The wind howled across the endless expanse of gold and shadow, the dunes of Khaitish rolling like a living sea beneath the night sky. Above them, cutting through the desert air with a whispering rush was none other than Lukas Drakos. Beneath him was a platform of shimmering water that glowed faintly with soft cerulean light, defying the laws of gravity. The platform pulsed with each heartbeat, responding to the rhythm of his Divinity.

It was a feeling that Lukas had missed dearly, the feeling of wielding the Divinity of the Seas.

This was his inheritance, the magic of House Drakos, and it flowed through him once more. It was more than magic to him. It was a part of his identity, a reminder of who he was and who he had become. Every ripple that formed under his control carried the scent of salt and the sound of crashing waves, memories of a past that he had nearly forgotten as pain threatened to erase him.

Lukas inhaled deeply, the air of the desert dry and alien to his lungs, yet his spirit felt nourished and whole.

For the first time in many moons, the King of the Dragons felt alive.

Makhulu had said it would take Lukas days to reach the outskirts of Khaitish's Inner Cities, but he had covered the distance in mere hours. With the Divinity of the Seas being his to wield once again, it was an easy feat. And as he raced toward his destination, he thought of what awaited him there.

Lukas should have known that bringing down the auction house in Ilagron Village would not be the last of the House of Fortunes. Men like Mister Rabbit were never the architects, merely the agents. Behind every cruelty was a shadow pulling the strings, and when it came to slave trading, there were none darker than hers.

They called her the Shadow Fox.

Jesse had mentioned her before, the Merchant Guild having bought many of their kind back from her and her empire. But still, there were those who remained under the yoke of slavery.

Perhaps as elusive as the High Septon of the Church herself, the Shadow Fox was a force, one whose business thrived in the silence of misery and the commerce of flesh. And she had built her dominion upon the broken and the forgotten, capturing those without power and turning their suffering into profit. It was a trade as lucrative as it was despicable. The Kingdom of Khaitish, with its sprawling sands and lawless borders, was where she had chosen to establish her empire.

This time, Lukas would bring an end to the House of Fortunes for good.

As the dunes blurred beneath him, his thoughts drifted to Makhulu—the eldest of the Magopo Brothers.

The beastman had spoken of peace and it was something that Lukas wanted for himself as well. But how could he find that peace when his people, the children of Linemall, were still shackled? Enslaved? Beaten and branded like beasts? How could there be peace when the blood of his kin stained the hands of men who saw them as nothing more than commodities?

Until every last chain was shattered, until every child was freed, there would be no such thing as peace.

Lukas had meant what he had said, he would be the breaker of chains and until then, he would not rest.

But still, Makhulu's words lingered in his mind. Because within it was something that had reminded him of something important.

Violence did not have to be the answer to the freedom he sought.

It was such a simple truth, yet one so difficult to live by.

Lukas clenched his jaw, eyes narrowing against the wind.

It was easy to kill, far too easy. He had done so more times than he cared to count. His power gave him the means to erase his enemies from the face of Hiraeth and there would be nothing they could do to stop him. If he wished, Daerion's reign could end tonight. Nozar could be turned to salt and ash before the sun rose.

But would that end the suffering?

Would it end the hatred that had taken root in the hearts of men and dragon alike?

No. It would not.

The cycle would only begin anew—breeding more and more vengeance, blood spilling endlessly upon the flow of time and history.

But it was easier said than done. Even as he tried to still the storm within himself, Lukas could not ignore the faint tremor of wrath that remained. Because while that ideal was one worth striving towards, there were some evils in this world that deserved no mercy.

The line between justice and vengeance was thin—as thin as the surface of the water beneath his feet.

His train of thought faded as he caught something in his line of sight.

At first, Lukas thought it a mirage, just another cruel trick of the desert heat. But as he drew closer, his expression hardened. His stomach twisted as his eyes found what lay ahead. The dunes parted to reveal what looked like lands carved into the desert itself. Long, rectangular plots stretched out in every direction, surrounded by high fences and guarded towers.

Except these were not fields of wheat or barley.

They were holding pens, not for farm animals, but for slaves.

The sight sickened him.

Iron bars stretched endlessly across the desert sands, their metal blackened by heat and age. Chains clattered as the prisoners shifted, a sound that echoed like broken hymns through the stillness.

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The draconic kind were stripped of their pride, their scales dulled and cracked from dehydration, wings bound with wire so tightly that the flesh beneath had begun to rot. The beastkin fared no better—fur matted with dirt and their eyes glazed with exhaustion. Some could barely move; their bodies were gaunt and their ribs visible beneath skin caked with grime. And the humans…their eyes looked hollow, as if whatever spark had once burned within them had been beaten out long ago.

There were feeding troughs they ate from only when food was provided.

Water, stagnant and yellowed, filled rusted barrels that stank of metal and decay.

The sand beneath their feet was dark with dried blood, the remnants of those who had not survived to see another day. He could still see the marks where bodies had been dragged away, clawed furrows etched deep into the ground.

