Far from the light of the stars Ashoka had claimed, in a system where suns burned dim and dying, a citadel of black stone and steel loomed over a poisoned world. Here, the pirate lords gathered—a council of predators who had carved the galaxy into fiefdoms of fear.
The chamber was circular, its walls alive with shifting holograms of fleets, smuggling routes, and star maps marked in blood-red. The table itself was not wood nor metal, but an ancient relic of obsidian torn from a dead planet, etched with the names of empires long extinct. It was not a place of unity, but of rivalry, where power was weighed in betrayals and alliances lasted only as long as convenience.
At the head sat Lord Varaxis, draped in dark armor that shimmered faintly with embedded nanites. His eyes glowed a predatory amber, not entirely human. He had crushed kings with fleets and poisoned dynasties with whispers. Now, for the first time in years, his voice carried unease.
"This… Ashoka." He spat the name as if it were venom. "A boy with ships stolen from a graveyard dares swear oaths beneath the stars. Already the whispers spread. Colonies that paid tribute to us hesitate. Merchants look to him as a savior. If we do nothing, the boy becomes a banner—and banners have a way of turning into empires."
The other lords stirred.
Lady Syra, mistress of the Black Mist Syndicate, leaned forward, her hair silver as a blade. "Empires rise and fall, Varaxis. You worry too much. One fleet cannot hold against us all."
But Lord Ryn, scarred and half-machine, rasped, "You forget what oaths can do. Men who fight for credits will flee when the fire grows hot. But men who fight for promises? They are harder to break."
The chamber darkened as Varaxis activated a holo-map. The Ghost Fleet shimmered into view, its starships bound in eerie formation, engines burning like phoenix-fire. Even pirates who laughed at death felt a chill at the sight.
"He has awakened something," Varaxis growled. "Hope. And hope is more dangerous than any weapon."
A silence followed, heavy with recognition. Then, slowly, Varaxis's lips curled into a cruel smile.
"Very well. If this Ashoka wishes to make himself a legend, we shall make him bleed like a mortal. Let us send whispers into his ranks, assassins into his shadows, and fire into his skies. We will not strike him with fleets alone. We will strike his heart, his faith, his oath."
Around the table, voices murmured assent. Plans were woven like spiderwebs, threads of treachery spinning in the dark.
And beyond the citadel, in the poisoned sky, thunder rolled though no storm was there—only the promise of war.
For the first time, the pirate lords had agreed on something: Ashoka must fall.