For the first time in years, the King of Nozar, ruler of courts gilded in false light was seen without the curtains of charm, authority, and cultivated pride that had always surrounded him like armor. Every lie, every carefully crafted half-truth, every manipulation that Daerion had woven throughout Hiraeth unraveled within Lukas’ mind as cleanly as a torn thread.

  There was no mask left to hide behind.

  This was no King striving to protect his people from an unforgiving sea. There was only Daerion Ittriki, the man who had twisted the world in the palm of his hand.

  Once the Tournament of Khaitish had concluded, it was Ellion who Lukas first sought out. Varian's records had finally been deciphered and what it revealed was unlike anything that Lukas could have ever imagined. Ellion himself had not believed what he read, not at first. The implications were too severe, the meaning too enormous. Lukas still barely believed what he had read in those deciphered records. There was doubt as he spoke those words now but the instant Lukas saw the look in Daerion's eyes, he knew what Varian had written in those books were far from false truths.

  Somehow, impossibly, the King of Nozar had in his possession the Heart of Thalarion Drakos.

  For years, the world had been misled.

  Hiraeth had trembled beneath brutal waves and storms so merciless that even seasoned sailors spoke of them with trembling voices. Entire coastlines had been reshaped, harbors swallowed, trade routes lost beneath the waters. People whispered that it was divine punishment, that Oceanus himself had turned against the mortals who had failed him. They prayed with desperation, begged for mercy at altars and shrines worn smooth by generations of kneeling. But it had never been Oceanus who lashed out with storms. Oceanus had not spoken since the Great War, not to kings, not to the most devout of his believers, not even to the appointed High Septon of the Church.

  It had always been Daerion.

  Daerion, sitting atop his throne draped in harmless gold and polished pride, was the one who had commanded the waves, not some distant deity. Through the Heart of Thalarion Drakos, he had seized the seas themselves. Every storm, every shipwreck, every life taken beneath the darkness of the ocean had been orchestrated by him. Not out of necessity, not out of fear, but out of ambition. The people of Nozar—and soon, all the kingdoms of Humanity—had been maneuvered into reverence, into dependency and worship. And Daerion had solidified it by expanding the Church’s reach until its influence stretched into every corner of Hiraeth. It was the King of Nozar who ordered the priests to preach obedience, to convince the masses that suffering was a test of faith and salvation could only be found in prayer.

  All the while, Daerion crafted calamities and presented himself as the shepherd guiding the desperate through divine wrath.

  They had never been worshipping Oceanus.

  It was just like Varian's final letter had warned the one worthy enough to bear the knowledge that he had recorded within those books that Lukas had found.

  Daerion wished himself to be a god.

  This was a man who fashioned himself in the likeness of a Titan, a man who had quietly bound nations with fear, had controlled faith as effectively as he had controlled the seas through the Heart of Lukas' ancestor.

  Daerion Ittriki had not merely ruled Nozar. He had ruled the world with belief itself.

  Lukas still did not know how Daerion had gotten his hands on it. But the King of Nozar had done more than just find the Heart, Daerion had somehow learnt to wield the Divinity of the Seas through it with the precision and arrogance of someone who believed himself chosen by fate. It made a terrible and horrifying sort of sense the longer Lukas had allowed the truth to settle. It was like the pieces of a puzzle he had spent years trying to understand finally clicking into place, each one connecting so well that it scared the King of the Dragons. The more Lukas thought on it, the more he realized how many of inconsistencies had not been due to divine intervention but by one mortal man misusing a power that had never belonged to him.

  Because Lukas had seen true power up close, one that belonged to an immortal.

  Lukas had stood before Kronos, feeling the crushing weight of time itself emanate from the Titan’s presence. He had experienced firsthand what Styx and her sisters were capable of, the Rivers of the Underworld given living form. He had even glimpsed the power of Oceanus himself in the fleeting moment when the Hero From Another World had channeled just a drop of the Titan's ancient might.

  Lukas was not arrogant enough to mistake his own accomplishments for equivalence. Even with the level of power he had been able to reach and everything he had been able to achieve, Lukas knew that the gods existed on a plane entirely beyond mortal comprehension.

  Their strength was not simply vast. It was infinite and boundless. It allowed the gods to shape reality as they knew it. So how on Hiraeth had Lukas been able to fight against it?

  When he had calmed the oceans to allow the Duel in Easthaven to take place, Lukas had assumed he was going up against the wrath of Oceanus himself. The waves had been fierce, their fury violent enough to threaten the entire coastline of Easthaven. Lukas had struggled with every ounce of magic he possessed to subdue them. It had taken time, focus, and a measure of desperation he rarely allowed himself to feel.

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  But in the end, he had prevailed.

  Lukas had somehow wrestled control of the seas and forced them into submission for the span of a month.

  Back then, he had thought it a miracle. Lukas had believed it was a sign of his growth. Perhaps even evidence that a mortal could reach where the immortals walked.

