The ship glided silently across the crystalline waters, its sails filled with winds guided by Jesse Sterling's command. The once-violent tempests that had haunted their voyage had dissipated entirely as they left Easthaven behind them. Now, the waters shimmered with the hue of liquid glass, their gentle ripples glinting beneath the relentless sun.

Lukas sat hunched near the bow, his body trembling, though not from the seasickness but from pure utter pain. His once indomitable strength had withered away, eroded by his Shattered Pool of Mana—a wound that not even spells or potions could mend. Every breath was shallow, every heartbeat a labor. The dull ache within his chest had evolved into something far crueler, a cold that gnawed through flesh and bone until it reached the soul.

The Dragon King could barely recall how long they had been at sea—weeks, perhaps—but to Lukas it all felt like fragments of a dream quickly fading.

Lukas drifted in and out of consciousness, the edges of reality blurring each time he opened his eyes. The world was a haze of light and shadow, pierced only by the image of Jesse's face hovering above him: worried, determined, but young—far too young for the burdens he forced himself to carry.

The one they now called Pallas had faced those strong enough to wield the power of the gods but in this fragile moment, Lukas had become nothing but another burden for Jesse to carry. And it was only because of the young Sterling that he found the will to keep breathing, because it was Jesse who reminded him of everyone counting on his return.

Jesse never wavered.

Even when the skies turned dark and the waves threatened to crush them beneath their fury, the young dragonborn held fast, directing the vessel with hands steady and sure. The winds obeyed him like loyal hounds as if they were sentient currents that carved a path through the sea. The young dragonborn's eyes were always fixed forward, toward the horizon where salvation might lie.

The Kingdom of Khaitish had been one of the very first places the Merchant Guild had established their influence and as a result, Jesse knew the way without even needing a map to guide him.

When Lukas stirred, Jesse would speak softly, words laced with warmth and resolve. "Just rest, Lukas. We're almost there." And though Lukas could not muster the strength to respond, the faintest flicker of a smile or a nod was all the assurance Jesse needed.

Then, Lukas awoke to a change in the air.

The biting chill that had haunted him for weeks was fading. The scent of salt gave way to something dry and foreign.

He forced himself upright, his joints protesting with pain sharp enough to draw a groan from his throat.

And then he saw it.

There it was.

The Kingdom of Khaitish.

It rose from the horizon like a mirage—vast dunes of gold stretching endlessly, the sand shifting like waves under the blazing sun. Mountains of dust pierced the skyline in jagged silhouettes, their edges glowing amber beneath the harsh light. The heat struck him immediately, searing his skin and forcing the last remnants of cold from his bones. Yet, strangely, it felt comforting, as if the land itself sought to drive away the deathly chill that plagued him now.

Beside him, Jesse lifted his hand and murmured a command. The air stirred, swirling into a gentle current that wrapped around them both, a breath of coolness against the desert's furnace.

"Welcome to Khaitish," Jesse said with a smile and in it Lukas saw relief.

The land of the Beastkin stretched before them, vast and merciless.

The light here was different—sharper, more alive. The sun burned with a ferocity Lukas had never seen, painting the world in hues of fire and bronze. Every grain of sand seemed to shimmer with its own inner light.

Lukas let his head fall back against the wooden rail of the ship and exhaled slowly.

The warmth of Khaitish seeped into his skin, driving away the numbness that had haunted him for so long.

For the first time in weeks, Lukas Drakos felt alive again—if only barely. And as Jesse guided their vessel toward the shore, Lukas could not help but feel that this journey, long and agonizing as it had been, had only barely begun.

As their small vessel cut through the last stretch of water, the world around them seemed to shift. The glittering waves gave way to the golden expanse of the Khaitish shoreline—vast, wild, and humming with unseen life. Lukas blinked against the fierce sunlight, his vision blurred from exhaustion and fever. The brightness stung his eyes, forcing him to squint as the shadowy outlines ahead began to take shape.

There, waiting at the edge of the sands, stood a small group.

At first, they were only silhouettes against the burning horizon—figures tall and poised, their presence commanding even from afar. But as the boat drifted closer, Lukas's failing sight began to sharpen with clarity.

Their fur shimmered beneath the desert sun in hues of bronze, ivory, and copper, their gazes steady and unyielding. They were not mere scouts or travelers; the air around them was too still, too heavy with authority.

Even in his weakened state, Lukas knew who his eyes had found.

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They were not just any tribe. They were the Clan of the Morningeyes.

In Khaitish, a land fractured by greed and blood, where every warlord sought to claim dominion through blade or spell, the Morningeyes alone stood unchallenged. Their power was not of armies or conquest but of something far deeper, something unseen. No record ever spoke of their might and no traveler could explain how inevitably it was this clan that commanded the obedience of every chieftain and lord across the endless sands.

Yet the desert still bent to their will.

Their legend had long since grown beyond history into myth, just like the Kingdom of Linemall and its mighty dragons.

Now, myth had met myth.

At the head of the group stood Rowan himself.

Lukas recognized him immediately, though he was not the same person he had met so long ago.

Gone was the sharply dressed figure he had met in the Inner Cities of Nozar—the diplomat with calm words and political restraint.

