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

Varian stood there for a moment, wobbling slightly with every breath, eyes scanning the room—and then he laughed. It wasn't mocking. It wasn't unhinged. Just…surprised. His laugh was a sound that echoed off the wood and stone like it hadn't been used in years.

"Well, I'll be damned," Varian muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. "I haven't seen dragons free of their chains in all my years of living. Not like this at least."

The dragons eyed him warily. Even the little ones stopped mid-play, their heads rising in unison, nostrils flaring at the unfamiliar scent of the old mage. A couple of the older wyverns stepped protectively toward the children, baring rows of teeth in quiet warning. The dragonborn who stood crouched above on wooden ledges slowly unfurled their wings, ready to strike at him.

Lukas realized that he didn't even need to worry about protecting his people. If Varian tried anything stupid well...he'd be ripped to shreds in seconds. But Varian didn't even flinch. He didn't seem afraid.

If anything, he looked delighted.

The Archmage turned, his eyes finding Lukas and then settling on the girl beside him. The old man blinked, as if just realizing who she was. And then, with more grace and awareness than expected from someone who reeked of whiskey and sleepless nights, Varian bowed deeply.

"Princess Rosalia Elarion," Varian greeted, his voice unexpectedly formal, though his tone carried that drunken warmth still. "My apologies for intruding upon such sacred company."

Rosalia blinked. The princess didn't say anything except nodding to acknowledge the Archmage's greeting before turning to Lukas—but the glance said enough. Even at her age, she understood this wasn't just some harmless encounter. Lukas raised a hand, signalling for her to leave him be for the time being. He didn't quite trust the old man, not yet—but Varian didn't seem hostile. If the Archmage meant to make a scene, he would have done so the moment he saw what lay before his eyes.

Then Varian spoke again, gaze drifting over the lounging dragons.

"The Ilagrons really do love their bloody dragons, huh?" he chuckled, scratching his beard. "The Countess must love them a lot to allow them to roam freely like this."

Varian casually reached into his coat pocket, far too casually for Lukas' liking.

Immediately, Lukas' eyes narrowed; his fingers twitched.

The Archmage was a little more observant than usual, noticing Lukas' subtle reaction.

"Relax now, boy," he replied without even looking at his direction. "Just a treat."

From his coat, he pulled a small bundle wrapped in green cloth. He unfurled it slowly—revealing tightly packed sprigs of something dark-purple and silver-veined, a plant with spiral leaves that shimmered faintly even in the dim below-deck light.

Lukas' eyes widened slightly.

Those...were Lunaria.

Lunaria was a rare sea-lichen, one that only grew along the sunken reefs of Linemall. Almost impossible to find unless you had access to the draconic regions of Linemall's Seas. Lukas hadn't seen it in years, not since his departure from Linemall.

Yet, here Varian was, casually carrying enough of it to make half a battalion of wyverns drool.

"How the hell did you get your hands on that?" Lukas whispered before he could stop himself, truly a question of curiosity rather than an accusation.

The old man only winked. "A mage never reveals his secrets."

As if on cue, one of the baby dragons padded forward, sniffing at the plant in the old man's hands. It hesitated then took a small nibble of the familiar plant. And that was all it took.

A frenzy of dragon-sniffing, tail-wagging, and cautious snacking followed.

The tension in the room began to melt as the younger dragons quickly forgot their fear, drawn by the scent of a delicacy they hadn't tasted in years, perhaps even for the first time in their entire lives. Even the older ones softened, curiosity overtaking caution.

Lukas wondered why in the world why Varian would allow them to eat the Lunaria in the first place. It must have not been easy to get his hands on the plant yet he was giving it away freely without a damn care in the world.

Lukas had been right to describe the Archmage as eccentric.

Varian stepped closer to the draconic younglings who had gathered around him, his weathered boots creaking against the old wood with every slow step. The Archmage still smelled like whiskey and sea salt, but his presence had lost its bite. Lukas could sense it—he meant no harm.

Still, he watched Varian carefully. Just in case. It was better to be safe than sorry, after all.

Varian took another swig from the bottle and, with a grin that bordered on mischievous, extended it toward Rosalia.

"Want a sip, Your Majesty?" he offered, raising a bushy brow.

Rosalia blinked, surprised by the gesture. But she recovered quickly, offering a polite smile as she shook her head.

