Lukas sat cross-legged across from Makhulu, the eldest of the Magopo Brothers, watching as the beastman carefully poured steaming herbal tea into two earthen cups. The scent was sharp yet soothing—a mixture of bitter roots, dried leaves, and something faintly floral that Lukas could not name.

It was surprising how calm Makhulu appeared as though serenity alone could keep the fragile balance of his world from collapsing entirely. Once, there had been six they called the Magopo Brothers—six warriors bound not only by blood but by an unshakable bond forged in struggle and loyalty. Together they had been a force capable of rivaling a Conqueror.

Yet as Lukas looked at the beastman before him, he saw only the ghost of that legacy.

Only three remained now.

Scar, the youngest of the brothers, had been struck down by Jesse Sterling just days ago; his loss likely the very catalyst that had caused tensions to rise until the twins had finally decided to turn their backs on Makhulu.

Where Makhulu represented tradition, Rasta and Adonis represented evolution. The twin's mastery of the Internal Arts had made them almost mythical among those who roamed the dunes of Khaitish. Their departure had not been done so quietly. They had taken with them an army of the Magopo Clan's finest warriors—beastkin who believed that Makhulu was a coward and that only through strength and dominion could their people finally be free.

Lukas had expected to find the village outside his cell to be left in ruins from the aftermath of what should have been a violent power struggle.

But there was nothing like that here.

The air was still, the homes unburnt and sacred stones of which Lukas could only assume was in relation with their worship to Pan was still aligned in the courtyard. Whatever had happened between the brothers, it had not been resolved with blood. That alone said something of their bond—that even in their divergence, there remained a deep thread of love and respect that feuds and disagreements could never undo.

Lukas studied Makhulu carefully, wondering if the calm he saw was truly peace or the sheer exhaustion from all that the eldest of the Magopo Brothers had been put through. The beastman's eyes, dark and heavy, carried a quiet ache that words could not conceal. Perhaps it was not calm Lukas saw at all, but sorrow restrained behind years of discipline.

"So," Makhulu began at last, his voice low but steady, "the Priest has passed on the ways of the Internal Arts to you?"

Lukas hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "Yes. He has."

The admission hung between them, delicate as the steam curling above their cups. The tea was bitter on Lukas' tongue as he took his first sip, both of them basking in the shared silence of two responsible for lives that were not their own.

"Will you not go after them?" Lukas asked, unable to keep his curiosity contained.

For a long time, Makhulu said nothing. The beastman stared into his cup as if reading omens in the rising whisps of heat, his large hands steady despite the tension that filled the room. When he finally spoke, it was with a weary certainty.

"They plan to enter the Tournament," Makhulu whispered. "My brothers believe the High Septon will tell them how to set our people free."

Freedom.

The mention of it alone stirred something fierce within Lukas—a flame that refused to be extinguished.

It was easy to forget that the beastkin were not so different from Linemall. They bled the same, hoped the same and suffered from the same chains of subjugation that humanity had long since dressed up in the illusion of order and peace. The Kingdom of Khaitish, for all its pretense of independence, was a kingdom in name only. Its sovereignty was shackled beneath the influence of Daerion and the shadow of the Kingdom they called Nozar.

Lukas put his cup down as his eyes met Makhulu's own. "And you choose not to follow them? Do you not want your people to be free?" There was no venom in his tone, no accusation or blame to be found. Lukas just could not understand why someone like Makhulu—clearly one who believed in justice and morality—could choose to stand back while his own brothers marched toward what they believed would grant the beastkin their liberation.

Makhulu regarded him quietly for a long time. The wind stirred faintly, carrying with it the scent of sand and smoke. His expression was unreadable at first—a mask worn by one who had seen too many battles and lost too many brothers to count.

But then, his voice came; low, weary and painfully sincere.

"You were with Rowan," the beastman said softly. "He said you were a friend of the Morningeyes Clan. You may never understand it, but…we did not abandon him because he had become a cripple. We abandoned Rowan because he stopped fighting for us. Or at least, that was what I had thought."

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Makhulu paused, the silence stretching between them until it could be stretched no more, and Lukas did not interrupt.

"But in truth," Makhulu continued, his voice breaking ever so slightly, "I have come to the realization that no single being can bring us this dream of freedom we are all searching for."

The beastman's gaze fell to the tea before him, now gone cold. His hands, large and scarred from years of war, trembled faintly as he lifted the cup.

