NOVEL NEXT Chapter 39: The Past Revealed
Two hundred and nineteen years ago, before Linemall faced the onslaught of the human kingdoms and before the downfall of what was the Kingdom of Dragons, a boy was born. Not just any boy—but a Lordling. His first breath came under the silver moonlight, the sea whispering low hymns outside the palace's cliffside walls. His cry, thin and weak, echoed gently in the birthing chamber, muffled beneath the velvet hush of dawn. Selene of Dawn held him in her arms, her fingers trembling not from exhaustion, but from awe.
One of the most fearsome generals of Linemall's Seas, Selene of Dawn, had never expected this. She had fought in wars and she had been through the horrors of battle. But nothing—nothing—had undone her like the warm, fragile weight of her son against her chest.
Lukas. Her sweet boy. Her beautiful child.
That was the name she gave him, soft as the tide and steady as the stars. He was the second son of Lord Jaren, theDragon Lord of the Seas, and therefore a prince of blood and name. But his mother was no queen. Selene had never asked for that. A concubine, yes. A general, undeniably. But a woman hungry for power? Never. She had never cared for the velvet corridors of court, for the serpents who whispered in the ears of kings.
The man she ended up falling in love with simply happened to be Lord Jaren. But she loved him not because he sat on the throne but because of the rare gentleness he revealed only to her in moments stolen from duty. The child in her arms would be born into a world of complications. That much she had known long before she felt him kick within her belly. For there was already a prince: Rodan Drakos, son of the royal consort Lady Kaitlyn, rightful heir, beloved by court and crown alike. Born just a century earlier.
In any other world, this would have been a cause for blood. Two sons from two different mothers—one born of court, the other born of war. In the long, cruel history of royalty, such a recipe often led to one ending: civil fracture, blood in the halls, and brothers raised not as kin, but as rivals. But that was not the case. Not in Linemall. Not with these women.
Because Kaitlyn Drakos, consort of the Dragon Lord, was Selene's closest friend. They were like sisters to one another. Before politics carved lines into their lives, before the shared love of one man complicated their fates, Kaitlyn and Selene had once stood shoulder to shoulder on the battlefield, commanding the skies and sea alike during the Battle of the Shattered Gulf.
They had bled together. Laughed together. Trusted each other with everything, even their hearts. So when Lukas was born, Kaitlyn did not rage. She was there, in fact, holding Selene's free hand, brushing the sweat-dampened hair from her friend's brow as the child took his first breath.
Rodan was there too, watching as his younger brother was born.
And Selene wept. Not for shame, nor fear. But for joy. When she looked down at Lukas—his small, scaled fingers curled into fists, the sea-blue shimmer already present in his soft pupils—Selene made a vow, one etched into her very soul. Not power. Not recognition. Not the throne. She wanted none of it for him.
Lukas did not need to be a Dragon Lord. He only needed to be happy. To be free. To be safe. The court would say what it always said: that a second son was a threat, a pawn, or a political tool waiting to be moved across a blood-soaked chessboard. That children born from concubines were dangerous, unpredictable, and born for intrigue. But to her, he was not a danger. Not a symbol. Not a rival to any throne.
He was her son and she would die a thousand deaths before the world ever touched a scale on his head. He was a prince by name, yes. A Dragonborn of the royal Drakos bloodline. But far more than that, in those first years, he was simply a boy—loved fiercely by a mother who asked nothing of him but to live.
Though Lukas was raised away from the twisting corridors of court politics, he could still hear the whispers. He heard them in the hushed tones of servants, in the stifled laughter of passing nobles, in the cruel edge to every soft-spoken word meant to seem kind.
"The son of a commoner."
"Selene of Dawn, wasn't she one of the generals once? How far she's fallen."
"A bastard in all but name."
They never said it to his face. Not when his eyes were on them. But Lukas was sharp, far sharper than they gave him credit for. And with every overheard conversation, every flippant comment made when they thought he wasn't listening, the fire inside him burned hotter. Of course he wanted power. How could he not? He was born to it—by blood if not by law.
He was a prince, the son of Lord Jaren, even if the nobility refused to see him as anything more than a stain on the royal line. Worse still, Lukas knew what his mother had given up. What she endured. How she smiled in public while bearing the shame and isolation thrust upon her. He had seen her fingers, once strong enough to grip a sword, now calloused by ink and paper as she worked to tutor him herself. How she bore every insult with grace and silence.
