Private Blasted Deals: An Arm And A Leg

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Concordia, Outer Rim Territories

The main street of Concorida's capital bustled with the march of civilisation. On the corner of the thoroughfare, a merchant with a handful of fresh buns in hand called out to customers—in a dazzling array of colours and shapes—towards the sizzling grill packed with waiting food. Numerous footsteps clacked against the faded grey limestone stairway up towards the capital bank, filled to the brim, with doors that never seemed to close, watched over by marble pillars and solemn figures carved into the visage of beskar'gam. Towering over those who walked below, the grim-faced facade of the Protectorate Headquarters cast a looming shadow across the road, sheltering those under its vigilant protection from the glare of the sun.

Itzhal smiled beneath his buy'ce, greeted with a world that he thought forgotten.

Across the street, a woman laughed—bright and airy—tears in her eyes, unable to face the scarlet cheeks of their friend, who shoved them back, one hand against the silver-coated pauldron of their beskar'gam. It wasn't home, not quite, but it felt a little closer to the ideal as he stepped past, into the snarling maw of the Protectorate Headquarters.

Inside, a receptionist watched as he stepped through the door, their position covered by the circular slab of duracrete, dressed in a tasteful layer of ebonwood and reinforced with metal supports that framed it into something quite beautiful. One never forgot to appreciate a sturdy piece of cover, nor the amount of firepower that could be concealed behind it.

They shared a nod before he walked past, his boots clacking against the stone floor, on the way towards a corridor that led deeper inside, guided by a map that appeared in the corner of his HuD. His steps echoed down the corridors, each path lined with a dozen doors, and twisting passages that never seemed to quite lead to where they should, at least, if not for the map that led him true.

A few minutes later, he came to a stop outside a blast door, sealed shut despite the ID card attached to his wrist. His eyes lingered on the buzzer of the control panel, rather than the ventilation grid in the wall beside him, detached from any of the local maintenance shafts and failing to produce more than a short huff of air. He'd rather stick with the fantasy; it was cleaner that way. With a shake of his head and an amused huff, he clicked the buzzer.

The door clicked open a moment afterwards, sliding silently along the guide rails. Itzhal Volkihar stepped through.

Tags: Siv Kryze​

 

[Siv Kryze]

.​

CONCORDIA​

​

Siv Kryze did not look up at first.

The briefing room was carved straight into Concordia's bedrock—old, utilitarian, built for war councils rather than comfort. A circular holotable dominated the center, its surface alive with slow-spinning wireframes of cargo routes, port manifests, and blinking threat markers clustered like infected wounds along the docks. Red light washed over beskar-inlaid walls etched with sigils of past Protectors, watching silently.

Only when the blast door finished sealing behind Itzhal did Siv lift his gaze.

The Warden of Concordia stood with both palms braced against the holotable, shoulders squared, buy'ce tucked under one arm. His expression was calm, but it was the calm of a man cataloging problems rather than enjoying peace.

"Volkihar," Siv said, voice steady, carrying easily in the stone chamber. No ceremony—just acknowledgment. Respect, without theatrics.

He straightened, turning fully now, studying the newcomer with a sharp, assessing eye. "You picked a good time to come knocking. Bad time for Concordia."

A gesture of his hand caused the holomap to shift. Several trade lanes flared amber, then red. Cargo icons split, duplicated, vanished.

"Arms are bleeding off the books," Siv continued. "Not small stuff. Military-grade components. Enough to arm clans who don't answer to the Empire—or anyone at all." His jaw tightened slightly. "Protectorate seizures keep scratching the surface, but someone higher is greasing the channels. Too clean. Too consistent."

He met Itzhal's visor again.

"That makes it my problem," Siv said. "And now, apparently, yours."

A pause—deliberate.

"You're here as a specialist. So I'll ask plainly." One corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "Do you want to start by breaking the smuggling ring from the outside… or cutting out the heart and letting the docks panic?"

The hum of the holotable filled the space between them, waiting.

"Either way," Siv added, voice lowering just a fraction, "Concordia doesn't tolerate uncontrolled weapons in its streets. Not anymore."

He gestured to an open position at the table.

"Welcome to the Anvil, Volkihar. Let's see what you hit first."