Once eager to test its strength against the unknown island of dragons and beastkin, the great fleet of the Hena Kingdom sailed back in silence. The wind whispered through tattered sails, and the scent of soot, salt, and shame clung to every mast. The terror of Lu Sang’s dragonic legion had etched deep into every sailor’s soul.
On their long journey home, the fleet made a necessary stop at a remote chain of islands—uncharted, but solid enough to hold the weight of their battered pride.
The ships creaked and groaned as they were dragged onto the shores, hulls warped and some partially cracked from weeks of strain. The Fleet Commander, a grim man named Valen Dor, led his crew ashore.
The sailors began combing the rocky terrain and found peculiar black-veined stones, hard as steel, dotting the land. Believing them to hold no danger, they shattered them, piling the fragments for ballast. Then they turned to the work of felling trees, chopping through dense canopies of old growth, and stripping the trunks.
“These planks will hold better than what the sea has chewed through,” Valen muttered, inspecting the new timber with a scarred hand.
Three full days passed in ceaseless labor, replacing rotten wood, patching breaches, and sealing decks with new pitch. When the last ship had been reforged and floated once more upon the tides, the fleet raised anchor and began the final stretch home.
Weeks later, the warships entered the golden harbor of the Hena Kingdom, banners sagging, cannons quiet. As the sailors disembarked, word of their return flew through the capital like wildfire.
Within the Throne Hall of Iron Judgment, King Drovan IX waited.
When Fleet Commander Valen Dor knelt before the throne, his armor dulled by sea spray and time, the King leaned forward with a grin.
“Commander, you’re late.”
Valen looked up, stone-faced.
“Our ships required emergency repairs. The sea… and something else, nearly tore us apart.”
The King laughed, his voice booming against the marble walls.
“Ha! You mean to tell me the mighty Hena fleet was undone by maintenance delays?”
But his tone quickly sharpened.
“What of the slaves? The elves? Did you find where they were taken?”
Valen stiffened, his hand clenched into a fist.
“No, Your Majesty. What we found was an island unlike anything recorded. It is watched by thousands of dragons—both humanoid and beast—and patrolled by monstrous humanoids with beast-like features. Our scouts couldn’t even approach the shore. And…”
He hesitated. The words were heavy.
“...we heard voices. Not spoken aloud, but in our minds. They warned us. Even suggested… we might be able to take out two hundred, at best. But they made it clear—we would be wiped out.”
For a long moment, silence hung in the chamber.
Then Drovan IX leaned back on his throne, the grin gone, replaced with a calculating gaze.
“I see. A force that strong is no minor threat. You made the correct decision.”
Valen blinked.
“Your Majesty?”
“I did not expect an easy conquest. But now we know. Next year, you will not return to war.”
The King stood.
“You will travel with my diplomat. You will gain intelligence—who they are, what they want, and where their strength lies. We may yet learn how to unravel them… from within.”
Valen saluted.
“By your will, my King.”
As the fleet commander turned and marched from the hall, the King whispered to himself.
“No fortress is without a door. You simply need to know which stone to pull.”
A full year had passed since the failed campaign to seize the strange island teeming with dragons and beastkin. In that time, Commander Valen Dor and his fleet were far from idle. The annual naval patrols stretched across the Hena Kingdom’s territorial waters, and every month the ships docked for repairs, strengthening both hull and crew.
The fleet had evolved into a disciplined spearhead, leaner but sharper—twenty of the most reliable ships were chosen for the next mission, one not of conquest, but of diplomacy.
At the Royal Dock of Thal’dran, banners fluttered as a refined man descended the marble stairs. High Diplomat Renar Velin, garbed in deep crimson robes embroidered with the golden crest of the Hena Kingdom, kissed his elegant wife farewell. She held his face for a breath longer, her eyes betraying the fear hidden beneath her calm face.
“Come back to me,” she whispered.
“Only the seas can stop me,” he replied, smiling softly before stepping onto the gangplank of the lead ship.
Standing on the deck, Commander Valen Dor raised a brass trumpet and blew a low, solemn note. As one, the twenty ships released their anchors and began their long voyage, sails catching wind with thunderous elegance.
After weeks of travel, the fleet returned to the familiar chain of islands—the last point before reaching the dragon-guarded domain. Valen gave the order to land, and the crew began dismantling the structures and stone barriers they had erected a year prior.
Diplomat Renar watched with calm precision, then addressed the crew:
“Nature will reclaim what was stolen. These lands are not ours to shape.”
With that, he lifted a small, rune-inscribed staff, whispered to the wind, and pressed it into the soil. Light pulsed outward in soft waves, and the ground began to shift—grass, moss, and wildflowers blooming with unnatural speed. The sailors watched in awe as green life returned where they had once torn down the forest.
Then the diplomat looked up.
“We will plant again. The island must remember we came in peace.”
For twenty days, the fleet remained as the sailors replanted trees under the guidance of druids summoned by Renar. It was grueling work, but one undertaken with rare solemnity.
When at last the work was done, the fleet departed again, finally setting sail toward the island that had once brought them shame.
Two months later, the mists parted.
And there, waiting as though time had frozen, were dragons. Thousands, once again. Above them flew humanoid dragons, cloaked in wind and divine fury. Along the waters, boats manned by beastkin floated, sleek and still, silent as guardians of the threshold.
The fleet halted.
On the decks, the sailors lowered their heads, half from awe, half from fear.
From the lead vessel, a voice carried through the air. A whisper, and yet somehow it was heard by all.
“We bring whispers of faith…” said the Beastkin Commander, a white-furred lion-like warrior adorned in bone jewelry. He turned back toward the island, his voice clear and strong:
“Lord Lu Sang, we ask your will. What is to be done?”
On a high cliff beyond the shore, standing amidst mist and flame, Lu Sang looked down upon the fleet. His robes flowed like liquid gold, eyes glowing like a sun eclipsed.
He spoke once, and his voice echoed through the wind, through stone, through blood:
“Tell them they have reached the domain of the United Tribal Island. Ask why they come now, bearing flags but not fire.”
The Keaskin Commander turned to the ships and spoke in perfect Hena tongue:
“You have reached the United Tribal Island. Our Lord asks—why are you here?”
On the lead ship, Diplomat Renar Velin stepped forward and raised his hands peacefully.
“I am here… to discuss a delicate matter. One of our slavers lost their cargo—elves, due to an incident we did not sanction. We seek understanding… and perhaps, a path forward.”
There was a long silence, broken only by the cry of dragons above.
Then the air grew warm. Watching from above, Lu Sang's lips curled into a small, unreadable smile.
