The Lord of the Seas - An Isekai Progression Fantasy [ Currently on Volume 2 ]

The polished stone floors of the Elarion Royal Palace gleamed beneath the soft light of enchanted sconces as Velena, Jesse, and Lukas stood quietly in the corridor just outside the King's private quarters.

This entire wing—lavish, sprawling, and guarded—had been reserved for the King of Nozar and his entourage, a subtle but undeniable reminder of how powerful the Ittriki Clan truly was.

Lukas adjusted his collar slightly, casting a glance down the long hall.

They had arrived early. Not by much, but early enough to make a good impression—just in case. He wasn't nervous. Not exactly. Cautious was a better word to describe the tightness in his gut.

Keep an open mind, Lukas reminded himself. He'd actually spent last night telling Styx what the Divine Knight had told him. To his surprise, Styx had agreed with Celina.

Not everything was black and white, she had wrote in her response.

A moment later, the doors at the far end of the hall swung open. Out stepped King Daerion Ittriki, cloaked in dark blue and gold, surrounded by a small honor guard. Soldiers flanked him, each one draped in Nozari armor—less ornamental than Easthaven's, but no less intimidating.

The King of Nozar's presence, however, was louder than any armor. There was a gravity to him, the kind of weight that drew the attention of a room the moment he entered it.

Beside him walked a young boy—no older than Rosalia. Dark-haired with sharp features and a permanent frown creasing his face. Just like his father, he was quite large in stature. His clothes were finely made but his shoulders slouched slightly in quiet protest; the kind common to children dragged into political affairs they had no interest in.

Still, the boy stepped forward when Velena inclined her head and bowed properly, greeting her with a polite albeit half-hearted "Countess."

The king let out a deep belly laugh, placing a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder.

"This grumpy one here is Soren," Daerion explained, eyes twinkling with amusement. "One of mine. Born out of wedlock, but no less an Ittriki. We don't do shame in our bloodline."

Soren gave Lukas a brief glance—curious, cautious—then turned his gaze back toward the ground. He was quiet, but not weak.

The Ittriki Clan had always been different. Where most noble houses masked their scandals behind the veils of tradition and silence, the Ittriki embraced theirs with open arms. It was customary—expected, even—for the Clan Head to take on multiple wives. Five was considered the bare minimum, and King Daerion Ittriki had far surpassed that requirement.

But his appetite didn't end with formal marriages.

The man was infamous for his womanizing ways, and it was no secret that he had children scattered beyond the bounds of legitimacy.

Though Prince Darren was known across Hiraeth as the "youngest son of Nozar," officially recorded and recognized by the Church and court alike, Lukas had no doubt Daerion had other sons—lesser in title, but no less blood.

Soren was living proof of that.

Lukas glanced at the bastard, walking with quiet precision behind his father.

He could relate to Soren in a way he hadn't expected. Born out of wedlock, unclaimed for the longest time, Lukas too had grown up shadowed by that absence of legitimacy. Before being put into the coma and awakening from it, he'd been treated as the unworthy child—the mistake.

Soren, no doubt, carried the same burden. That kind of weight shaped a boy fast. Sharp. Hard. It grew a chip on the shoulder before the bones in the arms had even finished setting.

Daerion turned fully to him now, arms wide in theatrical display.

"And Klein," he said with a chuckle. "There are no hard feelings, boy. You made the right call. Velena's got a sharp eye, and from what I'm seeing you're clearly working for that sponsorship of hers. Appointed as her personal guard on day one. I hope she's paying you well."

"She is. And I'm just doing what I can, Your Majesty." Lukas replied, bowing his head slightly.

The king's grin widened.

"Well then," Daerion announce, clapping his hands once. "Let's not waste a good morning standing around. I've got a full bottle of Nozar's finest in my quarters, and a mind to hear what this Merchant Guild of yours has planned for the future of Hiraeth."

Just as the King of Nozar began to usher them in to his quarters and ordering his servants to begin pouring drinks. His gaze shifted toward Jesse, standing quietly behind Velena, ever-watchful.

"You know," Daerion remarked. "Your grandson's a sharp one, Countess. Thoughtful. Quiet. Too quiet for a room like this." His eyes twinkled as he turned to Jesse. "Why don't you and my boy go down to the training yard? Give us old folk some peace to talk."

