The dawn broke over the Ancestral Lands in hues of crimson and gold, as though the very sky anticipated the blood that would soon be spilled. The air hung heavy with reverence and anticipation, for the Rite of Talons was no trivial thing—it was a matter of life, honor, and truth. At the center of the circle stood an Elder, his voice carrying with the weight of ages as he spoke the words that tradition demanded, echoing across the gathered host.

"On this day, before the eyes of all within the Ancestral Lands, the Rite of Talons will take place once more. It has been invoked by Rysenth Ishtar, Dragon Lord of the Flames, against Lukas Drakos, Dragon Lord of the Seas. The charge laid is this: that Lukas has spoken falsehoods, that he has slandered Rysenth's name and has even attacked his kin to do so."

In Linemall, there was no parchment of law, no court of judgment. Not for the likes of Rysenth. Not for the likes of Lukas. For they were the Lords of Linemall. And their word was law. It was their words that shaped the truth that this Kingdom believed in. When their words collided, when accusation and denial could not be reconciled, the Rite of Talons would decide for them.

Blood would speak where tongues could not.

The Elder's gaze swept the circle, his words heavy with tradition. "Today, one shall fall, and the ancestors themselves shall reveal whose truth stands eternal."

His voice stilled the murmurs of the crowd.

Lukas stood rigid, his chest tight as he faced the Dragon Lord of the Flames.

Rysenth Ishtar glared back, eyes alight with fire, as though a living inferno raged within him. It was not the fury of insulted pride alone—it was bloodlust, sharpened and burning, yearning to be unleashed.

The Elder turned now to Rysenth, his tone sharpening like a blade drawn for battle. "Rysenth Ishtar, Dragon Lord of Flames. Do you stand by your invocation? Will you commit to the Rite of Talons, knowing the price should you falter?"

The silence was crushing. Every ear strained to hear, every breath stilled. The question was simply a formality. There was no other answer Rysenth could give. To turn away now was to confess defeat, and defeat in the Rite of Talons meant death.

Rysenth's hand rose almost absently, fingers brushing against the sigils inked across his skin. Tattoos curved over his arms and chest, symbols Lukas had once thought mere decoration. Only now did Lukas know the truth. It was Erandyl who hade made it known to him. Each mark was a victory earned in the Rite of Talons, a memory carved into flesh by ink and blood. Rysenth's body was covered with them—countless testaments to battles fought and won.

At last, Rysenth inclined his head, his voice firm, unwavering. "I do."

The words rang through the circle like the toll of a funeral bell. Lukas felt the weight of them strike him, heavy and suffocating.

Lukas was not facing an untested warrior.

Lukas was facing a dragon who had bled and killed more times than he could count, a dragon who bore the history of his triumphs etched into his very skin.

But Lukas was not afraid. His heart did not beat in terror at the thought of facing Rysenth Ishtar, nor did it burn with eager anticipation for the duel. Lukas was steady, calm even, as though the storm already raging around him had not yet reached his soul.

The Elder now turned his solemn gaze upon him, voice carrying across the circle. "Lukas Drakos, Dragon Lord of the Seas, you too must answer this call. Will you commit yourself to the Rite of Talons, knowing that once bound, there can be no retreat?"

Lukas did not immediately respond.

Instead, his eyes remained locked on Rysenth's.

For a long moment, the Elder's words seemed distant, as though they were nothing but echoes in the wind. His voice was not for the crowd, nor for the Elder, but for the man across from him. "We do not need to do this, Rysenth," Lukas said, his tone firm yet edged with an appeal. "We can find another way. It does not have to end here, not like this."

The Dragon Lord of the Flames sneered, his eyes narrowing into burning slits. His reply was sharp, final. "I have nothing left to say to you." That was Rysenth's answer. The flame within had chosen it for him. Words would do no good now.

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The Elder's voice returned, sterner now, as he repeated his question, "Lukas Drakos, will you commit to the Rite of Talons?"

This time, Lukas could not remain silent. There was no other answer he could give.

Lukas exhaled slowly, his shoulders squaring as he spoke the single word that sealed his fate. "Yes."