The wind picked up again, carrying whispers; they were faint, trembling sounds that might have once been prayers but now were nothing more than memories of voices long silenced.

A small wyvern whelp lay curled near one of the corners, his breathing shallow. The shackle around his neck was so large it looked as if it might snap his fragile bones at any moment.

The platform lowered to the ground before Lukas knelt, his hand hovering over the youngling as his throat tightened. The wyvern's golden eyes flickered open for just a heartbeat but he didn't even flinch when his eyes found Lukas'.

The only thing he could see within the wyvern's eyes was acceptance. Acceptance of what was to come, a beating or worse, it did not matter. Acceptance of a world where pain was ordinary, and mercy was myth.

The Crown ignited then, the Legacy that Lukas had inherited long ago coming to life, taking its shape in the form of a white halo that appeared above his brow.

At once, they felt his mind touch theirs.

The waters began to swirl all around them, rising from the air itself as the Divinity of the Seas answered Lukas' call. The sound came first as a deep, resonant hum that rippled through the air, followed by a rush like a thousand waves colliding in unison. The enslaved looked up in awe, faces streaked with dirt and blood, eyes wide as the world itself seemed to bend around him.

They had seen magic before, the kind that broke minds and bodies.

But never this.

Never had they seen something so immense and alive.

Streams of solidified water spiraled outward, cutting through the air like blades of light. Each strand moved with purpose, weaving between the rows of cages, through the narrow walkways of rusted iron and cracked stone. And then, all at once, the chains broke. The metallic groan of tearing links echoed like thunder, the sound carrying across the dunes. Shackles split and scattered across the ground, wrists and ankles left raw but free. The water surged further, smashing through the fences that had held them captive, bending iron into scrap and turning wood to splinters. Gates that had stood for decades crumpled like parchment under the pressure.

The freed stood frozen at first, trembling, afraid to believe what their eyes told them. The weight of their chains was gone, but the memory of them still lingered, the phantom pain that came from years in bondage refusing to fade.

Lukas felt it all.

Through the Crown, through the Legacy that tethered his mind to theirs, he felt every tremor, every heartbeat and every burst of disbelief.

Their emotions crashed into him like a tide he could not resist: terror, confusion, and then—

Hope.

And by the gods, it took his breath away.

Tears welled in Lukas' eyes before he could stop them.

For a moment, the world became a blur. Not from exhaustion or pain but rather the overwhelming flood of feeling. All the pain he had buried, all the fury he had carried in silence, seemed to rise within him now.

Through every trial and tribulation, he had endured through betrayal, through loss and through the cruel grip of fate that sought to drag him down time and time again. He had fought until there was nothing left to give. He had faced death and refused to yield, even when the thought of his wife waiting on the other side had tempted him to let go.

All of it...was for this.

This was why he fought.

They still did not move. Even as the last of their chains clattered to the ground, many stood rooted where they were, trembling as though expecting the world to correct itself, to punish them for daring to believe in this dream-like reality.

Lukas took a slow breath, steadying himself. The halo of white light that crowned his brow glowed brighter, the mark of a king born not just from lineage, but from sheer will and conviction.

"My name," he said, his voice carrying through the quiet, "is Lukas Drakos. And you are free." The words echoed with power, carried not just by sound but by the Crown itself, pressing into the hearts of all who heard them. "No longer will you be bound in chains against your will. Never again."

This was not about race, or creed, or bloodline. None of them deserved this.

"Find the one they call Jesse Ilagron in the Inner Cities of Khaitish," he commanded softly. "Find the Merchant Guild. Until then, hide from those who would harm you. And…"

Lukas paused as he watched them.

The draconic kind were the first to kneel, their heads bowed low in reverence. The rest of them followed soon after, not because he was their Lord or King, but because he was the one who had set them free of their suffering. He was their salvation.

Yet Lukas felt no pride in it.

Because he did not crave their worship.

This was not about being some kind of…Hero.

This was about the right to live, a truth so fundamental it meant more than any throne.

In that moment, Lukas realized that Makhulu had been right about one thing.

A single being alone could not set them all free even if Lukas wished it to be so.

"And I need you all to understand this. I may have broken your chains…but it is up to each and every single one of you to fight for your freedom. Fight for one another and yourselves. Fight for your right to live."

Lukas wished he could stay, he wished he could protect them on the journey ahead.

But they would have to fend for themselves and Lukas could only hope that they would make it to the Inner Cities of Khaitish which lay only a day's travel away from the outskirts.

Because he had to protect them from something far more dangerous.

From the far dunes, clouds of black began to gather, twisting upward like smoke from a dying fire. The air grew colder and heavier.

The Shadow Fox had arrived.

And she had brought with her an army they called the House of Fortunes—the full wrath of the empire that had enslaved them all—to reclaim what she thought was hers.

But Lukas was going to make sure they did not live to see tomorrow.

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