You want to make this difficult? So be it.” She aimed directly at Obi-Wan’s face. “On the count of three,” she told Videk. “He can’t block two bolts at once.”

Videk grinned, eyes gleaming. “This is it, puppy. The end.”

Obi-Wan tensed, instinctively pressing Satine against the tree behind him.

“One,” Dala started. The heat from the blaster’s barrel singed the air between them.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, reaching for the Force.

“Two.”

His hand hovered over his saber.

“Thr—”

Chapter 11 is up!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61284910/chapters/162991117

[dreamingofstars97]

[Excerpt]

A heavy silence settled between them, and Tristan could feel that his brother was holding something back. More bad news? What could possibly be worse than losing a father? Inevitable as it was, the loss still struck deep—his heart ached as if an arrow had pierced straight through it. Nothing could be worse than this.

Tristan inhaled deeply, his gaze sharpening as he shot Eli a suspicious look before shifting to Golec. “Alright. What’s going on? Why are you two looking at each other like that? Is there something else happening?”

Almec remained silent, but Tristan could feel his eyes on him, heavy and watchful.

Eli bit his lip, hesitation clear in his expression. “I thought… well, we thought that maybe you should be the one to go to Concord Dawn. Mother needs help, and you can represent me there.”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Tristan lifted a hand, as if to cut them off. “Is that it? You two—or should I say three,” he glared at Almec, “have been conspiring against me behind my back?”

“No, it’s… it’s not what you think, Tristan,” Eli quickly interjected, his voice tight.

“No one is conspiring against you, Tristan,” Golec said, his tone calm and controlled. “Your brother was simply wondering if you would like to stay with your family during this difficult time.”

Tristan felt a sharp pang of anger mixed with frustration churn in his stomach. How could they? He could almost expect this kind of move from Golec, but Eli? His own brother? The sense of betrayal hit harder than he’d anticipated.

“So you think you can just send me home like a helpless child, just because of a disagreement?” Tristan’s jaw clenched, his fists tightening on the tabletop. “It is my opinion that the Republic should not be involved in our affairs, and you must accept it. Or isn’t this supposed to be a democracy?” He motioned around the room, his voice rising.

Eli’s brows knitted together, his nostrils flaring. “You’re being ridiculous. This isn’t about that!”

“Oh, really? Then why are we having this meeting? And why is he here?” Tristan demanded, pointing at Golec.

“Gentlemen, I believe this is escalating unnecessarily,” Almec interjected, his tone casual. “Master Golec,” he continued, “perhaps you and Eli could take a moment to collect yourselves? I’d like to have a word with Tristan, if I may.”

Tristan’s frown deepened, finding the suggestion unexpectedly out of place.

Eli shot a surprised glance at Almec, then shifted his gaze to Golec. The General gave him a sharp nod, and after a brief hesitation, Eli rose to his feet and left the room, Golec following close behind.

The large doors shut with a heavy thud, and Tristan turned to Almec, a sense of unease settling in his chest. What could that ruug’la hut’uun possibly want with him? And why alone?

Oh, before I forget,

Have I mentioned that Tristan Vhett was inspired by this guy down here 👇🏻

Bellissimo♥️🔥

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61284910/chapters/169845253?view_adult=true

[dreamingofstars97]

This is an excerpt from Chapter 1 of Cold Wind to Kalevala.

Rating: Mature

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category: F/M

Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types

“A thousand systems for your thoughts,” somebody called out from behind the Duke.

He turned his head only to find his daughter standing by the large transparisteel doors. Satine Kryze was his oldest daughter and heir to the throne. Tall and athletic, she had been trained from an early age in the art of battle, becoming a proficient beskad fighter and a skilled military strategist. At the age of fifteen, she was sent to the Inner Core to undergo diplomacy and statecraft training at the renowned Diplomacy Institute in Coruscant. The Duke himself also made sure to personally educate his daughter, instilling in her his most valuable beliefs.

Upon seeing his daughter, the Duke curled his lips up into a small smile, gazing at his feet. “Do you remember, Sat’ika, when we used to stand here together to greet the people? They were so many and there was so much hope in their eyes, so much optimism. Where did it all go? The joy, the hope, the chanting?”

Satine listened to her father and memories flowed through her mind like a crystalline river as he spoke. His words evoked echoes from a glorious past that had taken him decades to build, but that was brought down by his enemies in a flash.

He continued, “I will always remember when you came to age, and you and I stood before thousands of citizens, and they all sang songs about victory and glory. And they called your name. That day, I became certain that when my time came to depart to the Manda, you would be the one they all would embrace as their Mand'Alor. I felt at peace.”

Satine remembered that day. And she remembered many, many others in which her father was hailed as the ‘Savior of Mandalore’, ‘the true Mand'Alor’, and a faint smile formed in her face. “I remember it all, buir.” She approached the front edge of the balustrade, resting both her hands on it. She sighed, “I believe that it is not over yet. There is still hope. The people still believe in you. Like I do.”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61284910/chapters/156633700?view_adult=true

[thesmugglersconsular]