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

The interior of the Citadel was nothing like the grand halls Lukas had seen before.

It was more than just regal—it was deliberate. Every inch of the towering structure screamed opulence, but in a way that didn't beg to be admired; it demanded it. High vaulted ceilings were layered with frescoes of ancient conquests and triumphs, gilded in gold leaf and enchanted to subtly shimmer beneath the light of a hundred floating crystal orbs.

Deep purple and blue banners bearing the royal crest of Nozar fluttered despite the absence of wind, and the black marble floors gleamed with such clarity they mirrored the steps of every soul within.

A tide of nobles, merchants, and dignitaries swept through the halls in waves of fine silks, ceremonial armor, and perfumes strong enough to stain the air. It became clearer to Lukas than ever that this was more than just a Celebration. Deals were being whispered behind lifted glasses of crystalline wine, names exchanged like currency, favours traded with nothing more than a nod. Lukas could hear them as he moved through the crowd with Velena—business offers dressed as toasts, territorial disputes disguised as pleasantries, even a few marriage propositions slipping out between chuckles.

All of this was just a ritual gathering where the rich solidified their hold, and the powerful reminded the rest just how untouchable they were.

Lukas kept his silence, letting the murmurs pass around him like fog, simply following Velena as she strode through the crowd with calculated grace.

Her presence drew eyes—some curious, others wary, many intrigued. Velena's name had begun to echo through Hiraeth, now the face behind the Merchant Guild that was growing at exponential rates. She greeted the nobles nearest to her with the ease of a politician and the sharpness of a hawk, charming them with a smile while gauging them with her eyes.

This was what they'd come here to do after all: To form connections.

From a short distance away, Lukas kept one eye on Rosalia to see how she was handling all of this. The young girl stood poised, though there was an underlying unease to her stance. But Lukas wasn't worried of her safety—not with Jesse beside her. Her unease was simply a product of being in such an unfamiliar setting. Nobles from the various Nozari provinces were already beginning to flock around her, many of them trying their best to impress the young Princess of Easthaven.

Their flattery was drenched in promises—lavish estates, rare gifts, even thinly veiled political alliances. They were already vying for favour, and Rosalia, for all her youth, held court with the patience of someone much older.

Then the air shifted. A hush swept through the hall like a sudden breeze.

Voices tapered off mid-sentence, glasses paused in midair, and footsteps froze on marble. And then, as if from the walls themselves, a voice echoed deep and resonant inside every mind:

"Welcome, friends and leaders of Hiraeth. We are gathered here today for a very special reason and that is to celebrate."

The voice of King Daerion of Nozar, amplified by one of Magnus' gleaming communication crystals perched atop the central spire of the Citadel.

Everyone turned, drawn toward the towering dais where the King had not yet revealed himself, but his words were enough to command attention.

The Celebration finally began not with fanfare, but with silence—heavy, reverent, expectant.

Lukas' eyes drifted toward the long central corridor of the Citadel, a grand pathway carved between the towering columns and polished marble walls, lit by overhead chandeliers that blazed like captured starlight. It stretched from the great doors to the raised dais at the far end, a ceremonial spine that bisected the hall like a sword waiting to be drawn. Velvet ropes and armoured guards kept the crowd pressed to either side, a clear passage.

Then came the King's voice once more, resonating not from his throat but from within each listener's mind. Smooth, imperial, and steeped in pride.

"More than two hundred years ago, we stood at the edge of extinction."

A ripple of attention passed through the gathered elite—noblemen adjusting their cloaks, merchant lords straightening their stances, soldiers locking their hands behind their backs.

"The Great War had raged for centuries, and the dragons…their patience had come to an end. They struck. They invaded our lands. Burned our homes. Slaughtered our children. But in our darkest hour—"

The corridor darkened, a dim pulse rolling across the walls like thunderclouds closing in.

"—a Hero was summoned. Not born of this world, but sent by Oceanus himself to lead us into the light. He united us. Strengthened us. And together, we pushed back the armies of Linemall."

A murmur rose from the crowd—quiet applause, nods, words of shared remembrance. Lukas could feel the tension rising beneath their surface, not of mourning, but of pride. A cultivated, generational pride. Manufactured and passed down like heirlooms.

