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

The narrow stone path opened into a vast plaza paved with silver-veined marble, and at last, they stood at the very center of the Inner Cities, the heart of hearts.

Before them rose the Citadels of the Church in full view. Towering structures of sanctified stone and gold-laced spires, shimmering beneath the high sun. Each citadel was carved with holy scripture, etched deep into the walls like divine scars, their meaning pulsing faintly with magic that only the faithful could feel.

Bells chimed softly in the wind, distant and slow, as if echoing across the centuries.

The largest stood at the centre—the Cathedral of Saint Helen, first of her name, the woman who had summoned the Hero From Another World to Hiraeth—its dome painted with celestial murals and guarded by paladins draped in white and crimson.

That was where the Celebration would begin.

The moment they stepped into the square, Lukas felt it. It was a familiar magical weight pressing gently at the edge of his senses. He couldn't name it, couldn't quite place where he'd felt it before, but it tugged at something buried deep. It was subtle but he noticed it all the same. But he didn't dwell on it.

There was so much to take in that Lukas couldn't focus on that feeling.

The Citadels towered ahead—marble and gold and light. Even in stillness, they felt alive. Devotion turned to architecture.

Before the gates, a makeshift stage had been erected where a small group of actors performed a dramatic re-enactment. Their gestures were exaggerated, voices loud and theatrical, drawing polite claps and soft laughter from the waiting crowd. The red banners and desert motifs pointed to a conflict between Nozar and Khaitish. He hadn't known the two Kingdoms had gone to war but in the time since the Great War's end, it was no surprise that conflict persisted in Hiraeth. The actors playing the Beastkin of Khaitish were draped in ragged furs, painted with crude tusks and snouts that looked more like caricatures than living beings.

"They look awful." Jesse muttered. "Are those supposed to be Beastkin?"

Lukas said nothing at first, just watching as one of the 'Beastkin' villains snarled and charged across the stage with a prop club that was twice his size.

He shrugged lightly. "I haven't seen one up close."

But Lukas remembered how easily all who came across them in Ilagron Village had accepted the fact that the Kraken was one of the Beastkin, how easily the sea-faring monster had masqueraded as a Beastkin to travel unnoticed.

No one had questioned it then.

His gaze drifted down to his right arm. He hadn't thought about the Kraken for a long time now.

Lukas flexed his fingers absentmindedly.

The Kraken hadn't stirred for months now, not a whisper, not a twitch of thought, but its presence was undeniable. The limb moved as smoothly and naturally as his original arm once had, and yet there was always a quiet hum beneath his skin, a dormant current of power waiting to awaken.

Lukas remembered how broken he had been after the fight with Rodan, how close he had come to death.

It was the Kraken that had refused to let him die—who had tethered him to life, even at great cost to itself. Lukas still remembered the moment his familiar had sacrificed everything to make sure he kept breathing, hauling him to the shores of Easthaven where he would have still met his end if not for Rosalia.

Now, the Kraken slept. But he knew that the Kraken would not sleep forever.

"Their acting could use some work too." Jesse noted.

Lukas smirked slightly at that, but the amusement was fleeting. He looked around, the magical hum in the air brushing against the edges of his senses again, just faint enough to escape recognition. It was like a song he almost remembered, a name on the tip of his tongue—but it vanished every time he tried to focus on it.

Then a voice spoke beside them. "For the record…we don't look like that. Far from it, in fact."

Jesse turned at the voice first, blinking in surprise, and Lukas followed.

The man stood close, leaning heavily on a dark walking cane carved out of wood.

He was young with sharp, defined features and messy brown hair that curled just slightly over his brow. His eyes were striking, a muted amber hue ringed with a tired sort of intensity, and his pale skin gave him a weatherworn, slightly sickly appearance beneath the golden light of the square.

His outfit was modest, practical. A dark tunic fastened with a crimson tie, the kind of clothing that looked more suited for dusty archives than a public celebration. And yet, despite the soft lines of his face and the way he carried himself, Lukas noticed the limp.

