The roar of water was deafening. It crashed and churned all around Rowan. Yet, even as the torrents rose higher and higher, the Head of the Morningeyes Clan stood motionless at its center. The marks on his body glowed brighter with that strange light as the flood began to take shape. The water twisted, coiling and stretching until it was more than just liquid, shaping itself into the form of a dragon. Its body was nearly vast enough to block out the sun above, scales of liquid shimmer gleaming as though each droplet carried a memory of the sea. The creature’s form was beautiful and terrible, its every movement rippling with ancient grace.

  The audience gasped in awe, erupting into cries of exhilaration.

  To them, it was another miracle born of magic, another spectacle from the legendary Tournament of Khaitish that they would remember for the rest of their days. But to Lukas, it was a nightmare given flesh.

  Lukas could not move, could barely even think. His breath hitched as his eyes widened in disbelief.

  It was because he knew this dragon. Lukas recognized every curve of its maw, the glint of each scale, all of it mirroring the monstrous being he had fought in the endless world within the Crest.

  It was the Monarch of the Seas.

  There was a saying whispered in every corner of Linemall, from Mount Ashendir to the Underground Cities. It was a warning passed from parent to child, a saying that ingrained itself within their culture:

  Don’t grow cruel.

  Don’t grow hungry.

  Don’t grow to become like the one they call the Monarch.

  The Monarch’s form loomed above him, not of flesh and blood, but of water shaped by divinity. His vast body shimmered, scales of liquid gleaming under the harsh Khaitishi sun.

  “Bastard boy. You know your father said you were weaker than your brother,” the Monarch growled, his tone thick and raspy just like Lukas remembered it, his words echoing not through the air but in his mind "but look how far you have come since I last saw you. That is my blood that runs through your veins now.”

  The Monarch paused, the corners of his mouth twisting into something that might have been a smile. “King of the Dragons, is that what they call you now? Pallas.” He spat the last word out as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

  For that single, endless moment, the Tournament of Khaitish ceased to exist.

  Lukas tried to steady his breathing, to silence the pounding of his heart.

  But how could he?

  The pain and the humiliation, the burning determination that had barely carried him through that impossible battle, all of it came rushing at him all at once. In the end, it was Lukas who had stood victorious, defeating the Dragon Lord they called the Monarch; his true name forgotten to the annals of history. But that victory, had not undone what the Monarch had done to him. Every scar the Monarch had carved into his soul still ached beneath his skin, every memory irreversibly seared into his mind.

  The Monarch’s laughter, low and mirthless, carried over the roaring crowd. But this wasn’t the same Monarch that had put him through so much, it was not the same dragon who he had fought against in that dark cave, Lukas knew that.

  The Legacy of the Crest was not a singular plain of existence but an inheritance, an echo of every Lord who came before him. The Monarch that had lived inside Lukas’ Crest was just a reflection, a manifestation of who the Dragon Lord had been when he was still alive.

  But this did not mean that the Monarch did not know Lukas.

  No. Because it was the Monarch himself who had made it all possible. If the Monarch had never put him into that coma, if he had never destroyed this body so many years ago, then he would not be Lukas Drakos. Because of the Monarch, Kronos had offered Julien a second chance.

  Ever since that day Lukas had first crossed paths with Rowan in the Citadels of Nozar, he had sensed it, that faint magical energy that had seemed so familiar. And now he understood why.

  The Monarch had been waiting for the right moment, watching through Rowan’s eyes, knowing that one day they would meet again. And what better way to reunite but with a battle now that his grandson was now strong enough to be considered the King of the Dragons? But Lukas did not want this. He did not want to fight the Monarch again and he did not wish to fight Rowan, someone he truly considered a friend.

  A column of water erupted upward, carrying Rowan into the air. The Monarch lowered his vast head, the serpentine neck bending low so that Rowan could climb upon it. And the beastman did like a rider returning to his steed after a long absence.

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  That was when Lukas realized the truth.

  Rowan had always known. The Head of the Morningeyes Clan had known what Lukas was, who he truly was. The mask he wore as Klein, the Rising Star of the Magic Tower, had never fooled the Monarch’s vessel.

  Behind that charming smile, that careful diplomacy and grace, Rowan had carried the truth all along. That was why Rowan had approached Lukas and Jesse that day in the Inner Cities of Nozar, why he had taken such interest in the two of them.

  The Monarch had orchestrated all of it.

  And now, here it was. The reunion his grandfather had been waiting for.

