For a heartbeat, even the elements seemed to hesitate, unsure if the battle was truly over.

  Then, the seas finally receded. The majestic walls of water that had encircled the arena thinned, flowing down in rivulets that soaked into the sand surrounding the stone platform.

  As the waters drained away, the two figures at the heart of it all became visible once more.

  The twins, Rasta and Adonis, fell to their knees, their bodies trembling from the lingering electricity that crackled faintly across their scorched skin.

  The proud beastmen, the most fearsome warriors that the Magopo Clan had ever seen, had been struck down by a power that even the Overdrive of the Internal Arts could stand against, a Divinity born from the heavens themselves. The stench of ozone and burnt flesh filled the air, rising like smoke from a battlefield. Their breaths came in short, ragged bursts, and the faint blue glow of their Internal Arts flickered weakly across their bodies before sputtering out entirely, the Overdrive ending with a dull, defeated whimper.

  Then came Lukas.

  The water around him rippled once more, twisting and reforming until his shape emerged from it, fluid solidifying into flesh like a dragon reborn from the tides. Droplets slid from his hair and shoulders as he stepped forward, eyes fixed on the two warriors kneeling before him.

  There was no triumph in his expression, not even the satisfaction of victory.

  Because these victories in battle...they felt empty now.

  And then, the crowd erupted.

  Their cheers crashed like a tidal wave over the arena, filling every corner of the Coliseum with deafening sound. The beastmen in the lower stands roared with excitement, their voices uniting in wild celebration of what they had witnessed. To them, this had been a fight unlike any other beyond comprehension, truly worthy of the Tournament. But none of them realized that they were now watching the end of the legendary Magopo Brothers of the Sabi Sands. They had fought for the glory of their people, and in doing so, had become part of the legend that the Tournament itself would write into the records of history itself.

  To the rest of the world, it sounded like pure excitement.

  To Lukas, they sounded like cries of betrayal.

  The beastmen cheered not for what the twins had stood for, but for their defeat. They had forgotten the cause the twins had fought to uphold, a future where their kin would no longer bow to the oppression of Nozar and its King.

  Lukas turned his gaze upwards, towards the private booths overlooking the Coliseum.

  There, among silks and gold, sat the human nobles, dignitaries and wealthy lords of Khaitish; all of whom had likely come from the Kingdom of Nozar years ago to rule over the land of the Beastkin in Daerion's place.

  The sight made his chest tighten.

  The beastkin who served them—attendants, guards and slaves—stood quietly behind their masters, their faces solemn, their ears lowered.

  They did not cheer.

  They did not celebrate.

  For them, this battle had never been about glory or spectacle.

  It had been about hope, the hope that the Magopo Brothers might be able to tip the scales, to disrupt this cruel balance of power that kept them bound in servitude.

  Now, they were forced to watch in silence as that hope began to die before their very eyes.

  Lukas clenched his fists.

  Rasta and Adonis had fallen not just to Jesse’s divinity or to his own control over the seas, but to a system that had already decided their worth long before the battle began. Beyond the Inner Cities, they may have been regarded as fearsome warlords. But here, they were here simply to entertain the masses who were content to allow Nozar's shadow reign to go on.

  Lukas turned slightly, seeing Jesse lower himself back from the edge of the stone platform, all aggression fading.

  Together, they looked upon the twins, warriors who had put everything on the line to make a bet for the sake of their victory and in the end, they had lost it all. And yet, in their defeat, there was no despair.

  A strange, guttural sound rose from the twins’ throats. But it grew louder, fuller, rolling through the tension.

  It was laughter.

  Rasta laughed first, his voice hoarse and broken, and then Adonis joined him, their laughter blending together, filled with exhaustion, pain, and pride all at once.

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  It was not the laughter of madness nor mockery, but of satisfaction at the end they faced now.

  “Your names,” Rasta rasped through shallow breaths, his body trembling as he struggled to keep himself upright. “Tell us your names…sons of Linemall.”

  “Lukas,” he said quietly, the word heavy with meaning. “My name is Lukas Drakos.”

  Rasta’s dimming eyes turned toward Jesse, waiting for the young dragonborn to do the same.

  For a heartbeat, the young heir of House Sterling hesitated.

  But there was no reason to hide, not anymore.

  “Jesse Sterling. My name is Jesse Sterling."

  In this small space on the stone platform, the noise faded, leaving only the honesty of this moment. The honesty that came from knowing that the four of them were bound by the shared understanding of what it meant to fight for something greater than themselves.

  Adonis turned his head, his gaze settling on Jesse. Even with the flicker of life fading from his eyes, the beastman caught that faint glimmer of pity in Jesse’s expression.

  “We…do not want your sympathy, Jesse,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Death is not the end for us. Because somewhere beyond this world, there exists another realm, where milk and honey flow endlessly, in the land of which Pan has promised to his people.”

