She sat alone in her office aboard The Unbroken Veil, a temple of steel and silence floating above that wretched ball of sand and scrap called Mandalore. Her coffee steamed gently in her porcelain cup, the rich, bitter scent rising in soft spirals as her gloved fingers tapped rhythmically against the ceramic. Her other hand propped her chin lazily, her yellow eyes half-lidded, bored out of her damn mind.

This whole “joint effort” nonsense was beginning to fray her nerves. A forced cooperation with Mandalorians? How quaint. As if she were meant to trust these helmeted grunts who couldn’t go five minutes without growling about honor and blood. And now her stormtroopers were expected to run side-by-side with those filthy, jetpack-rattling degenerates just to kill one Jedi rat?

Ugh. Mica Kryze.

How poetic that the last splinter of Jedi idealism left on this dirt-riddled world was clinging to Mandalorian armor like some kind of tragic play. Livia almost wanted her dead just so she could finally give the order to burn Mandalore to its bones. She’d already drafted the speech in her head.

The hum of the ship’s systems whispered around her, the artificial calm broken only by the slow, deliberate clink of her cup setting back into its saucer.

Then the door opened.

She didn’t look at first. Just the barest twitch of an eyebrow. Then, slowly, she raised her head, yellow eyes gleaming with a chill curiosity. Her spine straightened, her lips pulled into that sly, amused smile she saved for when people forgot who they were dealing with.

“Well, well…” she purred, voice smooth as fresh oil, “pretty bold to come in here to see me.”

She folded her hands neatly in front of her, like a queen indulging a fool.

“What can I do for you?”