The night lay heavy over Easthaven, the air still thick with the memory of battle. Fires continued to burn bright across the city, casting faint orange glows that pulsed like dying stars against the cobblestone streets. Around the Magic Tower was the very army of dragons that Rosalia had brought upon Easthaven; their ranks drawn tight and their scales gleaming in the pale wash of moonlight. They stood like a great wall, sealing the Tower and all within it from any lingering threat of Maelis' men.

Lukas let his gaze wander across those gathered here, exhaustion etched in every face yet tempered by something stronger: Hope renewed.

The day's bloodshed had not been without cost, but the outcome was undeniable.

Nozar's Puppet King, had thrown his strength against them, pouring the might of his armies into the jaws of dragons and fire.

Maelis had sought to drown rebellion beneath sheer numbers and naval steel.

Yet, when the sun dipped below the horizon, it was the Puppet King who ordered his men to retreat.

Lukas could still hear the horns of the Nozari Navy, their disciplined calls turning to notes of desperation as Maelis ordered the marines to fall back, abandoning ground inch by inch until all that remained to them was the Elarion Royal Palace itself.

A single day had rewritten the fate of Maelis Elarion's reign. Where the Rebellion had once stood at the edge of ruin, it now surged forward with new strength found in the power of Linemall.

Magnus had not lied as he spoke his last.

It was more than just freedom that Rosalia had given them. For she had become a symbol for them all to look to. Men who hours ago had been little more than weary shadows now spoke with voices bright with conviction. Women who had wept for fallen sons and brothers now lifted their chins, their grief overwhelmed by pride.

Easthaven was alive again, and it was because of her.

Lukas' eyes found her easily amid the campfires and soldiers' chatter. Rosalia stood a short distance away, her red hair catching stray strands of firelight as she spoke quietly with Soren and Jesse. The three of them looked utterly spent, clothes torn and armor battered, yet their presence still carried an undeniable weight. They had been there on the frontlines throughout the battles that had taken place that day, even up until the final surge that had forced Maelis back behind his walls.

Lukas could not help but smile. He had watched them carve victory out of ruin, watched them hold when others would have broken. And because of that, Lukas could not have been more proud. He had always been right about one thing and now he was sure of it.

The future was in good hands.

The embers of victory still glowed in the night, yet Lukas knew that triumph alone was not what had carried the Rebellion to this moment. When Rosalia had been absent—when despair had clawed at their resolve—they had needed someone else to bear the torch and lead them through the darkness.

There were many who played their parts but only one had truly led them.

Belanor the Blacksmith had fought with a ferocity that seemed impossible for a man of his age. Once, he had been a friend to Magnus Elarion himself, and tonight his body bore the cost of loyalty. His frame was swathed in bandages that reeked of strange alchemical brews, skin blistered where magic had burned him from within. And yet, he still stood. His eyes, fever-bright and weary, drifted constantly to the men and women he had defended, as though measuring whether his sacrifice had been enough. Lukas thought it a wonder he still drew breath, for Belanor had poured every ounce of his strength into the cause.

Myrren Hollowark had been another pillar—though hers was a quieter role. The oldest of the Tower's Archmages, she served knowledge above any crown or religion. In the shadows she had lent her wisdom, her guidance and her spells. Lukas remembered how Magnus used to speak about her, admitting to him that even after all these years, the Head Mage did not know where her loyalties truly lay. In the end, it seemed like the old King had nothing to worry about. To most, she was a mystery; but to the Rebellion, she was an ally when it mattered most.

But it had not been either of the legendary Archmages who had held the reins when Rosalia was gone.

That burden had fallen to Thomas Harrow. And there he was.

Lukas froze when his gaze caught him across the firelit clearing.

Thomas had already grown into a man the last time he had seen him but somehow he seemed to have become a different person altogether. The former mage Lukas had once known seemed like a ghost now, buried beneath battles that had been fought for the sake of this Kingdom. His posture was straighter and his eyes sharper.

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They said war changes a man and in Thomas that change was absolute. He no longer bore the look of one swept along by history—he bore the look of one who took command of it.

Their eyes met, and Thomas smiled. Not in surprise, nor disbelief, but with a quiet certainty that caught Lukas off guard. It was the smile of someone who had always known.