And he hated it. Not her. Never her. But he hated the world that she had been forced to live in because of the fact that she was his mother. By ten, Lukas understood the game. He knew what the Court thought of them. He knew that while the Consort and his mother were on good terms, kindness did not extend to those beneath them. Not truly.
A commoner who bore royal blood was not respected. And the cruelest fate of all was that they would never belong anywhere. Lukas could not walk among the nobles as an equal. At the same time, Lukas could not go to the commoners as one of their own.
So Lukas turned to his studies. To discipline. To politics. His mind was brilliant—frighteningly so. He consumed books faster than even the court scholars could replace them. He studied draconic history, philosophy, the structure of magical conduits, the flow of divinity across bloodlines. He pushed his body, training tirelessly under retired knights, sparring endlessly with steel, fire, and will. He pushed himself harder than any child should.
And yet...
By seventeen, he had not awakened any of the Three Legacies: the hallmarks of what made a Dragon worthy to be the Lord of the Seas. No Robe. No Crown. No Crest. Not even the faintest glimmer of a Lord's power.
Not even the Robe of the Lord, the first of the three Legacies—the one that typically bloomed earliest in youth. Some Dragonborn never awakened any of the Three, but those destined to become Lords almost always manifested the Robe by late childhood.
It was a sign of authority. Of sovereignty. Of command. Rodan had shown signs of the Robes of the Lord before he was even twelve.
Though Rodan himself was never physically gifted, he compensated with unquestionable talent. Rodan had been an undeniable prodigy since birth. He wielded the Divinity of the Seas as though it were part of his body, breathing through the currents of the world like a fish born into water.
Where Lukas studied and struggled, Rodan moved through life with grace. With fire. With ease. The nobles adored him. Warriors bowed to him. Scholars revered him. He was his mother's son, they all said. The son of Kaitlyn Drakos—The Sea's Greatest Sorceress.
Lukas Drakos, the second son of Lord Jaren? He was barely mentioned. When he was, it was always in comparison to his older brother.
"Rodan is the future."
"Lukas? He tries. He reads a lot."
"A shame, really."
And each whisper carved deeper into him than any sword ever could . But Lukas would not give up. Not yet. Even if he wasn't enough, even if the power refused to show itself, he clung to the only thing he still had: His will. Lukas would prove himself worthy. Even if it killed him.
Lukas watched it all, memories of the past flowing through the Crown and into his head. It was before the First Great War between Linemall and the Kingdoms of Humanity and before everything collapsed into chaos. Back when they were still boys, just trying to outdo one another in harmless games and impossible dares.
"Do you remember?" Rodan asked quietly, staring ahead, though his eyes saw the past.
Lukas—Julien, really—sat in silence, not answering, the Crown still active, connecting their thoughts. He didn't need to reply. Rodan could feel it: the swirling confusion, the desperation for something to grasp onto, some proof that this life wasn't a lie.
So Rodan gave it to him.
"You always smiled in public," Rodan told Lukas , as the memory formed around them. "But when it was just us, you dropped the mask. You let yourself be angry."
The court never saw that side of Lukas Drakos—the fury, the fire, the raw want. Lukas played their games. He flattered the old aristocrats with words dipped in honey and laced with wit. He made their father laugh in ways Rodan never could. He quoted the ancient texts, cross-referenced histories, wrote treatises and offered counsel.
And slowly, the whispers changed:
"He's clever, that one."
"The younger Prince may not have power, but his tongue holds more sway than most spells."
Rodan had always been whose strength lied in combat. He was praised for the way he shaped and controlled the water like an artist with a brush. But Lukas…Lukas won over the nobles' hearts and minds. He had them leaning forward when he spoke, not just listening—but believing. And yet, despite what everyone expected of brothers raised in a court built on competition, there was no rivalry. Not between them, no matter how much the nobles tried to pit the two brothers against one another.
Rodan and Lukas were inseparable. Two boys wrestling in the palace gardens, laughing like idiots. He remembered Lukas' voice crack as he tried to imitate their father giving orders. How they used to sneak into the kitchens and blame the missing pies on phantom sea serpents. How Lukas always shared his reading with Rodan even when Rodan didn't care for politics, and how Rodan always included Lukas in magic drills, even though Lukas preferred scrolls to Divinity.
"You didn't want the throne," Rodan whispered softly. "You just wanted dignity. You just wanted to be seen. So your mother wouldn't be scorned. So you could walk beside us as an equal. Not as a burden or a stain."
Rodan paused, as if waiting for a response. And Lukas still said nothing. But the pain in his heart answered for him.
