One moment the Oracle of Time had been standing before Lukas, her words cutting through time and space with the power of Prophecy. The next, Pythia of Delphi was gone, leaving behind nothing but the fading echo of magical energy and the brittle stillness of an arena that had not yet realized it had returned to motion. Lukas stood alone in the center of that stillness, unable to move, unwilling to breathe too deeply lest the fragile composure he clung to finally crack. He could feel his hands beginning to tremble, though he forced them into fists at his sides, trying to ground himself in the pressure of his nails that bit into his palms.

  But it barely helped.

  How could it?

  Lukas had already felt the weight of what it meant to be King but this was more than any responsibility that had been placed upon him. It was not even that he was the child that the Prophecy spoke of rather Pythia's final message that Lukas could barely wrap his head around.

  She had said it was his choice.

  It was choice that would decide the fate of this world. And what if he chose wrong?

  Lukas stared at the space where she had stood, where her presence had stretched thin the boundaries between what was and what could be. He wanted her to tell him how he was supposed to make decisions, to explain what she had meant. But Pythia was gone and with her went the magic that Kronos had granted her.

  Thus, time resumed its relentless march.

  Rowan was the first to react. The beastman’s head snapped around as he scanned the arena in confusion. His brows furrowed, uncertainty twisting through the exhaustion etched deep into his features. Only seconds ago—seconds to them—Rowan had heard the High Septon’s voice ringing through the air.

  They all had.

  Now the source of that voice had vanished as though it had all been an illusion.

  Above, both Jesse and Anriette exchanged a look, the unspoken question of whether they should fight, speak, or remain as frozen as they had been moments before passing between them.

  Around the arena, the Admiralty of Nozar shifted uneasily. Their weapons were still raised, but no longer with the same conviction they once had. The sharp discipline that usually defined their posture wavered. Blades dipped and spears lowered by a fraction. They did not understand what had happened, but instinct told all of them that something monumental had occurred while they stood helplessly trapped in time’s unmoving grip.

  The marines looked to the nobles, waiting for orders that none seemed willing to give. The nobility, in turn, seemed to search one another’s faces for guidance, for certainty, for any sign that protocol still meant something here. But before the first command could be spoken, before a single word could reclaim control of the moment, the air shifted.

  Right now, understanding the Prophecy could wait.

  Because Lukas knew what he had to do.

  Magic roared to life. It wasn’t subtle or restrained—it surged outward like a storm breaking its chains, raw and undeniable. The marines felt it instantly. They knew, without question, that whatever power had awakened, whatever force had chosen this moment to rise, it was beyond them. The Divinity of the Seas was like an ancient, overwhelming force that pressed against every single living soul in the Coliseum with suffocating intensity. The marines' faces drained of color, eyes widening as the full weight of that magic settled over them like the deep ocean’s pressure. No amount discipline or training could have ever prepared them for this. Every instinct honed through years of service screamed the same truth.

  Nothing they carried—no weapon, no spell or no command—could hope to stand against it. Even the nobles, who stood behind the endless ranks of the Nozari navy, lost the veneer of authority they clung to so tightly. Fear hollowed their expressions. Their mouths opened as though to protest against it, to assert control, but no sound came.

  Water gathered in the air around them, droplets becoming streams, streams swelling into spiraling ribbons that circled the arena like serpents of living tide. All of them could only watch, frozen not by magic this time but by terror and the stark realization that their status meant nothing here.

  There was still so much of the Prophecy that Lukas did not understand.

  But he understood one line more than any ever, resonating now in his chest like a second heartbeat.

  It was the line that said this world would call him would a warrior of liberation. Prophecy or not, dream or destiny, Lukas had sworn long before this moment that he would see his people freed.

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  But it was more than just about his race.

  Dragons, beastkin and even humanity; it did not matter. All those who suffered beneath chains crafted by greed and cruelty would suffer no longer because Lukas would not stand idle. And now, as the water swelled with unstoppable force, that truth manifested in the world around him. The waves rose higher still, towering walls of solidified water surging into existence. With a roar that shook the foundations of the Coliseum, they crashed forward. Marble split like brittle bone and stone crumbled with ease beneath the waters' relentless assault. The arena—once boasted as the pride of the Kingdom of Khaitish, a monument of luxury and dominance—fractured under the weight of its own sins.