"I appreciate the offer, sir," she said, straightening up slightly, "but I'm still not of age to drink."

Varian laughed, a gruff, genuine sound. "Good. That's the right answer."

He took another swig himself before looking back at Lukas, his tone shifting just slightly—calmer, clearer. "So, tell me, Klein....the Merchant Guild. They planning on selling these dragons in Nozar?"

Lukas' eyes narrowed for a moment, and then he shook his head. Why did he want to know that? Was he interested in buying them?

"No," he answered simply. "The Merchant Guild has no plans on selling them."

Varian nodded slowly, lips curling into a satisfied grin. "Good. Very good."

The ease in his voice caught Lukas off guard again. He'd expected another lecture. Suspicion. Disapproval, maybe. But this man seemed more than glad that the Merchant Guild was deciding to keep these dragons under their ownership.

Varian caught the look Lukas gave him and chuckled knowingly. He lowered himself down onto a nearby barrel with a grunt, his joints popping from the motion.

"I understand why you look so surprised, boy. Not many people are fond of dragons." Varian said, not unkindly. "Truth is, I've gotten more spell components from them than you could imagine. Scales, blood, marrow, breathstone. But do you know what makes those ingredients sing, Drakos?"

Lukas didn't answer. Because he didn't know what the answer could be.

"It's freedom," Varian finally stated.

Freedom?

"A dragon in chains is nothing more than a dull beast. But one that roams free? That breathes clean air, eats what it pleases, fights and lives and feels...the magic in their body is wilder. Stronger. Untamed. It's all about what nourishes a dragon's soul." He explained, leaning back and taking another swig of whiskey. "And freedom which nourishes the soul makes all of those ingredients far more potent."

Lukas tilted his head slightly. "So you don't agree with them being bound?"

"I do not," the old man replied. "Never have. I despise it, in fact. I may be an old bastard, but I've learned this—chains may preserve a dragon's body, but they break its soul."

There was a silence. Then Rosalia spoke up, her curiosity bubbling to the surface.

"Sir Varian, what was that plant you gave them earlier?"

Varian glanced at her, amused. "That, young lady, was Lunaria. Rare little thing. Grows only in the moon-drenched reefs of Linemall. Soothes the nerves. Lethal for human consumption but for dragons? Works great as a snack. They love this stuff."

Her eyes widened. "It comes from Linemall?! How on Hiraeth did you get your hands on it then?"

The old man's grin widened. "Like I told Klein, Your Majesty, that is a secret I cannot disclose. Not even to you."

Rosalia pouted, folding her arms—but still gave a small nod of respect.

The dragons were already nosing around Varian again, clearly hoping for another bite. One of them—a long, sleek wyvern with shimmering silver scales—had its head resting in Rosalia's lap, eyes half-lidded, clearly enjoying the attention. Varian reached into his coat again and held out another sliver of Lunaria to the wyvern in her lap—but before he could offer it, Rosalia gently raised a hand.

"No, thank you," she told him softly. "She has a toothache. She can't eat any solid foods."

Varian raised a brow, then gave a low whistle. "You've got quite the eye, Princess."

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Rosalia shrugged, brushing the wyvern's snout with careful fingers.

Varian raised an eyebrow, then reached for the small leather satchel hanging from his belt, fingers curling around the glass vials tucked neatly inside.

Lukas straightened subtly, his posture unreadable but watchful as he observed the Archmage's slow approach.

The wyvern—her shimmering snout still resting in Rosalia's lap—lifted her head slightly, nostrils flaring. Her eyes narrowed and a low growl began to build in her throat. Lukas immediately activated the Crown, ensuring that its magical intensity did not rise to a level which Varian could detect. A thread of magical energy connected his thoughts with the wyvern's. Calm, warm, like sunlight piercing through storm clouds.

"You're safe. He won't harm you." Lukas told the wyvern through his thoughts.

The growl died in the wyvern's throat. Her muscles eased, the distrust in her gaze fading into wary acceptance. She looked once at Lukas, then laid its head back down. Rosalia turned to Lukas with wide eyes, her lips parting in a silent question.

He gave a small nod to allow Varian to continue. Varian knelt slowly, one hand extended forward, and the other keeping the vial steady.

"Easy now" he murmured, the tone not meant for them but for the beast.