"And I knew that. I knew it so clearly that it hurt. Which is why I never saw you as a rival. I saw you as my anchor."
Then came the memory they were both being drawn toward. The memory that Rodan had wanted to show him along. And Lukas held his breath, waiting for what would be unveiled to him. He saw the two youngsters standing before the entrance of a cave side by side. The elders said the trial would show them the truth of their blood. Their father told them to be safe and to understand that this was a Trial every Lordling contending for the Throne had to go through: To Prove Their Worth to the Seas.
"Are you scared Rodan?" A little Lukas asked his older brother.
"Shitless mate. Keep walking. The old man's apparently pretty traditional." Rodan replied gruffly, the nervous energy thick in his voice.
"Stay safe, brother." Lukas murmured.
"And you as well Lukas. Promise me." Rodan said as he placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a small reassuring squeeze.
"I….promise Rodan. I promise."
They gave each other a quick hug. This would be the last time the two brothers would speak to one another for the next hundred years.
The cave was nothing like the legends described. There were no riddles etched on stone, no magical flames or illusions to test the mind. Just silence. And a single winding path of coral steps descending into cold, glowing water that rippled with an eerie pulse. Rodan remembered the way it felt—like every footstep pressed deeper into the weight of their bloodline.
And then, they saw him. Beneath the still surface of an underground ocean, something vast stirred. A mountain of silver-blue scales, clawed limbs thicker than castle towers, and eyes like suns behind storm clouds—glowing, old, and endlessly cold.
He was the Monarch of the Seas. Their grandfather—but that word felt so pitifully small in comparison to what he was. This was the Dragon Lord who had reigned over the waters when Linemall was still being attacked, not yet hidden from the rest of Hiraeth. A being who never took on a human form. A warlord of the old world, still brimming with power even in his self-imposed retirement.
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His voice was thunder dragged across the seabed.
"So these are the would-be heirs," he rumbled, his mouth forming a grin lined with jagged teeth. "Let's see how far blood alone carries you."
Rodan didn't get the chance to speak because of a single exhale from the Monarch—that was all it took. A torrent of water shot forward from the Monarch's snout, faster than lightning, heavier than a mountain. Rodan felt his ribs scream as he was hurled backward, crashing into stone, pebbles and shards of coral exploding around him. Rodan's head rang. Blood filled his mouth. He couldn't even look at the old beast.
The presence of the Monarch was crushing. Ancient. Unrelenting. It was as though the ocean itself had a will, and it was staring straight through him. Rodan struggled to his knees, pain clawing at every breath.
And yet—
Lukas hadn't moved. He stood in place. Unyielding. Pale-faced, yes. Terrified? Absolutely. But still. The Monarch's gaze fell on him now. And even Rodan, dazed and bruised, could feel the pressure increase. It was like the water itself turned denser around them.
"And you're supposed to be the boy with a silver tongue? Jaren told me about you..." the Monarch growled, his grin cruel and full of amusement. "Are you not afraid? You possess none of the Drakos Legacies. No Crest. No Robe. No Crown. And yet you have the balls to look me in the eyes?"
Lukas' body trembled. His fists clenched at his sides, so tight the nails dug into his palms. But Lukas did not look away. His voice was soft, almost choked, but it did not waver. "I apologize," He replied quickly, "I was taught that maintaining eye contact was a form of respect."
He bowed his head briefly, then lifted it again—eyes locked with the beast before him "Of course I'm afraid, Grandfather. You are someone of great power. But what kind of Lord would that make me... if I turned away in the face of fear?"
The silence that followed was deafening. Even the water seemed to pause. Then...a low sound, guttural and sharp, echoed through the cave. It took Lukas a while to realize that the sound was laughter. Deep and wild—like a hurricane chuckling. The Monarch laughed—not out of joy, but out of something more dangerous: respect mixed with curiosity.
"I like you, boy. You take after your grandmother."
His voice was like stone grinding beneath the ocean's weight.
"But let's see if you can back up those words."
And then, before anyone could react—before Rodan could shout his brother's name—the dragon struck. The jaws of the Monarch opened wide. Lukas had no time to scream, no time to flinch. The teeth of the dragon came crashing down upon him. The cavern echoed with a sickening crunch. Rodan's cry died in his throat as blood erupted, painting the waters in glowing ribbons of pain.
Lukas' body spasmed violently—jagged fangs had pierced clean through his torso, clamping him between two rows of ancient bone that had torn apart kings and monsters alike.
"LUKAS!"
