The fire burned low, its orange glow pulsing gently against the dark. Lukas lay flat on his back, too tired to move, his body sinking into the cool sand beneath him. The long day of training had stripped him of strength, leaving behind nothing but a dull ache that reached into every muscle. The magic that had been channeled into the rope had made every movement a struggle, pushing his muscles to the very limits.

Lukas had already eaten his share of Ashenbeans. Five and no more than five, just as the beastman had warned. Without those beans, Lukas did not know if he could have gone on as long as he had. But the effects of the Ashenbeans had faded long ago and now, he could feel it all—the pulse in his wrists, the steady rise and fall of his chest, even the soreness that pulsed like a heartbeat through his limbs

It was a clean kind of pain now, no longer the sharp tearing agony of before, but a heavy reminder that his body had been pushed past its edge.

The reason why Lukas was not screaming in pure agony was that there wasn't any magical energy left within that could destroy him from the inside out.

The Dragon King turned his head slightly and stared at the rope lying beside him, that grotesque thing made of the very flesh and muscles of past warriors who had mastered the Internal Arts. They had drunk in his magical energy without end. His Mana Pool, once vast and full, felt hollow now, as though something essential inside him had been scooped out. Only a few thin threads of energy lingered, enough to keep him conscious, but not enough for anything more.

Across from him, the Priest of Pan sat quietly, hands resting on his knees, his expression caught somewhere between curiosity and concern. The beastman had said little during their rest, letting the fire and winds speak in his place. When he finally broke the silence, his voice was low and even, carrying easily through the quiet night.

"It takes great magical energy to shatter one's Pool of Mana," the priest remarked. "Especially one that belongs to a dragon such as yourself. Tell me, Lukas, how did you manage to break yours?"

The question lingered between them.

Lukas closed his eyes.

For a moment, the sound of the fire faded, and all he could hear was the faint rush of blood in his ears—the steady rhythm of memory.

It had not been long since that fight but somehow it felt like a lifetime ago.

Lukas had not wanted it to end how it had but deep down he had always known there had been no other way.

When the skies split open and the Hero descended as if he had been sent from the heavens, Lukas had known that only one of them would come out alive. He remembered it all—the torrent of magic tearing through his veins, the weight of the power he had unleashed against the one man who could put an end to the Kingdom he now called home.

"To protect my people…" Lukas said quietly, the words heavy and deliberate. "I killed the Hero From Another World."

The Priest of Pan's eyes widened at Lukas' words.

The fire crackled once, and a spark drifted into the air, fading before it could rise far.

Lukas opened his eyes again, turning his head to stare beyond the bars of the prison cell and towards the endless night sky. The stars stretched endlessly above him, cold and distant, their light far too calm for the turmoil that stirred beneath them. He felt another ache in his chest, not the kind that came from exhaustion, but the kind of hurt that ran deeper, the kind of wound that would never truly leave him.

He had saved his people. Lukas had done what was necessary.

Yet victory did not taste sweet, it tasted bitter.

It was a victory Lukas did not want to remember.

For a long moment, the fire was the only sound between them—a soft, hungry crackling that filled the space where words might have been. The name itself carried a weight that no one on Hiraeth could ignore. Every soul knew who the Hero From Another World was. His deeds had been sung for generations, his victories painted onto the walls of churches and citadels and carved into the stones of cities long forgotten.

But the look on the Priest's face was not one of disbelief—it was recognition.

The flicker in his eyes told Lukas that the beastman's knowledge ran deeper than legend.

The Priest was old, older than most mortals could imagine.

Lukas realized then that it was entirely possible—perhaps even more than likely—that the Priest had once crossed paths with the Hero.

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"I… I see." The words came quietly, almost reverently. The Priest nodded to himself, his gaze drifting toward the flames as if searching for something within them. But there was nothing to be found. "A heavy price for a noble cause."

The Priest did not sound surprised that the Hero still lived to this day, nor that Lukas had been the one to end his long life.

Lukas turned his head toward the beastman. His voice was soft, almost hesitant. "Did you ever get to meet him? The Hero, I mean."

The Priest's eyes lifted, and for the first time that evening, a faint, weary smile touched his face. "I once called that man my friend."

That answer drew Lukas up from where he lay. His arms trembled slightly as he pushed himself into a half-sitting position, the fatigue of the day momentarily forgotten. "Could you…tell me more about him? About what he was like?"

