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

Lukas soared through the burning skies of Easthaven, wings cutting through smoke and fire as his eyes scanned the streets below. Chaos reigned beneath him—buildings cracked open like eggshells, streets turned to battlegrounds and the cries of war echoed through the once-proud capital of this Kingdom. But the people of Easthaven were not giving in without a fight.

Lukas saw them—mages, guards, even civilians—rising up like sparks from a dying fire, flaring bright in defiance. Bolts of magical energy lit the air as spellcasters fought back against the invading marines of Nozar, their bodies cloaked in the colors of Easthaven. From the towering spires of the Magic Tower, battlemages poured out like a flood of raw magic, faces grim and eyes burning with resolve.

They were ready to die for their home, this Kingdom they call Easthaven.

And Lukas was ready to die for its princess.

But he was already too late.

Because someone else had come to Rosalia's rescue and that someone was Jesse Sterling himself, the young dragonborn of the Skies. Lukas heard his voice first. A voice—young, furious, and impossibly clear—boomed across the battlefield. But it didn't ride the wind instead Jesse's voice bypassed the ears entirely and roared straight into the mind. Lukas felt it resonate in his chest, in his very bones.

"If anyone lays a single hand on the Princess Rosalia Elarion," Jesse's voice thundered across minds like a divine proclamation, "I will slaughter them where they stand. I swear it on the River Styx! You will have to kill me to reach her."

Lukas let out a laugh as he realized that Jesse had just awakened the Second Legacy of the Dragon Lords.

Jesse Sterling had just awakened the Crown. Few Dragonborn were worthy enough to inherit it from their predecessors. Even fewer inherited this Legacy at this young an age. In fact, Jesse was even younger than Lukas had been when he first inherited the Legacy. He could hardly believe it. Yet there it was, undeniable: the power, the command and the furious wrath of his every word. Lukas had never been on the receiving end of the Crown and the conviction he could hear in Jesse's voice was terrifying.

Lukas did not hesitate once the shock had worn off. He folded his wings and dove, a streak of black across the sky, racing toward the origin of that voice. It wasn't difficult to find. Because all the chaos—the screaming, the magic, the fury—seemed to converge in one place: The Elarion Royal Palace.

There, at the base of its bloodied marble steps, was Jesse. He stood before a force that should have broken him.

An army of Nozari marines, clad in war-forged armor, and apostles of the Church, their faces hidden behind holy masks and sharp ceremonial marble blades in hand.

The young dragonborn stood tall—Rosalia cradled in his arms, her unconscious form wrapped protectively in his embrace.

But Jesse did not stand alone.

At his side was Soren Ittriki, bastard son of Daerion. A tower of wrath and steel, gripping a greatsword that shimmered with the red magic of the Ittriki Clan, its blade nearly as tall as he was. The two of them were the only thing that stood against this army, the only two things that stood between it and the Elarion Royal Palace.

That was until a third arrived.

Lukas slammed into the ground behind the duo like a meteor, sending a shockwave through the earth. Stone cracked beneath his feet; soldiers staggered and clouds of dust erupted all around them. A deafening, draconic scream ripped from his throat—deep, ancient, furious—that shook the palace walls and turned even the bravest men to trembling statues.

It was not a challenge. It was a warning.

Anyone who wished to take Rosalia Elarion…

…would have to go through all three of them.

Lukas Drakos was a nightmare made flesh. His full draconic form towered over the courtyard, dark blue scales glistening like armor beneath the moonlight. His wings stretched wide, each beat of them sending gales through the plaza. Horns curled back from his skull like polished onyx, and his eyes—burning pools of deep sea blue—glared at the world beneath with cold judgment.

What truly made the soldiers scream wasn't the sight of Lukas alone.

It was the magic that emanated from the being that had fused itself where his right arm should have been, from the Kraken himself. A horror of writhing, shadow-wreathed tentacles that clung to Lukas' body like a parasite of the old world, pulsing with a magic not meant for mortal minds. The Cthulhu moved like a beating heart, twitching with anticipation. A wave of his familiar's magic swept forward—intangible, but suffocating. The Kraken's magic didn't just instill fear—it fed on it, amplified it, twisting their deepest dread into unrelenting terror.

The apostles fell to their knees, the bravest among them clutching at their heads as the corruption gnawed through their discipline. The marines of Nozar? Not a single one looked back as ran for their lives. The small army that had gathered to kill them dropped their weapons and fled in a frenzy, screaming as if chased by death itself.

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Jesse turned toward Lukas. The young dragonborn, still cradling Rosalia, had wrapped a cloth tightly around his face, masking his identity. What Jesse had done was smarter than what Lukas did, that was for sure.

Above Jesse's head, a white halo pulsed, the Crown of the Dragon Lords.

In an instant, a link formed between them but this time it was Jesse who initiated the connection of their minds.

