44

  Along the windswept shore of the Halkyon Range, the ship bound for Freska cut through the morning mist like a blade through silk. Soraya stood at the railing, her black cloak fluttering wildly in the sea wind, the white underbelly of her horse barely visible below deck. The breeze carried salt and cold iron, brushing her hair across her face. She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the tang of the sea—it reminded her of nights spent in distant ports, before destiny tightened its grip around her.

  Behind her, Durante leaned against the rail as well, though he kept one hand pressed against the half-healed wound in his chest. The wind stung the cut, but he did not flinch. His gaze was hard, fixed on the endless stretch of water, as if willing it to shorten the distance between him and his sons.

  He refused to show weakness. Not to Soraya. Not to anyone.

  Hours passed before the fog finally thinned and the shape of the Port of Freska emerged—grand, fortified, alive. Towers of dark stone rose like sharpened spearheads, each one adorned with banners of black and deep green. The crossed swords and shield sigil gleamed, and at its center the carved talon of a great bird gripped down like a silent threat.

  Freska—forge of Maharlika. The scent of burning coal and fresh-forged steel rolled across the sea even before they docked. It was a city built on discipline and craft, where every clang of hammer on metal was a heartbeat.

  Soraya and Durante disembarked, moving through the bustling market. Smiths stood outside their stalls with arms of corded muscle, greeting strangers with nods instead of suspicion. Children ran laughing between the stonework benches, and older folk offered water and bread to travelers as if it were tradition. Even the guards, clad in green-trimmed iron, spoke with a disciplined warmth.

  For Durante, whose life had been steeped in war and sorrow, it felt alien—this peace, this courtesy. Yet he walked on with Soraya, saying nothing.

  At last they reached the Hall of Freska. It held no throne. Instead, a great circular table dominated the chamber—built not for the vanity of a king, but for strategy, unity, and the respect of warriors. Banners lined the walls, shifting gently in the breeze that entered through the carved vents above. Somewhere deeper in the fortress, the ringing of hammers continued—a constant reminder of Freska’s heart.

  At the far end of the hall sat Roy Arlen.

  The man many called ruthless. The man whose reputation traveled farther than truth.

  He rose as they approached. In the flesh, Roy seemed less a tyrant and more a soldier carved from stone—stern, but not cruel. His eyes were sharp, calculating, and heavy with knowledge.

  “My lord,” Soraya said, bowing low.

  Durante remained standing. He scanned the room, then fixed his stare on Roy Arlen—unfazed, unimpressed, unyielding.

  Roy Arlen’s voice broke the silence. “How is your wound?”

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  “It will heal,” Durante replied—blunt, cold. “I think you owe me an explanation.”

  Roy lifted a hand, and the guards immediately withdrew. The heavy doors shut with a decisive thud, sealing them inside the chamber.

  When he spoke again, the tone shifted—low, grave. “The Reborn is coming.”

  Durante barked a sharp breath. “The what?”

  Roy stepped around the table. “A hundred years ago, King Birog of Diospyrus died,” he began.

  Durante said nothing, but the name stirred something old within him—stories told by druids he once knew, mentions of a king who died guarding secrets.

  “A druid,” Roy continued. “The last wielder of the Dragon Pact.”

  Soraya’s breath hitched softly at the word dragon—even she still feared the power behind it.

  Roy paced slowly, eyes darkening. “When Birog died, he left behind a vault deep beneath Diospyrus. Inside it rests the Goblet of Blood—an ancient vessel that will be filled with the blood of the dragon once a century passes.”

  Durante frowned. “And what does any of this have to do with my boy?”

  Roy met his gaze directly. “The Reborn is coming, Durante.”

  “And?” he snapped. “Why must it involve my son?”

  Roy’s voice softened. “Because he is a druid… like you.”

  Silence trembled in the hall.

  “And why,” Durante growled, “would I risk my boy in your scheme?”

  “Because he is the only one who can do it,” Roy answered. “Finn is the eldest. He has not made a pact. His spirit is untouched. The lynx—your pact—formed a temporary bond with him, only out of protection.”

  Soraya lowered her gaze. The memory of the lynx wrapping its spirit around Finn still weighed on her. It wasn’t meant to happen. It wasn’t planned. And yet… it felt inevitable.

  Roy lifted a weathered journal from the table and opened it to a page filled with ancient diagrams. “This is Birog’s own hand. He wrote that when the goblet fills after a hundred years, the dragon will awaken to choose its master. Only a druid can hold the blood of the dragon without being consumed.”

  He looked at Durante meaningfully.

  “The line between light and dark must remain held,” Roy said. “If the dragon’s blood falls into the hands of light or dark alone… balance will break. Chaos will spread. Heaven will burn. Nothing—living or dead—will survive.”

  Durante felt a faint heat under his skin, a pulse like embers shifting. It startled him. He pushed it down.

  “And why,” he murmured, “should I care what happens to this world?”

  “That,” Roy said quietly, “is a druid’s responsibility.”

  “For all I care,” Durante muttered, jaw tight.

  Roy placed the journal down. “Barang and the Revenant move even now. Their first target will be Diospyrus. Their second—your son. The druid boy who saved the princess is known across the land. If they seize him, they seize the dragon.”

  Soraya stiffened. The very idea chilled her.

  Roy continued, “And there is more. The dragon already calls for its master. That is why Finn was drawn here. It was no coincidence he was sent into this world.”

  Soraya finally spoke, whispering, “My lord believes… the dragon’s call twisted the magic during the teleportation.”

  Roy nodded slowly. “The spell should have taken the three children directly to Freska. Yet they appeared elsewhere—in the Redwind Bastion, of all places. Not a failure. Not an error.” He tapped the journal. “But a pull. The dragon reaching for the one it seeks.”

  Durante’s blood ran cold.

  Finn.

  The dragon wanted Finn.

  Roy closed the journal. “Everything is moving, Durante. The goblet of blood will soon fill. And the dragon will awaken whether we are ready or not.”

  Durante’s breath grew heavier. Inside him warred fury, fear, duty—and the raw instinct to tear the world apart to protect his sons.

  At last he said, “I need to get to Aurum.”

  Before Soraya or Roy could react, he vanished—gone like a gust of hot wind.

  Soraya stepped forward, reaching out too late. “Durante—”

  But only the echo of his departure answered her.

  Roy Arlen exhaled deeply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “The dragon has already chosen,” he murmured.

  And far beyond Freska, the world shifted.