Lukas never got the chance to ask Rowan about what he had meant by having to fight to meet the High Septon because the attack came without warning.

It was subtle at first, the faint hiss of moving sand, then a violent roar as a blade made entirely of sharpened grit tore through the darkness. Lukas barely saw it before instinct forced him to raise his arm in defense. But before it could reach them, Rowan's eyes flared—brighter than they had ever glowed before—molten gold cutting through the shadows. The air around them warped; the sand froze mid-air, twisted and hit the ground harmlessly.

The sound of it striking the earth was soft, but the danger it carried was not lost on anyone.

Lukas turned, scanning the edges of the camp.

Six silhouettes emerged from the darkness, stepping over a ridge of sand shaped like a dune's crest. Their figures were illuminated briefly by the dying firelight—beastmen, all of them, their eyes catching the glow like those of desert predators.

They stood atop the mound like predators surveying their prey.

Rowan's clan stirred immediately. The laughter and murmured conversations that had filled the camp only moments ago vanished. Spears and blades were drawn in silence, the soft metallic shing of weapons mingling with the whisper of the wind.

Lukas' gaze drifted beyond the six. What he saw made his stomach twist. The sands behind them were shifting—not by the wind, but by the synchronized march of feet, there were hundreds of them.

It was an army.

Shadows upon shadows, stretching as far as the eye could see, all moving with deadly intent.

They were outnumbered at least fifty to one.

His instincts screamed for him to act. Lukas could feel the spark of mana deep within him stir, like the tide, but he knew better to follow through with it. To summon his Divinity now would destroy what was left of him. So Lukas forced himself to remain still, his fingers trembling slightly as he lowered his hand.

Rowan stood at the front, unflinching. His cloak billowed slightly, golden eyes locked on the six figures above. There was no fear in Rowan's expression, only the cold sharpness of recognition.

Lukas saw it—the faint tightening of Rowan's jaw, the way his breath slowed.

Whoever these people were, they were not strangers to the Head of the Morningeyes Clan.

The tallest of the six stepped forward.

His voice, when he spoke, carried across the sands with a deep, resonant echo. "We greet the New Conqueror."

For a heartbeat, Lukas thought it was clear mockery. But there was no venom in the tone—only respect. The beastman who had spoken had coarse silver fur and eyes like molten copper, inclined his head slightly, though the gesture seemed strained.

Rowan did not return the bow.

A king need not do such a thing.

The air between them seemed to grow heavier, as though the desert itself was holding its breath.

Around them, the warriors of the Morningeyes Clan waited—every warrior tense, their weapon ready to draw blood if need be.

Lukas could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter, like a bowstring about to snap. He looked to Rowan, then to the shadowed army stretching behind their enemies, and the only thought that came to him was one of dread.

This was no chance encounter.

The figures moved like animals that had only ever known the desert as their domain. Each of the six figures descended the dune with a kind of effortless grace—lithe, fluid, and deliberate. The sand beneath their feet gave way, yet they never stumbled; their balance was uncanny and their poise unnerving.

Lukas could see them clearly now in the flickering campfire light.

They were lions in both form and spirit, their fur dense around their necks like gilded manes, their movements sharp and disciplined, honed by years of battle. The firelight caught on their eyes, giving them a feral gleam that seemed to pierce straight through him.

As they reached the foot of the dune, one among the six—the youngest, Lukas guessed by his leaner build and sharper, more arrogant tone—smirked. His teeth glinted white against the night. Lukas stiffened, his jaw tightening as the beastman's gaze slid over him, lingering on the stump that had once been his arm.

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"You sure love cripples, don't you, Rowan? Especially ever since you became one." The insult hung in the air like smoke, poisonous and heavy. There was no pity in those eyes—it was disdain, raw and unfiltered.

It did not matter if Lukas had no magic to call upon.

The Dragon King would kill the beastman where he stood if he moved to strike.

Around them, the warriors of the Morningeyes Clan shifted uneasily, hands tightening around their weapons.

