K I N G
LITTLE JAR'KAI, TARIS
The world below his boots bore the weight of history. Once a Mandalorian world, then a battlefield, and now, once again, their charge. Taris stretched endlessly in every direction, a city so vast it swallowed its own skyline. At a glance, the towers gleamed and the streets bustled. Peace, it seemed, had returned to the world. But the Mand’alor knew better.
Beneath the surface, in shadowed corridors and forgotten levels, rot festered. The scars left by the Gravesong War had not yet faded, and wherever wounds remained open, scavengers circled. Gangs, slavers, and opportunists picked through the broken bones of a displaced people. In the alleys of Little Jar’kai, families were pressed into debt, forced to pay for safety that never came, or bled dry by those who had never lifted a weapon in the Empire’s name.
They thought themselves safe in the dark. They believed their actions small enough to avoid notice. They believed the Mandalorian gaze did not reach this far. They were wrong.
The Protectors moved with purpose, crimson cloaks drawn close, visors aglow beneath the tinted lights of the district. Aether led them through the winding streets of Little Jar’kai, where Atrisian customs lived proudly among the steel bones of the city. Lanterns swayed on wires overhead, steam rolled out from tightly packed kitchens, and shopfronts pulsed with soft neon against the dusk.
They did not come kicking in doors. Not yet.
Instead, the Mand’alor stepped into a modest teahouse tucked at the end of a narrow row. Its windows glowed with gentle warmth, and the scent of steeped leaves met them the moment the door opened. It was a far cry from the battlefield, but it had its own rhythm, its own kind of calm. There were sellswords here. He could feel it. Mercenaries resting between jobs, travelers waiting on the next bit of credits to change hands.
He chose a corner table, large enough for his warriors to sit without clutter. The Protectors settled without a word. Orders were placed quietly, and for now, they waited.
They would drink. They would listen. And when the moment came, they would act.
Beneath the surface, in shadowed corridors and forgotten levels, rot festered. The scars left by the Gravesong War had not yet faded, and wherever wounds remained open, scavengers circled. Gangs, slavers, and opportunists picked through the broken bones of a displaced people. In the alleys of Little Jar’kai, families were pressed into debt, forced to pay for safety that never came, or bled dry by those who had never lifted a weapon in the Empire’s name.
They thought themselves safe in the dark. They believed their actions small enough to avoid notice. They believed the Mandalorian gaze did not reach this far. They were wrong.
The Protectors moved with purpose, crimson cloaks drawn close, visors aglow beneath the tinted lights of the district. Aether led them through the winding streets of Little Jar’kai, where Atrisian customs lived proudly among the steel bones of the city. Lanterns swayed on wires overhead, steam rolled out from tightly packed kitchens, and shopfronts pulsed with soft neon against the dusk.
They did not come kicking in doors. Not yet.
Instead, the Mand’alor stepped into a modest teahouse tucked at the end of a narrow row. Its windows glowed with gentle warmth, and the scent of steeped leaves met them the moment the door opened. It was a far cry from the battlefield, but it had its own rhythm, its own kind of calm. There were sellswords here. He could feel it. Mercenaries resting between jobs, travelers waiting on the next bit of credits to change hands.
He chose a corner table, large enough for his warriors to sit without clutter. The Protectors settled without a word. Orders were placed quietly, and for now, they waited.
They would drink. They would listen. And when the moment came, they would act.