Lukas tried not to stare, but others didn't have the same courtesy. Nobles and commoners alike cast glances as they passed, some subtle, others less so. Judgement, pity, dismissal—Lukas had seen it all before.

The man ignored them, he was likely used to it by now.

"But then again," the stranger added with a wry smile, "I'm hardly a proper representation of my people either."

Lukas frowned, tilting his head to the side. "You come from Khaitish? You are nothing I'd imagine a Beastkin to look like."

The man blinked, as if surprised Lukas had noticed—or perhaps surprised that he'd cared to give him a proper response.

"My apologies," the man said quickly, shifting the cane slightly as he straightened. "I should have introduced myself first."

The man offered a soft, courteous smile as he adjusted his weight on the cane.

Then, with a slight bow of his head, he finally spoke.

"My name is Rowan," he said. "Representative of the Kingdom of Khaitish. And current Head of the Morningeyes Clan."

The name settled in the air between them like a quiet weight.

Jesse blinked, his brows rising almost immediately. The young dragonborn had been to Khaitish as the Merchant Guild had sailed to Khaitish on many occasions. Jesse knew damn well who this man was, even heard his name a thousand times, yet even he had never come face to face with him like this.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Even Lukas, who had learned not to be surprised by names or titles, found himself pausing.

The Morningeyes Clan.

In the fractured lands of Khaitish, where warlords clashed endlessly over land and steel, only one name ruled above them all—The Morningeyes. A clan shrouded in myth more than history. No one truly understood the reason for their unchallenged dominance. They held no sprawling armies, nor any widely known magic.

Yet generation after generation, the warlords of Khaitish bowed to this clan.

Rowan being the Head of that clan made him the de facto King of Khaitish, the ruler of those lands in all but name only.

"I see," Lukas said slowly, straightening himself. "Then allow me to—"

But Rowan raised a hand gently, shaking his head with that same knowing smile.

"There is no need to introduce yourself," he interrupted, his amber eyes seeming to glimmer faintly in the light. "I know who you are."

There was no arrogance in the way he said it. No awe either, just quiet certainity.

Lukas wasn't surprised, not entirely. His name had especially spread throughout the Inner Cities after his near clash with Maelis Elarion, Admiral of Nozar's Navy.

Many knew him. Many made it known to him that they knew him. But something about the way Rowan said it was different. There was a depth to his voice, an almost eerie calm. And those eyes…they looked far older than the face they belonged to.

Strange. But Lukas didn't get the chance to linger on the thought.

"I only really came to see my sister," Rowan continued, a visible warmth creeping into his face. "She's everything, really. When she was only fourteen, she left for Nozar on her own—wouldn't let any of us stop her. Said she needed to see the world with her own eyes. Let me tell you all about it! Now she's—"

WHACK!

A large hand came down hard on the back of Rowan's head.

Rowan yelped, more out of surprise than pain, and staggered slightly forward as a woman—tall, broad-shouldered, and clearly annoyed—loomed behind him with both hands on her hips. Her thick braid swung behind her like a weapon of its own, and the scowl of annoyance on her face could have withered crops.

"I told you not to do that!," she growled. "You have got to stop telling people my life story! Especially to strangers!"

Rowan rubbed the back of his head with a wince, then looked back at Lukas and Jesse, sheepish. "That...would be her. That is my sister. "

Rowan's sister was exactly what Lukas imagined a Beastkin to look like. Like something straight out of the fantasy novels his coach's kid back on Earth used to binge—towering, furred in patches, and packed with muscle.

She was humanoid, yes, but just barely.

Thick curling horns jutted from her head like a crown forged from bone, and her biceps flexed with every movement, coiled strength rippling beneath her skin. She stood easily several heads taller than her younger brother and was shockingly of comparable build to Celina. And the Divine Knight was a a damn genetic freak of nature.

Everything about this woman screamed warrior.