What passed between them was an exchange not of words, but of memory.

Jesse saw the fight between Lukas and the Divine Knight, watching as he knelt at her side during her final moments.

And Lukas saw everything that had happened on Jesse's end.

It had been Soren Ittriki. Not Jesse—Soren—who saved Rosalia from being delivered to Daerion.

These must have been apostles acting under Celina's orders, no doubt. Rosalia had been drugged—deep in a magically induced sleep—but otherwise unharmed. Not long after Soren's short interaction with Lukas in the altar room, Soren had seen the apostles carrying her towards the docks, likely towards to one of Daerion's warships anchored in Easthaven's bay. Soren immediately acted on his instinct, demanding to know what they were doing with the Princess.

When the apostles did not give him a straight answer, Soren had struck down the apostles and carried Rosalia away to safety.

By the time Jesse found Soren, the two had already begun fighting their way back toward the palace. And in the throes of battle, somewhere between desperation and wrath, Jesse had called upon one of the Three Legacies: The Crown of the Lord.

The connection faded and Lukas' gaze returned to the present.

Soren now stood a few paces ahead, greatsword lowered, eyes locked on Lukas.

Lukas was prepared for rejection and hostility; for the instinctive hatred any child of Nozar would harbor toward a dragon of Linemall. He even expected Soren's reaction to mirror that of the army that had just fled. Revulsion, hatred or maybe even fear.

Lukas stared back at him, waiting for what Soren would do. He was half-expecting Soren to lift his greatsword and charge at him.

It would have made sense.

Any self-respecting Ittriki would have done it. Any self-respecting Nozari would have done it. But Soren didn't move. He did not raise his blade. He did not even flinch. Instead, Soren bowed; not one out of reverence but rather respect; a low, firm bow in Lukas' direction. No words—just that single gesture and the quiet acknowledgment of something larger than both of them that came with it.

Then, Soren turned to Jesse.

"This isn't over," Soren told the young dragonborn.

The large man pointed toward the base of the hill, down where the main city roads funneled into the palace grounds. From there, more figures approached. More marines and more apostles. Another wave of men under Daerion's orders, climbing toward them.

"There are more men coming." Then Soren glanced at Rosalia—still unconscious, her weight held firmly in Jesse's arms. "You need to protect her."

The man turned then to the guards stationed at the palace gates—those who had until now watched the scene unfold in stunned silence.

"You there!" Soren shouted, voice booming with newfound command. "All of you! The time to stand still has ended. This is your Kingdom. These are your people. And today—we fight!"

There was only a beat of silence, followed by action. Lukas watched as something shifted in the guards. Something subtle. Like frost thawing in spring. Shields rose. Blades were drawn. Their steps quickened as they moved forward, rallying behind a man they did not even know; a man that many them was likely cheering against during his Duel with Rosalia Elarion, their dear Princess. It did not matter to Soren that he was the bastard son of Daerion Ittriki, it didn't matter that he was of Nozari descent, or that his father was the king who had ordered the very invasion he now resisted. None of that mattered. What mattered was the choice Soren made when it mattered the most. And Soren chose to stick to his values, to his morals and to his character.

Soren Ittriki was someone who fought for peace. And fight he would, fight against those who dared to disrupt this peace that so many lives had been lost for.

Lukas had moved to stand beside Soren, his massive wings folding tight against his scaled back.

For now, they would fight together. Bastard and beast. Sword and Sea.

Jesse stepped forward too, still cradling Rosalia protectively in his arms. He still pulsed with that strange magical light, the white halo that was the Crown still clinging faintly to his form. So long as she was in his arms, Rosalia would be safe; Jesse would make sure of it.

But Lukas was forgetting something. Or rather—someone. It wasn't just Rosalia he had to protect. Daerion had not come to simply kidnap Rosalia. He had come for Easthaven as well. And to do that—he would have to remove the King that had sat on its throne for more than a century.

There was a flash—bright, white, and violent. A thunderous crack followed it, deafening their ears.

Lukas and Jesse both spun toward the sound, instincts flaring.

It had come from the west wing from inside the palace.

It had come from Magnus' quarters.

Lukas' breath caught in his throat. Without another word, he launched himself into the air, wings kicking up a burst of wind that nearly knocked the guards back a step.

Lukas rocketed into the palace, smoke trailing behind him, every beat of his wings a race against time. Jesse followed close behind, the winds allowing him to soar through the air.

If Rosalia had been the symbol of Easthaven, then Magnus Elarion was its foundation.

Lukas could already smell the blood in the air. He could hear the clash of spells echoing through the walls of the palace as his heart beat harder than ever as if under siege.

While they had been holding off the army that threatened to overrun the Elarion Royal Palace, none had considered that those under Daerion's control might already be within the palace grounds.

Lukas could only hope that he wasn't too late to save the Head Mage of the Magic Tower from death itself.