  To the Dragon Lord of Old, the bond between kin meant nothing unless it could be tested in battle. Because that was the Monarch’s truth. He was not merely cruel—he was cruelty itself, the embodiment of hunger and dominion. He fought not for honor, nor passion, nor even conquest. His violence was a language, the only one the Monarch had ever spoken. And now, he sought to speak it once more, through Rowan’s hands.

  Lukas shook his head.

  “No. I will not fight you. I won’t.” The words came out small against the roar of the arena but Lukas did not care if the crowd branded him a coward, he did not care if it meant that he would lose this Tournament. Lukas would now allow Rowan to become a conduit for that thing.

  At the same time, Lukas could not deny that he was scared. Fear unfurled in him like frost, cold and crystalline, planting itself behind his ribs and blossoming fast.

  In the Crest his body could be healed, his wounds smoothed away by rules that didn’t exist in reality. But that did not mean he was not left with scars that persisted to this day. The Monarch had stretched him to the very limits, time and again, until defeat and survival were indistinguishable. That memory—not of one battle but of the endless succession of torment—flashed behind Lukas’ eyes and made every step backward feel like an attempt to flee the past itself.

  The Monarch’s amusement soured to annoyance; his eyes tracked across the sand until they found Jesse. The beast’s expression altered in an instant and Lukas saw the cold calculation of a predator who would hunt no matter the prey. The old beast recognized the Sterling heritage within the boy, that familiar energy that came from the Divinity of the Skies.

  "So be it,” the Monarch rumbled. “If you will not fight then perhaps the youngling here will. I promise that I will tear him apart like every single Sterling scum who has come before him. And I will relish it.”

  Lightning answered the threat before Jesse did, that electric scent that made hairs along Lukas’ arms stand up. Jesse took one step forward, fingers already drawing arcs in the air that hummed with the Divinity of the Skies.

  But Lukas raised a hand, and in the pause his whisper was a command.

  “Go.”

  Jesse’s eyes flicked to Lukas, uncertain of whether he should truly leave him when the fear in his eyes was clear as day.

  "GO!"

  Where fear had once been, there was now a primal anger that had erased everything else in its path. It was a rage that did not answer to reason or diplomacy; it answered only to the hurt and the long ledger of wrongs that had never been balanced.

  The combined force of the Monarch and Rowan's magical energy had been immense. But the moment Lukas called upon his own Divinity, the protective barriers that had protected the audience in the sands groaned and shattered outward in a stinging cascade of energy which dissipated in an instant.

  The crowd, overwhelmed by excitement, threw caution to the wind, their roars rising even higher than ever before.

  The Divinity of the Seas within him roared. It was not the modest, controlled release he had mustered in every fight thus far but a titanic surge that cut clean through every restraint. It spoke of depths and pressure, of undertows and crushing black water where the light died. At the same time, Lukas felt the Draconic Flow pulse through his right arm like a living thing. The Sisters of Styx had given him this arm, allowing him to host the magical energy within, and now it flared awake with a hunger that matched the Monarch’s.

  Scales crawled up his skin beneath his sleeve, cold and salt-slick to the touch, and with each heartbeat his frame changed. Muscle and bone lengthened, seaming and smoothening out into something older; his hands widened, claws knitting at their tips and the knuckles stuttering like breakers. A row of ridges traced a spine he had never borne before. His voice, when it slipped out, carried a rasp of tidewater and grinding stone.

  When the transformation ceased, Lukas stood as tall as the Monarch.

  There within the Coliseum were two proclamations of sovereignty in different guises. One a constructed titan of water shaped by an ancient, monstrous will. The other, a living dragon, blood and inheritance braided into living power.

  The crowd, that sea of faces, stared with a mixture of wonder and something like dread. Even those who had come for spectacle alone knew that this fight carried more weight than they would ever know.

  Lukas’ resolve was a blade now, drawn and ready.

  The Monarch had threatened the life of someone he cared about.

  If Lukas did not stop him here and now, who knew what else the Monarch would take from him?

  So Lukas would unmake the Monarch. This was not for titles or applause. This was for the promise that some deaths were meant to be final.

  Above them, Rowan settled into his place, the Eyes of Morning glowing bright as ever. The Monarch’s laugh rolled across the coliseum, delighted and hungry. Lukas answered with a sound of his own, a roar, a declaration of his own. This time, he would make sure that he stayed dead.

  This would be a fight between the Monarch of the Seas, the Conqueror of Khaitish and the King of the Dragons. And so the final battle of the Tournament finally began.

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