Time had stopped.

  The Coliseum now stood frozen in a silence so absolute that it felt like a living thing. Sand hung in midair, suspended grains glittering like motes of gold trapped in amber. Even the wind—restless and ever-present in the Kingdom of Khaitish—had been pinned in place before it could sweep across the arena.

  But Lukas could move. And so could she.

  Pythia of Delphi, the Oracle of Time, stood before him as the only other soul untouched by Kronos' intervention.

  In this preserved pocket of existence that defied the natural flow of minutes and hours, Lukas finally stood before the one the world knew as the High Septon of the Church. Everything he had endured, everything he had lost, had led him here, facing the woman who Kronos once promised would hold the answers to questions that had shadowed his every waking moment.

  Because she was finally going to tell him the words.

  The words of Prophecy.

  Celina, the Divine Knight, had spoken of it with her dying breath, understanding far too late that the figure named in the Prophecy had never been Daerion. The King of Nozar had simply used those same words to manipulate those who wished to believe in hope. Hope that seemed fleeting in this cruel world.

  The one the Prophecy spoke of had always been Lukas. It had always been him.

  There was a reason why Kronos had torn open the boundaries of time and granted him a second chance, reborn as a dragon in a world of magic and monsters. His return had never been an accident.

  Now, facing Pythia in the stillness of this moment carved out of time, Lukas felt the enormity of this very moment.

  The Oracle of Time regarded him with a calm that was almost painful, like she understood everything he feared, everything he doubted and hoped for.

  Green mist began to seep from her fingertips, curling through the air in slow and spiraling tendrils that glowed with an ethereal luminescence. It spread, filling the space between them like a living fog, thick and shimmering with ancient magic. Her eyes ignited, not simply glowing, but burning with that emerald fire. When she spoke, her voice was not the same one that Lukas recognized. It was still hers, but layered beneath it came something older, deeper, a resonance that vibrated directly into the marrow of Lukas’ bones.

  It was a voice he knew no creature, mortal or divine, could ever ignore.

  “You have asked for the words of Prophecy,” the Oracle intoned, her words echoing as if spoken from multiple throats at once. “So hear these words and remember them well, King of the Dragons. For it is these words that will decide the fate of not only this world, but all those that will come after it.”

  Lukas could not look away, he could barely even breathe. He had come searching for truth. And now, at last, the Oracle began.

  “There will be a child who will be born broken, lost and filled with regret unspeakable.”

  The words unfurled from Pythia’s lips like a hymn carried on ancient wind, soft yet bearing the weight of worlds. The mist around them pulsed with each syllable, glowing brighter, reacting to the prophecy being spoken aloud for the first time in years.

  “But that will not be his end, only his beginning. Because that child will be reborn and the world he finds himself in will ask everything of him.”

  Lukas inhaled sharply.

  It wasn’t simply the magnitude of her words, it was the unmistakable realization that she was speaking of him. She was giving voice to the very truth that had been haunting him ever since Celina’s dying revelation.

  The Oracle's tone had a rhythm to it, lilting and precise, as though she were not merely reciting words but weaving an ancient song, one she had carried across lifetimes. Every sound she uttered vibrated through the air, through the sand, through Lukas himself.

  “Against all odds, this child will rise to the occasion and he will become a King unlike any other.”

  The weight of the Crown, both the Legacy he had inherited as Lord and the one he now wore as Linemall's King, felt heavier than ever. The Coliseum seemed to darken, the suspended grains of sand flickering like dimming stars.

  “It is he who will stand the test of time and conquer death again and again, while his love waits for him on the other side.”

  A breath escaped him, unsteady.

  Styx.

  The name formed silently in his mind, and with it came the familiar, bittersweet surge of longing. His heart swelled with the knowledge that she was waiting for him back at the castle, waiting despite the distance that she had created between them. Lukas did not understand her hesitation, nor the reasons she refused to see him, but none of that mattered.

  Not truly.

  Because beneath all that confusion lay the undeniable truth, the Goddess of Unbreakable Oaths had never given up on him. And she would wait until he found his way back to their home.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  But death could not claim Lukas. Not until he fulfilled the Prophecy that the Oracle had not yet finished.

  “He will wield the power of the seas itself, inherit the strength of the dragons, one that even Heroes or Knights will not be able to stand against.”

  Memories flashed in Lukas' mind, of fights that had defined his journey to this point. Celina, the holy warrior of the Church, who had stood in his way. Jakob Fronterra, once his father and the one they called the Hero From Another World, who Lukas had finally put to rest.

  “He will fight for the sake of freedom and the shackled will call him a warrior of liberation.”

  A chill rippled down his spine.

