The current dragged Lukas down with a ferocity that tore the breath from his lungs. One instant he was fighting to keep his head above the churning surface, and the next he was swallowed whole by the river's depths. The world around him became a maelstrom of light and darkness, where water did not behave as it should have—it pulsed, shimmered and flowed with a magic so dense it was almost alive.

There was once a time when Lukas had felt this level of magical energy flow through him but that had been through the Crest when the Great Houses of Linemall had named him their successor.

Every droplet pressed into his skin like molten glass, filling his veins with a force that felt like pain and transcendence all at once. But Lukas did not fight against the pain. He welcomed it. He could feel the ache of torn muscle begin to repair, the broken fibers knitting themselves back together beneath his skin. The exhaustion that had hollowed him out after weeks of training began to fade, replaced by a growing density in his limbs, a gathering strength that hummed like lightning beneath the surface of his flesh.

Every inch of him was being reforged, his body being turned into a vessel that could house the magical energy within.

This, Lukas realized through the blinding pain, was his moment of rebirth.

But realization offered no comfort when the river seized him once again.

The currents pulled harder, twisting his body and dragging him into a deeper, colder darkness. He fought against the pull, spreading his arms wide and summoning the authority over the seas that had always answered his command.

But these were not the waters of the mortal world.

They did not yield to his voice, they did not recognize his bloodline.

These waters obeyed no Lord or King. Even the strongest of the mortal plains could not claim dominion here.

They obeyed beings they called immortals.

Immortals that were ancient, older than the world of Hiraeth itself—rivers born from the daughters of Oceanus.

Lukas opened his mouth to shout, but no sound came.

The current swallowed his voice, nearly tearing it apart.

But still, the dragon called out to one that he knew would hear his voice.

Through the pressure and the darkness, through water and death, he reached out with more than words—with his very soul and spirit—and whispered her name.

The Goddess of Unbreakable Oaths herself. The immortal Lukas called his wife.

"Styx," he breathed, his words no more than a thought carried through the current.

The stillness came immediately and without warning.

Just seconds ago, Lukas was tumbling through the current, powerless against the pull of the waters.

The next, everything around him stopped.

The water froze, no longer rushing nor flowing, but hanging heavy as if time itself had been caught in suspension.

His body drifted weightless in the silence.

The glow that had once swirled around him now shimmered faintly, casting ghostly light across the suspended waves.

He should have felt relief. But all he could feel was dread.

Because his call may not have gone unanswered but it was not Styx who had answered it.

The surface of the waters around him began to twist, spiraling in slow, deliberate motion.

The energy within them stirred like something waking from a long slumber.

From that spiraling current, four shapes began to emerge—not rising, but forming, as if sculpted from the essence of the river itself. Each figure pulled itself out of the flow, their forms becoming solid and divine, their presence pressing down on Lukas with such force that his chest tightened just to breathe.

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He knew at once who they were.

These were the Goddesses of the Rivers of the Underworld, the Sisters of Styx.

The first to take form stood nearest to him, her eyes downcast, her posture soft and sorrowful. They called her Acheron, the River of Woe. Her beauty was haunting in its melancholy skin pale as marble, eyes the color of a storm about to break. Strands of inky hair clung to her face, dripping like tears, and her garments were woven of black silk that shimmered like wet stone. A faint aura of despair clung to her, not one that demanded pity, but one that made the heart ache simply by looking at her. She spoke not a single word, yet Lukas could feel the quiet sorrow emanating from her being, as if every tragedy ever told whispered through her presence.

Next came Lethe, the River of Oblivion and Forgetfulness, who drifted forward as though half-aware of her surroundings. Her hair flowed in waves of silver-white, weightless and soft, glimmering faintly like moonlight caught on mist. Her eyes were gentle and focused; they had a pale, milky glass-like hue that seemed to stare beyond the present moment. Her smile was faint and dreamy, and she tilted her head as she looked at Lukas, though it was unclear whether she was truly looking at or beyond him. The folds of her gown rippled like soft clouds, and a faint scent of lilies lingered where she moved. There was peace in her presence, but also the terrifying emptiness of oblivion.

