The Inner Cities of Khaitish pulsed with life, the air heavy with anticipation and the smell of burning incense. From the tallest towers to the lowest market streets, there was only one thing on everyone's minds: the Tournament of Khaitish.

The cobbled roads were lined with flags bearing the crest of the Kingdom of the beastkin, each banner a symbol of the city's pride. Merchants shouted over one another to sell trinkets, food, and charms for good fortune; the sound of drums echoed through the marble-lined avenues, a constant rhythm that pulled the tide of people toward the heart of it all.

The Coliseum.

It was more than a structure, it had become the crown jewel of Khaitish, a monument built in the aftermath of the Nozari–Khaitishi conflict, both a memorial and a celebration of unity through power. Or at least that was the story Daerion had made the world believe.

From afar, its white stone walls shimmered beneath the midday sun, vast and unbroken, stretching so high that they seemed to challenge the heavens themselves. Massive gates of black iron framed the entrances, each one carved with depictions of legendary battles that told the history of Hiraeth in fierce and intricate detail. Pillars sculpted into the shapes of roaring mythical beasts held up the terraces, their eyes made from gemstones that caught the light and gleamed like they were alive.

Today, every seat in the Coliseum was filled.

Tens of thousands of spectators had gathered, from nobles draped in silk to peasants who had spent their months saving up for a chance to witness this grand event with their very own eyes.

The roar of the crowd rolled like thunder through the open dome, shaking the very stones of the arena. Above them, banners of blue and silver fluttered, bearing a sigil representing the Church of Oceanus, of which its influence had spread throughout the Kingdom of Khaitish over recent years.

The anticipation was feverish.

Every ten years, the Tournament of Khaitish was held, and it was unlike any battle the kingdom would see otherwise.

For one day, blood, honor, and ambition would converge in a contest that transcended even the Kingdoms of Humanity

Only four would be able to get a chance to fight for glory and fame but above all be granted an audience with the High Septon herself. Forever elusive and shrouded in mystery, she was the only woman in all of history said to have been touched by the light of foresight, able to see beyond time and fate.

To ask her a single question was to grasp a fragment of destiny itself, empires had risen and fallen on less.

It was this chance—this promise—that drew the strongest from every corner of Hiraeth.

Yet among them, only four were allowed to fight within this Coliseum today. Each silver tablet carried a unique magical signature, proof of legitimacy and worthiness for the fighters who would partake in the Tournament of Khaitish. Without it, entry was impossible. And one such Mandate rested now in the gloved hand of Jesse.

It had been over two weeks since Jesse had seen Lukas, the memory of him dissolving into sand still vivid as ever.

The young dragonborn stood deep within one of the tunnels that ran beneath the Coliseum, the dim torchlight flickering across his face. He inhaled slowly, steadying his pulse. The roar of the crowd above seemed to shake through the very walls, a living heartbeat that thrummed through his chest. Jesse tightened his grip around the silver tablet, feeling the faint hum of magic beneath his fingers. It had not been easy getting his hands one of these but the Merchant Guild had its ways.

Still, now that he was here, Jesse could barely believe that he would have to fight in one of the biggest tourneys in the decade. Rowan had made it clear that the last thing Lukas had asked the Head of the Morningeyes Clan was this: How he could find the High Septon of the Church.

The young dragonborn was left only with a promise that he could only hope Lukas would keep.

A promise that they would reunite in the Inner Cities of Khaitish.

Even with his body broken and his Pool of Mana shattered, Lukas had always been the strongest dragon that he had ever known. Jesse had to believe that the King of the Dragons would make it out alive and find his own way to the Inner Cities.

That hope had been renewed just days ago when the freed had arrived on his doorsteps. They had come to the Inner Cities in droves, human and dragon alike, once bound by the House of Fortunes, branded and broken by the Shadow Fox's empire. Every single one of them had had asked for Jesse by name, telling all who would hear that they had been freed by one who was more than just a man.

He had been a dragon.

And his name was Lukas Drakos.

Jesse had listened as the freed slaves described their liberator, the power he wielded unlike anything that they had ever seen, commanding the waters with authority akin to a god and his voice amplified by a magic that only the dragons knew of, one of the Three Legacies of Linemall's Lords, the Crown. It was clear that Lukas had healed the wound that had threatened to take his life and with the Divinity of the Seas, it did not even come as a surprise to Jesse that his King was able to take down the very organization that the dragonborn himself had spent years trying to put an end to.

There was no denying that Lukas was alive and well.

Yet, one question still remained.

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Where was Lukas now?

Jesse had to believe that Lukas would come, he had to believe that his King would keep his promise.

The dragonborn exhaled, the sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a growl. He didn't yet know why Lukas sought the High Septon, nor what question he meant to ask her, but it wasn't his place to question the will of his Lord. Lukas may have always told Jesse that he was the smartest of them all yet the King of the Dragons seemed to see further than the dragonborn could even imagine.

He knew things that they did not.

