The blinding brilliance of the Khaitish sun, the great Coliseumm and chaos of battle, all of it vanished into silence. In its place came warmth—real warmth—the kind that seeped into the skin and bone, carried by a dry, desert wind.

  In seconds, Lukas was cast across time itself.

  Sand crunched beneath his feet, fine as dust and shimmering gold under a dying sun.

  The air trembled with life.

  Lukas heard the beat of drums in time with the rhythmic stamping of countless feet beating against the desert floor. The King of the Dragons stood within a memory, not his own, yet it felt as real as the breath in his lungs. Before him rose a bonfire so immense it seemed to pierce the heavens. Around it, beastmen of every kind danced and sang, their bodies adorned with gold and ochre, their laughter blending with the music of the dunes.

  This was not war.

  This was a celebration.

  Rowan had just defeated the warlord who had occupied the Sabi Sands for generations.

  The atmosphere was alive with joy, their victory still fresh in the air.

  And then Lukas saw her.

  He did not need Rowan to tell him who she was.

  Lukas felt the warmth of love, the cold sting of loss, and the horrible ache of something once beautiful but now gone.

  She was the sister of the Magopo Brothers, the one that Rowan was to one day marry, and yet no story had done her justice. Her fur gleamed gold in the firelight, each strand catching the glow like molten metal. Her eyes, proud and unflinching, reflected not just beauty but spirit. There was gentleness, too, in the way she moved, in the small, deliberate steps she took across the sand.

  Her name was Asha.

  Lukas felt Rowan’s heart thrum like a drumbeat in his own chest. The beastman’s emotions surged through him—love, regret, pride, and longing—all tangled into one impossible knot.

  They had not always been close, these two.

  For years, there was a space that had stood between them like the dunes themselves, vast and shifting, each misunderstanding adding another stretch of distance between the two.

  The air was thick with the scent of fire and fermented fruit, of sweat and joy. Rowan stood among the Magopo Brothers, their laughter loud and their cups overflowing. The young Head of the Morningeyes Clan had just gifted them the Sabi Sands, taken from the warlord he had defeated in single combat.

  It should have been a night of triumph. But when Rowan saw her within the crowd, the beastman could not think of anything but her.

  Tradition said they were to be wed, bound by promise and decree of their respective clans. But her eyes, when they met his, turned away in an instant. What had Rowan done that she would look at him that way? What sin could have turned love to scorn?

  Finally, Rowan’s patience broke.

  The beastman stepped from the circle of firelight, leaving behind the laughter of her brothers, now drunk and nearly unconscious

  The music faded behind him and every stride Rowan took towards her erased all hesitation.

  Asha turned away when she saw him coming, but not fast enough. The beastman's hand found her arm—a grip strong enough to stop her, gentle enough not to hurt her. Not her, never her. The fire roared between them, its light painting their faces in gold and shadow. And for that brief, fragile moment, the world fell away. Rowan did not know what to say and an awkward silence filled the space between them. The fire crackled, embers rising like lost spirits into the starlit air. Music still drifted faintly from beyond the dunes, laughter and song from those too drunk to notice the two.

  Rowan’s grip finally loosened but he did not step back.

  His golden eyes burned with questions, the kind that tore from somewhere deep inside, from the part of him that could endure the blades of his enemies but not the quiet rejection in her gaze. His voice, when it came, was rough, filled with hurt and pride.

  “Why?” he asked. “Why do you act as if I have wronged you? What have I done to make you hate me?”

  The beastwoman did not answer right away. Her eyes darted to the fire, to the dancing crowd, to the endless dunes beyond, to anywhere but him.

  But she knew she could not run from him forever.

  When Asha finally spoke, her voice was soft, so quiet that the crackle of the fire nearly drowned it out. “I do not hate you, Rowan.”

  But those words were not enough for the beastman. “Then why do you turn away whenever my eyes meet yours? Why do you push me aside and avoid me. You pretend as if I am nothing but another warrior at your brothers' side. "

  Her composure finally broke.

  Asha looked up at him then, eyes bright with something that shimmered dangerously between anger and sorrow. When she spoke again, her voice was firm, but there was a tremor beneath it, a softness that came not from weakness but from love itself.

  “It is because I am scared of losing you,” she whispered, but her voice was firm and hard. “It is you, Rowan, who I am to wed one day. Do you not see what that means to me? It's because...I am afraid. I have watched you charge into battles that no one else dared face. I have seen you throw yourself at warlords and armies as if death does not fear you. You fight as if your life is something you can give away freely and yet you do not see how much it means to me.”