"And so we gather here. Year after year. To honor those sacrifices. To remember the forefathers whose blood built the homes you live in, whose blades carved out the peace you now enjoy. To remember the men whose names you still bear today."

Lukas scanned the room. Many of them were here—descendants of those so-called "heroes." Lords of old bloodlines, the children of those who had slaughtered his kind.

"But peace," the King's voice deepened, turning cold and sharp, "must never make us soft. Let today serve as a reminder—we are humanity. The apex predator. The top of the food chain. And the dragons?"

The grand doors at the end of the Citadel slammed open with a force that echoed across the marble, silencing even the breathless murmurs.

"They are nothing more than beasts we have conquered."

A collective gasp surged through the crowd, followed by gasps, murmurs, and the awful kind of excitement that only the powerful can afford to enjoy.

Down the corridor they came—pushed, prodded, paraded.

Handlers in gleaming black steel led them forward: Wyverns, being marched into the Citadel. Shackled dragons with their wings clipped and scales dulled, their claws wrapped in iron rings. They filled the central pathway, forming a grotesque procession—living trophies beneath a ceiling painted with their ancestors' deaths.

Lukas felt his jaw tighten, his fists clench.

This was no commemoration.

It was a show of dominance, a reminder of chains.

And then the King's voice, triumphant now, echoed one last time. "This is humanity's greatest hour, my dear friends! And we will not stop here. We will continue to conquer this world, and we will reign—supreme—over all of Hiraeth!"

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The crowd erupted into thunderous applause, voices raised in praise and pride, the sound swallowing the silent suffering of those paraded before them.

Lukas' eyes met Jesse's, and in that moment, whatever casual amusement or lightness they had allowed themselves to carry into the Citadel vanished beneath the crushing weight of the scene unfolding before them.

Their jaws clenched.

Their breath stilled.

Because it was them. Their kin. Their people.

It was their own kind that was now being dragged through the heart of this so-called celebration like beasts bred for amusement.

Wyverns with fresh lashes on their backs.

A young dragon limping, another with dried blood at their temple.

Dragonborn in chains that chafed against their skin.

They were being forced to walk the path like circus animals, all for the satisfaction of the watching crowd—who laughed, who pointed, who toasted their ancestors with gleaming goblets of wine while pretending not to notice the bruises, the wounds, the shame.

Above all the noise, the King's voice rose again; triumphant and deafening within their minds.

"Behold them. The dragons of old—once our enemies. They walk now only because we allow them to. They serve because they were conquered. They bow to the greatest race in all of Hiraeth. They bow to Man."

The crowd cheered. But Lukas, he did not move.

He could only watch, a bitter, rising lump forming in his throat—not of weakness, but of something deeper.

A sorrow that curled into rage. He felt Velena giving his arm a squeeze, trying to give him some kind of comfort where she could.

Lukas could barely stand to stare into those empty eyes because he had seen their eyes as they remained trapped within their cages, spirits broken beyond repair. It broke his heart every time he had to look within those broken eyes and it would break again seeing them now.

Or so Lukas had thought.

His breath caught.

Now, those eyes were alive.

Not one among the shackled procession wore the look of submission. Not anymore.

Their eyes burned—not just with pain, but with fire. Lukas did not know it for sure but it had been the Crown. Its presence. The presence of a Dragon Lord. They had felt it. Even if they did not yet know his name, they knew Lukas had been there. And that had changed everything for them.

No longer did they walk with heads bowed. They stood tall—scarred, chained, but tall nonetheless. Their steps, though guided by handlers, carried defiance.

Purpose.

Dignity that could not be broken, no matter how tightly the chains were pulled.

Lukas could barely breathe.

Pride warred with sorrow inside his chest, twisting into something too raw to name. His people were still in chains. Still under the yoke of human cruelty but they were no longer lost.

The crowd began to shift, murmuring now with uncertainty.

Something was wrong.

The handlers noticed it too. Whips cracked harder. Spears jabbed more viciously, prodding spines and ribs with deliberate force—just as they had practiced during rehearsals for this grotesque ceremony.