Rodan charged forward—but the water repelled him, the Monarch using his own Divinity to force the young boy back. As talented as Rodan was, this was the Monarch of the Seas he was trying to go up against. He'd been fought wars for far longer than Rodan had even been alive. So Rodan could do nothing but watch as his brother was torn apart before his eyes.
Lukas screamed. It wasn't a normal scream. It was primal—raw and unfiltered, the kind that clawed its way out of the depths of a soul in agony. The Monarch's teeth dug deeper. Sinew tore. Bones cracked. The boy's skin split in radiant arcs of blue light. Lukas watched through Rodan's eyes as the boy's body…the body he inherited…being torn apart ruthlessly without mercy. He winced, watching in horror at the sight unfolding before his eyes.
Understanding dawned on him now. This was why he'd had those scars. His body itself had been torn apart by this…Monarch. Lukas thrashed, his mind a blur of shock and torment—but he did not break.
"Stop it!" Rodan roared, pounding his fists against the barrier. "HE'S JUST A CHILD!"
But the Monarch...paused. The old dragon's eyes narrowed. The currents in the cave stilled for a heartbeat. Because something was happening. Lukas' eyes—once filled with pain—now shone with an eerie brilliance. A green glow, soft and radiant, burning beneath the surface of his irises like the light of an ancient ocean. The Monarch of the Seas crushed down harder, his monstrous fangs biting into the soft flesh of Lukas' shoulder, pinning his left arm entirely within the cage of his teeth.
Muscle tore. Tendons snapped. Rodan screamed in horror, scrambling forward through the water—but the pressure alone was too much. The very sea obeyed him and would not bow to anybody else, even a prodigy like Rodan. But Lukas didn't scream in surrender.
He screamed in fury. And then he began to move. Not in pain. Not in fear. With his body wracked by agony, eyes rolled back and blood frothing at his lips—he reached across his own chest with his remaining hand. And he pulled.
A sickening rip echoed through the chamber as Lukas' own arm tore free. Muscle peeled. Skin split in ribbons. The thick ichor of dragon's blood exploded into the water in a glorious, nightmarish bloom. Lukas did not stop. His face twisted into a feral grimace. He roared—something primal and broken—as he ripped his very arm from the jaws of the Monarch.
Freed.
Bleeding.
Half-conscious.
And still he FOUGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!
The words echoed throughout the chamber and the room filled with emotion that swirled around them. The chant grew louder as Lukas roared with all his might, his eyes never leaving the Monarch's. He didn't fight with grace or training. He swung his one good arm in wild, flailing strikes. His broken, battered body trembled with every move, but he didn't falter. He screamed as he struck, slamming his blood-soaked fist into the ancient dragon's scales again and again.
They did nothing. But that didn't matter. Because what rose in that moment was not a child. Lukas' eyes blazed—a deep, abyssal green, lit from within by a power. It was the Crown of the Lord. The Legacy of Will. Not strength. Not magic. But the unrelenting mind of a ruler forged through pain and duty. This was what separated the Lordlings from the Lords. Because it could not be gifted, it was not simply a talent that one could be born with.
It was forged.
The Monarch felt it. That this boy—this broken, bleeding, half-dead boy—would tear apart his own body before ever bowing down to him. Lukas had already gone unconscious But his body kept swinging. Even knocked out, the will remained. His fist, trembling and bloodied, slammed against the Monarch's face once more, powered by nothing but the burning defiance that roared within the walls of his mind.
Lukas would have ripped himself apart to continue—if it meant he would not yield. The Monarch of the Seas—veteran of a thousand wars, slayer of kings, the eternal tyrant beneath the waves—stared in stunned silence. No heir had ever awakened the legacy of the Crown so young.
The Monarch's grip faltered. His jaws loosened in hesitation. That was his mistake. Lukas roared. His body, still torn and bleeding, jerked free—one arm limp, shredded, useless—but the other raised and clenched tight. He tore his broken form from between the fangs with a bellow of pain that turned to rage.
And then…he struck. A single fist.
BOOM.
Lukas was unconscious. He had shut down from the pain, his vision gone black—but his body…his will…it fought on. His fist slammed forward again.
BOOM.
Again.
BOOM.
And again.
BOOM.
His small frame trembled, broken, shattered—but Lukas Drakos would not fall.
"He's… still fighting…" the Monarch whispered, in pure astonishment. He saw it now. What this child was. Not the son of a concubine. Not the clever weakling of the court. Not the shadow of a prodigy. And in that moment, Lukas Drakos—the forgotten prince, the child without a legacy—was recognized. Finally Lukas' body failed him and he hit the cavern floor with a dull, wet thud. Blood pooled around him like a fallen star in the sand.
