Night had long since fallen upon the sands of Khaitish. What had once been a blazing wasteland beneath the merciless sun was now a sea of cold silver dunes, touched by starlight and wind. The desert was silent save for the whispers of the breeze that moved through the grains of sand, carrying with it the memory of the heat that once scorched the world just hours ago.

Now, the air was sharp, cold and bit at his skin. Every breath Lukas took misted faintly before his face before vanishing into the dark.

The campfire was their only refuge against the chill. Its flame danced wildly, the orange light flickering across Lukas' features—the weary lines under his eyes, the faint scars across his skin, this look of quiet contemplation had become his constant companion since they entered Khaitish; almost as loyal as Jesse Sterling was. The King of the Dragons sat beside Rowan, both wrapped in thick desert cloaks, and even though the fire warmed their hands, it could not reach the cold deep within his bones.

All around them, the Morningeyes Clan made their preparations for the night.

A great tent—vast enough to house every member of the clan along with Lukas and Jesse—loomed nearby, its heavy fabric rippling in the wind. It was a structure built of woven hides and enchanted cords that glowed faintly with ancient protective runes. Inside, the beastkin gathered in clusters: some tending to their weapons, others sharing quiet laughter over steaming bowls of spiced broth.

They were a lively people, full of motion and warmth, their presence as wild and untamed as the land itself.

Some bore the ears of foxes or the fur of wolves, others had the feline grace of panthers or the gleaming eyes of birds of prey. They retained their humanoid shapes, yes, but each bore the unmistakable mark of the beasts whose spirits coursed through their blood. They looked much more like Serenya than they did Rowan.

Rowan looked no different than Lukas. Yet both ruled over beings who were far from mortal men.

There was nothing about Rowan that spoke of beast or bloodline. No fangs, no fur, no claws hidden beneath his hands. His skin was unmarked, his face human in every way, his posture calm and regal. Yet the others looked to him with reverence. Rowan carried himself in a way that Lukas could only aspire to one day emulate, a stark contrast to his almost humble demeanor when the two had met within the Inner Cities of Nozar. When he moved, they followed. When he spoke, silence fell. It was clear to Lukas that the respect Rowan commanded was not born of fear or heritage—it was something deeper.

It was trust. It was power. And it was that power that kept Lukas alive.

The Eyes of the Morning gleamed like molten gold when Rowan drew upon its power. Those were eyes that could reach into the flow of magic itself, directing and soothing it like a river made obedient to his will. It was that power that had saved Lukas—that had allowed him to breathe again, to steady the storm within that threatened to tear him apart from the inside.

"So your name is Lukas?" Rowan's voice broke through the crackle of the fire. His tone was light, but his gaze was anything but. "Lukas…Drakos." The Head of the Morningeyes Clan let the name dance on his tongue just like the flames that flickered before them. That smile—mysterious and knowing—crossed the beastman's face once again. It was the kind of smile that made it seem like he already knew the answer to every question he asked. As if he had always known Lukas' true name, his true nature, and was only humoring him by feigning surprise.

Lukas did not see the need to hide behind a mask especially not after everything Rowan had done for him. He had told him who he was, who he really was.

"Well, your name matters little to me." Rowan's voice carried easily over the soft hiss of the campfire. He smirked, reaching across the sand to give Lukas a light shove.

The dragon blinked, caught between amusement and confusion.

"We have history, y'know?" Rowan added, his grin widening as the firelight glinted against his amber eyes.

"History?" Lukas raised a brow, his tone skeptical yet curious. "How so?"

Rowan's fingers absently stirred the sand beside him before he lifted his gaze once more, and those eyes shimmered with an otherworldly gold whenever the flame hit them. He looked at Lukas as if it were obvious.

"You, Lukas Drakos," he said softly, "are a dragon. Yet you stand before me in the shape of a man."

For a heartbeat, Lukas did not understand what the Head of the Morningeyes Clan was hinting at but then it hit him.

The Draconic Flow.

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Rowan saw the realization dawn on Lukas' face and laughed. It was a deep, warm sound that seemed to chase away the cold for a moment.

"Yes, my friend," the beastman said, voice now brimming with quiet pride. "Long ago, our forefathers once fought alongside one another. These eyes of mine…" He touched two fingers to them. "…allow me to see things that others cannot. Magic is all around us—it flows like wind and water, free and untamed. We cannot truly ever control magic for it is a force of nature in its own right. But what we can control…is its Flow. The world breathes through it, and in a way, so must we."