The Priest studied him in silence for a moment, the firelight catching in his dark pupils. It was strange for the beastman to see the dragon who had slain the Hero asking such a question. And yet, there was something in Lukas' tone, an echo of grief, guilt or even regret, that made the beastman understand why he might ask such a thing.

"He was a good man," the Priest began, his voice even but filled with the weight of past memories. "I know that must sound hard to believe, especially to you, a son of Linemall. To the dragons who lived through the Great War and still live on now in the present, he was the bane of your people's existence. But I tell you this, Lukas, he was no monster. He truly was…a Hero, in every sense of the word."

The Priest's gaze drifted past the fire, into some place only he could see, a different time and place.

"Many think that he was summoned only during the Great War, to fight against the might of the dragons. But that man has walked this world for far longer than you think. He was blessed or, perhaps, cursed to withstand the test of time. I never learned which. But no mortal was ever meant to watch the rise and fall of kingdoms. No man should be forced to live on while watching everything around them turn to dust."

Lukas remembered fragments of memory that were not his own—visions drawn from the Crest when he had seen the life of Valerion Drakos unfold. He had seen his forefather fighting beside the first Conqueror of Khaitish, and the Hero From Another World himself, bringing their powers together to bring down an army of Cthulhu who wished to control all of Hiraeth.

Those were days long past, brighter ones, when the Hero still smiled.

In those memories, Jakob Fronterra had laughed and he had fought willingly, not just for the thrill of battle which was the only thing that kept the shattered pieces of his sanity together, believing that he would one day return to that world.

A world that Lukas, too, had once called home.

The Priest of Pan said nothing for a long time. The beastman could see the look in Lukas's eyes—distant and conflicted—and knew there was nothing he could say that would ease what the dragon carried within him.

Lukas stared down at his hands.

They were rough and calloused, still faintly trembling from the exhaustion of training, but it wasn't the strain that made them shake. These were the same hands that had ended the Hero's life—the man Lukas had once known as his father.

There was no room for hesitation when the lives of his people hung in the balance.

But knowing that did little to ease the guilt that gnawed at him.

It did not erase the look of recognition in his father's eyes as realization dawned on him, as memories flooded through their connection and as Lukas held him down beneath the waters.

In that instant, time itself had seemed to stop.

Father and son, bound across worlds, had stood on opposite sides of fate.

Both summoned to Hiraeth, both chained to its cruel design.

Lukas swallowed hard, forcing the image away, but it clung to the edges of his mind.

The Priest's voice broke through the silence once again. "You wield great strength, dragon. Strength far greater than even those who have come before you." His gaze shifted to the fire. "If you make it out of this alive—if you master the Internal Arts—where do you plan to go next?"

Lukas turned his head slowly toward the Priest.

Kronos had told him that it was here that he would find the cure in the Kingdom of Khaitish and now he was sitting across from the very one who wore the horns of his forefathers around his neck, the one who could heal his broken body.

He would not doubt the God of Time again.

Lukas needed to find the very woman who served Kronos as he did.

"I seek out the High Septon of the Church." The dragon answered the beastman without hesitation, that same conviction he carried when he first met the Priest as strong as ever.

"You place a great deal of trust in the words of a god," the Priest said finally.

"I do," Lukas replied without hesitation. "He gave me a second chance at life. Everything I have now is because of him. Even if the path is not clear, even if I do not yet have the answers, I know where I must go. Because he has shown me the way."

The Priest studied him a moment longer before a low chuckle rumbled from his chest. It wasn't mocking—rather, it carried a rare warmth, like that of an old one who understood all too well what it meant to put his faith in a higher being.

"Then you should rest well, dragon," the Priest said, leaning back against the gnarled roots behind him. "Because we are running out of time. Tomorrow, you must train harder than you did today."

Lukas's tired eyes lifted toward him, but he didn't protest.

The beastman's tone shifted into something more serious. "If you wish to meet the High Septon, then you must first enter the Coliseum—and become its Champion."

The words hung in the night air, heavy with promise and challenge alike.

The Priest rose slowly to his feet, the shadows of his figure stretching long behind him as the fire dimmed further.

"We have a week to heal your broken body, Lukas Drakos," he said, his voice carrying easily through the still air. "A week before the Tournament of Khaitish begins."

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