The air inside the cell was tense.

Lukas stood, staring down at the coiled heap of rope lying by the far corner. The dim light that seeped through the cracks in the stone walls painted the scene in muted amber, touching the edges of the tortoise beastman's shell with a faint glimmer. Each frayed fiber spoke to the long years of confinement, of a prisoner who had waited patiently while his people had forgotten him.

It was clear to Lukas now that the Priest of Pan had been here far longer than he deserved.

The Magopo Brothers had not just imprisoned him—they had buried him alive in silence and solitude. Yet even through it all, there lingered a strange vitality around the beastman that had awoken once fate had brought Lukas to this cell. It was as though this prison could not contain the life that dwelled within the beastman.

The Priest of Pan was not merely a holy man or a practitioner of forgotten rites—he was the last heir to a lineage of mastery that had once shaken kingdoms.

The Internal Arts.

It was said that those who truly grasped its essence could command their own bodies as if they were godly instruments—merging the physical and the mythical until there was no boundary left between them.

Once, this Art had flourished among the beastkin, passed from one generation of masters to the next in secret temples and hidden valleys.

But those days were long gone.

The knowledge that should have made the Kingdom of Khaitish a powerhouse had become the reason for its undoing. Beastkin fought over the knowledge, protecting it as if it were sacred.

Perhaps it was. For the power of the Internal Arts had terrified even the most powerful of this generation.

In their youth the two men had been warriors of another age. Eventually, they became Kings who would shape the history of Hiraeth as they all knew it. It was this power that had brought both Daerion Ittriki of Nozar and Magnus Elarion of Easthaven together to put an end to the Conqueror of their generation.

It was the Eyes of the Morning who had made it all possible. Just like his descendant, Rowan's forefather been able to see magic, to perceive the world's hidden weave as threads of light and movement. Where others cast spells outward, shaping the world through force of will, he turned that power inward. He discovered that the same energy that mages expelled into the air could instead be drawn into one's own flesh and bone, strengthening the vessel rather than emptying it. Muscles hardened beyond steel, senses sharpened to supernatural precision, and the very limits of mortal physicality could be bent if not shattered.

If not for Daerion and Magnus, if not for their alliance and their armies of spellcasters, the Kingdom of Khaitish would have risen above them all and it would have been made possible by the hands of those who had mastered the Internal Arts.

Now, the only one left who still had the knowledge to pass this technique down stood before Lukas, ready to teach him what few were ever privileged enough to learn.

Lukas crouched, his fingers brushing against the coarse strands at his feet.

The ropes looked ordinary at first—thick, tightly coiled, their color dulled by dust and time. It was dense and strangely warm to the touch, like it carried a pulse of its own. His brows furrowed as he turned the length of it in his hand. The texture was uneven—sinewed, fibrous, and subtly elastic. A faint smell, metallic and almost sweet, clung to it.

These were not ropes. They were muscle.

Revulsion twisted in Lukas' gut. His grip slackened, and for a heartbeat, he nearly dropped it to the ground. The dim firelight flickered against the surface of the flesh-bound rope, casting faint red gleams that made it look as though blood still flowed through it.

The Priest of Pan's voice rumbled softly through the silence. "Those muscles come from fallen warriors," the beastman said, his tone heavy, ancient, and matter-of-fact. "Their bodies were once vessels, each and every muscle capable of enduring the torrent of magic itself. Yours…" His eyes met Lukas' own. "…are not. Should you attempt the Internal Arts as you are now, your body will crumble before you are able to draw another breath."

Lukas swallowed hard.

His heart was pounding, not just from disgust but from something deeper—a primal unease that came from standing at the edge of the unknown.

Yet he did not let go.

Instead, Lukas forced his trembling hand to tighten around the rope. The muscle felt solid, almost alive beneath his palm.

He could not turn. back now.

There was no time to question the Priest of Pan, only to trust that the beastman would be able to heal what Lukas himself could not.

Stolen story; please report.

The Priest nodded approvingly. "The Internal Arts grant strength—not the kind born from spells or the will of gods, but from the flesh itself. For you, son of the Seas, this strength will be something greater. Your body will become the vessel in which your magical energy is stored in. Every sinew, every bone, every drop of blood will hold your mana. And to rebuild that vessel…" He lifted a clawed hand toward Lukas, his expression grim. "We must first break it."

Lukas said nothing.

He only drew in a slow, deep breath—as if mentally preparing himself for what was to come—and nodded.

"It will not be easy," the Priest continued. "Your muscles must be torn apart and reforged in rhythm with your magic. Pain will be your flame and your persistence its forge. Endure it, Lukas Drakos. Or you will perish here."

The muscles in his jaw tightened as he slung the thick ropes—the flesh—over his shoulders. Their weight pressed down on him like the burden of sin.