This was Clan Magopo.

Once, this clan had fought side by side with the Morningeyes, their loyalty unshaken even through the bloodiest years of Khaitish's wars. Their banners had flown under Rowan's command when the Morningeyes brought the warlords of the desert to heel like the Conquerors that had come before him, when they had united the tribes against the shadow of Nozar's influence.

But that was history—and history was a brittle thing.

Now, as Lukas looked upon them, he saw no trace of that old allegiance.

The Magopo Brothers stood proud and proud alone.

In their stance was defiance, in their silence, betrayal. Somewhere along the line, they had stopped seeing Rowan as the savior of Khaitish and started seeing him as its relic—a fallen King who had promised too much and delivered too little. The hope that once bound their clans had long since withered to dust beneath the desert sun.

The eldest of the six—the one who had spoken first, whose words carried the weight of command—raised a hand. The younger one fell silent at once, though the sneer did not leave his face. Even now, there was a hierarchy among them that was unspoken yet absolute.

"They are my guests, Scar," Rowan said, his voice calm, but edged with steel. "Your business is with me."

The eldest brother lowered his head in acknowledgment, though his eyes never softened. His fur, streaked with gray, framed a face carved by years of war.

"I ask you again, Rowan," he said, his tone deep and deliberate. "Will you yield?"

The question rolled over the camp like thunder. Even the wind seemed to die in its wake.

Lukas glanced toward Rowan, but what he saw in the Head of the Morningeyes Clan's eyes was something he could not name—confusion perhaps or maybe rage carefully contained. His golden irises flickered with emotions too layered for Lukas to understand.

Beside him, Jesse shifted slightly, his expression unreadable. Lukas felt the faintest touch brush against his mind with Jesse activating his Legacy as subtly as possible, connecting their minds together.

Both of them knew that they needed to be ready for anything that could happen.

Lukas' pulse quickened.

Around them, the desert seemed to hold its breath.

The Magopo Brothers stood at the edge of the camp and though no weapon had yet been drawn, the promise of violence hung thick in the air.

"You already know my answer, Makhulu." Rowan's voice did not waver. "I have never yielded. And I never will."

For a moment the desert held onto the words, letting them hang like a prayer.

Makhulu, the eldest of the brothers looked at Rowan not with triumph but with something sharper. He looked at Rowan genuine sorrow. Once, when their banners still flew under a single standard, these two had stood shoulder to shoulder. They had bled for the same cause. Once, Makhulu had called Rowan his brother too.

"We don't need to do this," Rowan pleaded and there was no performative bravado in it—only the weary appeal of one who knew the price of war.

Makhulu's sigh was a long thing that carried the weight of years.

The eldest turned away and began to climb the dune. Lukas let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding; for an instant he thought the night might spare them. Makhulu's younger brothers watched him, uncertain, their bodies taut like coiled springs as they made way and the army too parted to let their leader pass.

Makhulu's gaze lingered on Rowan as he made one glance back.

A soft shake of the head, a concession that cut deeper than any blade. The eldest bent his head, and the words he spoke were thread-thin against the roar of the wind. "My sister loved you." Any softer and it would have fallen on deaf ears.

Rowan's reply came like a benediction. "I know. To all the gods, I know."

Silence settled then, sacred and brittle. They all held their breath as if it might steady the world.

Then, Makhulu broke that silence with something unreadable on his face, as if it hurt to speak the words that he now spoke for all to hear. "Then for her sake, I hope your death will come quickly, Rowan."

He turned to his brothers, his order sharp and succinct.

"Kill the Conqueror. Spare the rest."

Makhulu raised his hand.

What followed was not a cry but a light—an object in his palm that flared as though the sun had been crushed into a coin. Their minds registered the flash a heartbeat before his sight did; his world detonated into white. It was the explosion of a million suns—blinding, earsplitting, the kind of brilliance that made the night scream. The Magopo Brothers and their army shielded their eyes on cue as the field of sand became a sheet of molten gold.

Then, the slaughter began.

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