The glint of light reflecting off of Seng Karash, home of Dlarit Corporation's mining facilities, caused two anomalies in orbit to glow.

One of these objects was an Imperial Gozanti Cruiser belonging to a Besalisk Officer of the Warhost Navy, Hugo Siphaar. The other vessel belonged to Broh Goonta Doji, a member of the Hutt Council.

“Sir,” a custom Pilot droid queried, “permission to dock?”

A smirk crossed the face of the large alien commander. The four armed creature stood with his upper arms folded over his chest and his lower hands resting on his hips. He wiggled his lip which caused the black tuft of hair on it to ripple.

“Granted.” His deep gravelly voice uttered an approval.

Immediately the droid performed docking procedures while the portly Hugo eyed the Hutt vessel growing larger out the viewport. The Cartel, who really had their hands in nearly everything wanted to also dip their tails into the Mining Operations of Dlarit. Being a deceptively cunning negotiator, Siphaar was told to oversee the deal; what he didn't know was that a competitor had arrived before him.

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“Esteemed one, Koffan Enterprises, would love nothing more than to work with your family. In fact, our Mining Operation is twice the size of this…” The middle-aged man with graying hair and a haughty outfit scoffed as he arrogantly tilted his nose upward “Dlarit Corporation.”

The protocol droid he had brought with him rattled off what he had said in perfect Huttese. While this Hutt in particular wasn't fond of droids, he couldn't help but nod his head in approval as he took a deep draw from his hookah pipe.

“I can see that my offer intrigues you prestigious on-”

Before he could mutter another word, the door leading to the chamber slid open and Hugo burst onto the scene.

He greeted them in Huttese and cast a smirk at the human who at this point was giving him a side-eye.

“No need for droids with me, your excellency. Surely our proposed deal is the safer choice.” His words dripped with threatening undertones as the Hutt squinted upon looking at the Clan Naga Sadow sigil stitched into Siphaar's uniform. This Koffan Enterprises means only to take advantage of you, Broh.”

“I beg your pardon!” The droid translated the emissary's objection.

The Hutt leaned back. Clearly enjoying the banter.

“Just look at our profit margins, I've prepared them for you. This karkin’ waste of your time only wishes to blow smoke. Here, look at this.” Hugo pulled a datapad from his belt and handed it to one of the Hutt's henchman. “Lemme send you the documents.” He pulled what appeared to be another datapad from his belt but in fact it was a remote slicing pad. He eyed the droid and chuckled to himself as he tapped away at the screen.

“This is absorbed, surely you aren't taking this.. this.. man seriously??” The human continued… The protocol droid waved it's arms as it translated but at the end of its translation. The Hutt roared and the henchmen brandished their weapons. “What seems to be the issue here?” the Emissary, startled, stepped back. The Protocol droid rattled off more insults in Huttese as Hugo held its programming in the palm of his hands.

Enough had been enough and as the Hutt's rage increased, the loyalty of the Weequay guard sought to end the disrespect by firing a bolt into the Emissary's chest. Followed by a bolt being sent into the droid's head.

“Well then,” Hugo grinned widely, “do we have a deal?”

The offer was tempting in its way. A crime syndicate creeping into the folds of Tythas City’s reconstruction, embedding itself in the newly expanded trade routes and spaceport of New Tythas. Their proposal was simple: in exchange for Sunrider’s passive acceptance, they would keep the city clean—efficiently, ruthlessly. Jovian knew what that meant. People would disappear. Not just criminals, enemies, anyone who got in the way.

He sat at the edge of a transparent walkway in Ashla’s Tears Amphitheatre, the ocean shifting in the depths below him. The city had been built for survival, beauty, and progress, but beneath the shimmering lights of New Tythas, there was always darkness waiting to seep in. The Rift and the Abyssal Depths were already prime locations for smuggling and secret dealings. This syndicate was making the inevitable official.

Dale’s voice cut through the quiet. “We could take them out now. Call in favours. You know we have people.”

Jovian considered the weight of the decision. Dale was the blunt instrument in their circle, always ready to fight when words failed. Sitting beside him, Isla was more thoughtful, her gaze flicking between the shimmering amphitheatre and Jovian’s impassive expression.

