The waters of the Inner Cities had always been calm, or at least that was how the King of Nozar preferred to remember them—still, obedient, a mirror that reflected only what he permitted it to. But this morning they seemed different in a way that he could not name.

  Daerion stood, hands clasped behind his back, forcing himself to stare directly into that shifting blue.

  For the first time throughout his reign, the man could not command his thoughts into order. A month had passed, and yet the events that had unfolded in the Kingdom of Khaitish continued to unmake the world he once held firmly in his grasp. He had believed himself prepared for any outcome, any rebellion or battle that would come Nozar's way.

  Just like the waters, this was different.

  Daerion could not contain it. He could not buy it, threaten it, or bury it as he had done countless times before. There was nothing he could have done to prevent what had happened in the land of the beastkin. Now, the news was moving through the lands of Hiraeth like a storm that refused to be quelled. And everywhere it went, people spoke a single name.

  Pallas, the King of the Dragons.

  Years of carefully maintained dominance was slowly being undone.

  Perhaps the signs had always been there, lodged like thorns in places he chose not to inspect.

  The Celebration of the Great War’s end should have been his triumph, his moment of unrivaled command. Yet that day, the dragons had risen up in defiance when Daerion had long thought their flame extinguished. He remembered the sound with painful clarity—the sound of chains breaking, roaring with a defiance that should have died generations ago. Maybe he should have known that the embers of that flame could never truly be put out, especially when that fire came from the beasts they called dragons.

  Then there had been that dragon in Easthaven.

  Daerion had seen many dragons throughout his life but that one—its wingspan blotting out the moon, its roar more haunting than any other he had heard—was something else altogether. But it had disappeared as fast as it had come, taking with it Magnus' granddaughter. Now, that princess had returned as a Queen who now sat on the throne he had expected to own, the throne he had prepared to shape, puppeteer, and rule from a distance for years to come. Maelis didn't stand a chance, not when Rosalia Elarion had returned with an army of dragons, ones that had never been shackled in chains. Even then, she alone might have been enough to overthrow the Puppet King.

  But there was no denying it.

  Linemall had returned, a forgotten nation no longer.

  Their resurgence was now the very thing unraveling everything he had built. The influence, the power, the invisible chains he had looped around nobles, rulers, and entire nations.

  His empire was eroding.

  He felt it in the silence of the court, in the murmurs among the nobility, in the subtle shift of the soldiers who tried too hard not to meet his gaze. They could feel it too. And Daerion Ittriki, who had once believed himself master of every possible future, could no longer hide from the truth. For the first time in a very long time, the King of Nozar did not know what he should do.

  “We must act soon.” The voice broke through Daerion’s thoughts and he turned from the water below, the movement slow and deliberate, as though unwilling to let the steady calm of the docks slip away. His gaze settled on the figure standing behind him—Serenya of the Morningeyes Clan, his last remaining Admiral and perhaps the final figure of the admiralty the world had once thought undefeatable.

  A part of Daerion had expected her to flee long before now, to join her brother who had joined forces with the King of the Dragons. It would have made sense. Blood was thicker than water and Daerion had always known that Serenya had always been close to Rowan, the Head of their Clan.

  Yet here she was.

  Where others bowed too deeply or spoke too quickly to please him, Serenya was a beastwoman who stood firm, speaking truth without hesitation, judgment, or fear. It was a quality Daerion had simultaneously admired and resented at times. He admired it because it was rare but resented because it reminded him there were still people under his command who could not be bent wholly to his will.

  “Why do you choose to remain here, Serenya? As my Admiral?” he asked, turning back toward the waters.

  Daerion kept his voice level, controlled but the question was one that carried more significance than Serenya might have realized. Nozar’s walls, massive and impenetrable, loomed before them.

  Yet in this quiet moment between King and Admiral, Daerion felt oddly exposed; he felt strangely…vulnerable.

  The beastwoman hesitated—not out of fear, Daerion knew, but out of consideration.

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  Serenya folded her arms behind her back, her tail flicking slightly as she searched for the correct words. When she finally spoke, her tone carried none of the trembling obedience he heard from the nobles, none of the brittle reverence of those who feared him more than they respected him. It carried only sheer honesty that Daerion needed more than ever.

  “I remain here because I believe in your cause, Daerion. My brother fights for what he thinks is right,” she stated. “I simply do the same. Because of you—” Her gaze drifted toward the waters that Daerion's eyes remained fixed upon. “Even if it was fleeting, this world knew peace. But I know you can restore it.”

