Lukas had known, from the moment he returned to Linemall for the Draconic Summit, that this meeting was inevitable. And now, standing only a few feet away, was the Dragon Lord of the Flames himself; in the flesh.

Rysenth's form was caught somewhere between draconic and humanoid, as if he had chosen to exist in a state of deliberate imbalance. If Lukas had once believed Daerion to be the largest man he had ever laid eyes on, he was quickly proven wrong. Rysenth made the Head of the Ittriki Clan look like a dwarf. Even now, the only reason Rysenth had to tilt his head upward at Lukas was because he had remained in his full draconic form. A thought struck Lukas with unwelcome weight: if Rysenth chose to summon the Draconic Flow and take on his true draconic form, how much larger would he become? The Dragon Lord of the Flames may just very well be a match for Erandyl when it came to sheer size.

Everything about Rysenth was overwhelming. His hair, a deep mixture of jet black and crimson red, fell down his back in long braids, heavy and deliberate. Gold adorned him—rings, chains, bands, and trinkets that glinted faintly in the sunlight. Yet it was not the jewelry that caught Lukas' attention the most, but the tattoos etched across his body. They crawled over the deep red scales of his arms and legs and ran across his skin in patterns Lukas had never seen before, twisting lines and sigils that seemed to speak of ancient meanings beyond his comprehension.

Rysenth's physique was almost grotesque in its scale. His muscles swelled so powerfully that they seemed to ripple with every motion, every small adjustment of his frame. As he lifted the massive wooden pipe he had carried with him, those cords of flesh flexed, shifting like a living tapestry of strength. Rysenth raised the pipe to his lips and inhaled deeply, walking forward in slow, deliberate steps toward Lukas and Erandyl who had remained awfully still where they stood. Then Rysenth stopped, looming only a short distance away. The Dragon Lord of the Flames exhaled, sending a cloud of thick smoke rolling into the air, the bitter scent of it stinging Lukas' nose.

For a moment, Lukas nearly coughed, but he stopped himself, narrowing his eyes and keeping them fixed on Rysenth.

Lukas braced inwardly, ready to see whether the Dragon Lord of the Flames intended to test the fragile oath sworn at the Summit. No Divinities, no spells—only the raw weight of flesh and bone.

Even so, Lukas did not fear. Rysenth might have been larger but Lukas trusted in his own strength.

Yet it seemed like Rysenth cared little about the two Dragon Lords who stood before him.

Rysenth's attention slid past him as though Lukas were little more than a shadow.

His eyes, black and burning faintly red, found one figure among the gathered Dragonborn.

The shift in his expression was immediate.

His eyes found Valkari Ishtar. She stood just behind Katrina, who angled herself defensively between them.

Lukas caught it in an instant: the shock in Rysenth's eyes, the realization of her presence where he had not expected her. But instead of anger, what spread across his face was far darker. It was disgust—revulsion as sharp as if Rysenth had stumbled upon the stench of rotting flesh. His gaze raked over her, up and down, as though his very sight recoiled from what it confirmed. And still, he said nothing. Not even a single greeting to the sister he had sold into slavery years ago.

The silence pressed heavier than words ever could.

Instead of addressing Valkari, Rysenth's heavy gaze shifted back to Lukas. For a long, silent moment, his eyes—dark and glinting with ember-red—lingered on the newly appointed Dragon Lord of the Seas.

Recognition came quickly, and it was impossible to miss.

Everyone at the Summit here had heard Lukas' voice when he first used the Crown upon waking from his coma all those years ago; an unintentional greeting for all of Linemall to hear.

Now, Rysenth stood face to face with the one who had inherited the Seas of Linemall, the current Head of House Drakos.

To Lukas' surprise, there was no overt hostility in Rysenth's expression.

The towering man was quiet, withdrawn almost, carrying a kind of unshaped awkwardness that did not feel deliberate. For all his physical enormity, Rysenth seemed a man unpracticed in social exchanges and seemed to be content to let silence speak for him. It was one of his companions who broke that silence.

A Dragonborn of the Flames—tall, lean, and marked with bronze-colored scales—stepped forward. His voice carried none of the weight one would expect from a representative of the Flames. Instead, it was gentle, kindly even, with a faint trace of sheepishness as he bowed. "Lord Drakos. Lord Erandyl. It is an honor to stand before you again."

The dragonborn gestured, and at once the other Flameborn stepped forward.

Each of them carried a soft velvet pillow, and resting atop those pillows were gifts—eggs of jeweled craftsmanship, gleaming like relics from another age. They were wrought with a mastery that seemed almost otherworldly, even almost magical in its craftsmanship.

One egg was a swirl of deep oceanic blues and foaming whites, its surface etched with flowing patterns that seemed to ripple like waves beneath sunlight. Tiny sapphires glimmered along its curves, imitating the sparkle of water at dawn.

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The second egg was the embodiment of earth itself, rich with layers of earthen green and polished brown, streaked with veins of gold like mineral seams pulled straight from the heart of a mountain. Its surface bore careful etchings of roots and branches, delicate vines that coiled around small emeralds and garnets embedded into the shell.

"These," the Dragonborn said, bowing his head once more, "are the gifts that Lord Rysenth himself has fashioned by hand for this Summit. He hopes you will both accept them as tokens of his respect."