“If we refuse,” Isla murmured, “we open the city to war. Blood in the streets, assassinations, chaos in the Rift. I don’t like the alternative, but turning them down outright means we need to be ready to fight for control.”

Jovian leaned back, exhaling. His mind flashed to the horrors they had survived together, the ghostly presence of the witch still lingering in his memory. He had learned that control was an illusion. Yet, in Tythas City, control meant survival. Letting the syndicate operate under their own rules was out of the question.

“We don’t fight them,” Jovian finally said, ignoring Dale’s sharp look. “Not yet.”

“You’re not making a deal with them,” Dale snapped. “Tell me you’re not seriously considering this.”

Jovian met his gaze. “Not in the way they want.”

Isla nodded slowly, realization dawning. “We play along. We set them up.”

The plan began to take shape in his mind. They would let the syndicate believe they had Sunrider’s cooperation, let them move their pieces into place, and grow comfortable in their supposed security. Then, when they least expected it, Jovian and his allies would dismantle them. Publicly. Loudly. He would let them implicate themselves, weave themselves too deep into Tythas City’s infrastructure, and then pull the rug out from under them.

“This has to be clean,” Isla said. “We can’t let them turn this back on us. No loose ends.”

Jovian nodded. “We make them overreach. Then we burn them.”

Dale exhaled, shaking his head. “It’s risky.”

“So is war,” Jovian replied. “And I’m not letting this city fall to them.”

The decision was made. They would betray the syndicate, turning their greed and ambition against them. It was a gamble, but one that had to be taken. Because if Tythas City was going to remain a jewel of Daleem, it needed to be protected—not by criminals, but by those willing to fight for it.

The next few weeks would be crucial. Jovian moved carefully, meeting with key officials, planting whispers of distrust. The syndicate’s operations in The Rift were noted, logged, and strategically leaked. A shipment of illicit weapons meant for the syndicate suddenly vanished and rerouted to Sunrider’s forces. Street informants murmured of betrayal within their ranks.

At night, Jovian walked the pathways of New Tythas, the glow of the Terraformer casting eerie shadows against the water. He could feel the tension shifting, the undercurrents of impending violence thick in the air. The syndicate was growing suspicious, their men doubling security. Dale had his hand on the pulse, watching their movements, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Then, the first killing happened. A high-ranking syndicate enforcer was found dead, his throat slit, body dumped near The Lily Pad transfer station. It wasn’t their doing, but the timing was perfect. The paranoia began to fester within the syndicate. They started turning on their own. Isla made sure that the whispers of disloyalty reached the right ears. The infighting escalated. By the time Jovian was ready to make his final move, the syndicate had already torn itself apart.

The night the trap was sprung, Jovian stood on the upper levels of New Tythas, watching as the city’s security forces—armed with the information he had fed them—stormed a syndicate stronghold in the Abyssal Depths. Explosions rocked the lower districts. Gunfire echoed through the tunnels. The syndicate leaders were dragged into the light, their crimes exposed before they could silence anyone else.

Jovian exhaled, watching the city below. The battle was won, but he knew there would always be another threat lurking beneath the waves. Still, for now, Tythas City remained theirs.

The tension in The Rift was suffocating. The air, thick with the brine of the deep sea and the sweat of too many bodies packed into the district’s narrow, winding corridors, carried an undercurrent of rage. The displaced workers and former militia from Kiast were no longer just frustrated—they were furious.

Jovian moved through the sector like a ghost, his cloak pulled tight, hood casting deep shadows over his face. He had been sent to investigate the rapidly escalating protests, but he already knew the truth. Movements like this didn’t explode overnight. Someone had struck a match, and now the fire was spreading.

The streets of The Rift, always dimly lit, now flickered with the glow of makeshift torches and scavenged floodlights. Banners hung from the metal catwalks overhead, their slogans scrawled in jagged, desperate strokes. Justice. Fair wages. No more squalor.

From a high platform, Jovian watched as a speaker roused the growing crowd below. A former militia captain, by the look of him—weathered, resolute, eyes burning with conviction.

“They live in their towers above us,” the man bellowed, voice raw with passion. “They feast while we struggle to breathe their cast-off air! We built this city. We maintain it. And what do we get? Squalor! Rot! They smile down on us, toss scraps, and expect gratitude! We demand justice!”