This was Nozar's Second Admiral.

Serenya of the Morningeyes Clan. A vicious hero who was known for her great physicality.

From the heavy boots to the worn plating on her shoulders, she looked like she could throw a bull across a field and not break a sweat. And yet…as she turned to Lukas, her entire demeanor shifted. She bowed low—not stiff or sarcastic, but genuine.

"Please excuse him," she told him quietly, her voice surprisingly soft for someone built like a siege weapon. "I hope my brother has not caused you any trouble."

Her face was still tilted down when Lukas noticed movement behind her.

Two figures approached—both far more familiar.

The Countess Velena Ilagron, draped in flowing robes of white and gold. Her outfit mirrored Jesse's ceremonial garb almost exactly, right down to the sapphire threading at the cuffs. Regal, pristine, untouchable.

Beside her was the Princess of Easthaven, Rosalia Elarion. Her dark green dress clung gently to her form, regal without being gaudy, its sleeves delicately embroidered with silver leafwork. But what truly drew the eyes of many was the necklace she wore—a crystalline piece that shimmered like frozen starlight. Lukas didn't need to be a jeweler to know it was of absurd quality. Whoever crafted them had done so with a level of care bordering on reverence.

The crowd certainly noticed. Eyes lingered and whispers stirred. Rowan's sister must have been escorting the two of them to the Celebration while Lukas and Jesse had gone to get their outfits tailored and ready.

Rosalia caught Lukas' gaze with a smile before turning to Jesse.

"Thank you again," she said to Jesse warmly. "For the necklace. And for walking me back to the ship last night."

Lukas' eyebrow twitched upward.

So much had happened the previous night with Valkari and Varian that he hadn't realized something had happened last night.

Ooh la la.

Lukas turned toward Jesse—who was suddenly laughing, a touch too quickly, a little too loud. And there it was—the nervous edge in his voice that Lukas knew all too well. The nervous energy of a boy who liked a girl.

"There's no need to thank me, it was a gift," Jesse told her, waving a hand like it was nothing.

Rosalia held out her arm with practiced grace. Without missing a beat, Jesse took it and linked his with hers, letting her lead the way as the grand doors of the main Citadel finally opened with a deep groan of sacred hinges.

The crowd began to move.

"…How much did that necklace cost?" Lukas muttered under his breath.

Rowan chuckled. "Judging by the craftsmanship? I'd say more than a few ships."

Jesse wasn't a big spender but he sure knew how to spend it when need be.

The siblings of the Morningeyes Clan seemed ready to take their leave, melting back into the thinning crowd. Serenya, all muscle and grace, was already tugging her brother away by the back of his tunic; muttering something about him always embarrassing her.

But just before they vanished, Rowan paused to face Lukas. The man smiled as his sister grabbed him again, already dragging him backwards. But he raised a hand in parting, voice steady over his shoulder.

"We'll continue this conversation later. You can count on that."

Then Rowan was gone, swallowed into the crowd like mist through latticework.

Lukas watched him go. Only when he heard a soft laugh beside him did he glance away—Velena, holding out her arm with a wry smirk, as if mocking Rosalia and Jesse.

"Well?" she asked, arching a brow. "Aren't you going to link arms with me?"

The Countess mimicked Rosalia's earlier gesture to Jesse with exaggerated grace, and Lukas chuckled, linking his arms with hers as the two of them stepped into the yawning entrance of the Citadel.

But his mind wasn't entirely there.

Because that feeling—that strange magical pressure, that deep and familiar energy that had grown heavier with each step he took—it hadn't come from the towering temples of Oceanus.

It hadn't come from the stones, or the rites, or even the artifacts housed within.

No.

It had been coming from the man himself.

It had been coming from Rowan, the Head of the Morningeyes Clan all along. But Rowan was now lost in the crowd, pulled along by his sister before he could learn why it was coming from him. Rowan was right. They would see each other again, Lukas could count on that.