NOVEL NEXT Vol 3. Chapter 27: The Divinity of Rysenth Ishtar
The arena was silent but for the scrape of clawed feet against stone.
Lukas and Rysenth circled each other, eyes locked, neither willing to give the other a chance to strike.
The crowd held its breath, sensing the weight of the moment—this was no reckless clash of hot blood. Both Dragon Lords understood what it meant to stand here, they both understood what it meant to commit to the Rite of Talons.
Rysenth's gaze never left Lukas. It was clear that his opponent moved with the patience of one who had survived this Rite before, whose life had already been wagered and reclaimed on this very ground.
When Rysenth finally struck, it was not with the desperate rush of so many others, but with the measured strength of someone certain of his own power.
Lukas did not meet that force head-on. He slid aside, letting fists and claws whistle past him, every movement calm, deliberate. He wanted to see for himself why so many before him had fallen against the Head of House Ishtar. Was it Rysenth's strength? His experience? Or was it his sheer presence, intense as a burning inferno, pressing down on the battlefield?
The Dragon Lord of the Flame's unique form which was a mix between the draconic and humanoid loomed over Lukas. Rysenth was larger and broader than Lukas in any shape he might take, every blow driven by that raw advantage of size and muscle.
But as the fight stretched on, the cracks in that advantage began to show.
Lukas' body swelled in an instant, his arm lengthening as scales burst across his skin. The blow that should have come up short struck true, his draconic fist smashing against Rysenth's face with a crack that echoed across the arena. And before Rysenth's counter could land, Lukas was gone again—shrunk back into his smaller humanoid frame, slipping away like water between fingers.
The rhythm repeated, unpredictable and relentless.
A slash aimed at his chest found nothing but air as Lukas melted back into his humanoid form. Then, just as Rysenth thought he had adjusted, Lukas expanded once more and his reach suddenly doubled; his strike landing with crushing precision.
It was not just the Draconic Flow. It was something beyond—a living art of shifting forms, of weaponizing the very transition between shapes. Watching Lukas was like watching a river turn to stone and then to mist in the space of a heartbeat, each change timed to perfection. It was a dance no one else could follow, a technique that in years to come would be given a name: the Draconic Arts.
Rysenth staggered back, blood staining the edge of his jaw, eyes narrowing as realization set in. The strength he relied on was being torn apart by something new, something he had never faced before.
And still, neither had yet drawn on their Divinities.
The knowledge hung between them, unspoken. The sacred oath forbidding such power on Ancestral Lands held no sway here; the arena forged by the Earthborn stripped it away. Both combatants knew it. The audience knew it. And they both knew, with grim certainty, that if one wished to leave this battle alive, he would need to call upon their respective Divinities.
Lukas' elbow smashed into Rysenth's face with a crack that sent the Dragon Lord of Flames staggering back. Blood marked Rysenth's lip, and for the first time the crowd sensed it—the tide of the fight was turning.
If this continued, there would be no question who would walk away as victor. Yet Lukas felt nothing. No ripple of magic, no pulse of Divinity from his opponent. And still, something was different.
Rysenth's eyes no longer carried the cold calculation of the opening exchanges—they burned with something else, something Lukas could not yet name.
The larger dragon pulled away, widening the gap between them and Lukas let him.
To rush in and close the distance now would be foolish, not when Lukas did not yet know what was waiting for him when he did. So Lukas settled into his stance, every muscle coiled, watching.
Then Rysenth's hands moved.
The Dragon Lord of the Flames reached to his wrists, fingers curling around the twin golden bracelets that gleamed against his scaled skin. Slowly, deliberately, he slid them off. The crowd murmured, a ripple of recognition passing through those who had seen him fight before.
The bracelets did not fall to the ground when he let them go. Instead, they floated upward, hovering in the air between the two combatants.
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Lukas' eyes narrowed.
The bracelets began to grow, swelling to three times their size, their polished gold surfaces reflecting the flicker of arena light. And then—
The air between those bracelets tore open. A shiver passed through the earth as a purple glow erupted in the space between the hovering rings. The light shimmered like fire contained in glass, bending and warping, a window into something far beyond. It was not flame, not shadow, not anything Lukas had seen before. It looked like a hole had torn open in reality itself, alive with violet energy that made the air hum with danger.
The others, they were not as surprised as Lukas.
