The air in the cantina is thick with anticipation as you circle the Mandalorian, your tail lashing behind you like a whip, brushing the cold floor. The hum of tension fills the room, and Djarin's hand never leaves his blaster. His stance is unyielding, but there's a subtle shift in his posture—alert, calculating.

"Like what?" His voice is steady, though his eyes track your every movement. "What is it that I have that you want?"

You smile—sharp, predatory, your teeth gleaming like daggers. With a flick of your tail, a low hiss slips from your throat, and you lean in close, your eyes locking onto his with a dangerous intensity.

"The soul of a fighter," you purr, your voice low and enticing, as though the words are a promise, a challenge, and a threat all in one.

Before he can react, you lunge. Your claws extend like vicious daggers, the very embodiment of danger, and with one swift motion, you strike. The sound of metal screeching against your talons fills the air as your claws find a weak spot in his armor—just above the joint. His body tenses, but you are too fast. A deep growl rumbles in your chest as you snap for his head, but he shoves you off with surprising strength.

You land gracefully, a mere step away, but not before leaving a trail of blood behind. His blood.

A laugh bursts from your chest—rich, dark, and deeply amused. You vanish into the snow, your form a blur of white and purple as you bound into the cold night. Behind you, you hear Djarin's frustrated shout, his boots crunching the snow as he follows the blood trail you've left in your wake.

The Mythrol, still hiding behind the bar, watches with wide eyes. He hesitates a moment longer, looking at Djarin and then at you, before quickly making his exit, eager to be far from this madness. With the troublemakers gone, the cantina is left in a tense, stunned silence.

You push forward, the cold biting into your scales, your breath visible in the air as you race toward your destination—the Mandalorian's ship, nestled in the distance. With every step, the blood trail grows fainter, but you know exactly where you're going. It's all part of the game.

As you near the ship, your form shifts once more, transforming into your towering dragonborn shape, your true self. Your horns rise high, your scales shimmering in the moonlight as you cross your arms over your chest with regal ease. The cold does not bother you; it never has. You are the queen of your empire, and nothing, not even this icy world, can diminish your power.

Djarin's footsteps falter. He slides a few inches in the snow as he comes to a stop, his gloved hand shaking slightly as it hovers over his blaster. His visor locks onto you, and for a brief moment, there is complete silence between you two—him trying to process what he sees, and you, simply enjoying the moment.

"What?" He finally croaks, the disbelief clear in his voice. He's seen you before. Everyone has, in whispers, in the underworld, in the shadowy corners of Coruscant. You are an enigma, the Ivory Angel, known across the galaxy.

But you are also a queen, a ruthless ruler of your empire, whose deals in the dark market have made your name one to fear. No one dares cross you unless they are willing to risk everything. And Djarin, for all his skill and reputation, seems like a man who is about to learn just how dangerous that reputation truly is.

He steadies himself, his blaster hand trembling as he takes in the sight of you, the legend. "Why are you here, Your Highness?" His voice is barely a whisper, awe and uncertainty dancing behind his words.

You smile, a dark, knowing curl of your lips. The game has changed. Now, it is no longer about simply hunting—you've set your sights on a much greater prize.

You uncross your arms slowly, your stance exuding quiet power, and you take a step closer to him, your presence overwhelming.

"Why, I'm here for a hunt," you say, your voice low, smooth, and unyielding. "I heard you were in this city, Mando. I've come to take you home."

His knees lock. His blaster, still shaking in his hand, lowers slightly as he considers your words. And just like that, the Mandalorian, once the hunter, becomes the hunted.

And you, the Ivory Angel, are going to make this hunt unforgettable.

SCENE BREAK

You chuckle softly as you relax into the seat of the Razor Crest, your claws clicking gently against the metal as you stretch out, feeling the ship's hum under your skin. The Mandalorian—Din, you remind yourself—paces in the cockpit, his frustration simmering just below the surface. He's clearly not thrilled to have you aboard, especially after you nearly cost him his target. Yet, in the silence between you, there's something unspoken—a quiet tension, an undeniable attraction wrapped in the danger of your presence.

You glance out the viewport at the cold expanse of space, the stars twinkling like distant diamonds. Soon enough, the Mythrol—the target he had originally been after—will be safely delivered to your client's hands, sedated and easy to transport. You had injected him with a powerful sedative, making him easier to carry, ensuring he wouldn't be any trouble.

Din doesn't speak, but you can feel his gaze on you as you lounge in the back of the ship, comfortable in your power. The silence is a steady companion as the Razor Crest touches down on the ice-covered planet of Nevarro.

Once you disembark, you move with purpose, your servants waiting for you near the landing pad. They swiftly take possession of the Mythrol, delivering him to the client who has been so eager for his capture. You tilt your head slightly, savoring the moment of triumph, the scent of victory lingering in the cold air. Din lingers behind you, though his discomfort is palpable.

The streets of Nevarro are bustling with activity, humanoids, droids, and various alien species moving in and out of cantinas and shops, all going about their business. Din leads the way, the slight clink of his beskar armor a familiar sound, but it's the way people seem to move aside when they see you that catches your attention. They know who you are.