  Liberation.

  That was his dream, to see his people freed, but Lukas had never imagined himself as its symbol, but the prophecy fashioned him into one regardless.

  “To see his dream fulfilled, there will be a war, one like any other. In it, he will lose the ones he cherishes the most. A miracle will die and a warrior of dawn will set for the final time at the hands of the strongest blade.”

  Lukas froze.

  Those words hit harder than any other that the Oracle had spoken thus far and he wished to deny them but knew he could not.

  Loss—devastating, irreversible loss—was woven into his fate.

  A miracle would die. A warrior of dawn would fall.

  Images he could not fully grasp flickered at the edge of his thoughts, each one more terrible than the last.

  “In the end, it will be this child who puts an end to the Titan they call Oceanus.”

  With that, the Oracle had finished speaking the words that both filled Lukas with hope and dread all at once; the green magical light from her eyes fading. The mist dissipated, unraveling into the still, frozen world around them.

  Pythia’s expression softened back into one that was weary yet serene.

  The words had been spoken.

  The Prophecy had finally been given. And Lukas—after years of searching, bleeding, and suffering—finally had his answer. But he did not say a word. Not because he lacked things to say—if anything, his mind was overflowing—but because speaking felt impossible. The burden of the Prophecy pressed upon him like a physical force, heavy and suffocating, yet Lukas refused to crumble beneath it. He held Pythia’s words in a grip so tight it felt as though they were being branded into the very core of his being.

  He repeated each line silently in his mind, reverently.

  Memorizing them.

  Accepting them as his own.

  Lukas knew that she would not speak those words again. Once spoken, prophecy did not repeat itself. Just like time, it moved forward, unspooling fate like a thread that could never be rewound. Lukas understood that, and so he forced himself to remain still, to hold the words within him, to keep his emotions from drowning out the meaning of what she had given him.

  There was no denying it now. It was he who was the Child of Prophecy.

  Every verse she had spoken was a reflection of the journey he had already undergone. The regret, the rebirth, the endless struggle, the love waiting for him across the veil of death. And every verse yet to come painted the outline of the destiny that awaited him. The path was not clouded in riddles, not buried beneath metaphors or obscured by poetic mystery. He had believed this Prophecy to be a puzzle, a scripture requiring interpretation.

  But it wasn’t that at all.

  Pythia had spoken plainly.

  There had been no cryptic phrasing, no hidden meaning in those words she had spoken.

  The truth was laid bare for Lukas to see. This was the path he would have to walk. This was the purpose he had been reborn for.

  To set his people free and to kill a god, to kill the very Titan of Hiraeth who humanity worshipped relentlessly.

  The thought lodged in his chest like a piece of jagged metal.

  Lukas had faced terrifying things before. He had fought creatures that could fell armies, had endured magic that seemed almost otherworldly, had challenged foes who seemed invincible. But a god…not even victory over death itself felt comparable to that.

  It wasn’t just a question of whether he was capable of it.

  The deeper fear—the one Lukas hesitated to even acknowledge—was whether he could bring himself to do such a thing.

  To end a being whose existence held so much meaning.

  The Tournament of Khaitish had granted him one question.

  A single question. And Lukas had received the answer he sought.

  There was no point in questioning the Oracle further.

  Lukas knew that asking anything more would mean nothing. Pythia had spoken her piece. Fate had revealed its design. So Lukas remained silent, meeting the Oracle’s gaze as she looked into him, through him, past every fear and uncertainty he stubbornly tried to hide.

  Pythia smiled.

  It was a soft, enigmatic, knowing smile—the kind only someone who walked outside the flow of time could offer. Then she stepped backward toward the tear in reality she had emerged from, the air rippling as the green glow intensified.

  Cracks of magic arched around her like lightning, signaling that the frozen world around them was beginning to thaw, that time was preparing to resume its natural flow. But before she crossed the threshold, Pythia granted him one final message, words that carried no rhythm of prophecy yet somehow was no less important than the words of destiny she had spoken thus far.

  “Remember this. The words I have spoken are a map. But whether you choose to follow it is up to you. In the end, it is you who will have to make a choice. Not your people. Not me. Not even Kronos. It is your choices, your actions, that will decide the future. So I wish you all the best, Pallas. This world is counting on you.”

  Lukas felt those words hit him like a fresh wave of fate, gentler than prophecy, yet infinitely more personal. And then, just like that, Pythia of Delphi stepped into the rift and the Oracle of Time disappeared from the world of Hiraeth once more.

  Patreon to read thirty chapters ahead of public release! Consider joining if you'd like to support me and the Lord of the Seas!

  Patreon until there are 50 Advanced Chapters offered!)