The memory returned like a tide, sweeping Lukas back to the time before the Rite of Talons, where he had stood within the training grounds that had been designated to House Drakos. The air there had been sharp with the scent of fire and ashes, he had grabbed Katrina by the shoulders; his gaze steady, almost piercing as he asked her one question:

"Do you trust me?"

It was not a question born of doubt but of need.

For trust was the foundation upon which everything else would stand or crumble.

Lukas had opened his mind to her within Kuria Prison and he had held nothing back, allowing Katrina to see him for who he truly was—who he had been and who he had become. He had laid bare his truth, offering her the deepest proof of his own faith in her. His trust was endless, unwavering, and he had shown it all to her without hesitation.

But in that moment, he needed to know if she could say the same.

Even as the Lady Kaitlyn Drakos lay there on the ground—bleeding, broken, a figure of strength brought low—Katrina still gave him an answer.

"Yes." That single word had been all he needed to hear.

Lukas nodded, knowing that even if she had not yet forgiven him, she still trusted him as he trusted her. Yet the world around them did not slow for their exchange. Reality pressed in, sharp and unforgiving, as Katrina turned her gaze once more to the Lady Kaitlyn Drakos.

The Royal Consort of the Seas lay crumpled, her lifeblood staining the ground, the cruel knife of Malrik still lodged in her chest. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the tense stillness of shock. But Lukas pulled her back, shaking her shoulders until her eyes found his again.

"Listen to me, Katrina. Listen." The urgency in his voice cut through the chaos, grounding her when she threatened to drift away.

Rosalia was still reeling from the attack herself, the princess having been moments away from death at the hands of Malrik but instead it had been the Lady Kaitlyn who had taken a blow meant for her. But the human girl knew that she could now allow shock to take hold of her like it was threatening to take control of Katrina. There would be no divine intervention here, no miraculous blessing to shield the Lady Kaitlyn from death. Rather it was Mana, the magic that welled up from Rosalia's desperate desire for her to live and from the Royal Consort's own stubborn unconscious refusal to die, that kept the Lady Kaitlyn alive.

"She's hurt," Rosalia told them, her voice trembling yet steady enough to carry hope. "But she will live through this. She will be alright." Her words wrapped around them like a fragile shield, daring them to believe in survival where the odds had turned grim.

And there was Selene of Dawn—Lukas' mother, a wyvern who had walked through the atrocities of war and carried the scars in silence. She cradled her dearest friend with one hand, while pressing tightly against the wound to stanch the bleeding with the other. Her face was calm, composed, but her eyes carried the depth of her sorrow and worry. She could not allow her emotions to get the better of her not when the Royal Consort's life still hung in the balance.

Lukas still remembered how the silence had felt in that moment, the gravity of what had just transpired settling over them like a flood.

The attack had been swift, brutal, and deliberate.

Malrik and the Flameborn had not struck blindly; their blades had been aimed with intent towards the very people who Lukas cared about most in this life—Rosalia Elarion and the Lady Kaitlyn Drakos. This was no random act of bloodshed. It was a message, a wound crafted not for flesh alone, but for his very heart and soul. The attack was as cruel as it was clear. Strike at Lukas' heart. Break the bonds that meant the world to him. Force him to shatter, not from pain of the body, but from anguish of the spirit. And who else would do such a thing if not the Dragon Lord of Flames himself? Rysenth Ishtar, who ruled over the Flameborn as their Lord. Rysenth, whose closest advisor had wielded the very knife that now lay buried in Kaitlyn's chest.

The answer was obvious. Yet it was not an answer that Lukas felt he could accept.

His instincts were screaming at him, trying to tell him there was something more than met the eye.

Someone else was moving pieces on the board. Someone who had hidden themselves within the shadow of Rysenth Ishtar.

They all turned to Lukas, waiting for an order. They were waiting for him because Lukas was their Lord. The one whose word was law, whose decision would bind them all.

And in that moment, there could be no hesitation.

So he made his choice.

The only way forward, the only way to draw out the truth behind this plot, was deception. If their enemies believed that the strike had failed, they would vanish into smoke and mirrors. But if they believed it had succeeded, if they thought the Royal Consort of Linemall's Seas had perished beneath Malrik's blade then the true hand behind this betrayal might yet reveal itself.

Kaitlyn Drakos would "die" here. To the world beyond this room, her voice would be silenced and her presence erased.

No one could know the truth.

Not the Flameborn, not the Eathborn and not even Erandyl Telaryon herself—the Lady Kaitlyn's own grandmother.

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To everyone besides those standing this room—Lukas, Katrina, Selene, and Rosalia—the Royal Consort of the Seas was dead.

It was a necessary lie, born of strategy and survival. A lie that demanded loyalty from those Lukas trusted.

Perhaps he should have seen it then, the spark that Valkari Ishtar cast when she spat on Malrik's corpse, stoking the fire that would burn far brighter than anyone had anticipated. But it no longer mattered because in the end, it was Valkari who had revealed herself to be the one behind this attack.

What mattered was that Lukas had stuck to his decision, because in the end, it was the death of Lady Kaitlyn Drakos that had brought upon the defeat of the dragonborn they called Valkari Ishtar.