  Her breath caught, her voice lowering until it trembled on the edge of breaking. “I love you because you fight for our people. Because you stand for us when no one else will. I cannot ask you to stop fighting for this cause. But how can I imagine a life with you when every time the sun rises means another day you might leave me? How can I dream of a future when you fight as if you do not care to live? And if your life does not matter to you, Rowan...then how can mine?”

  Lukas continued to watch this flash of memory and Rowan in that moment feared her pain more than any wound he had known.

  Slowly, Rowan lifted a hand, calloused and scarred, and let his fingers rest beneath her chin. Gently, he tilted her face upward until her gaze met his again.

  The firelight danced across her fur, gilding her in warmth.

  “Then hear this promise of mine, my love,” Rowan said, his voice low and steady. “I will not stop fighting, because I fight for the future of our nation, for the hope that our people may live free. But I swear to you that no matter what happens, I will return to you. Forever and always.”

  Something in Asha's expression softened then, as if those words had reached a part of her that even fear could not touch.

  That night, the distance between them—years of hesitation, walls built from silence—melted away.

  There was another flash that memory unfolded into years, fleeting but bright, as a lifetime was compressed into moments. Lukas saw that Rowan kept his seemingly impossible promise to Asha. Every time the beastman marched into battle against the most fearsome warlords across the Khaitishi sands, he returned. And every time a warlord fell, the banners of the Morningeyes rose higher. Battle after battle, victory after victory, Khaitish began to unite under one symbol, the Eyes of the Morning gleaming against the gold of their standard.

  For those few years, Rowan knew love and purpose. But Lukas, caught in the stream of those memories, could feel it.

  Lukas could feel inevitable loss that was to come.

  Even through the haze of years, the next memory burned bright and clear.

  It was the night the people of Khaitish began to call Rowan the New Conqueror of Khaitish. A title once borne by his grandfather, the kind of name that echoed across generations and filled the songs of the desert. For Rowan, it had always felt like a crown too heavy to wear. But that night, as the fires lit up the horizon and the drums of Khaitish thundered through the dunes, the title did not feel like a burden.

  It felt like a blessing.

  Because it was also the night Rowan finally to be wed to the beastwoman who he had loved for as long as he could remember.

  The dunes stretched endlessly beneath the moonlight, glowing pale gold as if the stars themselves had descended to watch.

  The Morningeyes Clan had gathered in full strength, no longer just a family, but an army. They stood as proof of what the beastman had achieved. Warriors of every tribe across the sands had answered his call, their differences forgotten beneath the single banner of the Morningeyes. For the first time in years since the Nozari-Khaitishi conflict, the beastkin of Khaitish stood united once more.

  Lukas watched it unfold through Rowan’s eyes, knowing that this could not last forever.

  Lukas saw the Magopo Brothers laughing and embracing their sister’s soon-to-be husband, their pride written plainly across their faces.

  Lukas saw the Priest of Pan standing at the edge of the fire, murmuring ancient blessings into the flames.

  Among the crowd of beastmen, there were even those who were not of their kind, humans who had crossed the boundary between races to stand beside Rowan’s cause. One face made Lukas pause, taking in a sharp breath as he realized his eyes were not lying to him.

  It was Darren Ittriki.

  Lukas recognized the youngest son of Nozar and his expression was not one of nobility or pride, but of friendship and of loyalty. It seemed that once, long ago, Darren and Rowan had fought side by side; truly brothers-in-arms. Their bond had been forged in the fires of war, tested by blood and faith.

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  Lukas felt a pang of sorrow at the sight.

  So much had changed since then, more than either Conqueror or Prince could have foreseen.

  But, in this moment, the world was whole.

  Rowan's world was whole.

  The fire blazed brighter, the laughter grew louder and the night came alive with celebration.

  Rowan took Asha’s hand, drawing her into the circle of dancers. Music and the pounding of a thousand hearts flooded the air. Her golden fur shimmered beneath the starlight, and the veil that crowned her head fluttered like liquid silk. Their movements were effortless, fluid as wind over the dunes. Every turn, every step was a promise of a future worth fighting for.

  Lukas felt Rowan’s joy in this memory.

  It was so powerful, so pure, that for a fleeting second, the King of the Dragons forgot that this was only memory, that all of it had already been lost.

  Rowan leaned close, his words nearly lost beneath the rhythm of the drums. “I swear it on the River Styx,” he whispered, “that it is you and only you who I will dance with. It is you who I want by my side. You are the blood of my blood, Asha.”

  Asha smiled softly and beautifully. But she did not answer.

  Something flickered in her eyes then, something faint.

  Something was not right.

  Rowan’s joy faltered.

