Lukas' body hit the rough ground of the prison cell with a dull thud. Dust rose around him in a thin cloud, and for a moment, he simply lay there, tasting the grit of sand on his tongue. His breath came in shallow bursts, each one edged with pain.

The guards—hulking beastkin with fur matted by the desert heat—turned without a word, their heavy steps receding into the corridor beyond the bars. When the final clank of metal faded, silence swallowed the air, leaving only the low hum of the desert wind seeping through cracks in the rock.

There was no point in trying to escape.

Lukas knew this even before his body had stopped aching.

The Magopo Brothers were many things—fierce and proud—but they were not careless.

Even if their youngest, Scar, lay dead, even if grief had hollowed the fury from their eyes for a brief moment, they would not have left a single opening for him. Lukas might have been able to fight through a handful of beastkin guards, perhaps even make it beyond the edge of their camp. But the deserts of Khaitish were not merciful. Beyond the walls of this crude prison and the city the Magopo Clan ruled over were endless dunes of blistering gold.

Despite all of this, Makhulu had kept him alive.

Lukas could not decide if that mercy came from kindness, from a twisted sense of justice or perhaps even rationality. It was clear that the eldest of the Magopo Brothers was not a beastman consumed by pure bloodlust, he was one who measured the worth of a life before casting judgment.

They did not know what Lukas truly was. To them, he was human—or close enough to it. Makhulu did not know that the same draconic blood that ran in Jesse's veins ran also in Lukas'. Perhaps Makhulu regarded Lukas as an innocent bystander caught up in a war that was his to fight—or perhaps he knew that Jesse, the one who had slain Scar, had done so for Lukas' sake. If Makhulu had known, perhaps mercy would not have been an option at all. But what mattered now was that Lukas was still more valuable to them alive rather than dead.

Either way, Makhulu had spared him.

To think that the one they called King of the Dragons had become nothing more than a bargaining chip.

If Jesse was still out there, then Lukas' life could be used to drag him back into the jaws of the beastkin's wrath.

The cell he found himself in was no grand structure—no iron cages, no damp stone corridors like in the fortresses of the human kingdoms. It was simply a cave, half-carved and half-natural, with iron bars driven deep into the rock at its mouth. The air inside was thick with heat and the stale scent of dust and sweat.

There were no chains and no bindings for there was no need for them.

Lukas could barely lift his head, let alone his arms. His body had been drained of strength, his limbs trembling whenever he tried to move.

Pain was what bound him now.

It pulsed through every nerve, slow and relentless, as though something within him was tearing itself apart.

It had been bearable—a throbbing ache, the kind that followed any battle fought too hard.

But as time passed, it grew.

It deepened.

It began to spread.

His bones felt as if they were being crushed from within; his blood burned like molten glass. The magic that once gave him power—the very strength that had brought him so many victories—had turned against him.

Lukas clenched his jaw, his breath ragged.

The agony seemed infinite, a rising tide without crest or end. He had known pain before, in battle, in training, even in rebirth—but never like this. Never a pain that devoured reason itself. His mind blurred at its edges, memories unraveling like threads in the wind. If Rowan and Jesse somehow found him here, if by some miracle they tore open these bars and carried him to freedom—it would not matter. The power within him, the same strength that once defined him, was killing him slowly, cell by cell, breath by breath.

This was not imprisonment.

This might as well have been an execution—one that required no falling blade or deadly spell, only time. Makhulu's decision to show Lukas mercy was simply delaying the inevitable. And in the suffocating quiet of his cell, Lukas began to wonder if death would have been the kinder fate.

His body had gone rigid, every muscle locked in a futile struggle against agony that knew no mercy. His mind drifted between fevered memories and flashes of light that weren't truly there.

The pain was so great that Lukas did not even realize he was not alone.

Lukas didn't hear the soft scuff of feet against the sanded stone, nor the slow, measured breath of another being moving in the darkness. It wasn't until a pair of rough hands seized his shoulders that instinct clawed its way back into him. Lukas snarled, a sound more draconic than man, and tried to rise. Even his humanoid form, Lukas was enormous—his frame forged by the strength of a dragon's heritage, the weight of his muscles still daunting even in this diminished state.

The stranger grunted, struggling to hold him down, his old hands trembling with effort yet refusing to release their grip.

"Be still," the voice rasped, weathered and deep, rough and raspy.

But Lukas couldn't.

His mind screamed at him to fight—to survive.

Lukas had not come this far, lived through the blood and sand of Khaitish, only to die like an animal in a cage.

Death could not take him yet. Not before he fulfilled what he had been put on Hiraeth to do.

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Lukas wrestled weakly, every breath tearing through his chest like a blade.

Then something pressed against his lips.

Before he could react, the object was forced into his mouth. The taste of it was bitter, sharp and almost earthy. His first instinct was to bite, to spit and to fight fight—but the taste hit him with a wave of familiarity.

And then the pain began to fade.

It was not gone, but it dulled—blunted by a strange, spreading warmth that moved through his veins like liquid fire, calm and steady. His breathing slowed. His heartbeat, once erratic, steadied. The fog in his mind lifted, and color returned to the world around him. He coughed, sitting up with a violent motion, his vision swimming before it steadied enough for him to see the one who had entered.

Before him stood a beastkin unlike any Lukas had ever seen.

The figure was old, ancient even.

His skin bore the faint roughness of scales—thick, moss-green plates across his arms and shoulders that shimmered faintly in the low light. His back was slightly hunched, his movements deliberate and slow, the way one walked when they had seen far too much of what this world had to offer. The head of a tortoise sat upon his shoulders, with deep-set eyes that glowed faintly green in the dimness, sharp with wisdom that time could not dull.