Lukas turned his gaze back to Rysenth.

For the first time since their meeting, Lukas caught a flicker of pride in the Dragon Lord of the Flame's expression. It was subtle, nearly hidden behind his heavy silence, but unmistakable. Lukas had imagined Rysenth Ishtar to have been nothing more than a brutal, intimidating tyrant—but standing here, Rysenth appeared instead as a quiet, almost gentle beast of a man.

Yet Lukas did not forget what this same Lord had once done to his own sister.

Valkari, to her credit, remained composed and seemed to be keeping her anger in check.

The dragonborn beside Rysenth continued to speak warmly, telling the Dragon Lord of the Earth how pleased he was to see her again. Erandyl inclined her head, though her words were curt: "It is good to see you again, Malrik." It seemed like Erandyl was not surprised by Rysenth's lack of words. It was clear that this was not the first time that Malrik, who seemed to be a trusted advisor of Rysenth, spoke on his behalf.

While Rysenth said nothing, his silence was not idle. He was watching, studying each figure gathered here with the slow precision of a predator. And then his eyes landed upon Rosalia Elarion. His posture shifted at once. The long pipe lowered, and his brows drew together.

Rysenth raised a single finger, pointing straight at her. His eyes widened, that ember-glow in them brightening until it carried the terrifying intensity of a firestorm about to ignite.

"That girl…" His voice, gravelly from disuse, rolled through the courtyard like a distant thunder. "She is human?"

The words tore the silence apart.

His eyes snapped to Lukas, demanding confirmation.

Lukas had no chance to answer before his expression betrayed the truth.

The look on Lukas' face was all the answer Rysenth needed.

The quiet, almost awkward calm Rysenth had carried shattered in an instant, replaced by a fury so sharp it cut through the air like a blade. His shoulders squared, his chest rose, and his glare turned deadly. The Dragon Lord of the Flames stood taller than ever now, looming with terrifying presence, and his head shook almost violently as if he could not comprehend what he had just seen.

Without thinking, both Lukas and Rysenth moved.

Lukas stepped in front of Rosalia, his body a living shield for the princess, ready to fight if he had to. Rysenth, on the other hand, surged forward, closing the distance with long, thunderous strides as his emotions overtook him.

If Erandyl and Malrik had not moved to intercept the Dragon Lords, the two would have been within inches of one another, ready to unleash a fight that would have torn the Ancestral Lands apart. Even without their Divinities, the draconic kind was capable of immense destruction.

Rysenth's roar shook the courtyard, his voice deep and guttural from years of disuse.

"What were you thinking, Drakos?!" Rysenth bellowed, spittle flashing in the light as the words burned their way out of him. His rage boiled over into another shout, then another, as Malrik strained to push his Lord back. "You had no right! You had no gorydamn right, you bloody bastard!"

Erandyl, just as firm, kept him from charging forward as Lukas' blood pounded in his ears.

Consequences be damned, if Rysenth wanted a fight, Lukas would give him one he would not forget. He could feel his claws flexing against the stone, his wings twitching with the urge to spring forth and strike at the Lord of the Flames.

And then, almost in unison, both of their Crowns flared to life.

The Legacies inherited by both flame and tide linked them in that moment, a bridge of thought and memory neither could control.

Lukas opened his mouth to deliver his retort—but faltered. Because suddenly, images, sharp and raw, surged through him.

These were memories, but not his own.

Lukas saw—through Rysenth's eyes—the horrors of the Great War.

Rysenth had been but a youngling when the war had fallen upon their people, fighting desperately against human armies. Lukas saw fire and blood, the sky blackened by smoke. Lukas saw Rysenth's comrades falling one by one, heard the screams of his kin as humanity cut them down. And Lukas saw the Hero himself, standing at the heart of the slaughter. And Lukas felt the unbearable weight of loss as Rysenth's family, his friends, his very loved ones were torn apart.

The anger in Rysenth's heart was real.

But beneath it—buried deep—Lukas felt something else within the Dragon Lord of the Flames.

Fear.

It was the kind of fear that branded itself into the soul and never faded.

Lukas blinked, his own fury faltering. He could not summon the same blind rage he had felt seconds before. Not now, not with the echo of Rysenth's grief and terror still fresh in his mind.

It was Erandyl who cut through it all. Her own Crown flared with radiant light, so bright it forced all eyes to her. Her voice echoed in their minds, carried by the Legacy itself.

"We walk upon the Ancestral Lands," Erandyl declared. "And we are here for the Draconic Summit. A fight will do none of us any good. You will retreat to your quarters and cool your tempers. Only when you are prepared to speak as leaders—not as beasts—will we meet again."

Her words were not a suggestion. They were an order. And when the Dragon Lord of the Earth, Erandyl Telaryon, herself gave an order, none dared disobey it.

Rysenth was the first to turn away. Without another word, the Dragon Lord of the Flames spun on his heel and stalked off, the fury in his stride uncontained. Malrik looked back, sheepish and apologetic, before hurrying after him, the rest of the Dragonborn of the Flames following in their Lord's wake.

Lukas remained where he stood, breathing hard, his gaze fixed on Rysenth's retreating form. He did not know what to feel after what he had just seen.

But one thing was certain.

The Draconic Summit had just begun.

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