When you reach the cantina, the air is thick with the smell of cheap alcohol and the murmur of conversations. At the far end of the bar, a dark-skinned man with a slick coat and a smug look on his face catches your eye. Greef Karga. An agent of the Bounty Hunters' Guild. As Din approaches him, you follow, noticing Karga's gaze flick to you—his eyes narrowing as his fingers twitch toward the pucks in his jacket.

"Uh, to what do we owe the honor of your majesty?" Karga asks with a slight dip of his head. He's clearly caught off guard, but the polite tone doesn't mask the wariness in his voice.

You smile, a glint of amusement in your eyes, and nudge Din onto the stool beside Karga. The agent looks between you and the Mandalorian, confusion etched on his face, but Din remains silent. You lean in close, your elbows on the bar, your wings arching lazily behind you, and your tail flicks with a soft swish.

"We want our next job, and if you know who I am, you'd better help us quickly," you say, your voice smooth and cold, laced with the unspoken threat of power. Karga swallows hard.

"Y-yes, of course, ma'am," he stammers, his hands trembling slightly as he produces several pucks—a mix of bail jumps and a wanted smuggler.

Din seems inclined to take them all, but you give him a pointed look, one that carries weight. "We take the highest bounty, nothing less, nothing more. I better get you something to eat, too," you say with a smile, your tail twitching as a lizard-like alien enters.

The alien bows, "What can we get you, ma'am?"

"Two bone broths, thanks," you reply, your voice low but clear. The creature nods and scurries off, leaving the two of you with Karga, who's looking at you like he's trying to calculate just how much trouble he's in.

Din turns to you, his helmet tilting slightly. "Are you known everywhere or what?" he asks, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

You chuckle softly, your tail flicking in amusement. "I am, yes. I have spies and informants in all corners of the galaxy. They're all loyal to me."

You trace a claw down the side of his helmet, the sensation sending a shiver through the Mandalorian. "Now, if you want to keep your life, you do as I say, and we take the highest bounty, hmm?"

Din swallows, but before he can say anything more, Karga clears his throat. "There is one more job," he mutters, his voice now lower and more careful. "Off the books. No chain code."

You and Din exchange a glance—there's something strange about the way Karga says it. Intrigued, you nod, your wings folding back slightly, and gesture for Din to lead the way.

Through the backstreets of Nevarro, the atmosphere shifts from bustling life to darkened alleyways and hidden corners. The GNK droid at the entrance greets you with the mechanical whirring of its feet. Din displays a transponder, and the gate opens, admitting you both inside.

You follow the droid down a corridor into a room where you're greeted by the stern faces of four Remnant Stormtroopers. Their dusty armor clinks as they step aside, surprised to see you.

"Young Highness, w-what are you doing here?" one stammers, a strange warmth missing from their tone.

You smile coldly, revealing your teeth but offering no warmth in return. "Why, I'm on a hunt with my good friend, Mando, here."

You throw a wing around Din, pulling him closer in a motion that's far too intimate, but it's enough to leave the Stormtroopers silent, exchanging uneasy looks. They step aside, revealing the client—a tired-looking elderly man sitting at a table, his face pinched with age but sharp with purpose.

He blinks when he sees you. "Your Highness, Ivory, I didn't expect to see you here. What are you doing here?"

You smile, your tail flicking behind you like a snake ready to strike. You bow your head slightly, maintaining that air of dominance, yet elegance. "To get that job," you reply simply.

"As you wish," the client says, his voice even and calm, but you can tell he's wary of the power you bring. He motions to a young man entering the room—a doctor, who seems just as eager to impress as he is uncomfortable.

"This is Doctor Penn Pershing," the client says, introducing him. "Apologies for his lack of decorum. His enthusiasm outweighs his discretion."

The doctor nods nervously, and you watch his every movement with interest as he speaks. "Please, sit. I would like to discuss the business."

You raise an eyebrow, but remain standing. "I sit for no man," you declare coolly, the words dripping with the weight of authority.

The client sits down himself, not taking offense but not daring to challenge your words. He opens a camtono, revealing gleaming ingots of beskar. The down payment. His voice is calm as he mentions that a treasure trove of beskar awaits if the asset is delivered alive.

Doctor Pershing insists that the asset must be alive, but the client quickly overrules him, offering a lower fee if proof of termination is provided instead. You tilt your head, your tail lashing slowly as you regard the doctor, who looks oddly protective of the asset. Interesting.

Finally, you speak up. "We'll take it," you say, nodding at the ingots. "But Mando will get them now."

The client nods, handing the ingots to Din, who feels their weight in his gloved hands. You can sense the unspoken gratitude from him, but you don't acknowledge it.

"Anything you can give us on the asset?" you ask.

The client answers carefully, only providing the last two digits of the asset's age—over 50 years old. You hum in consideration, your tail flicking back and forth. You don't need much more information to track your quarry.

You and Din share a look before exiting the room, the air thick with anticipation. The hunt is on.