The beastman wore a robe of sun-bleached cloth, layered in folds that spoke of Khaitish tradition—woven from desert fibers dyed with ochre and deep blue pigments. Across his chest hung strings of beads, carved bones and tiny gemstones that caught the faint glint of light that came from the cell's entrance. Rings adorned his thick, clawed fingers—some gold, some copper, others made from materials Lukas did not recognize. A small bronze talisman shaped like a spiral shell hung from his neck, swaying gently as he breathed. And in his hand, he held a small, empty pod—the shell of what Lukas now recognized.

Lukas blinked, his breath still uneven. He could taste it still, bitter and ash-like, clinging to his tongue. Recognition came slowly, disbelief hard on its heels.

"You…" His eyes widened. "How…how did you find these...Ashenbeans?"

The old beastman tilted his head, his ridged brows rising in surprise. His eyes narrowed, studying Lukas as if weighing his words for truth. "You know of them," he said quietly and it wasn't a question.

The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy.

Then, suddenly, the elder's expression changed.

Realization dawned—an understanding so profound it made his aged features harden and soften at once. The beastman stepped closer, his gaze fixed on Lukas, unblinking and unrelenting. It was as though those ancient eyes were peeling back layers of illusion, peering straight through skin, flesh, and soul. Lukas felt the weight of that stare press into him—felt something old and instinctive stir beneath his ribs.

The beastkin inhaled sharply. His voice, when it broke the silence, was reverent. "You…" he whispered, "you are a dragon."

Lukas froze, his breath catching in his throat.

"I did not think I would see another in my old age," the beastman continued, almost to himself. "The world has grown quiet since your kind vanished from its skies. Yet here you are, hidden among men and monsters alike."

With a quiet grunt, the beastman reached into the folds of his robe and produced a small leather pouch, worn smooth by time and travel. The faint scent of volcanic ash rose from it as he tossed it toward Lukas. The bag landed beside him with a soft thud, scattering a thin dusting of grey powder across the cave floor. Inside, Lukas saw the unmistakable shape of the beans—grey-black, pitted, and faintly glowing as if they still remembered the heat they had been cultivated from.

"It was a gift," the tortoise beastkin said, his voice gravelly but calm, "from an old friend long gone. I do not know the kind of pain that gnaws at you, dragon, but it is pain that tells you that you are still alive, that you are still bound to this world. You must not eat no more than five a day."

Lukas stared at the pouch, dumbfounded.

The beastman even knew of the danger that came with erasing the sensation of pain, giving him the same warning Rysenth had before he had fought against the Hydra.

His hands trembled as he reached for the bag. "Who… who are you?" Lukas asked, his voice low and raw.

The old tortoise beastman gave Lukas no answer. He only sighed, lowering himself onto the rough stone floor with the slow, careful motion of one whose body had long forgotten comfort. The beastman adjusted his robe, folding his legs beneath him, and rested his shell-like back against the cave wall. His eyes half-closed, the faintest trace of irritation crossing his ancient face.

"I am a prisoner, just like you," the beastman said finally. "And I wish to rest. You were making far too much noise." His eyes softened as he looked at Lukas once more. "Giving you a quiet, peaceful death is all I can do for you, dragon."

Lukas could not help but laugh. It was a hollow, weary sound that echoed through the cavern, caught somewhere between despair and disbelief. "So this is it, then," the Dragon King murmured. "A quiet death. I suppose that this is more than I can ask for." He picked up one of the beans. Its surface was rough, almost gritty, and when he bit into it, the taste flooded his senses again—bitter and volcanic, heavy with memory. He chewed slowly, letting the warmth seep through his veins.

The pain dulled a little more. His body still ached, but for the first time in hours, he could breathe easy.

Lukas tilted his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.

Had Kronos forsaken him?

Perhaps there were just some things even the God of Time had not been able to predict, uncertainties that Kronos had not been able to warn him of.

Lukas chewed on another bean, he had eaten three now.

The cave settled into quiet once more.

The beastman's breathing evened out, a deep, rhythmic sound like waves against rock.

Lukas watched him through the flickering half-light, tracing the lines of age on his face, the cracks along his shell, the shimmer of his many necklaces.

Then something caught Lukas' eye.

Amid the strands of beads and bones that draped across the old one's chest hung a pair of curved, pale objects—too symmetrical, too perfect to be mere trinkets. When the light struck them, they gleamed faintly with a sheen he knew all too well.

Lukas' heart stopped. He sat up sharply, the movement startling in the stillness.

The beastman's eyes snapped open just in time to see Lukas lunge forward.

Instinctively, the old one flinched but Lukas's hands were already at his chest, fingers parting the necklaces, searching—desperate.

And there it was.

Horns. They were smooth, white-gold, carved with markings that glowed faintly like starlight beneath dust.

These were the horns of a dragon.

The horns of his forefathers.

Lukas froze, his breath trembling as his fingers brushed the sacred relics.

"It's you," he whispered, voice shaking. "You are the one who will heal my broken body."

Kronos had known all along.

The God of Time had not forsaken him.

No.

In fact, it was quite the opposite.

The Titan had guided him here—to face the Mapopo Brothers, to be brought here to this city and to this cell to find this beastman who wore the horns of his forefathers around his neck.

Everything had led this to moment. And now Lukas had finally found his cure, his salvation just like Kronos said he would within the Kingdom of Khaitish, the Land of the Beastkin.

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