The streets of Sundari reeked of desperation. Even in the dead of night, the so-called proud Mandalorian capital was a city choked by fear—fear of the Empire, fear of their own weakness, and most of all, fear of what came next.

And that was exactly how it should be.

A squad of Purge Troopers marched through the dimly lit alleys, their black armor absorbing the glow of the city’s neon signs. Their heavy boots slammed against the beskar-paved roads in perfect, mechanical unison, sending an unmistakable message: compliance or death.

The Purge Commander led the formation, his crimson visor scanning the crowds with quiet contempt. Unlike the cowardly stormtroopers who wasted time checking IDs and harassing street vendors, his men weren’t here to babysit civilians. They were here for a kill.

“Disgusting.” His voice crackled through his helmet’s vocoder, dripping with disdain. His grip tightened around the electrostaff holstered to his back, itching for an excuse to use it.

The Mandalorians patrolling beside them were silent, their own ranks stiff and cautious. The tension between them was thick enough to slice with a vibroblade. The Mandalorian Queen had begrudgingly accepted the Empire’s help, but everyone knew the truth—her power was fading. And without the Darksaber, she was nothing.

One of the Mandalorian warriors, clad in battered beskar, cast a wary glance toward the Purge Troopers. The Commander smirked beneath his helmet.

“Something to say, Mandalorian?” His voice was a cold hiss, just loud enough to be heard over the hum of a patrolling probe droid