K I N G
RAXIS PRIME
In the span of recent months, Mandalorian society had begun to move along currents that Aether himself had not foreseen. The blood and iron of his people remained ever present, yet in the shadow of his throne there had grown a rising tide of those who excelled beyond the clash of war. Their genius expressed itself in the realms of science, their ambition shaped industry, and their curiosity drove them to explore beyond the boundaries of familiar stars. This was no challenge to the Mandalorian spirit, but rather an evolution of it, and Aether had no hesitation in embracing such change. He called for those whose talents could not be measured solely by the edge of a blade or the barrel of a rifle, and from them he formed a small cadre with a singular purpose.
The task that lay before them was not one of conquest, but of reclamation. The Mask of Mandalore, shattered long ago by a predecessor whose reasons were buried with him, had slowly been pieced together across decades of searching. Every fragment but one had been recovered. The final piece was said to have fallen into the hands of a collector whose obsession with relics had been rivaled only by his wealth. He had hoarded the treasures of the past until death claimed him, and in his vanity he had sealed them away within his resting place, fashioning a tomb that was more temple than grave.
Raxis Prime held that temple still, hidden within the heart of a lagoon. From the waters rose a pyramid of flawless marble, its walls pale as bone, each face polished to a mirrored sheen that reflected the skies above. The edifice stood solitary, an island unto itself, surrounded by the stillness of the lagoon. Its presence was not mournful, but proud, as though the collector’s spirit demanded that all who gazed upon it acknowledge his wealth even in eternity.
It was upon this silent sanctuary that the Mandalorian squad made their arrival. Their approach carried no banners nor fanfare, only the hiss of landing struts and the firm resolve of their purpose. Aether stepped from the vessel at their fore, the Sole Ruler unflinching as his eyes drank in the sight of the pyramid. The entrance lay before them, promising both danger and reward, for no man so covetous as the collector would allow his treasures to lie unguarded. Already his chosen squad began their assessment, their eyes and instruments probing every seam and shadow for traps, while Aether himself regarded the tomb with a quiet certainty. They had not come this far to be denied.
The task that lay before them was not one of conquest, but of reclamation. The Mask of Mandalore, shattered long ago by a predecessor whose reasons were buried with him, had slowly been pieced together across decades of searching. Every fragment but one had been recovered. The final piece was said to have fallen into the hands of a collector whose obsession with relics had been rivaled only by his wealth. He had hoarded the treasures of the past until death claimed him, and in his vanity he had sealed them away within his resting place, fashioning a tomb that was more temple than grave.
Raxis Prime held that temple still, hidden within the heart of a lagoon. From the waters rose a pyramid of flawless marble, its walls pale as bone, each face polished to a mirrored sheen that reflected the skies above. The edifice stood solitary, an island unto itself, surrounded by the stillness of the lagoon. Its presence was not mournful, but proud, as though the collector’s spirit demanded that all who gazed upon it acknowledge his wealth even in eternity.
It was upon this silent sanctuary that the Mandalorian squad made their arrival. Their approach carried no banners nor fanfare, only the hiss of landing struts and the firm resolve of their purpose. Aether stepped from the vessel at their fore, the Sole Ruler unflinching as his eyes drank in the sight of the pyramid. The entrance lay before them, promising both danger and reward, for no man so covetous as the collector would allow his treasures to lie unguarded. Already his chosen squad began their assessment, their eyes and instruments probing every seam and shadow for traps, while Aether himself regarded the tomb with a quiet certainty. They had not come this far to be denied.