  For all its grandeur, the Coliseum had only ever been another chain. It was a place where the beastkin and even sometimes the draconic kind were paraded, beaten, pitted against one another for entertainment so the masses could forget the truth of their oppression.

  It was a stage built to distract and pacify in equal measure.

  Daerion Ittriki, King of Nozar, had understood this better than anyone. His brilliance was not in the battlefield but in the art of manipulation. Feed the people. Entertain them. Give them something to cheer for, something to love something to hate, and they would never look too closely at the hand pulling the strings. But Lukas would no longer allow it.

  Across the Inner Cities, slaves—beastkin and humans alike—watched as tendrils of water spiraled through the streets. Chains shattered at their touch, metal bursting apart as the water tore through them. Shackles and restraints fell. Those who had been bound for years felt cool water sweep across their wrists, cleansing wounds that had long since scarred over.

  Then the Crown ignited.

  The Legacy flared above Lukas’ head, its brilliance radiant, ancient, undeniable. His voice rose with it, amplified until it echoed through every district, every city, every soul within the Kingdom of Khaitish.

  “You are free. Your chains have been broken. And now it is time to fight for who cannot say the same.” Lukas turned toward the nobles, the magic from the Divinity of the Seas still flowing around them like a living current.

  None of them dared to give the command to attack.

  None of these nobles were foolish enough to pretend that the men under their command could stand against a force so vast and ancient, a force that they had thought would never come again after the Great War.

  But Lukas felt no satisfaction at their fear.

  They feared him, yes, but not because they had witnessed the devastation he could unleash, not because the Coliseum had crumbled under the weight of his power.

  They feared him because they did not understand him.

  They feared him because they did not know him.

  But they would know him now.

  The Prophecy was still etched in his mind, the words echoing through his thoughts with a clarity that bordered on painful. There was a war foretold, a war that loomed on the horizon like a shadow stretching across the world. But Pythia’s final message had been sharper, more urgent than any prophecy. She had told him that it was his choices—his actions—that would shape the fate to come.

  Which meant that fate was not fixed. That meant war was not inevitable. And if there was even the slightest chance of preventing the bloodshed that had been long in the making, Lukas would stop at nothing to seize it.

  But to do that…Lukas would have to confront the man who had woven this web of control across the world, the King who had spread his influence like poison, subtle and pervasive, until it seeped into every crevice of power, the one who dreamt of immortality and godhood, whose ambition reached so far and so deep that it threatened to swallow nations whole.

  It was time to confront Daerion Ittriki, the King of Nozar.

  Lukas faced the nobles and the marines gathered before him, his voice steady, unyielding.

  “My name is Pallas,” he said, his tone cutting through the air with regal clarity. “You will leave Khaitish and return to Nozar at once. And when you do, you will make sure that my message is delivered to your King. You will tell Daerion that the King of the Dragons is coming. So make sure that he is ready for my arrival.”

  Their eyes widened, not in disbelief, but in the dawning realization of the truth they had ignored for far too long.

  They had seen glimpses of Lukas’ nature during the Tournament of Khaitish—the raw power, the unnatural abilities, the transformation that marked him as something far beyond human.

  But now, faced with the reality of who he truly was, the revelation hit them with full force.

  He was more than just a dragon. He was a king.

  The King of a forgotten nation. He was the King of Linemall, the Kingdom of Dragons.

  The nobles exchanged uncertain looks, their expressions vacillating between fear, confusion, and reluctant understanding. But they knew better than to protest. They were walking away with their lives which was more than they had any right to expect after all that they had done. But killing them would have done nothing, their deaths only breeding resentment.

  The world did not need any more hatred.

  It needed hope.

  Lukas looked upwards, finding Jesse Sterling's gaze. The Dragon Lord of the Skies met his eyes, his expression sharp and resolute. Jesse gave him a single nod. They had waited long enough. It was time. It was time to fulfill the oath Lukas had sworn on his own wife's name when he left the Inner Cities of Nozar.

  It was time to set his people free.

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