The Dragonborn of the Flames, now lay broken upon the ground, her body sprawled in a widening pool of crimson. The very knife that only days ago had been used against the Lady Kaitlyn Drakos now found its resting place in Valkari's own flesh. The blade that had once been an instrument of betrayal, of manipulation and of lies, was now the instrument of her own undoing.

Lukas stood over her, his chest heaving with the effort of battle, his eyes fixed on hers. He could see the flame that had always burned within Valkari—unyielding, violent, defiant—beginning to flicker. The inferno that had once consumed all who stood in her path now smoldered only faintly, embers struggling against the tide of blood that had begun to fill her lungs. Yet even as the strength drained from her body, Valkari Ishtar's spirit clung to life, clawing against the inevitable.

Her flame would not be extinguished, not like this.

She would not allow it.

Her lips trembled and when she spoke, her voice was ragged, wet with blood. But her words were not for those who stood now on the peak of Mount Ashendir. Not for Lukas, not for Katrina, not for Selene, Rosalia, the Lady Kaitlyn or even Jesse who Lukas knew she had cared about deeply. No—her words were meant for what went beyond mortal reach, to a being so ancient and so vast in power, that not even the Dragon Lords of Linemall could compare to the immortal's strength.

"Hear my words now, Great Titan," Valkari whispered, her voice breaking with each syllable. "Use your strength to strike down the Heart of Kaeryth. Grant me this wish, and my life is yours, Oceanus."

The name alone froze the air in Lukas' lungs.

His eyes widened, horror etching itself into his very soul.

No.

NO!

"What have you done…?" Lukas whispered, his voice cracking as he dropped to his knees, seizing Valkari by the collar. His finger dug into her tunic, dragging her closer, as though force of will alone could strangle the words back into her throat.

But they had already been spoken and those were not words that could be undone.

Valkari's face twisted into a grin, her teeth slick with blood. She looked upon Lukas not with hatred, not even with contempt, but with triumph. The look of one who, even in defeat, had carved out a wound that she knew Lukas could never truly heal from.

"She should have gone for the head." Valkari murmured, the final breath of air leaving her body.

Then the Titan finally gave Valkari her answer.

The air thickened, pressing down with such weight that Lukas staggered, choking. A pulse of raw, divine power rippled through the chamber, slamming into them all like a tidal wave. It was power that did not belong to mortals, power that bent the very fabric of the earth and sky. Lukas felt his knees weaken under it, felt his lungs strain as though drowning; a sensation that he had not known he could feel ever since his soul had found this body. He had felt this power once before, when the man who had murdered Rodan called upon the same Titan, when Oceanus' strength had coursed through veins not meant to contain it.

Oceanus had accepted Valkari's offering.

The Titan had claimed her soul, ripping it free of her broken body and declaring it as his own. Lukas let her slip from his grasp, her lifeless form crumpling into the blood-soaked stone, but her laughter echoed endlessly even after her death.

Lukas' gaze snapped skyward.

The power gathered, concentrating swelling like a storm breaking the horizon.

And then the dam broke.

From the heavens, a figure descended.

It was not Oceanus himself who fell from the skies. Why would the Titan dirty his own hand when he already had a champion to do his bidding? Why lift a finger when he already had a Hero—a blade of the divine and the chosen vessel to enact Oceanus' wrath?

The air tore open with his arrival, light cascading around him, but to Lukas it was no light of salvation.

It was his reckoning.

The Hero's silhouette was sharp, almost inhuman in its poise, his sword gleaming with a radiance that burned Lukas' eyes.

"No," Lukas whispered, already moving, his arm outstretched as if he could hold back destiny with his hand alone. He threw Valkari's corpse aside, lunging forward, but it was pointless.

He knew it was pointless even as he tried.

The sword came down, swift as judgment, unstoppable as fate.

And then, it struck.

The Heart of Kaeryth, pulsing with ancient magic, with the lifeblood of the earth itself, screamed as the blade plunged into it. The sound was not merely of stone breaking, nor of magic unraveling. It was the cry of a wounded world, the cry of every river, every mountain and every breath of wind, tearing open at its core. It erupted in blinding light, the force of it throwing Lukas back across the floor. The dragon slammed against the stone, his vision burning white, his ears ringing with the sound of the earth's agony. The ground cracked beneath them, veins of fire spilling outward like molten blood. The mountain itself groaned as though they were alive, as though they too felt the pain of the Heart's destruction; and the air seared with heat and cold all at once, impossibly heavy and sharp.

In the center of it all stood the Hero From Another World, his blade buried in the Heart, his eyes empty and unyielding.

He was not a man. Not anymore.

He was a vessel of Oceanus' will incarnate.

Lukas clawed at the ground, dragging himself upright even as the world collapsed around him.

Dread coiled in his gut, heavier than iron.

This was it.

This was the spark that would ignite a war unlike any before it.

A battle not of Kingdoms, not of Dragon Lords, but of gods and mortals alike.

Valkari had won, even in death. With her dying breath, she had cursed them all in the name of the Mad Titan Oceanus.

The Heart of Kaeryth had beat its last.

And now, the Second Great War that would seal the fate of Hiraeth and all those who called it home had begun.

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