Rodan could barely breathe. He trembled—not just from fear, but from awe. From the sheer horror of what he had witnessed.His brother, Lukas—so frail yet so hungry for respect—had just torn himself free from a dragon's maw. He had defied death itself with nothing but sheer will. That wasn't strength. That was something deeper. Something terrifying.
The Monarch loomed over Rodan, his enormous form casting a darkness so thick it felt like the sea itself bowed beneath his words.
"Tell your father this, Rodan," he rumbled, his voice now calm, but no less powerful. "I have made my decision." A pause as the Monarch stared down at Lukas. "This boy...is to be the new Lord of the Seas. He…is going to bring about a New Age for us all."
Rodan's lips parted, but no words came out. What could he say? What could anyone say after witnessing something like that? He dropped to his knees beside Lukas' crumpled form, carefully pulling his brother into his arms—what was left of him. His clothes shredded, skin torn, bones beneath bent at angles they should never be. Lukas was barely alive. Barely breathing. But somehow… still warm.
Rodan didn't cry. He screamed. As he burst out of the cavern, the sound echoed across the cliffs and into the air like a storm breaking through heaven.
"HELP!" he roared. "SOMEONE HELP HIM!"
But no amount of screaming could undo what had been done. Even the Royal Doctors of the Drakos Family could not help him despite their best efforts.
Lukas Drakos—Second Prince of the Sea, the true heir to the throne—fell into silence that day. His body could no longer sustain his spirit. His mind had survived…but his form had failed. Even the mighty Crown of the Lord could not save him from the mortal limits of his young flesh.
By royal decree, he was to be declared dead. The reasons? Shrouded in mystery. They could not allow word of what had transpired in the sacred cave to reach the ears of the public. To admit a child had been nearly murdered in a trial of legacy? That the boy who bore no Crest, no Robe, no power… had instead awakened something older, something greater? It would fracture the court. Threaten the already fragile balance of power. So Lukas was taken far beneath the waves, to a forgotten palace of his ancestors—its halls now empty, swallowed by the deep ocean.
There, he was laid in silence. Monitored. Cared for. Guarded. And mourned. Selene, his mother, insisted on going with him. She abandoned the court. Abandoned the world. She would stay by her son's side, treating his wounds, bathing him in ancient remedies, singing lullabies to a sleeping child who could not hear.
Rodan never told Lord Jaren the truth. Not about the trial. Not about their grandfather's words. Not about the Crown. For the first time in his life…he was afraid. Afraid of what it meant to be Lord. Afraid of what his brother had become. Because if this was the price of Lordship…then Rodan wanted no part of it.
But his love for his brother was greater than any fear. He would protect Lukas. He would keep his secret. And he would ensure the world never tried to demand more of him. So he lived that lie and he did his best, taking on the role his brother should have all those years ago.
Slowly, the world of the past around them faded and they were brought back to the present.
Rodan stared at Lukas, his expression torn between sorrow and resolve. The quiet tension between them filled the room, and the weight of his words hung heavily in the air. He exhaled slowly, his voice soft, but the truth in it was unmistakable.
"After seeing what you went through that day... After watching you fight with every ounce of your soul, even when your body was broken beyond repair… I knew something deep down. I knew I couldn't let you live through that again."
Rodan's gaze dropped briefly, the guilt clear in his eyes, before he continued, his voice steady but carrying an undeniable ache.
"I chose to lie. To take your place, Lukas. I became the Lord of the Seas in your stead. I knew you weren't ready. I knew that, if you were ever forced to face that kind of pain again, you wouldn't survive it. So, I took the throne. I should've been the one to carry that burden, the one to fight those battles… so that you wouldn't have to. I thought one day when you woke up and perhaps got a little stronger, you could take back the throne. But…you never did wake up." Rodan's voice cracked as he took a step closer to Lukas, his eyes locked onto the man before him—his brother.
"Don't you get it, Lukas?" Rodan whispered. "I never had the Crown. And I don't have the Crest. I was never meant to sit on the throne. I was never meant to be the Dragon Lord of the Seas."
Lukas froze, the weight of Rodan's words crashing down on him. He looked at his brother, the man who had sacrificed everything so that Lukas could live in peace. Lukas's mind reeled, the implications slowly settling in.
"You, Lukas Drakos, are the True Lord of the Seas."