Then came Phlegethon, the River of Fire. Her arrival was like an inferno itself; violent, scorching and very much alive. Her hair burned like a living flame, casting flickering light across the suspended river. Her eyes were molten gold, sharp and unyielding, her every movement bursting with restrained fury. House Ishtar and their Divinity of Flames was little more than embers compared to the blaze that Lukas felt from her. Steam hissed where she stood, and the water itself recoiled around her, forced back by the sheer heat of her existence. Her glare could have cut through steel but Lukas did not shy away from her gaze.

The last to emerge was Cocytus, the River of Lamentation, and her presence brought a weight that pressed against Lukas' heart. Her hair hung in damp strands, the color of frost and shadow, and her gown looked as though it had been woven from the mist of her own breath. Her eyes were hollow pools of blue sorrow, heavy with a sadness too deep to name. She carried the air of someone who had stopped caring about appearances—her clothes torn, her posture slouched—and yet there was a beauty to her, raw and haunting, like a song sung in mourning.

Styx's name had been on his lips the moment the currents stilled and that had been the reason why her sisters had appeared before him now.

The expression on his face was one of aching longing that none of the Goddesses could mistake. And no matter how hard he tried, Lukas could not pretend how much he missed his dear wife. Even now, he yearned for her more than life itself. Though he would never admit it, a small part of him was glad that he was being swept away with the currents; knowing that he would be able to see her once more.

"She does not wish to see you at the moment, Lukas Drakos," Cocytus said, voice rough as old reeds. Her tone held a kind of amused cruelty, the sort that comes when one watches a creature flail at impossible odds.

Lukas felt his stomach drop.

The thought that Styx—his Styx—would turn him away stung deeper than any current.

"What?" Lukas did not believe her.

Styx was…avoiding him?

But why?

Lethe's absent gaze snapped to him then, and for the first time she seemed focused, curiosity lighting her too-pale eyes. Her fingers drifted toward the band on his finger, and Lukas felt the air around him tilt with the attention. "So it is true," she murmured dreamily, as if cataloguing a new and fascinating rarity. "My sister has fallen in love with a mortal."

Acheron stepped forward, grief written into the slow, measured way she moved. "You, Lukas Drakos, are King of Linemall. Your people call you Pallas now, do they not? You still have duties, responsibilities, and burdens to carry in the Land of the Living," she said, voice like low rain. Her pity cut into him like frost. "Your marriage to my sister will not end well. You are mortal. She is not. It was simply not meant to be."

Cocytus laughed then, a sound with no humor in it. She raised one hand—calloused, streaked with the wet mud of a hundred lamentations—and offered it to him palm up. "Give us that ring," she said. "And we will allow you to return to the Land of the Living. Give up your love for my sister and we will bless you with a vessel that is more than strong enough to wield the Internal Arts."

The proposition hung in the air as he stared down towards Styx's sisters.

"And if I don't?" Lukas asked, his fists tightening.

"Then you will face a fate worse than death." Phlegethon's promise came out hot and sure.

Rage rose then, not the small, combustible fury of wounded pride but something much greater. His jaw flexed until the taste of blood filled his mouth. He thought of Styx—not as a symbol, not as a bargaining chip, but as the woman who had stolen his heart. The love of his life and the Goddess who would one day be the mother of his children. The idea of surrendering this ring, made of her very essence, for a hollow promise of power, felt like blasphemy.

Lukas had promised her that he would return.

If it was one promise that he would never break, it was the one he had sworn not on but to the River Styx.

"You may try," he said, voice low and hard, "but you will fail."

Phlegethon's eyes snapped like fire. Cocytus bristled. Even Lethe's dreamy smile sharpened into something resembling interest. Acheron opened her mouth in shock, unable to wrap her head around the very idea of a mortal standing up to them.

Lukas had no doubt that they possessed power greater than what any mortal could ever hope to wield.

But the King of the Dragons himself was no longer just any mortal.

"Because she is my wife," Lukas continued, the sentence a vow and a a declaration all at once. "And I will never give her up."

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