  The music seemed to dim around them as he caught her by the shoulders. “What’s wrong?” Rowan asked, his voice low, on the verge of trembling.

  Asha looked up at him, her eyes dulling and her breath shallow. Then the strength that had once defined her was slipping away. Her face had gone pale, her body swaying like dying embers. And then, before Rowan could catch her again, she collapsed.

  The drums stopped. The laughter died. The fire crackled, but even its warmth felt distant now.

  Rowan fell to his knees, his arms cradling her as if his touch alone could call her back.

  Around them, the crowd dissolved into a blur of motion and sound—voices calling her name, hands reaching, the Priest rushing forward—but to Rowan, all he could hear the cracks beginning to take place.

  Asha was sick. It was a disease without a name, one that no healer could yet understand.

  From that moment on, Rowan's conquest meant nothing. For months, the beastman scoured the lands of Khaitish, seeking out the greatest healers, the oldest herbalists, any who claimed even a whisper of knowledge. He crossed the deserts, the salt flats and the ruins of forgotten cities.

  But no cure was found. Not one. And that was when the announcement was made.

  The sands of Khaitish had always been home to war, but never before had they hosted something like this. The day the First Tournament of Khaitish was made public, everything began to change. For once, blood and honor were not the spoils of conquest but of competition. Warriors from across the sands of Khaitish and beyond gathered beneath the scorching sun, drawn by a single promise. A promise that whoever emerged as this Tournament's Champion could ask the High Septon of the Church a single question, any question they wished.

  It was a prize beyond wealth or power, one that offered knowledge, and perhaps, salvation.

  For Rowan, it meant everything.

  Asha’s illness had consumed her. Every healer the beastman had sought, every herbalist, every sage—none could name the sickness, let alone cure it. And when he learned of the Tournament, he saw it not as spectacle, but as his calling.

  The Coliseum was unlike any structure that had been before, standing within what would one day be known as the Inner Cities of Khaitish, proof of Daerion's influence slowly taking root into Rowan's Kingdom.

  Rowan entered not as some Conqueror, but as a husband who wished nothing but to see his wife well again. Every drop of magic extinguished and every drop of blood he spilled, it was all for Asha. But fate, cruel and unrelenting, had no mercy even for love.

  Eventually there stood one fighter who should never have been his enemy.

  The only one standing in Rowan's way to win the Tournament was none other than Darren Ittriki, the youngest prince of Nozar. Once, they had fought side by side for the independence of Khaitish. They were allies, they were friends. Rowan had once even considered them to be brothers. Lukas could see it in the way Rowan hesitated when their eyes met across the stone platform—the recognition, the sorrow.

  The crowd screamed for blood. And so, they fought.

  Their clash rang through the Coliseum, a song of tragedy disguised as triumph. Rowan fought like a storm given form, emulating the Monarch's vicious method of battle, his movements raw with desperation. Darren met him with skill and restraint, as though each strike carried its own apology. In the end, it was Darren who fell to the fearsome might of the beastman who Daerion knew may one day become a threat to his control. But it was only then when Lukas realized what Darren had meant when he had told Lukas he had simply done what he needed to do.

  The youngest son of Nozar had never needed to win.

  Lukas could see that throughout the fight, Darren's heart was never in it.

  All Darren had needed to do was ensure that Rowan's victory came at a terrible price.

  That was what Daerion had demanded of him.

  To reduce the Conqueror to a shell of his former self.

  When the dust settled, Rowan was on his knees. His leg—mangled, torn apart and bleeding—was beyond saving. Yet the beastman did not scream. He simply pressed his hands into the blood-soaked sand, his chest rising and falling in ragged gasps.

  Pain was nothing.

  Not when hope was so close.

  He had won.

  Rowan was the Champion of the Coliseum.

  The High Septon finally appeared then. Her expression was kind, but sorrow lingered behind her eyes. Even before Rowan spoke, she seemed to know what it was that he wished to ask of her.

  “Tell me how I may heal my wife,” Rowan said, his voice breaking for the first time. “She is sick. Please...tell me how I can find a cure.”

  The High Septon’s lips parted, but no answer came. Only silence and it was long and heavy. She lowered her head in his direction in silent apology.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered. “But your wife is not sick. Not anymore. Her time within the Land of the Living has come to an end. I may have gifts beyond mortal comprehension. But even they have their limits. Death is not mine to conquer."

  Rowan did not move. He did not breathe.

  Around him, the crowd erupted in cheers, hailing the new Champion of the Coliseum. But their cheers did not matter to him.

  The beastman remained where he was, kneeling in the sand, blood pooling beneath him.

