Two weeks had passed beneath the stone sky of the underground city, and Lukas found himself reluctant to leave.

Lukas had not expected to feel so at home in a place so far removed from the sun, yet the world within the earth itself had been more than a marvel of stone and firelight; it had been a living testament to an ancient culture that thrived in its hidden depths. Towering cavern halls carved by dragon claws glowed with veins of crystal, and waterways glimmered with a strange inner light. Every turn, every passage hummed with a quiet dignity, as if the city itself bore witness to centuries of endurance.

Lukas had come to love that solemnity, that grounded strength. Even Rosalia, whom they all regarded at first with wary glances and whispered doubts as they began to realize she was not one of their kin, had found her place among the Earthborn. The younglings had been the first to break through the wall of suspicion when it came to Rosalia. Wide-eyed and curious, they trailed after her steps. Eventually, even some of the younger dragonborn would pester her with questions for they had never seen a human before. Rosalia had answered their questions with patience and warmth, and soon her laughter was a familiar sound in the corridors of the palace.

Lady Kaitlyn and Lukas' mother rarely left Rosalia's side, protective yet proud of how swiftly the princess adapted.

Meanwhile, Katrina and Valkari embraced the city with vigor, forging bonds over sparring matches and shared feasts with the other Dragonborn of the Earth.

For Lukas, however, it had been Erandyl's companionship that left the deepest impression.

Many of his evenings were spent in quiet corners of the cavern halls with the Dragon Lord of the Earth; trading stories of their peoples, their burdens, and their hopes for Linemall's future. Erandyl spoke with the weight of one who had ruled long, but also with the weariness of one who had seen too much blood spilled by kin. In her words and through their connection, Lukas glimpsed both the fragility and resilience of their world.

But all good things had to come to an end and the hour of departure had come.

Their path to the Ancestral Lands would not take them through the forests or the high mountains, but along the ancient arteries that ran beneath them—vast tunnels carved before memory by dragon claws and seismic fire.

Erandyl herself led the way, and with her came only those she trusted above all others: no more than twenty dragonborn, each bearing the air of seasoned guardians.

Among them walked Kaela Telaryon, Lady Kaitlyn's younger sister and Erandyl's granddaughter.

They had not spoken since their interaction during the Dance of Dragons.

Lukas did not even realize his gaze had lingered on her for a second too long.

It was only until Kaela herself had noticed and she faltered, her composure breaking for but a breath before she inclined her head towards him in polite acknowledgment. Lukas returned the gesture, though his thoughts wandered elsewhere.

He thought of Kaela's daughter. He thought of what had become of her and the tragic fate she had met even if Erandyl had never spelled it out for him. They had put her down like a beast, because she had become a beast.

And yet again, the one responsible for her daughter's demise was the Dragon Lord of the Flames.

Lukas had never learned the cause of their duel, only its outcome. There was a reason why many in Linemall considered Rysenth to be the strongest in all of Linemall. If he had lost that duel, he would not have the reputation he carried today. The tunnels stretched ahead, dark and endless, but it was not the earth that pressed on his mind. It was the shadow of a Lord who had taken too much already and still stood unchallenged.

When at last they broke free of the tunnels and returned to the surface, Lukas flinched as the dawn met him head-on. The brilliance of the rising sun seared his vision, a sudden flood of gold and scarlet that felt almost cruel after weeks in the subterranean twilight. Lukas squinted against it, eyes stinging, until the haze receded and the world before him sharpened into clarity.

And there it was.

The Ancestral Lands of Linemall.

Even though he had known what awaited them, no tale, no song, no etched memory in the archives of his people could have prepared him for the sight. Before him stretched rolling meadows of deep emerald grass, swaying like waves beneath the wind. Groves of towering trees, older than kingdoms, encircled a plain where the very air seemed to thrum with a rhythm beyond mortal hearing.

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Here, no banners flew, no cities scarred the land, and no single faction dared claim sovereignty.

This place belonged only to history—and to the oldest of their kind. It was here the eldest dragons came to die, laying their vast bodies in the earth so that the soil itself was rich with the remnants of their power. It was here the first Lords of Linemall had knelt together, uniting their blood and their wills to form what would become Linemall.

