The clang of hammers had long faded from Mandalore's cities. What once echoed with the sounds of war now sang with laughter, trade, and renewal.
Farmers on Concordia rose at dawn to tend vast fields of grain and fruit that stretched farther than the eye could see. Children of warriors learned not only combat drills, but mathematics, engineering, and the history of their people in new schools built from stone and beskar. Markets in Keldabe thrummed with life: armored Mandalorians haggling over food, merchants peddling wares, smiths hammering fine-crafted weapons that were just as often ceremonial as they were practical.
For the first time in generations, Mandalore was thriving. Shepard walked among his people daily, not as a distant ruler, but as a presence they could see and trust. To the young, he was the guardian of Mandalore's future. To the old, he was proof the world had not been lost.
Yet even as Mandalore flourished, the galaxy churned. The Holonet brought whispers: the Republic squabbling with separatist systems, the Senate fracturing with corruption, the Jedi stretched thin across endless disputes. Something dark moved in the currents of galactic politics. Shepard studied it carefully, but he knew Mandalore was not yet ready to reveal itself.
It was late evening when the Prowler broke atmosphere, gliding silent as a shadow. The prowling beast of Mandalore had returned home.
Jango Fett strode down the ramp in full armor, his presence commanding as always, though his eyes carried weight. His elite crew followed behind him, carrying crates of materials and trophies from the Outer Rim.
But Jango himself walked straight to Shepard.
"Shep," Jango said, removing his helmet. His face was worn from the years, but sharp as ever. "The time's come."
Shepard studied him carefully. "Go on."
Jango took a steadying breath. "A man approached me. Calls himself Darth Tyranus. Sith Lord. He wants me to be the template for a clone army he's building for the Republic. Says they'll be loyal, disciplined, bred for war. And he's offering enough credits to drown in."
The words hung in the air. A Sith plot. A Republic army. The galaxy tilting toward war. Shepard felt the storm coming closer.
But instead of fear, a calm resolve filled him.
"So… it's time," Shepard murmured. "If this is what the galaxy's about to become, then fine. Agree to the request."
Jango blinked, surprised. "Just like that?"
Shepard stepped forward, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Not just like that. You'll take a few of our best with you. Mandalorians belong everywhere, and if this war is coming, we'll have our eyes inside it from the start."
Jango nodded slowly, his respect clear. "And what do we ask in return?"
Shepard's voice hardened, his soldier's pragmatism sharp. "Resources. Materials. Those are our lifeblood, Jango. Ships, metals, fuel, food stores—whatever keeps Mandalore thriving. We don't need their politics. We need their supplies."
Jango smirked faintly, the fire in his eyes returning. "Always thinking like a general."
"No," Shepard corrected softly. "Like a Mandalorian who refuses to see his people starve again."
The deal with Tyranus would be dangerous. Shepard knew it. Jango knew it. But it was also inevitable. The galaxy was about to ignite in war, and Mandalore would not be caught unprepared this time.
Jango would step into the role of bounty hunter, mercenary, and template. Shepard would remain on Mandalore, guiding the clans, ensuring their unity and strength.
Together, the Fett brothers would weave Mandalore into the galaxy's future, one from the shadows, the other from the throne.
As the suns of Mandalore dipped below the horizon, Shepard stood on the balcony of his stronghold, watching the city lights shimmer. His people laughed and thrived behind him, unaware of the storm soon to come.