Chapter 1: Dathomirian Prank War
The air in the Nightsister lair was thick, smelling of wet stone, crushed herbs, and the lingering, smoky sweetness of dark incense. Bioluminescent fungi pulsed a soft blue-green on the walls, their light catching the obsidian facets of ancient mirrors that seemed to swallow and distort the room. In one corner, a claw-footed tub overflowed with steaming water the color of bruised violets. Nearby, a half-eaten feast of spiced meats and strange, fermented fruits sat forgotten on a table carved with the screaming faces of forgotten gods.
Bo-Katan Kryze was asleep, which was a rare thing. Her sharp features were smoothed by unconsciousness, the usual intensity of her expression banked like a fire. She was propped against a worn stone pillar, still mostly in her armor, one hand resting on the blaster at her hip even in sleep. Her fiery red hair, usually a defiant crest, was mussed. The flickering fungal light played across the proud lines of her cheekbones.
Merrin watched from the shadows, a pale ghost in the gloom. Her green eyes, unblinking, tracked the slow, steady rise and fall of Bo-Katan’s chest. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her tattooed lips. She uncurled her fingers.
A subtle current of magick, cool and silent, flowed through the chamber. It didn’t rustle the air or disturb the dust. It simply slipped beneath Bo-Katan like an invisible hand, cradling her, then lifting. With terrifying gentleness, the Mandalorian warrior princess was raised from the floor. Merrin twisted her wrist. The body turned, slowly, until Bo-Katan hung upside down, her arms dangling toward the uneven floor, her hair a cascade of copper falling toward the stone.
Merrin approached, her steps making no sound. She observed the armored kama, the leather and plastoid battle skirt. Her gaze was clinical, like a sculptor assessing a block of stone. With another minute gesture, the magickial grip shifted. The straps of the kama unhitched themselves, the buckles sliding free without a click. The garment peeled away, lowered silently to a neat pile on the floor.
Now, only the bodyglove and leggings remained. Merrin’s smile widened a fraction. She flicked two fingers upward.
The dark fabric of Bo-Katan’s leggings, stretched taut by her inverted posture, tightened further. Then it pulled, with a relentless, steady pressure, deep into the cleft of her buttocks. The wedgie was not a quick, juvenile snap. It was a deliberate, escalating invasion, the fabric creeping higher and growing tighter with a severity that would have been impossible by mere physical force. It lodged itself with finality, a profound and undeniable compromise of dignity.
Merrin let her hang there for a moment, a trussed-up trophy. Then she guided the floating form toward the ceiling, threading Bo-Katan’s booted feet through a natural stone loop in a stalactite, securing her in place. She stepped back, dissolving her active magick with a curl of her hand. The sustained hold vanished, leaving Bo-Katan’s own weight, and the cruel anchor of the wedgie, as the only forces keeping her suspended.
Bo-Katan’s eyes snapped open.
Disorientation hit first—the world was upside down, the room a reversed tapestry of pulsing light and deep shadow. Then the sensation registered. A hot, biting, intensely personal grip where no grip should be. Her brain, a warrior’s brain, scrambled to assess the threat. Captured? No binders on her wrists. Injured? No pain, except the ridiculous, humiliating strain on her rear.
She grunted, trying to kick, to find leverage. Her legs were stuck fast in the stone. She swung slightly, the movement only intensifying the awful, creeping wedge of fabric. A flush of pure heat climbed her neck and face.
“What is this?” she growled, her voice thick with sleep and rising fury. She twisted her head, muscles in her neck cording.
Merrin emerged from the gloom, leaning against the feasting table. She picked up a piece of iridescent fruit and took a small, deliberate bite. “You were snoring,” she said, her tone flat. “It was annoying.”
“Get me down. Now.” Bo-Katan’s command was pure venom, the kind that made Imperial officers flinch.
“Ask nicely.”
“I will break your nose.”
“You are in no position to break anything,” Merrin observed, swallowing. “Except, perhaps, the stitching of your leggings. They seem under significant stress.”
Bo-Katan breathed out, a hard, controlled burst of air. She stopped struggling. The fight left her limbs, replaced by a terrifying, focused stillness. This was a tactic, a regrouping. She hung like a bat, her eyes burning holes into the Nightsister. “This is childish.”
“It is effective,” Merrin corrected. “You are awake. You are not snoring. The mission is accomplished.”
“The mission is to find the Imperial holdout, not to play stupid pranks!”
“We are waiting for the moon to align for the tracking spell. We have time.” Merrin tilted her head. “You are very tense. It is not good for strategy. I thought a… change of perspective… might help.”
Bo-Katan’s laugh was a short, sharp, unpleasant sound. “My perspective is currently of a floor that needs cleaning. And of a witch who is about to learn why Mandalorians prefer direct combat.”
She tried again, using her core strength to pull herself up, reaching for the stalactite. Her fingers scraped stone, but the angle was impossible, the wedgie a sabotage her powerful muscles couldn’t overcome. She fell back with another frustrated grunt.
Merrin watched the struggle, her expression one of mild academic interest. “The great Bo-Katan Kryze,” she mused, her deadpan voice echoing softly in the chamber. “Leader of Mandalore. Unified the clans. Saved her planet from a sky of fire. Defeated by a three-inch seam of reinforced fabric.”
The words, so calmly delivered, were the final straw. The humiliation crystallized into a cold, clear rage. Bo-Katan went utterly still again. When she spoke, her voice was low and measured, every syllable a promise. “When I get down from here, and I will get down, I am going to take that bucket of violet bathwater and drown you in it. Then I will wring out your robes and use them to polish my armor.”
A flicker of something—appreciation, maybe—crossed Merrin’s face. She pushed off from the table. “Good. The fire is back. I was concerned it had been extinguished by self-pity.”
“What?”
“You have been brooding for two days. It is dull.”
Merrin waved a hand. The stone around Bo-Katan’s boots cracked softly, then crumbled to dust. She dropped, a controlled fall of a few feet, landing in a crouch on the balls of her feet. The impact jarred through her, and she hissed, one hand flying back instinctively to try and alleviate the persistent, gnawing discomfort. She stood up, slowly, her posture rigid with fury and injured pride.
She faced Merrin, eyes blazing. “You have five seconds to explain yourself before I make you eat that obsidian mirror.”
“You respect strength,” Merrin said, not backing away an inch. “You enjoy seeing the strong squirm. It is a test of their character. Yes?”
Bo-Katan said nothing, her jaw clenched.
“This was a test of yours. You were not strong when you were sleeping. You were vulnerable. I exploited it. Not with a knife, not with a blaster. With a thought.” She tapped her temple. “My strength. And you squirmed. Beautifully. Now we are even.”
“We are not even.”
“No,” Merrin agreed, a ghost of her smirk returning. “Because you are still standing with a legendary wedgie. And I am not.”
For a long moment, they stared each other down in the pulsating light. The anger in Bo-Katan’s eyes didn’t fade, but it subtly changed, mixed with a grudging, furious acknowledgment. Merrin hadn’t just humiliated her. She had made a point, in the most aggravating way possible.
Bo-Katan turned sharply, her movements slightly, hilariously stiff, and stalked toward the overflowing bathtub. “The moon had better align soon,” she muttered, her back to Merrin as she began, with sharp, angry motions, to unbuckle her armor. “Or I’m using you for the tracking spell instead.”
Merrin turned back to the feast table, selecting a different fruit. “I would make a poor component,” she said. “Too bitter.”
From behind her came the distinct, solid clunk of beskar chestplate hitting stone, followed by the slow, relieved sigh of a warrior sinking into deep, violet, steaming water.