Jesse's jaw visibly tensed, and Lukas could almost hear the protest forming in his throat.

The King leaned forward with a grin. "Come now, it's nothing personal. Just that this is a discussion for grown-ups. Trade routes, economics, maybe even war. It's all very boring, I promise."

Jesse laughed. An awkward, hollow sound. He looked to Velena, who gave him the slightest nod of reassurance, her hand gently touching his shoulder. "Go on," Velena told softly, almost apologetically. "We'll be fine."

Lukas knew what was going on in Jesse's head. He knew well how much the young dragonborn hated being underestimated, how much he loathed being dismissed. But there was no way to convince the King that the Countess' grandson would make any sort of meaningful contribution, not if they wanted to continue to hide the fact that they were Dragons of Linemall.

So, without a word, Lukas opened a mental link through the Crown. Subtle. Silent. Weaving the connection with utmost care, cloaking it from detection.

"You'll still be able to hear what goes in that room, Jesse." Lukas spoke into Jesse's mind. "Just keep quiet and listen. I'll maintain this connection. Speak out where needed and I will convey your thoughts to Velena.

Jesse glanced at him for only a moment, the barest nod betraying his understanding.

Then, with slow steps, he turned and followed Soren. The boys didn't even look back.

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Lukas exhaled and rolled his shoulders before they all followed the King into the Palace.

Now the real meeting would begin.

Velena and Lukas found themselves seated within one of the smaller meeting halls of the palace—still decadent in its design, with velvet drapes lining the windows and a long polished table stretching from end to end. Servants had long since cleared the tea trays, and with the formal greetings out of the way, the conversation turned sharply toward business.

King Daerion leaned back in his seat, swirling his goblet with idle grace. His presence dominated the room, not because he demanded it, but because it came naturally to him—like the weight of his name hung on every breath he took.

"So," he began, voice rich and level, "Countess Ilagron. Let's make sure I've got this straight. You are asking me for formal permits to allow every member of the Merchant Guild to conduct trade in the inner cities of Nozar. Full access to the private markets. In return, I'll get a cut of the trade tax, naturally. Seems like a fair deal."

Velena gave a calm nod. "More than fair, Your Majesty. The tax will be paid in full, and you'll see a rise in both coin and commerce across the region. Like I said, the Guild brings wealth wherever it goes."

Daerion smiled, but his eyes remained sharp.

"I agree. It is a good deal. I'll grant you those permits."

Lukas exhaled slowly. That had gone smoother than expected.

"But," Daerion added, voice dipping ever so slightly, "I've noticed something else and I've been meaning to ask you about it. You've been buying up more dragons than usual. Not that I'm against it—just…curious. What do you plan to do with them?"

There was no accusation in his tone. Just a king's curiosity. But the casualness of the question carried a subtle weight. He was watching them. Measuring.

Velena didn't blink. She merely smiled.

"It's because they're the reason for our growth," she stated plainly, as if the answer were obvious.

Daerion raised an eyebrow, urging her to elaborate.

"They're not being resold," She continued, cutting through the edge of suspicion. "We're not buying them for labour or spectacle. Everything we sell comes from what the dragons shed naturally. Scales. Horn shavings. Teeth. Even—believe it or not—tears and saliva. All of it holds immense medicinal and alchemical value."

Velena leaned forward, folding her hands. "You know how it works, Your Majesty. Nobles pay for mystique. They pay for rarity. And with dragons, even the scraps are worth a fortune."

Daerion chuckled, the tension loosening from his shoulders.

"I do know," he replied, eyes gleaming. "Gods, the number of fools who think powdered scale can extend their lives or grant them eternal youth. Those claims have long been disproven. And yet, they still line up with their purses wide open."

He leaned in slightly. "So tell me—how are you extracting so much from so few dragons? I've seen your ledgers. You move weight far beyond what anyone else has ever been able to manage."

Velena gave a light, elegant laugh. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that. One can never reveal the secret to our success."

Lukas could see the game now—the subtle back-and-forth of power and implication. But it was clear that Daerion respected it. He wasn't offended. He was intrigued. Daerion nodded, letting the mystery go unsolved.

What he didn't know was that the Merchant Guild had access to an entire Kingdom of Dragons, their supply more than enough to keep the never-ending demand.