The crowd roared, fists raised, bodies pressing closer. But beyond the fervor, Jovian caught glimpses of uncertainty—furtive glances, hesitant postures. Not all of them were ready to step off the precipice into full-blown chaos.

Jovian exhaled slowly, pressing his back against the cold metal wall. He had seen this before. The suffering was real, the anger justified—but someone had shaped it, sharpened it into a weapon. He needed to find out who.

The next night, he found his answer.

Slipping into an abandoned storehouse near the old cargo tunnels, Jovian moved like a shadow, each footstep precise, deliberate. He had trailed one of the protest organizers here—a man with enough pull to coordinate logistics, rations, movement strategies. The warehouse was nearly empty, save for scattered crates and tables cluttered with comm gear.

But Jovian’s focus was on the man already waiting inside.

Thalen Duras. A name he knew well. A snake, a manipulator. A known operative of a rival House. He lounged against a crate, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. This wasn’t just a meeting—it was a game. And Thalen was enjoying himself.

“You’re doing well,” Thalen said smoothly. “The anger is real, but it needed a push. Sunrider is watching, but they’re not moving fast enough. We need to escalate.”

The protest leader hesitated, tension rippling through his posture. “They’re already angry. The strikes are working. We can keep pressing until they have no choice but to listen.”

Thalen shook his head, his smirk widening. “Not enough. We need riots. Fires. Blood in the streets. That’s how real change happens.”

Jovian had heard enough. This wasn’t just an attempt to sow chaos—Thalen was testing Sunrider, pushing to see how far they would go before making a fatal mistake. This was bigger than Tythas City.

Back in the upper levels of New Tythas, Jovian weighed his options. The Quaestor’s orders had been clear: stop the riots before they became uncontrollable. But a direct assault would only fuel the flames. Thalen wanted Sunrider to act with force—Jovian couldn’t afford to play into his hands.

Instead, he would set the board himself.

By morning, the plan was in motion.

A rogue security faction. That was the story the city would believe. Radical enforcers, supposedly fed up with the strikes, would move in with brutal efficiency, cracking down on the protests. Sunrider would disavow them, condemn the violence, and then sweep in as the city’s saviors. Order restored. Control maintained.

Jovian stood atop a water-processing plant, watching as his operatives moved into position. They were handpicked—former security officers, defectors, men with just enough hatred and bitterness to make the act convincing. Their uniforms were carefully chosen, their insignia deliberate. Every detail mattered.

The first strike came swiftly. A clash at a supply depot—protesters meeting violent resistance from armed forces that, to any observer, acted outside of Sunrider’s control. A second attack followed, a brutal raid on a known strike stronghold, crushing a key leadership hub before it could spread further.

Jovian had expected chaos, but he hadn't expected the sheer brutality of it. Blood ran in the streets. The mercenaries he’d hired took their roles too seriously, some reveling in the carnage. This wasn't a controlled operation anymore—it was becoming a massacre.

By the time fires erupted, the narrative had already begun to shift. The workers weren’t just angry anymore—they were terrified. Terrified of the brutality, of the unknown force that had turned against them. And when Sunrider’s forces finally moved in, not to crush, but to protect, the tide turned.

Jovian walked the streets as the chaos wound down, his expression unreadable as security officers rounded up the “rogue faction,” dragging them from hiding, executing a few in staged encounters to cement the deception. Thalen was already gone—vanished the moment he saw the writing on the wall. The protest leaders? Captured. Broken.

He found himself back in the Rift that night, alone, standing where the protests had begun. Smoke still lingered in the air, the scent of burnt banners and spilled blood clinging to the wind.

Had he done the right thing?

He told himself it was necessary. Sunrider needed control. This would prevent an all-out war. But the justification rang hollow.

As he stared into the darkened streets, a new thought chilled him to the core—what if Thalen had accounted for this? What if, in orchestrating his deception, Jovian had played into the rival House’s hands all along?

Somewhere in the darkness, another riot was already being planned. Somewhere, another enemy watched, learning from his tactics, waiting for their moment.

For now, Sunrider had won.

But he had no illusions.

The next storm was already brewing.

And next time, it would be worse.