  Time lost its shape. Hours passed. The Coliseum emptied, the fires dimmed, and still he stayed—unmoving, unable to believe what he was hearing.

  It was only when the Magopo Brothers found him that time began to move again.

  Makhulu, the eldest, placed a heavy hand on Rowan’s shoulder. His voice trembled as he spoke. “She’s gone.”

  Rowan shook his head, his eyes hollow. “No,” he whispered. “She can’t be.”

  Then came Scar, the youngest of them all. Barely more than a boy then, too full of fire and grief to know restraint, too immature to have empathy for one who had lost the blood of his blood. “You should have been there!” Scar shouted, his voice cracking. “You should have been there when she needed you!” The twins held him back, but his cries cut through the night like a knife.

  And then, Scar spoke the words that broke him completely. “She was with child.”

  Lukas felt the world inside the memory collapse. He could taste the despair, the disbelief, the utter ruin of one who had lost not just his love, but the future she had carried within her. A future that Rowan had fought for. That day, Asha died and with it went his whole world.

  Rowan had showed it all Lukas just like he had asked the beastman to do. Lukas took in a sharp breath as the world of memory tore itself apart, fading back into the present.

  The Crown’s glow dimmed as the rush of memories finally ended.

  Before him lay Rowan. The great beastman who had once been the hope of Khaitish, now broken and still. His skin was dry with blood and sand, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. The fire in his eyes—the same fire that had once lit an entire nation—had gone out. Rowan had fought enough battles for a hundred lifetimes. He had lost too much, carried too much and endured more than any one being ever should. And now, the weight of it all had finally crushed him.

  Rowan stared blankly into the sky. “I would have died for her,” he whispered.

  If it had been Styx, there was no doubt that the King of the Dragons would have done the same.

  Lukas stood over him, silent. For a long moment, he said nothing.

  The wind moved softly through the arena, scattering the sand between them like a veil. And then, in a quiet voice that cut through the emptiness, he spoke.

  “But would you live for her?”

  Rowan’s eyes twitched. Confusion flickered across the beastman's face.

  “What?” he breathed.

  Lukas knelt beside him, his tone steady but carrying a weight that words alone could not bear.

  “To die,” he said, “is an easy thing, Rowan. Anyone can give up their life for the ones they love. But would you live for her? Would you change for the better—for her memory, for her dream, for yours?”

  Lukas’ gaze softened, but his voice carried the conviction of someone who had once stood on the edge of despair himself.

  Rosalia Elaron had taught him one thing. And that one thing was hope.

  "It’s easy to kill, Rowan. It’s easy to destroy, to let rage guide you into destruction. It's easy to let the world burn after everything you have been through. But to live…to endure, to fight for something better—that takes strength. And you still have that strength. You always have.”

  Rowan looked away, his jaw trembling.

  “They may call you the Conqueror of Khaitish, but what your people need now isn’t a conqueror. They need someone who can lead them, not through fear, but through hope. They need a king. They may not even realize it, but they need you more than ever before.”

  For the first time in years, the beastman’s facade cracked.

  Rowan shook his head slowly, as if trying to deny both Lukas’ words and the emotion rising within him. He thought he had cried all his tears long ago—on the night Asha died, when his world turned to ash—but the pain that had once hollowed him out began to stir again. His shoulders trembled. His breath hitched. And then, against all his will, the tears came. They fell silently at first. The rage that had once consumed him—the fury that had made him a monster in his own right—faded until there was nothing else left.

  What remained was only sorrow, and beneath that sorrow, something fragile.

  That something was hope.

  Lukas’ hand came to rest on his shoulder.

  “Life isn’t fair, Rowan,” he said softly. “It never has been. Not for me, not for you, not for anyone. But there are those who suffer without even knowing it. They think suffering is normal, it is all they truly know. They’ve forgotten what freedom feels like."

  Lukas’ words sank deep, reaching a part of him that had been silent since Asha’s death.

  “Life is cruel but it doesn’t always have to be that way. We can make this world a better place. Because if we stop now, if we give up the fight—then all that pain, all that loss—it will have been for nothing.”

  Lukas stood then, extending his hand toward the beastman.

  “Will you join me, Rowan? Will you fight with me for the good of our people? For the good of this world—and its future?”

  For a long while, Rowan did not move. His eyes lingered on the outstretched hand, then rose to meet Lukas’.

  “Yes,” the beastman whispered. “Yes…I will.”

  In those eyes burned the faintest spark, not of magic but of will.

  It was the spark of hope.

  For the first time in a long time, Rowan of the Morningeyes Clan made a choice. And he chose to live for Asha.

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