[P15 - Tirac Munda - PK] The Conclave of Chains

In the wealthy old quarter of Tirac Munda, a palace older than most of the city still stood-its stone bones predating the trade routes that made the world infamous. Once home to nobility, it had since been repurposed into something far more dangerous: a neutral ground where power was not inherited, but negotiated.

Tonight, it hosted the Conclave of Chains.

Representatives from across the underworld assembled beneath vaulted ceilings and faded banners. A delegate of the Pyke Syndicate stood cloaked in shadow, a corpulent envoy spoke on behalf of a distant Hutt Clan, while a sharp-eyed Rodian clan leader took his place nervously. Across the chamber, a pirate captain of the Brotherhood leaned casually against a pillar, boots muddy from recent raids.

Smuggler guild agents, arms brokers, and an information syndicate filled the remaining spots, while one of the planet’s so-called “noble families” presided from the center of the table. Wealthy, composed, and deeply entangled in every illicit trade flowing through Tirac Munda.

This was not governance.

This was balance.

The discussions began as they always did, measured, veiled, and tense. Trade routes were disputed. Percentages argued. Territory boundaries were redrawn with words that barely masked threats. Every faction here relied on the others… and sought advantage over them.

But tonight, something was different.

Rumors of increased activity from the Protectorate of Kalarba had unsettled the room. Imperial customs crackdowns. Seized shipments. Disappearances in the lower districts. Someone-or something-was tightening control.

Accusations began to surface. The pirate captain blamed the Pykes for drawing Imperial attention. The Rodian clan accused the information syndicate of leaking routes. The arms brokers denied involvement, even as their profits quietly surged.

Then a voice cut through the chamber… one of the noble family.

“Someone here is inviting them in.”

The room went still.

Because everyone knew… it was possible.

The first shot didn’t come from the door.

It came from above.

A blaster bolt struck the Rodian representative, sending them collapsing across the polished stone floor. Chaos erupted instantly, guards drawing weapons, alliances shattering in seconds. The fragile peace that held Tirac Munda together snapped like a rusted chain.

The pirate captain fired back, diving for cover. The security returned fire toward the balcony, the Hutt envoy and others fleeing towards the exit.

And above it all, hidden among the architecture, unseen figures observed.

Agents of the Kalarba Security Apparatus.

Among them, Agent Faro watched in silence.

No direct intervention. No open assault.

Just the careful orchestration of collapse.

Because a united underworld could resist the Protectorate.

A fractured one could be controlled.

As blaster fire echoed through the ancient palace, the Conclave of Chains fell apart, and with it, any illusion that Tirac Munda could govern itself.

The takeover had already begun.

Players of the Conclave!