"Fair enough," he said, then grew more serious, the grin fading from his face. "You've got the innovation, that much is certain. That's why I have another offer to make—one with a little more...exposure."

"I will be leaving Easthaven at the end of the month," Daerion explained. "Because in around eight weeks time, the Church will be holding the Celebration for the Great War's end. in the Inner Cities of Nozar. It's no small occasion. It is a celebration of humanity's triumph over the dragons. Only happens once every century. Every noble, the rich and power, will be there."

He looked to Velena. "And I want the Merchant Guild to be there too. You're an innovative bunch, like I said. I want you to unveil a product—something no one's ever seen before. Something unique. Something they'll all want."

"And you want us to sell it there?" Velena asked.

"No," Daerion said with a sly grin. "I don't want you to just sell it. I want you to reveal it at the Celebration. Once they've seen it, they'll beg to buy it. That's how your Guild grows. You don't sell to the poor. You sell to the rich."

There was silence.

Then Daerion added, "Of course, there's no pressure. You can say no. But I think you know opportunity when it knocks on your door. Don't you, Countess?"

Velena didn't respond right away. Lukas could already see the calculations behind her gaze—the weighing of cost, risk, and reward. But something else simmered beneath the surface: a quiet unease. Because Daerion had just invited them to a festival celebrating the downfall of their people. And he expected them to profit off of it.

Lukas said nothing. But inside, he felt Jesse's rage. He had heard the King's every word. But Jesse could see the opportunity knocking on their door. Even Lukas knew this was a door that they could not afford to leave closed.

Velena had just opened her mouth to respond when Lukas heard Jesse's voice pierce through his mind—sharp, panicked, and completely unlike his usual calm.

"Lukas! It's Rosalia!" Jesse's words didn't register at first—not entirely.

Then, he felt it.

A sudden spike of magical pressure ripped through the palace grounds.

Lukas saw the other mages in the room stiffen, some instinctively calling on their Divinities to protect their monarch. Even King Daerion himself rose from his seat in a smooth but commanding motion, his soldiers immediately moving in front of him.

"Protect His Majesty—!"

But Lukas was already gone.

He had launched himself out of the meeting room before the others could even blink, moving through the hallway in a blur.

The doors had been blown off their hinges by the time they realized Lukas had already left the room.

His heart hammered against his ribs, and his senses expanded, stretching out toward the training yard where he knew Jesse had gone.

Lukas reached them in a matter of seconds and there he saw why Jesse had called out to him in the midst of their negotiations.

Jesse stood between Rosalia and the King's bastard son, arms slightly extended in a protective stance. His expression was furious, lips curled back in something close to a snarl, and energy sparked faintly from his fingertips; threatening to lash out at Soren.

Rosalia knelt behind him, one hand pressed to her bleeding arm—three deep claw-like gashes ran from her shoulder to just above her elbow, blood soaking into the fabric of her dress. Her face was pale, not from fear, but from pain—and worse, confusion.

Opposite them stood the boy. The King's illegitimate son. Soren.

Lukas now saw the fury etched across the boy's face, a twisted grimace as bright red Mana crackled around his hands.

The boy's breathing was heavy, his stance low—he had struck with intent.

"What the hell happened here?" Lukas demanded, voice a low growl as he approached, every step radiating command.

The boy didn't even flinch. He looked at Lukas like one would look at a predator in the wild—equal parts defiant and reckless.

"I should've known that they were bound to clash," came the King's voice as he finally arrived, stepping into the courtyard with guards flanking him.

His expression was not one of surprise. In fact, the look on his face made Lukas think he meant for this to happen.

Lukas turned toward him sharply. "What in the world are you talking about?"

Daerion shrugged. "Come now, Klein. Isn't it obvious? You're training the Princess for the position of the Divine Knight Candidate, aren't you?"

"With all due respect, Your Majesty, I don't see how that answers my question."

"Ah. I suppose you didn't know. I suppose it hasn't been long since you've been put in charge of the Princess' training. You see Rosalia is not the only one who wishes to become a Holy Warrior of the Church. You see my son Soren here...he's going to be fighting against Rosalia for that position. He is the Princess' greatest competitor for the position of the next Divine Knight Candidate."