  But he had been wrong all along.

  Looking back now, the truth was unmistakable. Lukas would have never stood a chance against Oceanus.

  If it was truly the Titan who was responsible for the violent waters, had, Lukas would not have been able to wrestle away control that was so absolute that no mortal, not even one as ascendant as Lukas, could claim.

  It even unraveled the mystery of Celina’s loyalty.

  Someone as unwavering, as principled, as morally steadfast as the former Divine Knight would never have followed Daerion and his wicked ways. But he possessed the Heart of Thalarion Drakos. Lukas doubted Celina truly knew every single word of the Prophecy, for her love for the Titan himself—however misguided it might have been—was as fierce Soren's own love for Oceanus. But there was one line that Daerion must have used to convince the Divine Knight to swear her fealty to his cause.

  “He will wield the power of the seas itself, inherit the strength of the dragons, one that even Heroes or Knights will not be able to stand against.”

  Perhaps even the King of Noar had convinced himself that he was the one destined to fulfill it.

  Across from him, Daerion did not say a word. But silence was not something Lukas allowed to linger.

  His voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding. “Show me where you are keeping the heart of my ancestor. I will not ask again.”

  What Lukas felt now was more than just anger.

  Daerion had hurt so many people. He had twisted the world, broken families, ruined livelihoods and sent entire kingdoms into despair. But beneath that, beneath all the death and suffering, lay the bitterest truth of them all, Daerion had done it with the magic of House Drakos.

  It took everything for Lukas not to strike the King of Nozar down right there and then.

  If Thalarion Drakos were alive, if the Dragon Lord could see what had become of the remnants of his legacy, Lukas knew he would be horrified to see the final echo of his power woven into the schemes of a corrupt mortal king.

  It would have broken his heart. Because right now, it was breaking his.

  Lukas could not allow Daerion to tarnish the legacy of his forefather any longer.

  The Heart had to be here.

  There was no else that the King of Nozar could keep it except within the Inner Cities of Nozar.

  Lukas could feel it like a distant pulsing whisper echoed faintly in his blood, like a forgotten power trying to reunite with its source.

  If Daerion refused to show him where it was hidden, Lukas would tear the Inner Cities of this Kingdom apart, brick by brick, until he uncovered it. The King of Nozar knew that, Daerion could see it in Lukas’ eyes. He could see the cold resolution and the quiet promise of devastation.

  Which was why, at last, the King of Nozar yielded.

  Daerion said nothing as he turned and began to walk.

  Lukas followed, his steps rumbling against the polished stone as Daerion led him into the streets of the Inner Cities.

  This place had always been a monument to excess, a world of wealth and luxury crafted exclusively for the elites of Nozar. Towering homes, shimmering mosaics and ornate fountains crafted from imported marble—every inch of it was designed to remind the privileged of their status while the common people of Nozar starved beneath failing trade routes and the crushing weight of engineered storms.

  To Lukas, every lavish decoration felt like an insult. Every polished stone felt like a betrayal. Everything about this place disgusted him, that had not changed since the last time he had stood here.

  At last, they approached the Citadels of Nozar. Crowned with gleaming spires of white marble that reached toward the heavens, they were monuments supposedly built in honor of Oceanus.

  But that could not have been further from the truth.

  These towers were not temples of worship, but prisons of devotion. They were symbols of Daerion’s power, of his deception and his insidious rule over faith itself.

  The old man walked carefully as he guided Lukas inside, his steps tense and measured.

  There was something in the king’s posture—hesitation, guilt, perhaps even shame.

  Lukas did not think that someone like Daerion was even capable of such a thing.

  The King of the Dragons followed silently as the King of Nozar led them into a descending staircase hidden behind layers of sanctified stone. Doors lined the walls, each one carved with ancient runes that flickered to life under only Daerion’s touch. They delved deeper—into cold, echoing caverns beneath the city—until at last they reached a final sealed passage.

  Only then did Lukas realize there was something that he had overlooked.

  Just like the Heart of Kaeryth and the Founder’s Spell, there had to be purpose for the Heart to continue beating, a connection to the Land of the Living.

  A reason.

  In this case...a vessel.

  When the final door opened, a pulse of radiant light spilled into the cavern, illuminating the crystalized organ that throbbed with ancient draconic power. But Lukas’ breath caught, not because he was standing before the Heart of Thalarin Drakos, but because of who it was connected to.

  Daerion Ittriki had three sons.

  Darren Ittriki, the Last Son of Nozar, who had abandoned his claim royalty long ago.

  Alric Ittriki, former Rear Admiral of Nozar's Navy and the Second Son of Nozar, who had died by Rodan’s corrupted hand.

  But the world, including Lukas himself, had forgotten his eldest son. This was the Crown Prince and the rightful heir to the throne. Standing before Lukas, bound to the glowing Heart of Thalarion Drakos, was none other than Dorian Ittriki, the eldest child of Daerion and the First Son of Nozar himself.

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