Lukas watched as Rosalia broke through the fury of the waves, calling upon Mana itself as it cut through the chaos like light piercing through shadow. The sea had raged with a strength that could swallow ships whole but she would not allow the oceans to claim them. He saw the way she now held them close, her arms steady and strong. Oceanus' will could claw at those who dared travel the seas but it could not take from Rosalia the lives she had sworn to protect.

This was why Lukas knew that it would be Rosalia who would lead them into a better world. I

t was never about crowns or titles, never about the weight of bloodlines or the authority of power.

She loved her people. Unconditionally, unreservedly, she gave herself to them in a way no ruler before her had been able to; not even her grandfather whose contributions to this nation could never be erased.

Rosalia's love was different. It was purer, born not of duty or obligation but of a truth that came from within her very soul.

Lukas remembered the promise he had once made to her, that when the time came, they would return to the Kingdom of Easthaven. That Easthaven would not remain abandoned, lost in the shadows of history. And now, that promise had been fulfilled.

Rosalia had not come alone. She returned with an army such as the world of Hiraeth had not seen in centuries.

She had returned with an army of dragons.

From the depths of the waters they came—a thousand strong—their scales glistening like jewels beneath the shining sun. Their sheer presence sent tremors through the ocean, vast bodies parting the waves as they surged forward. The sight was overwhelming, an echo of a forgotten age when dragons had shaped the world with their very will. They swam with purpose, moving toward the Kingdom that awaited the return of their Queen.

Even then, this was only a fraction of Linemall's power.

Erandyl and Rysenth had remained in the Kingdom of Dragons, watching over their people. The Heart of Kaeryth had beat its last and with it the very spell that had kept the Kingdom of Dragons safe from the rest of the world. In the end, Valkari's plans had come to fruition. The spell that had cloaked Linemall in secrecy for centuries was gone, and the Kingdom of Dragons now stood exposed to the world.

It would not be long before Daerion's eyes turned toward Linemall.

The King of Nozar had long sought dominion over all of Hiraeth. Yet Lukas doubted Daerion would act. For all his ambition, Daerion was no fool. No army, no matter how vast, could withstand their wrath.

The King of Nozar knew the devastation they were capable of unleashing.

And Lukas was certain of another truth, Daerion already knew the Hero was dead.

The Hero From Another World—Daerion's hidden weapon, the strength upon whom so much of his conquest had depended on— was gone. Alongside Celina, the Divine Knight, the Hero had been one of the twin pillars upon which Daerion's silent empire had rested. Together they had made kingdoms bow without open war, their presence alone enough to keep opposition at bay.

But the Hero was dead. And so was Celina, the Divine Knight.

Their lives had been put to an end by Lukas Drakos himself, once the Lord of Linemall's Seas and now…the King of the Dragons. In the ancient tongue of their kind, they named him Pallas. What they chose to call him did not matter. Names and titles—they were fleeting.

His dream, however, remained unchanged.

He wanted a future where his people could live free, unshackled by the greed of men chasing godhood and the schemes of conquerors. Yet he understood that such a future could not be won through strength alone.

To avoid another Great War, the Kingdoms of Humanity themselves would have to stand with him. Without them, peace would be nothing more than an illusion. Lukas did not want war. He would do anything to avoid it. But if Daerion forced his hand, he would give the King of Nozar a war unlike anything Hiraeth had endured before. And this time, there would be no Hero to save them.

The tides of the world was shifting.

The old order that had concealed conquest with thinly veiled peace was tearing apart, and in its place something new was rising.

Lukas sat astride Katrina Drakos, the Warden of Kuria Prison and his brother's own daughter. He trusted her with what he trusted few with. He trusted her with his life, with his cause and with the very weight of the future he carried.

When he looked ahead, he saw that the warships that had been docked within Easthaven's harbors had already begun to set sail.

Massive vessels of blackened steel and enchanted oak, their hulls bristled with weapons forged by the finest mages of the age. Cannons that spat bolts of fire and lightning, trebuchets enchanted to hurl boulders farther than the eye could track—all instruments designed to bring ruin upon their enemies. The warships cut through the waves with the menace of predators, engines of war that should have struck fear into any who faced them.

But Lukas only sighed.

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Soaring through the skies on Katrina's back, he could see the marines scurrying across the decks. They moved with the precision of men well-trained, shouting orders above the roar of the sea, their hands working frantically as they primed cannons with ancient runes of fire and frost. Weapons creaked into place, their arms wound tight by magic, ready to hurl destruction into the skies.

The King of the Dragons watched them almost lazily, as though their struggle were little more than a play staged for his amusement.

There was no fear within him. Not even anger.

Only pity.

Lukas pitied the men who had sworn themselves to Daerion's cause, men who now found themselves preparing for a battle they could never win. He pitied them for their loyalty, twisted and exploited by a king who sought only power.