"You look good, Klein," Thomas said, his voice low.

And the dragon's smile widened as he was brought back to the past. "You flatter me," Lukas replied, his tone faint with amusement. "But I don't swing that way. You know that."

Thomas chuckled and the sound of it reminded him of a simpler time.

For a heartbeat, the fires of war, the battle for survival and hope, the weight of leadership—all of it fell away. They were both apprentice mages once more, laughing at nothing and mocking each other within the great libraries of this very Tower.

Lukas let the laughter linger. Because he needed it, they both did.

Behind Thomas' smile was the truth neither of them could deny: war had hardened them but it had not broken them. And it never would. Although Rosalia's return would guide Easthaven into a better future, it was men like Thomas who had carried the fire long enough to see that future come to light.

As Lukas stood there, smiling faintly at his old friend, he knew the Rebellion's strength did not just come from the last words of a King who believed in his granddaughter. It had been forged in the loyalty of people like Thomas Harrow who refused to surrender, even when it seemed victory did not seem possible. And Easthaven would remember them, too.

The crowd behind them roared with laughter and song while Lukas and Thomas slipped away from the clamor, finding a quiet alcove near the Tower's outer wall. Here, the fires were dimmer, the night air cool upon their faces; carrying only the distant murmur of celebration. It felt almost sacred, a reprieve carved from the chaos of it all.

Thomas sat first, lowering himself to the stone step with a tired sigh, then drew a flask from his belt—no, not a flask but a squat bottle of rum, dark and sharp-smelling even before he pulled the cork. Without a word, he offered it to Lukas.

"So your true name is Lukas? Lukas Drakos?" Thomas asked, his voice calm, though there was a hint of apparent curiosity that did not go unnoticed.

Lukas accepted the bottle, the cool glass pressing against his palm. He tilted it back, letting the burn course down his throat, and only then did he answer. "Yes. My name is Lukas. I'm sorry for not telling you the truth."

Thomas leaned back, the corner of his mouth quirking upward as Lukas returned the bottle to him.

"I understand, you had your reasons. I should feel surprised," Thomas admitted, taking his sip of his own. "But…for some reason, I always knew you were more than just a man. The King of Dragons, though…" He chuckled, shaking his head. "I never knew I had such a powerful friend."

The words were playful, but Lukas felt their warmth all the way to his soul.

Titles, bloodlines, crowns—none of it mattered here.

To Thomas, Lukas was not some myth reborn. To the mage, Lukas would always be his friend, the one who had he had studied alongside during sleepless nights and the one who had once clapped loudest when Thomas was named valedictorian of their cohort. If only time could turn back, if only they could sit in those quiet halls once more, surrounded by books instead of blades.

There was once when Lukas believed that those times of peace would last forever.

But Time did not stop, it only carried them forward, taking them where they needed to be.

Lukas might have said as much, might have pressed further into the comfort of that memory, had not a new presence broken the stillness.

Belanor appeared at the edge of the alcove, his gait heavy but steady despite the bandages that wrapped him like a warrior's shroud. The Archmage's eyes, deep and sharp even through the haze of pain, fixed squarely on Lukas.

The look there was more than recognition—it was awe, mingled with disbelief.

Hiraeth had believed Klein was dead. They had thought the Rising Star of the Tower, the prodigy who had once calmed the seas and the only apprentice the great Magnus Elarion had ever taken in, had perished in the Kingdom's darkest hour.

That was the tale carried on every tongue.

Yet here he was, returned not as Klein, not just as Lukas but the King of Dragons, the Ruler of a Kingdom that this world had long forgotten.

Belanor bowed. Not the half-measure respect of equals, but a sharp, deliberate bow that spoke louder than any words could.

"I apologize for interrupting," the Archmage said, voice low, "But there is someone who wishes to speak to you. And she has been waiting to do so for a very long time."

Lukas rose immediately, matching the respect with a dip of his head. His brow furrowed as he asked, "And who exactly is that?"

The old mage's gaze did not waver. "Myrren has been waiting for you to return to Easthaven. In truth, I did not believe her. But here you are. She says that she has a message for you. A message…from Time itself."

Suddenly, Lukas knew that the night was far from over.

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