His hand reached the wyvern's jaw and, at the touch, the wyvern flinched—old instincts tightening its posture. But Varian didn't recoil. He simply remained still, hand on the scales, unmoving, waiting for the wyvern to become comfortable with his touch. Then he began to stroke the underside of the wyvern's jaw gently, allowing the wyvern to become more and more familiar with his contact.

And the wyvern did. The old man knew what he was doing. That wasn't luck or foolishness. That was experience.

Varian gently scratched beneath the jawline, coaxing the wyvern's head to tilt upward. "Open up for me," he murmured quietly.

She didn't move at first. The wyvern hesitated—and then her mouth slowly opened. Rows of teeth, glistening with pooled saliva and age. Varian brought the bottle forward, letting thick strands of saliva drip down into the vial already half-filled with silvery liquid.

He didn't speak.

"Wh—what are you doing?" Rosalia asked, her voice low.

Still, Varian didn't say a word.

The playful joy—the quirky, borderline drunken sloppiness—was gone.

What stood before them now wasn't just an intoxicated fool.

It was an Archmage of the Magic Tower.

Lukas recognized the shift instantly. That iron focus. That subtle reverence. It was the same look Magnus had when he prepared the runic arrangement for Rosalia's duel against Celina.

Lukas finally understood.

This wasn't just some old man with a drinking problem.

This was Varian, the man they called the Master of Potions—one of the most decorated and feared alchemists in the Magic Tower's history.

The man who had brewed cures that healed kingdoms and poisons that had put an end to bloodlines. And Lukas could see it now, in the careful way he measured the drool's descent, the speed at which it coagulated, the way his fingers read the viscosity like a scholar read words.

Varian reached into another pouch and sprinkled a faint blue dust into the vial; the fluid shimmered.

He gently touched the wyern's jaw again and winced, muttering to himself. "There you are…"

Varian leaned in closer.

"Third molar. Lower row. Root's rotted clean through."

He turned back toward Lukas and Rosalia. "This has been bothering her for months now. Might be longer."

"It's been years now." Lukas confirmed, reading the wyvern's thoughts.

Then—without a word and without warning—Varian moved.

In a flash of motion, the Archmage's hand shot into the wyvern's mouth, clamping around the decayed molar with his bare fingers.

Rosalia's eyes widened in horror.

"Wait—!"

Too late.

With a guttural grunt, Varian wrenched his arm back, and the rotten tooth came free in a spray of dark blood.

The wyvern roared, a cry so loud it shook the hull of the ship. If not for the mana-threaded wood, her roar would have been likely heard by all abord the Merchant Guild's ship. Her jaws slammed shut out of pure instinct and clamped down on the arm still inside its mouth. Lukas stood but even as he felt the agony lancing through the dragon's mind.

Then he froze. Not because of the blood—gushing freely from Varian's mangled arm. Not even from the way the dragon's razor-like teeth had clearly torn down to the bone.

No.

What stopped him was Varian.

Because the old man didn't move.

He didn't scream.

He didn't even curse.

Instead, with slow, methodical precision, he reached over with his good hand and lifted the vial to the dragon's face. Her single remaining eye, glazed with tears, flicked toward the vial in confusion. Still wracked by pain. Still trembling. Still afraid.

And the Archmage, with the calm of someone who had done this a hundred times before, whispered, "It's going to be alright."

The wyvern's tears fell—one, then two—and dripped into the vial.

The mixture inside, already swirling with silvery mana and dragon saliva, flared a deep, molten red. It pulsed like a living heart. The light coming from it was potent, radiating the kind of healing magic that Lukas had not even seen the highest grade of healing potions that he had scoured from the House of Fortunes. Even the rarest potions did not glow like the bottle that Varian now held in his hand.

Lukas was stunned.

Every drop. Every motion. All of it was surgically precise. This was a master at work—a man who didn't need measuring tools because he had done this so many times, he knew the weight by hand. Varian had devoted decades to his craft. Enough to know, instinctively, exactly how much pain, how much blood, how many tears it would take to create a potion that could ease the wyvern's suffering.

Rosalia knelt next to the wyvern, stroking her snout, her own eyes filled with unshed tears. "It's okay now," she whispered. "It's okay."