What Jesse could do—what he must do—was ensure that Lukas had the chance to reach her. And the only way to do that was to win this Tournament of Khaitish.

The sound of the crowd above had risen to another level, their voices crashing against the walls of the Coliseum and echoing through the tunnels. Jesse could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, each beat a reminder of the stakes before him.

For a moment, he let the noise fade into the background, the cheers and the stomping feet.

All that remained was the steady rhythm of his breathing.

Then, the emcee's voice thundered through a magical crystal, amplified a hundredfold until his words could be heard throughout the Inner Cities. "Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, may the fighters enter the Coliseum!"

Jesse's eyes opened.

The nerves didn't vanish, but they no longer ruled him.

Throughout the years, the Merchant Guild had grown to become powerful both in riches and influence and that had not come without their fair share of opposition. Jesse Ilagron, as they knew him, had been in his fair share of battles. The dragonborn had fought for what was his and what he wished to be his.

But this was different.

Because now, it felt like the whole world was watching him.

Jesse would never admit it but some part of him did feel excitement. Confidence carried him forward, though he knew better than to let pride dull his instincts.

In the end, this was nothing more than a grand spectacle.

The Tournament was not simply a contest of strength; it was theater, diplomacy and entertainment rolled into one. The wealthiest merchants and nobles across Hiraeth had come to watch this Tournament. The entire economy of the Inner Cities thrived on this single event. Compared to the Tournament of Khaitish, even the Celebration of the Great War—that opulent display of power and peace reserved only for the elite within the Inner Cities of Nozar—seemed small.

When Jesse stepped out of the tunnel, his eyes squinted as the sunlight hit them. The roar of the crowd intensified until it seemed to shake the sand beneath his boots.

Hundreds of thousands of eyes turned toward him, the arena's floor gleaming in the afternoon light. The dragonborn understood now why the arena in Easthaven had been modeled after this place for Rosalia's duel. Every detail was crafted for grandeur, the way the light pooled, the way the sound carried upward to the highest seats, the precision of its design.

It wasn't just built for combat, it was built for presentation.

Jesse's gaze drifted upward to the high booths reserved for nobles and visiting dignitaries.

There, among jeweled lords and silken emissaries, he spotted a familiar figure, Velena Ilagron herself. Her silver hair gleamed beneath her hood, and when she saw him, her lips curved into a smile that reached her eyes. She looked stronger now, her frailty caused by Valkari's black hand gone. The Countess had made her way to Khaitish not long after Jesse and Lukas had arrived in the Inner Cities of Khaitish. After all these years, Velena had become the mother he had never known. To see her alive and well, watching over him, made Jesse feel emotions he could not put into words.

The dragonborn inclined his head slightly, and Velena responded with a firm, approving nod.

The lower seats, in contrast, was the definition of chaos. It was filled with beastkin of every kind, their roars and chants shaking the air.

But they were not cheering for him.

Jesse's eyes followed their gaze and his eyes widened when he saw them.

Across the sand stood two beastmen—tall, lean, and undeniably familiar.

Rasta and Adonis, the twins.

Jesse had learned their names from Rowan who had told him that they were the most dangerous of the Magopo Brothers. The dragonborn had taken their youngest brother's life then and the hatred in their eyes told him they had not forgotten.

Whatever fear or tension lingered in him dissolved, replaced by something sharper and heavier.

Rage.

The emcee's voice rose again above the noise to the best of his abilities. "This is the Tournament of Khaitish, a fight for glory and fame. And the right to stand before the High Septon herself!"

The beastkin roared with approval.

This was what the the Kingdom of Khaitish had been reduced to. Of course, there were still those who would never give up their ways, old warlords like Makhulu and Rowan who would never submit to this new way of life. A new way of life that Daerion had established within the land of the Beastkin. This was how Nozar ruled in the shadows; by giving the beastkin what they craved, keeping them entertained, fed, and docile.

The dragonborn's fist clenched.

The twins began to move, eyes locked on him like predators.

But before they could take another step, Jesse felt a hand rest on his shoulder.

Little did Jesse know, he would not have to face the twins alone.

When the dragonborn turned, he froze, disbelief flashing across his face. "...Lukas."

Standing beside him, tall and unyielding, was Lukas Drakos himself, the King of the Dragons, Pallas.

In his hand was another Mandate, its runes glowing just as bright as Jesse's own.

"I told you I'd meet you in the Inner Cities," Lukas said, his voice cutting through the noise.

Jesse let out a short laugh, unable to stop the grin spreading across his face. "It's good to see you again, Lukas."

Above them, the air trembled as the silver tablets that belonged to each of the four fighters lifted into the air, their magic resonating in unison, all displaying legitimacy of the fighters' proof of entry.

The crowd fell silent, waiting for the signal.

Beneath the blazing sun, dragons and beastmen alike prepared for battle.

Then, the emcee raised the crystal to his lips once more, and his voice boomed as he spoke the words every single soul gathered here today had been waiting to hear.

"Let the Tournament begin!"

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