At the heart of these sacred lands, Lukas knew, lay the Founder's Spell: a mystery so old and so potent that it could not be unraveled by theory nor measured by arcane logic. That spell was the reason Linemall's location had remained hidden for all of these years. No ship could sail blindly to its shores, no sorcerer's scrying glass could pierce its veil. Its location was locked away by magic that existed beyond comprehension, secured by sacrifice. Within the Ancestral Lands beat a heart—once the living heart of Erandyl's own mother, the first Dragon Lord of the Earth, Kaeryth Taleryon herself. Kaeryth had torn it from herself willingly to fuel the magic of this spell, and its steady pulse had not faltered in over a thousand years.

That was why the Draconic Summit was always held here: not out of convenience, but reverence.

None dared spill blood where the Heart of Kaeryth continued to beat, to do anything that would risk undoing the Founder's spell would be to strip away the very shield that had kept their kind from extinction after their defeat during the Great War.

At the borders of the Ancestral Lands, Lukas saw them waiting: two dragonborn who looked as ancient as the mountains themselves, their skin like weathered stone, their eyes fathomless. They were Elders. Dragons who had seen the first Lords with their own eyes, bound not to faction or House, but to Linemall alone. They stood as timeless sentinels, gatekeepers; their presence a reminder that entry here was not given—it was earned.

"Swear it," one of them intoned, voice deep as bedrock. The ritual was simple yet it held so much meaning.

Every soul who sought entry was required to speak the Oath: a promise never to wield their Divinity within the bounds of the Ancestral Lands. Not unless they wished to invoke the wrath of Styx, the Goddess of Unbreakable Oaths.

Lukas drew in a steadying breath. Here, in this sacred place, there would be no duels. So he spoke the words, feeling them settle into his bones like iron. "Upon these lands that I walk, I swear on the River Styx that I will not cast any spell within the Divinity I wield." One by one, the others followed—Rosalia, Kaitlyn, Valkari, Katrina, and Erandyl herself along with the dragonborn who had travelled here with her.

The Elders inclined their heads, and finally the gates of the Ancestral Lands opened before them. And so, beneath the rising sun, Lukas crossed the threshold into the heart of his people's legacy.

The Draconic Summit had not yet begun, though already the air simmered with unspoken rivalries. It was tradition for the Great Houses to arrive days in advance, to walk among one another with painted smiles and sharp words, exchanging hollow pleasantries while secretly measuring strength.

Lukas had seen this before in Nozar during the great celebrations, and here too the charade played out just the same.

He greeted the Elders as they passed, and to his quiet surprise, some greeted him in turn. Their recognition of him as the Dragon Lord of the Seas carried more weight than any crown could. Time had not diminished them—no, in fact, it had only sharpened their edges. Dragons did not wither with age; their bodies endured and their minds remained everkeen. While wisdom was not always the gift that came with age, the Elders' voices carried perhaps as much authority as the reigning Lords themselves. It was another reason why the Draconic Summit was held here, to give the Elders a chance to speak on the current condition of Linemall as they saw it.

Then, Lukas saw them, the Dragons of the Flames. They had come from the slopes of Mount Ashendir, the mountain that pierced the heavens; the tallest one in all of Linemall. Once, that mountain had belonged to House Sterling, the Dragons of the Skies, but the age of fire had long ago replaced the one of wind.

Quite like the dragons from the regions of the Earth and the Seas, the Flameborn had adapted to Ashendir's volcanic wrath. Their scales were as dark as obsidian, their eyes glowing like molten rivers. They were creatures molded by fire, tempered in molten lava, and every step they took left an impression of searing weight.

Among them, Lukas' gaze fell upon the one he had expected, yet still dreaded to see.

But mixed with that dread, Lukas could feel a sense of exhilaration.

This was a dragon whose ambition knew no bounds, whose cruelty had left scars Lukas could not forgive. And that dragon stood now among his kin with a presence that seemed to draw the light toward him, a figure both terrible and undeniable.

Lukas knew, with bone-deep certainty, that here stood the greatest obstacle to what he sought for their people.

Here stood the man Lukas knew he would always have to face, a man who he had been wanting to meet for years now.

Here stood Rysenth Isthar, the Dragon Lord of the Flames.

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