  Rasta chuckled weakly beside him, though his laughter soon turned into a cough, dark blood flecking his lips. Still, he managed a grin, one that carried both defiance and peace. The life in his eyes flickered, but even as it dimmed, there was no fear.

  “You…the sons of Linemall,” Rasta murmured, “have given us a warrior’s death. I fought to avenge my brother…but in the end…” He smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “…You were just stronger than we.”

  For the twins, death was not a punishment, nor even the end. It was a passage, a return to something purer than the world they had known. Yet even the strongest belief in this afterlife could not mask the ache of conviction that would go unfulfilled in the Land of the Living.

  As the seconds dragged on, the twins’ laughter waned, giving way to silence.

  Rasta turned to Adonis, his voice breaking as tears welled in his eyes, tears that neither pride nor faith could hold back. “I just wish…” the beastman whispered, his hand trembling as he reached for his brother’s, their fingers interlocking one last time. “…that we could have been the ones to free our people.”

  Lukas took a slow step forward.

  Every eye in the Coliseum was fixed on him now.

  The crowd held its breath, waiting for the final act, the end of this duel, the very moment when the two victors would finally deliver judgement onto their enemies.

  This was how battles were ended.

  But Lukas did not raise his hand to strike them down nor did he summon the Divinity of the Seas to put the twins out of the Instead, he did something none of them expected.

  The King of the Dragons knelt.

  Lukas lowered himself until his eyes met those of the dying twins. Their faces were streaked with tears, blood, and the remnants of battle, their chests rising in shallow, trembling breaths. They were exhausted, yet still proud, undoubtedly warriors to the very end.

  Then, the Crown flared to life.

  A radiant white halo burst into existence above Lukas’s head, its light cutting through the dim air of the Coliseum like dawn breaking through storm clouds. The aura that surrounded him shimmered with ethereal brilliance, soft and pure, unlike the fury that had defined their battle. The light touched the twins, and for an instant, time itself seemed to still. The halo was more than a symbol, it was a conduit, an ancient bridge that linked one mind to another.

  In that connection, they saw what Lukas saw.

  A vision unfolded before their eyes, a world that they had never known, yet still felt painfully real real. The twins saw vast skies alive with dragons soaring freely, their wings glinting in the sunlight like silver fire. Below them, the sands of Khaitish stretched endlessly, but they were no longer stained by blood or shadow. There, the beastkin walked unchained, their laughter carried on the wind, their hearts unburdened by servitude or fear. The humans did not hold dominion. The world was balanced and free—a world of which they had fought and died for, brought to life if only for a moment through Lukas’ Crown.

  Lukas would make sure that this would become Hiraeth's future.

  He would make sure of it.

  The twins wept openly now. Not with despair, but with the kind of tears that came when the soul was finally at peace. They sobbed through the pain, through the trembling of their bodies as their life began to fade.

  For the first time since the battle began, they smiled without bitterness.

  “I will tell Makhulu the both of you died a death worthy of warriors,” Lukas said to them.

  At his words, the twins chuckled, but this time their laughter was gentle. It was a sound of release, of relief.

  Jesse stepped forward then and came to kneel beside Lukas. His head bowed low, the gesture one of mutual respect. For all their rivalry, the dragonborn knew the truth. These two deserved to be remembered, not as defeated foes, but as warriors who had challenged the strength of Linemall and never backed down.

  Rasta’s breathing grew shallow, his voice a frail whisper carried on the wind. “Tell my brothers…” the beastman said, his eyes unfocused but his words clear, “that I will give our sister their love. Tell them that we will be waiting for them there.”

  Adonis gave a faint chuckle beside him, his strength fading but his spirit unbroken. “Tell Makhulu,” he added, “that we will make a house there with Scar. Tell him to join us in the land that Pan has promised when his time here, within the Land of the Living, comes to an end.” His lips curled into a faint smile, his next words trembling with humor even as his breath faltered. “But alas… we are no builders. We are warriors.” He looked at Lukas, his eyes softening into something that could almost be mistaken for joy. “So tell them…to take their time.”

  The wind stirred gently across the platform then, as if carrying his final words into eternity. And with that, the light within the twins began to fade. Their bodies shimmered, breaking apart not into blood or dust, but into fine motes of ash that scattered upward, carried by the same wind that had once howled through their battle. The air shimmered faintly where they had been, two silhouettes fading into the pale glow of Lukas’ halo before disappearing entirely.

  Rasta and Adonis—the fearsome twins of fury, the pride of the Magopo clan and the legends of their people—were gone. Their story ended not in violence, but in peace. And as the ashes drifted skyward, Lukas lowered his head, his heart heavy but steady.

  For in their final breath, they had not found defeat.

  They had found freedom.