They had seen Rysenth wield this power before. Lukas, however, had not—and every instinct in his body told him to get ready for what was to come.
Water swirled to life around Lukas, droplets rising and weaving together, his Divinity springing forth as though the land itself urged him to meet the danger.
In Hiraeth, once Divinity entered the field, strength of one's body no longer mattered. Magic was the law of the land, and only those who could master it stood above the rest.
Rysenth reached into the purple light. His hand disappeared into that unnatural glow, and when it emerged, it was clutching a weapon that radiated menace. It was a spear as long as his body, its blade curved into a vicious hook, gleaming as though forged from both metal and flame. Rysenth gave it a single testing spin, the air shrieking as the weapon cut through it.
Lukas' chest tightened with warning.
The shift was immediate, unmistakable and Lukas' instincts screamed at him to take note of it.
When Rysenth moved again, he was not the same fighter Lukas had faced only moments before. His opponent's stance had changed, his weight was settled differently, his movements tighter and far more controlled. This was no longer the measured brawler Lukas had just faced. This was a warrior stepping into his true element, one who had fought a thousand battles with a weapon in hand and survived every single one.
With that weapon in hand, Rysenth Ishtar had become something else entirely—something far more dangerous than any enemy Lukas had ever faced before.
Gone was the heavy, forceful style that relied on raw strength and size. With the spear in hand, Rysenth's body flowed like flickering flame, each step and swing carrying a grace that seemed utterly foreign compared to the brawler's rhythm from earlier. It was as if the weapon had awakened something within the Dragon Lord of the Flames, reshaping Rysenth into a predator honed by years of mastery.
The spear lashed out, extending in length with a sudden flicker of motion.
Lukas responded instantly, weaving water into a towering construct to block the strike. The spear slammed into it, sending tremors rippling through the pillar of liquid.
For a moment, that had put an end to that sudden attack—until the weapon bent. It curved as if it were no more solid than rubber, sliding around the watery shield, its hooked blade angling straight toward him. Lukas' eyes widened as he threw himself backward, solidified water formed right in front of him to launch his body out of reach. The blade hissed past, close enough that he felt the air split across his cheek.
But Rysenth did not relent.
The spear whipped back, recoiling to its master's side, and then the Dragon Lord of the Flames struck again, this time thrusting the weapon into one of the floating portals. The violet light rippled around the shaft, swallowing it whole.
Lukas braced, uncertain of what would emerge.
When the spearhead was pulled from the tear in reality, it carried something hooked against its curved blade.
With a vicious twist, Rysenth flung it forward.
It was a grenade.
Lukas recognized it instantly—the same kind of magical explosive that Malrik and his followers had once used, its core burning with a white-hot flame. His stomach dropped. A great hand of water surged forward, swatting the weapon from the air before it could reach him. The grenade detonated on impact, the explosion searing the battlefield in heat and light, though it had not been close enough to do any damage on him.
And in that instant, Lukas understood.
Rysenth Ishtar was not like Valkari, who embodied fire's consuming might.
Rysenth did not wield the Divinity of the Flames.
No, the Divinity he wielded was something else altogether.
Memories whispered of the Three Ruling Houses of Linemall: Drakos, Telaryon, Sterling. Bloodlines so potent in their singular Divinities that their ancestors had been crowned as the first Lords.
But House Ishtar had never stood among them. They had been one of the Minor Houses, always, a shadow compared to the original three. If Rysenth had inherited only fire, perhaps he would have been no more than another dragonborn that would have never claimed the title of Lord.
From the very beginning, Rysenth Ishtar had been different.
Rysenth was a master of weapons. A master whose craft birthed steel infused with magic itself. Every spear, every blade, every construct of his will was a weapon of his own making, imbued with properties that defied ordinary battle.
His Divinity was not of the flickering flames.
His was the Divinity of Craftsmanship. It was the sacred art of the forge, where fire fueled not destruction but the birth of weapons unlike any the world had seen. This was the truth of Rysenth Ishtar. Not just the Dragon Lord of Flames. Not merely a survivor of the Great War. But a creator of weapons so deadly they remade the battlefield in his image.
And as Lukas steadied himself, water swirling at his command, he nearly shivered with the weight of revelation: Rysenth Ishtar had never needed the flames of Mount Ashendir to be feared because….his Divinity and its creations were far more dangerous than any flame could hope to be.