"The Dance of Dragons," the Priest said after a pause. "I trust that you know it well."

A memory resurfaced—a night of fire and rhythm, when he had danced alongside the Earthborn beneath the earth within the underground cities of Linemall, their stomps echoing as it were the beating heart of Gaia.

He nodded again.

"Then dance," the Priest commanded.

Lukas hesitated only for a moment before his feet began to move. Tentative at first—a sway, a shift of weight, the faint whisper of bare soles against stone. The rhythm returned in fragments. His body remembered what his mind could not.

The ropes of muscle swung with his movements, their weight pulling at his shoulders, testing his balance. Each motion sent pain rippling through his body, but he forced himself to continue. His steps grew more firm and confident. His arm, his hips and even his breath—they began to flow together, the pattern of the dance reawakening within him.

The Priest of Pan watched silently, his eyes glimmering with the faint reflection of the flames. Lukas' body began to move, stronger, the ropes no longer a burden but an extension of his being. The scent of sweat and fire mingled in the air as the dance consumed him.

Each movement drew him closer to the precipice of something vast and dangerous—the beginning of his second rebirth.

The air grew thick with heat and movement, the flickering torchlight catching the sweat that rolled down Lukas' arm and chest. His breath came in slow, deliberate pulls as the dance consumed him, every motion both graceful and punishing. The ropes—those grotesque cords of muscle—swayed and tightened with his every twist, their weight testing not just his strength but his will.

For a brief moment, there was something almost wistful in the Priest's expression—a memory long buried flickering to life again. The rhythm and the flow—it stirred something deep within the ancient beastman. Perhaps it reminded him of another son of Linemall, one that the Priest had once called his friend. The corners of the beastman's mouth curled faintly upward, and when the Priest finally spoke, his voice was deep and sure.

"Now," the Priest instructed, his tone carrying both command and care, "direct the magical energy within you into the rope you hold. Focus on the flow—and only the flow. Do not let your mind wander. Focus on the here and now, Lukas."

This was no act of release, no spell to cast. It was Internal. He could feel his mana pulsing inside him, coiling and uncoiling like a serpent trapped beneath his skin. Slowly, carefully, he began to guide it—not through the air, but through his limbs, through the rope gripped tightly in his hands.

The effect was immediate.

The rope began to tremble, faintly at first, then violently as glowing threads of light crawled across its surface. Lukas' breath hitched. The thick cords of flesh pulsed with a brilliance that filled the dim cell, and for a fleeting instant, it was as though the muscles were alive again, awakening to the call of magic. The same eerie glow that had shone in the twins' bodies now illuminated the chamber, casting dancing shadows across the walls.

And with that light came power.

The harder Lukas danced, the more it pushed back. Every ounce of magical energy he poured into these ropes was thrown back against him, testing the strength of his mettle.

His arms shook.

His legs burned.

Lukas could feel his heartbeat in his temples, in his ribs, in every trembling fiber of his being. The pain was dulled by the lingering haze of the Ashenbeans but Lukas knew it was there, waiting, buried beneath the numbness of it all. His muscles screamed silently, strained beyond their limit.

Still, he did not stop. Lukas let himself be swallowed by the movement, the rhythm and the relentless flow of the dance that directed his magical energy.

The Priest's voice remained steady, distant yet unwavering. "Do not resist Let it flow through you, not against you. You are a conduit—you must become a vessel."

Lukas' body trembled. His knees buckled once, then again. The dance that had once flowed with grace now turned ragged, desperate. His breaths came in uneven gasps. Sweat poured from him, dripping onto the stone floor below. His mind was slipping, his thoughts scattering like sand in a storm.

Still, the Dragon King kept going.

Until finally, his foot caught.

Lukas stumbled forward, his balance lost, and the glowing ropes twisted in his grip as his body hit the cold ground with a heavy thud.

The light within the ropes faded instantly and the air fell still once more.

Lukas lay there, chest heaving, his vision swimming.

The ropes fell beside him with a dull slap.

For a moment, he thought he might not be able to rise again.

The Priest of Pan loomed over Lukas, his face half in light, half in darkness. There was a look of quiet satisfaction in his eyes—pride, perhaps, though it was tempered by the solemn understanding of what still lay ahead.

"Good," the beastman said softly. "You lasted for nine minutes."

Lukas forced himself to look up, his breath ragged, his body trembling.

"Catch your breath," the Priest continued, turning away. "Then you will dance again. And this time, you will last for ten."

Lukas closed his eyes, the world spinning around him. His body ached and his heart thundered— but beneath it all, he could feel something new taking shape inside him. A faint, flickering strength, fragile but real.

The Priest's voice echoed once more, low and calm.

"Your training has just begun."

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