But nothing seemed to work.

They would not yield now. Not when hope flickered so fiercely within their chests—a hope for a world remade, a future reclaimed from centuries of chains and cruelty.

Lukas stepped closer to Jesse, who stood only a few steps away, eyes averted as the handlers cracked their whips harder, their spears stabbing mercilessly at scales that bled freely beneath the blows.

But Lukas's voice cut quietly through the turmoil, firm yet steady. "Look up, Jesse. I want you to watch this. Remember this. Remember this well, Jesse. This is why we fight."

Jesse's gaze lifted, reluctant but resolute, as their people—dragged, beaten, yet unbroken—continued the grim march.

Each step they took was a statement. A promise. Blood dripped from wounds open and raw, but still, they walked with heads held high, eyes ablaze with a fire that outshone even the harsh Citadel lights.

Then chaos shattered the tense procession. The largest among them—the biggest dragonborn in the line—snapped. With a violent twist of immense strength, he shattered the rusted iron chains that bound him, sending shards clattering to the polished floor.

Lukas inhaled sharply as a wave of terrified screams erupted from the crowd.

Nobles stumbled backward, guards reached for their weapons, and whispers of fear swept through the marble halls.

But the dragonborn did not strike.

Instead he rose on his powerful hind legs, towering as tall as Lukas in his full draconic form—scales glinting, muscles rippling beneath his skin. His massive wings unfurled, spreading wide in a breath-taking display that cast looming shadows over the stunned assembly. The air seemed to tremble with the sheer magnitude of his presence.

Then, he roared.

A roar unlike any Lukas had heard before. Deep and primal, raw with centuries of pain, loss, and unyielding defiance. It tore through the very bones of the Citadel, shattering the delicate glass panes high above and sending a tremor through the stone walls. The sound rolled beyond the inner sanctum, spilling across the crowded streets of the Inner Cities, echoing even past the massive walls that separated Nozar from the wild lands beyond.

Lukas felt his throat tighten, a lump rising uncontrollably.

Tears welled, blurring his vision, but he did not look away. The roar was not just sound—it was a declaration. A vow. The unmistakable cry of a people who refused to be forgotten, who would rise from chains and shadows into the dawn of a new age.

The Age of Dragons.

Lukas let out a choked sob, his chest tightening as he forced himself to watch the defiant roar echo relentlessly through the cavernous halls. Despite the handlers' furious whipping at the dragonborn's underbelly and legs, the beast stood unyielding, its roar only growing louder, a raw, unbreakable cry that shook the very foundations of the Citadel.

Then, as if the fire had spread through an unseen ember, the others answered his call.

One by one, the dragonborn, dragons, and wyverns raised their heads, eyes blazing with renewed life. Killing these humans among them would not accomplish anything.

They were here to send these humans a message.

Their own roars tore through the heavy air—vicious, sharp, filled with centuries of pain, anger, and hope.

The sound swelled into a thunderous symphony, the very soul of Linemall unleashed upon the stone and glass of the Inner Cities.

The nobles, caught off guard, cowered. Faces drained of colour, many dropped to trembling knees, others scrambled to flee, desperate to escape what they believed was certain death. Their lofty pride dissolved in a heartbeat, swallowed by terror and uncertainty.

But Lukas and Jesse did not flinch. They remained standing—silent, watchful.

In the chaos, the world seemed to narrow around them.

While others fled in fear, the two of them held their gaze steady, unshaken by the rising tide of terror around them.

Lukas forced himself to stay rooted, reminding himself why he had endured the Trials of Kairos Castle—why he had sacrificed so much, tested himself against impossible odds. He would not rest until every last one of his people—young and old, born of the Skies, the Earth, the Flames, and the Seas of Linemall—were free.

No matter the cost.

The humans may have won the Great War.

They may have crushed Linemall beneath their boots, enslaved the dragons and humiliated them for generations.

But as the roars filled the Citadels of the Inner Cities—once a realm of human dominion—they now echoed with the unmistakable power of Linemall that continued to live on.

Because no matter what they tried to take, no matter how far they pushed or how tightly those chains wound around them, there was one thing that they would never be able to break:

And that was a dragon's pride.