Rowan's philosophy when it came to magic was vastly different to Lukas' own in which he believed that his magic was his to command, something to control like he did with the seas.

Lukas turned to look at the others.

The clan had gathered near the fire's edge where the music had begun—a rhythmic beat of drums, laughter, and song. The beastkin were urging Jesse to join them, their voices full of mischief and joy. The young dragonborn, ever reluctant, was half-dragged into the circle by a pair of fox-eared women, his movements stiff and uncertain. But their cheer was infectious, and before long Jesse was laughing, his awkward steps finding some semblance of rhythm beneath the desert moon.

It reminded Lukas of the Dance of Dragons.

"Because what is magic? If not emotion, given form." Rowan finished.

As Lukas watched Jesse dance among them, smiling despite himself, he felt it—the pulse of life that Rowan spoke of. The invisible thread of magic connecting them all, flickering in harmony with their laughter, their breath and their joy.

Lukas turned back to Rowan. "Do you not wish to join them?" He asked, gesturing toward the circle of dancers.

For a moment, something unreadable crossed Rowan's expression.

Then, quietly, the beastman shook his head.

The firelight caught on his profile, revealing the faint shadow of sorrow in his eyes. "I promised someone," Rowan said at last, his tone distant and low, "that I would only dance with her. And I do not plan on breaking that promise."

The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the crackle of the flames and the laughter in the distance.

Lukas said nothing, sensing that to pry would be unkind.

Rowan gave a faint smile—not of happiness, but of remembrance. "Besides," he added softly, glancing down at his leg, "I am a cripple now. I suppose we are similar in that sense now, aren't we?"

An outsider would have assumed Rowan was referring to his right arm or a more so a lack there of. But the wound Rowan was talking about was one that went deeper than flesh itself, making its mark on his very soul.

Lukas returned Rowan's smile, but it was faint—a brittle, weary echo of what it should have been. It was too soon to jest.

Rowan's grin faded, replaced by quiet understanding. "We will find you a cure in the Inner Cities, my friend," he said softly, words meant as reassurance—but even Lukas could hear the weight in them, the doubt that lingered between every syllable. The desert wind shifted, carrying the scent of ash and sand. Lukas glanced into the flames, watching them twist and curl, golden and alive.

Rowan's eyes—the Eyes of the Morning—saw magic as others saw the world. To him, it was tangible, a living river of light and color flowing through all things. That sight was his gift, like it had been for the forefathers of those who led this clan. It was how he had kept Lukas alive, directing the chaotic energy within him into a fragile, looping current—a balance so delicate that the smallest mistake could unravel it all.

But it was not a cure, Rowan had said so himself. It was simply delaying the inevitable.

Lukas was capable of shaping the Draconic Flow like he had so many times before, guiding the magical energy within him with mastery unlike any other dragon before him had been able to do. But trying to attempt what Rowan had accomplished was impossible. His control was gone, especially his Pool of Mana shattered.

The magic within him was blind, feral and unanchored.

Without Rowan's guidance, it would consume him sooner or later.

Lukas closed his eyes, feeling the faint hum beneath his skin—the trembling current that should have felt powerful but instead burned like a dull ache. 'Kronos...' he thought bitterly. 'You said the cure was here. In Khaitish. Then let it be so.'

When Lukas spoke again, his voice was steady, though quieter than before. "Tell me, Rowan. Will I also find the High Septon in the Inner Cities?"

The question drew Rowan's gaze, his amber eyes narrowing in mild surprise. "Yes," he said after a pause. "But…getting to her? That is another story altogether."

Lukas frowned, straightening slightly.

"If you wish to meet the High Septon," Rowan said, his voice almost a whisper now, "you're going to have to fight for it."

The words hung between them like a blade suspended in air.

Lukas opened his mouth to reply—to ask what Rowan meant— but the sound never left his throat.

A sudden snap echoed through the dunes.

Rowan's head turned sharply. His eyes gleamed gold for a fleeting instant as his gift flared to life. The music and laughter of the clan faltered, replaced by the uneasy rustle of movement. Jesse froze mid-step as he sensed it too, that primal silence before the strike.

The night wind carried no song now, only the whisper of sand being disturbed, too many footsteps where there should have been none.

Rowan's hand fell instinctively to his wooden staff. "Stand ready!" he barked, his voice cutting through the night.

The camp erupted into motion. The beastkin moved with instinctive precision—claws flashing, weapons drawn, fire scattering in the sudden rush of bodies.

They were under attack.

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