The Council chamber of Ishtar's Crown was carved entirely from pale sandstone, its walls inlaid with polished gold that caught the sunlight streaming through a high, circular skylight. Twelve Custodians sat in a crescent formation, their white robes edged with black, faces hidden behind veils embroidered with symbols of the desert wind.
At the center, on an elevated seat carved in the shape of a water urn, sat the High Custodian — a tall, slender figure whose golden mask reflected Ashoka's face back at him.
"You stand before the keepers of Serekh," the High Custodian began, voice smooth and precise. "Few outsiders are granted this honor. Fewer still leave with it intact. You claim to seek something beneath our sacred city — something you call a relic. Explain yourself."
Ashoka stepped forward, the weight of twelve gazes pressing down on him. "The object you guard is one of several scattered across the galaxy. It's not divine. It's a construct — older than your history, but built by mortal hands. If it remains here, it will draw those who would destroy this world to claim it."
A low murmur rippled through the chamber. The High Custodian's head tilted slightly. "You would have us surrender the Heart of the Desert based on your… warnings?"
"I'm offering more than warnings," Ashoka replied. "I'll give your world protection. Trade routes. Medical and agricultural technology your people have never seen. In exchange, you allow me to secure the relic somewhere it cannot be weaponized."
One of the other Custodians — robes trimmed with deep crimson — leaned forward. His voice carried a sharp edge. "And how do we know you will not weaponize it? You command warships. You carry arms. You speak like an empire-builder."
Ashoka didn't flinch. "Because I've already had the chance to take it by force… and I'm here instead."
The High Custodian rose from their seat, gliding down the steps until they stood only a few paces away from him. "Your offer is… interesting. But the Heart is not ours to give. It chooses its keeper. Perhaps, Commander Ashoka, you should stand before it — and let it decide."
The room shifted. Two guards stepped from the shadows, their ceremonial spears tipped with charged blades. Ashoka's instincts screamed that this was not an invitation. It was a test.
He allowed himself to be escorted through a winding series of corridors that descended deep beneath the Crown. The air grew cooler, the stone older, the walls narrowing into a tunnel lined with torchlight instead of modern lamps.
Finally, they reached a vast underground chamber. At its center stood the relic — a black, crystalline monolith, its surface etched with the same shifting glyphs he had seen on the Gate of Silence. It pulsed faintly, as if in time with some vast, unseen heartbeat.
Before Ashoka could approach, a voice echoed from the shadows. "Beautiful, isn't it? Shame you won't be walking out with it."
From the far side of the chamber stepped the man in crimson robes — the same figure who had been watching from the tower. Dozens of armed guards followed, weapons leveled.
The man smiled thinly. "The hunters told me what you carry. Hand over your fragment… and I'll let the desert bury the rest of you gently."
Ashoka glanced at the relic, then at the ring of soldiers tightening around him. His hand dropped toward his pulse-saber.
He knew this was no longer diplomacy. This was an ambush.