"We are not slaves to Nozar," Makhulu went on, his tone raw with conviction. "We are slaves to our own demise. Violence and cruelty—the laws of wilderness, as my people call it—it is all we have ever known. We believe that if we strike harder, bleed deeper, kill faster, somehow these chains will break. But that…that is the lie we've all chosen to believe." He set the cup down gently, as if afraid it might shatter. "And I'm tired," he whispered. "I'm tired of it all."

Lukas sat still. The dragon did not know why those words hit him the way they did, only that they had found and struck a hidden chord within him.

"I said I wanted peace," Makhulu went on, his voice now quieter, more distant. "Little did I know…there was no need to fight for it any longer. Because I already had it."

Lukas turned his gaze to the village all around them.

The setting sun washed the settlement in warm, amber light. He saw beastkin laughing as they worked together—mending fabric, tending fires, weaving cloth and teaching the young their seperate crafts. There was no war here, no endless struggle for dominance.

The Magopo Clan had built something greater than victory. They had built community—a fragile, beautiful kind of peace.

It was the kind of peace that reminded him of the very moment Lukas had first laid on eyes on the Seas of Linemall he now called home.

"I am no Conqueror," Makhulu said, looking up once more. "I am no breaker of chains. I am simply the Head of my Clan. And that is the only title I wish to carry."

The beastman smiled then—a small, gentle curve of the lips that spoke of understanding rather than triumph. The room had grown dim as the evening light faded, shadows lengthening across the walls like memories too stubborn to die.

Makhulu poured the last of the tea he had brewed for them, though Lukas did not take another sip.

"I assume you wish to fight in the Tournament as well?" Makhulu asked at last. His voice carried no judgment, only quiet certainty.

It was not a bold assumption for Makhulu to make. The Priest had made it clear of the Tournament's significance—an event that drew the greatest warriors all around Hiraeth every single decade.

For many, it was glory.

For Lukas, it was his destiny.

There was no reason to lie about it.

"I do." Lukas answered.

Makhulu studied him, his sharp eyes flickering with something like respect—perhaps a touch of unease. Any seasoned warrior could sense it now. The quiet strength within Lukas, the kind of power that was not born of training alone but of something ancient and elemental. Even Makhulu, for all his prowess, knew he could not match it.

"Then you shall need a Mandate to enter the Coliseum. Only four have ever been made. Getting your hands on one of them…that is the real battle you face. Because you are running out of time."

Lukas sat up immediately, his mind racing as Makhulu made this known to him. He already knew that Rasta and Adonis were headed toward the Inner Cities. If they were moving now, they likely already possessed two of said Mandates.

That left only two others in all of Hiraeth.

The path before him was narrowing and becoming far more perilous.

"And what," Lukas asked, his voice edged with steel, "is stopping me from tracking your brothers down and taking the Mandates from them?"

The question hung in the air like the glint of a drawn blade.

Makhulu smiled faintly, not in mockery, but in recognition of the fire beneath the calm. He could hear the hostility rising in Lukas' tone as clear as day and instantly the beastman raised his hands up into the air in mock surrender. "Nothing is stopping you," Makhulu replied simply. "But I have a feeling that you may wish to seek out another."

Lukas raised an eyebrow, silently urging him to continue.

"They call her the Shadow Fox," Makhulu said. "You will find her on the outskirts of the Inner Cities. She is the Mistress of what they call the House of Fortunes—perhaps the largest slave trading buisness in all of Hiraeth. It is there you will find not only a Mandate to claim as your own but also…many sons and daughters of Linemall."

For a moment, Lukas said nothing.

Makhulu knew. The beastman knew what Lukas was.

Perhaps it was more obvious now or maybe enough time had passed for the beastman to connect the dots in his head.

Lukas rose slowly and in that moment, Makhulu's suspicions were confirmed.

There was no more time to waste.

Makhulu did not move to stop him. Instead, the beastman spoke one final time, calling out to Lukas.

"Your name," the beastman said. "I would like to know your name before you go."

Lukas paused, his back turned towards the eldest of the Magopo Brothers. The light from the setting sun caught the faint sheen of his black hair, the faint glint of the sea's open waters in his eyes.

"You may call me Pallas," he said at last, turning just enough for Makhulu to see the faintest trace of a smile. "King…of the Dragons. And I am the breaker of chains."

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.