  Something about her certainty was like a respite.

  For the first time in weeks, Daerion felt a genuine smile pull at his lips. It wasn’t triumphant or boastful like most of his smiles usually were. But it was real, and that alone felt like a victory.

  Serenya was right.

  The King of Nozar had carved peace from chaos before, bending the world into order with nothing but will and an unyielding sense of purpose. After the Great War, the Kingdoms of Humanity did not have direction. They believed that Oceanus would give them that.

  Once upon a time, Daerion had believed the same. But the gods would do nothing for them. The god of this world had abandoned mortals to prayer and chance. It had always been his control—his influence, his strategy—that brought stability to the lands. And it would be his control that saved it again. His greatest warriors, the Hero From Another World, Celina the Divine Knight and even Maelis Elarion. They were all gone. Forces he once relied on had scattered like dust in the wake of the Dragon King’s rise.

  But none of that mattered.

  He was Daerion Ittriki. He was the King who never lost a battle. And he did not intend to lose this one.

  But what Daerion had forgotten was that belief was a fragile thing. Belief could strengthen a kingdom, drive armies, and shape empires but in the face of true power, it fell apart all the same.

  It began with a tremor.

  A subtle shift beneath the waters, so faint Daerion almost dismissed it as a passing wave. He had been right about the waters being different today. It stirred again, not from wind or tide, but from something…magical. Ripples spiraled outward, coiling in unnatural patterns across the surface. The air thickened with pressure, as if the sea itself were preparing to exhale.

  Behind him, Serenya stiffened, but neither of them spoke.

  They did not need to.

  The rising pulse of power humming through the water answered every unspoken question. The nobles he had stationed in Khaitish had returned to him just a week ago to send him a message. And it was a message they delivered trembling, pale, unable to look him in the eye.

  They claimed it came from the one they called Pallas.

  The King of the Dragons was coming for him.

  At the time, Daerion had interpreted it the only way that made sense. It was more or less a declaration of war. Daerion had thought Pallas would come with an army, imagining dragons descending like a storm, wings blotting out the sun, fire scorching the lands. He had imagined the full force of Linemall’s ancient might crashing against Nozar’s borders.

  But the King of Nozar had been wrong. Pallas did not need an army. His strength alone was more than enough.

  As the waters continued to rise—first waist-high, then towering in columns that defied gravity—Daerion understood the truth. The marines stationed along the docks stood motionless, their weapons at their sides, eyes vacant. Every protective measure that Daerion had put into place, every plan Daerion had so meticulously crafted was now meaningless. The corruption had taken root long before the events that had taken place in the Kingdom of Khaitish. This magic had woven through their minds like creeping vines, blooming now into paralysis, doubt, and silence.

  The Divinity of the Cthulhu—insidious and patient—was not merely powerful.

  There was a reason why a coalition between some of Hiraeth's strongest figures had formed long ago to put an end to offspring of Oceanus. Given time, this magic was catastrophic. It could bring nations to their knees without spilling a single drop of blood. And this moment was proof of that. The entire Admiralty remained frozen as the water surged upward, swirling into a vortex that dwarfed everything in comparison. Daerion could only watch as the shape grew, shifting from water to something heavier, denser.

  The liquid shimmered, hardened and darkened into flesh, bone and scale.

  The transformation was almost silent, and that silence made it all the more terrifying. When the shape fully formed, Daerion felt something inside him drop, as though the world had suddenly tilted off its axis.

  It was the dragon.

  The same one that had once risen above the night sky like a star carved from shadow. Its scales were nearly black, but not dull—they shimmered with a depth that made them seem alive, reflecting whispers of power beneath their surface. Its body was serpentine, sinuous yet immense, every coil layered with muscle that rippled with every slight movement. Larger than any dragon Daerion had ever seen, larger even than the ones they called the dragonborn—nobility of the draconic kind.

  Magic radiated from the beast in a crushing, ancient force that coiled around the docks and drowned the air in a suffocating weight.

  For a moment—just a moment—fear and awe held the King of Nozar still.

  Since the earliest ages, the authority of Linemall had been divided among the Great Houses, each ruled by a Dragon Lord. That was the hierarchy of their kind, the lineage of their power. Now, for the first time in history, the entirety of the Kingdom of Dragons stood under one.

  Pallas, the King of the Dragons had finally arrived.

  This was the dragon who had put an end to humanity’s greatest warrior—the Hero From Another World—and even Daerion's Divine Knight.

  Now he had come for the King of Nozar.

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