The beastman who stood here was every inch a child of the desert.

His cloak was woven from vivid fabrics that danced with the colors of dawn and flame. His hair, streaked with gold and copper dust, caught the light as though the sun itself favored him. In his hand he held a long wooden staff, worn smooth by years of travel, and leaned on it ever so slightly—the permanent mark of the injury Darren had given him long ago.

The ship's hull brushed against the wet sand with a low groan, signaling the end of their journey.

Jesse was the first to rise, steadying himself as he helped Lukas to his feet. Lukas' breath came shallow and strained, his weight sagging heavily against the young dragonborn's shoulder. Every movement seemed to draw pain but Lukas forced himself upright. If this was to be the land that held his salvation—or his end—then he would meet it standing with his head held high.

Rowan stepped forward as they disembarked, the staff sinking slightly into the soft sand. He inclined his head in greeting, a small smile curving his lips. "I would say time has been kind to you, my friend," he said, his voice carrying with the easy authority of one accustomed to command. "But you look worse for wear."

The words were gentle but they still hurt to hear. Lukas tried to return the smile, but the effort only deepened the lines of pain on his face. "I have no idea what you mean, you damn cripple," he rasped, his voice roughened by salt and fatigue.

Rowan chuckled softly, amusement dancing in his eyes. "I am grateful for the reminder," he said, tapping the end of his staff against the ground. "I forgot that I even had this limp. But it looks like I am not the only cripple here."

That made Lukas laugh, just a quiet, breathless sound—his arm where the Kraken had been for years now just a stump—but even that slight motion sent pain lancing through his ribs. The Dragon King winced, the smile breaking apart almost immediately as his body rebelled. The strength in Lukas' legs faltered, his knees buckling beneath him, and it was only Jesse's quick reflexes that kept him from collapsing onto the burning sands.

Lukas gritted his teeth, his vision swimming in and out of focus. He could barely hear the sound of the sea anymore nor the winds that blew through the dunes of Khaitish; the world had narrowed to the pounding in his head and the dull thrum of Mana gone wild within him.

Rowan's expression shifted from amused to grave in an instant.

The Head of the Morningeyes Clan stepped forward, his cloak rippling faintly in the desert wind.

The calm playfulness that usually filled the beastman's face vanished, replaced by something ancient—something Lukas could only describe as primal. His eyes, once the color of amber glass, began to glow faintly, deepening into a molten gold that gleamed even under the merciless sun.

Both dragons felt it immediately.

The shift in the air, the pulse of magic that seemed to emanate from Rowan himself.

Jesse's instincts flared, the young dragonborn's own Divinity began to stir in answer—an invisible ripple that sent grains of sand swirling at his feet.

Before the tension could explode, Lukas shook his head weakly.

"No…" he rasped. "Don't."

Jesse froze, uncertain, though every part of him screamed to act.

Rowan's gaze softened but the glow in his eyes only intensified. Those eyes, they were not ones that Lukas could not look away from. They were radiant, alive, burning with the same fierce brilliance as the dawn that crept across the horizon.

These were the Eyes of the Morning.

Then Rowan raised his hand and the world seemed to still.

Lukas' chest constricted as a sudden rush of energy surged through him. It wasn't foreign—no, it was his own magic—but the wild torrents of magic, the chaotic flood that had been tearing him apart from within, suddenly began to twist and turn as though drawn by invisible strings.

A gasp tore from Lukas's throat as the change hit him.

The unbearable pain that had dominated his every waking moment began to ease.

The sensation was strange—almost alien—like rivers of fire and ice settling into a calm, steady current. His Mana, once violent and without direction, now moved in perfect harmony, swirling in an endless loop. He could feel it circulating, not healing, but balancing—contained by some unseen order that emanated from Rowan's magic.

Jesse's eyes widened as the energy around them settled. He could sense it too. The storm within Lukas was quiet now, though the silence felt temporary, fragile, as if a single misstep would send it spiraling out of control again.

Rowan withdrew his hand slowly, the golden glow fading from his eyes until they pulsed only faintly with that magical energy unique to the beastman alone. The Head of the Morningeyes Clan exhaled deeply, resting both hands atop his staff as if the act had cost him something unseen.

"This is not a cure. It will not last," Rowan said quietly, his voice steady but edged with fatigue. "But for now…it will have to do."

Lukas opened his mouth to speak but words failed him.

All he could manage was a faint nod—one of gratitude and resignation both. He could still feel the magical energy within him shifting in a steady rhythm, like the tide returning to the sea.

Rowan smiled faintly, turning his gaze toward the horizon where the dunes shimmered like waves of gold.

"Good," he said, voice regaining its composure. "Then with that out of the way, I think it's time I do my due diligence." He turned back to them, the glint in his eyes now one of quiet pride and purpose. "It's time I show you the Kingdom they call Khaitish."

The wind picked up again, carrying with it the scent of dust and sun.

Lukas straightened, feeling the faintest strength return to his limbs.

The horizon before them was vast, alive with heat and mystery. And as Rowan led them forward, Lukas could not help but feel that he was stepping into the heart of something greater than he could yet comprehend—a kingdom born of sand, light, and secrets as old as Linemall itself.

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