He pitied them for they had no idea what stood before them.

In their minds, they were readying to repel invaders, enemies of flesh and blood who could be struck down by blade or spell. Lukas had no doubt that they had fought in countless battles before, he knew that these men had courage and strength that others could only dream of.

There was a reason why they called Nozar's navy the strongest military force in all of Hiraeth.

But mankind had forgotten what it meant to face a dragon.

Humanity had forgotten what it meant to stand beneath wings that could blot out the sun, before fire that could turn stone to ash, before a will as ancient as the mountains themselves and as endless as the depths of the seas. And now, it was not one dragon they faced, but an army rising from the depths, each one a force of nature in their own right.

As the warships advanced, Lukas' gaze hardened.

If these men wished to measure their strength against Linemall, then history itself would remember the folly of their choice.

Before the ships could bring their weapons to bear, before the first volley could be loosed into the skies, the fate of every man aboard them had already been sealed.

The battle was over before it even began.

From beneath the waves came shadows vast and terrible.

Dragons of immense size surged upward with a force that shattered the ocean's surface, water exploding around them as their forms tore into the light. Alongside them came wyverns—creatures who could not wield magic but whose raw size and strength made them no less devastating.

They all struck from below, their assaults precise and merciless, rending apart the hulls of warships as though steel were parchment.

Some vessels were simply split open, ripped in two beneath jaws and claws. Others were overturned entirely, capsized by the sheer weight of a dragon's emergence beneath their keels, sending men and masts tumbling into the frothing sea.

The largest among them all was Lukas' own mother: Selene of Dawn. She rose like a nightmare reborn, a wyvern whose name still carried whispers of fear in old tales. Once a general of Linemall, her fury was legendary, and now she descended upon Nozar's fleet with a vengeance undimmed by time. With claws sharper than any blade and jaws that could crush iron, she tore through the pride of Nozar's navy as though they were toys scattered for her amusement. Ships splintered under her weight, their timbers screaming as they cracked and sank. Men screamed too, their cries drowned by the crash of waves and the roar of dragons as the sea consumed them.

In minutes, vessels that had once stood as a testament to Nozar's might lay broken, sinking into the abyss.

Their warships—mighty constructs of magic and craft, built to inspire awe and fear—now drifted beneath the tide, their crews dragged with them to a watery grave. The world had forgotten what it meant to stand against the Kingdom of Dragons and Lukas would not allow them to forget ever again. If memory had been eroded by time, he would carve it anew into the minds of all who now lived.

Lukas' eyes turned once more to the Princess sat upon Jesse's back.

Rosalia's eyes were fixed ahead, unflinching before the carnage that unfolded.

Once, she might have recoiled at the sight. Once, the innocent girl she had once been would not have been able to stomach the sight.

But that girl was gone.

In her place stood a woman who had learnt what it meant to rule, who understood that love for her people did not mean sparing her enemies. She did not want violence but she would not run from it when it came to meet her.

Lukas remembered the day he had first glimpsed the depth of her fury when they had sat within Jerry's tavern in Ilagron Village. Rosalia Elarion had sworn an oath on the River Styx itself, binding her very soul to words no god nor mortal could ignore. She had sworn that she would return to the Kingdom fo Easthaven. And now, as she stared into the distance, he saw in her eyes the resolve of one who had come to fulfill that very vow.

The throne of Easthaven had been stolen from her—a throne her uncle now sat upon.

But Maelis Elarion would sit on that throne no longer.

Now Rosalia returned not as a lost princess, but as its rightful queen. She carried a debt etched in blood and betrayal, and she would see it repaid in full. That throne was hers by right, and she would seize it with a vengeance that none could deny. And nothing, no force in Hiraeth, would stop her. Not now. Not ever again.

Rosalia lifted her hands and summoned forth raw Mana, bending its brilliance into shape until it shimmered like a crown of light above her brow—a replica of the very Legacy borne by the Dragon Lords themselves.

Power coursed through her, her voice amplified with the might of a dragon's roar as she cried out across the city and sea: "Maelis!" The name split the heavens, her rage and resolve unmistakable for every soul within Easthaven to hear. "Your niece has returned!"

In that proclamation, the people remembered.

They remembered the last words of Magnus Elarion, their fallen king: "Never give up the fight. This injustice…it will not last. It will not last if you do not bend the knee. Fight so your children may see a free and just world. Carry this flame in your hearts. My granddaughter Rosalia Elarion will return. And when she does… she will set you free. Until that day… hold fast. Endure. And never stop fighting. Believe in hope, my people. Because sometimes, hope is all we have."

Not all fires roared.

Some burned quietly, slow and steady, under the skin; just like the one Magnus had asked his people to carry.

The world may have thought that those flames had long been extinguished. But embers never died.

And with the return of Rosalia Elarion, now those flames burned brighter than ever before.

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