Still, Varian continued; pushing through the pain that must be wracking his body. With one hand slick with blood and potion, he moved to pour its glowing contents over the gaping wound in his own arm. And in doing so, the potion began to drip down into the wyvern's mouth as well.

The moment the liquid hit her tongue, the beast stopped shaking; her jaw relaxed. Lukas felt the change instantly through the Crown—the searing pain she had been feeling vanished. Gone in an instant, replaced by something so rare, so intoxicating, it nearly made him stumble.

Relief.

Relief so profound it felt like it could make the world right again.

The wyvern sighed. A deep, chest-shuddering exhale. She laid her head down once more in Rosalia's lap.

For the first time in years, the wyvern would sleep more peacefully than she had in a very long time that night.

As the wyvern finally released her grip, Varian's arm slipped free with a wet, crackling sound.

Lukas winced at the gruesome sight.

Rosalia's face turned a little green when she laid eyes on it herself.

It was a mess—flesh torn in jagged strips, tendons frayed like snapped strings. Blood poured down in thick rivulets, soaked into the old man's robes, and beneath all that ruin, Lukas caught a glimpse of bone—crushed, not just fractured.

The teeth had sunk in deep enough to bite clean through the forearm.

But Varian didn't so much as flinch. He simply raised the glowing vial to his lips, drinking some of it and tilted the last of its shimmering red contents over the mangled limb.

What followed was nothing short of magical. The potion hissed as it made contact with torn muscle, a bright light flashing across the wound like lightning through cloud.

Lukas stared, unable to look away as the magic began to work.

The bones came first first. Cracked edges shimmered and pulled together with unnatural precision, shards twisting back into place with a series of small pops and grinding sounds. The marrow fused with a faint golden glow, the entire skeletal structure snapping back into alignment like a shattered blade being reforged.

Next came the tendons, stretching like threads of silver, weaving through one another like a loom at work. Veins reconnected. Arteries pulsed. The blood reversed, flowing back up and disappearing into skin that regenerated second by second.

The flesh knitted itself over muscle and bone, cell by cell—each strand smoothing and sealing until only a faint pink scar remained, like it had all been a trick of the light.

Even Lukas, who had seen impossible things in his lifetime, was left awestruck.

Then came the wyvern. Lukas felt it through the Crown—the gratitude that she felt for Varian, this human that she had never come across before. The wyvern leaned forward slowly, pressing its snout—gently, so gently—against the Archmage's chest. Varian only chuckled. A warm, broken sound that was part laughter, part exhaustion.

"Alright, alright, no need to cry about it any more than you already have," he muttered, pressing his own forehead against the wyvern's with a quiet reverence. "You're welcome, big fella."

Rosalia's eyes shimmered with silent awe.

She clutched the wyvern's side, still stunned by what she'd just witnessed.

Varian patted the wyvern once more, then slowly stood with a wince, rolling his newly mended arm. He turned to Rosalia, bowing in the most formal, court-perfect motion that a drunk man could muster. He had done enough here. It was time to take his leave. But before he did, the old man paused and turned back towards Lukas.

The Archmage's tone turned heavier—gravel thickened with warning. "Tell your Countess Velena that she should keep them hidden," he warned, voice low. "When we reach Nozar…things will change."

Lukas blinked. "What do you mean?"

Varian didn't smile this time.

"There are many in Nozar who do not just want these dragons in chains," he continued. "They want them dead."

His gaze flicked toward the ceiling above, where the storm rumbled just out of reach.

"With the Celebration of the Great War's end coming up…there will be parades. Exhibitions. Reenactments." Varian looked back at Lukas, his weathered eyes sharper than they'd ever been. "Keep them below deck. Out of sight. Or you might find that they don't make it out of Nozar alive."

Before Lukas could respond to the words of caution, Varian was already gone—disappearing up the stairs, leaving behind only silence, and the faint scent of whiskey and Lunaria.

Rosalia looked to Lukas, uncertain.

Could he trust the Archmage like Magnus had asked him to?

Lukas watched the wyvern curl back into sleep, watched how it no longer whimpered in pain. He wasn't sure. But maybe, the words Magnus had written in that letter were not completely out of question; telling Lukas that Varian, an Archmage sponsored by the Church was somebody that they could trust.

And that, for now, was enough.

Perhaps the most terrifying ones in Hiraeth…were those who didn't need to raise a sword to make the whole world tremble.