The Elder gave a grave nod, lifting his staff high. His words rang out across the sacred circle: "Then let it be bound. Let it be heard today that both have committed to the Rite of Talons."

The gathered Dragonborn of the Earth, their wings vast and shimmering with earthen hues, spread as they began to rise into the air.

The Elder's voice rose once more, "Hear now the Testaments of this Rite. First—there will be no interruptions. There can be none, other than the two who have committed themselves to this Rite, who may interfere."

The Dragonborn of the Earth continued to rise further into the sky, wings thrumming with power. Their ascent shook the air, and when Erandyl herself—towering and terrible—spread her colossal wings, the very winds shifted, bowing beneath her might. The Dragon Lord of the Earth rose higher and higher, until she hung above them like a mountain suspended in the heavens.

Lukas felt it then.

The shift and the surge of magical energy from the Dragonborn above and from Erandyl herself. This was a power older than kingdoms, a magic that had kept House Telaryon enthroned over the lands of stone and soil for generations.

The oath they had all sworn had forbidden Divinities within the Ancestral Lands. That was the pact which had kept fragile peace among the Dragon Lords for centuries. But the skies were not bound by that oath.

And now, suspended above all, the Dragonborn had found their loophole.

"The Second—there are no limits. There are no exceptions to what one can or cannot do. This is not a Rite of morality or civility. This is the Rite of Talons."

When Rysenth had first invoked the Rite, the question had whispered through their peoples: How would the duel be fought when Divinities were forbidden on sacred ground? Now they all had their answer.

At Erandyl's command, the air itself thickened—pressure, grit, a taste of iron on the tongue—and then stone began to precipitate out of nothing. It did not tear free of the Ancestral Lands below; it bloomed from raw magical power.

Grains formed into pebbles, pebbles into slabs, slabs into sweeping plates of granite. Veins of ore threaded the newborn mass as if time had been condensed, geology performed at the speed of breath. The conjured earth moved as water moved for Lukas: obedient, unhesitating, eager to take shape at a thought.

Scores of Earthborn hovered above, wings beating in steady rhythm, their focus braided through Erandyl's will. The Dragon Lord of the Earth was the fulcrum; through her, a chorus. With every pulse of their magic, terraces extruded, buttresses thickened, and archways bridged open sky. In seconds the structure came together—an arena without foundation, its underbelly a lattice of stone kept aloft by invisible tension, humming with the Divinity that had raised it.

Lukas rose with the others, wings cutting the charged air. Selene and Rosalia would not be here to witness this battle. He had not wanted them to be here for this. But Katrina and Valkari would be there to cheer him on and there was little Lukas could do to argue against their wishes. His heart hammered now—not from fear, not from excitement, but from the certainty that there was nothing else he could do but focus on the battle at hand.

The arena sealed around them, a ring of black and ochre stone, open to the sky on all sides.

Below, the Ancestral Lands fell away into distance.

Up here, the oath they had all sworn on the River Styx held no jurisdiction.

Up here, they were free.

Free to fight.

And free to kill.

The Elder lifted his staff, and the stone seemed to pause mid-vibration to hear him. "May you all listen well," he cried, " and hear the third and final Testament of the Rite of Talons: This fight does not end until there is only one left standing. One must die. The other will live."

The Earthborn's power did not diminish; it settled into maintenance—silent, colossal—keeping the arena suspended in the air.

Across the arena, Rysenth had never taken his eyes from Lukas. The finality in that stare told Lukas everything that he needed to know. There would be no more negotiations. The Dragon Lord of the Flames wanted Lukas to pay for what he had done and he wanted Lukas' life as the price for his sins.

The Elder's voice cut once more through the air: "Let all bear witness and may the Rite of Talons…begin!"

Rysenth's words carried across the stone, sharp and final. "Burn in the flames, Lukas Drakos, and return to the ashes."

Lukas drew himself upright, answering with words of his own. "Let the tides claim you and the depths keep you, Rysenth Ishtar."

The arena held its breath.

Silence tightened—one heartbeat, two.

Then the air broke, and their battle began.

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