The Septon Kingdom stood tall under the morning sun, its towering walls gleaming like the edge of a blade. Banners of gold and blue fluttered above the ramparts, and the clang of armor echoed through the courtyards. Soldiers lined the walls, their eyes fixed on the distant horizon where the demon army would one day appear.
They all knew the truth, the demons were coming.
But not one man trembled. Not one voice wavered.
Because every soldier of Septon had sworn the same oath:
"If death comes, it will not find us kneeling."
Inside the great throne hall, General Norman knelt before his king. His voice carried through the vast chamber.
"My lord, the heroes will arrive by noon. Preparations for their welcome have been completed."
The king, seated upon the throne draped in blue and gold, leaned slightly forward. "How many are coming?"
"Four, Your Majesty. From the kingdoms of Artwine, Zephyria, our hero Micheal and the eighth hero."
The king's eyes narrowed slightly. "So the new hero is coming here. What about
the others?"
"They remain in their own kingdoms, my lord. Reports say their borders are under threat."
The king rose slowly from the throne, his robe flowing down the marble steps. The echo of his boots filled the hall. "So the demon army moves faster than I expected." He paused, his gaze fixed on the large door ahead. "Still… I want this hall to be ready. The heroes must be welcomed with dignity, not fear."
"Yes, sire," Norman replied, bowing low.
The king walked toward the window, sunlight catching the edges of his crown. "Do you think they'll bring hope, Norman?"
The general hesitated, then said quietly, "If anyone can, it will be them."
The king gave a faint smile, though his eyes showed no relief. "Hope," he murmured. "A fragile thing. Let's see if they can carry it."
The king's voice was a low, dismissive growl, cutting through the heavy silence of the throne room. "If you're finished, General, you may leave."
General Norman rose, his armor clinking softly, and strode out without a word, his boots echoing on the polished stone. The weight of the king's words lingered, sharp as a blade, but Norman's focus was already beyond the castle walls, where the real battle loomed.
At the outer ramparts, the air was thick with the scent of oil and steel, the distant clamor of war preparations rising like a storm. A knight, sweat-streaked and breathless, sprinted toward Norman, his armor rattling. "General!" he called, snapping a salute. "The marksmen are in position, and the mages are ready. But the new recruits—what do we do with them?"
Norman's gaze swept across the sprawling army below, a sea of glinting steel and fluttering banners under a sky bruised with gathering clouds. "How many are there?" His voice was steady, but his eyes were sharp, calculating.
"Near a fifth of our forces, sir," the knight replied, his tone edged with unease.
Norman's jaw tightened. "Station them as backup inside the gate."
The knight hesitated, his brow furrowing. "But, sir, they're—"
"Green as spring grass, I know," Norman cut in, his voice like iron. "Outside the walls, they'd be slaughtered in moments. Inside, they're a reserve, not a liability. It's safer for us all."
He turned, his cloak snapping in the wind, and fixed the knight with a piercing stare. "The marksmen are our backbone. Ensure they're protected at all costs. The demons we face will be whatever survives their volleys. That's all we'll need to handle."
The knight nodded, swallowing hard, and dashed off to relay the orders. Norman's gaze lingered on the horizon, where the enemy's shadow loomed, a creeping darkness that promised blood. The recruits might live another day, but the marksmen's aim would decide if any of them saw tomorrow.
A blaring horn split the air, its sharp wail yanking every head toward the source. "The heroes have arrived!" The announcement echoed across the bustling courtyard, freezing soldiers and civilians alike for a heartbeat before murmurs rippled through the crowd. Eyes turned skyward, as if expecting the heroes to descend like gods, but the truth was earthier, they were already here, their carriages grinding through the throng.
General Norman's boots pounded the cobblestones as he strode toward the palace, his cloak snapping in the wind. The announcement had lit a fire under him; the heroes' arrival was a spark of hope, or a complication, in a war teetering on a knife's edge. He didn't know which yet.
Inside a lurching carriage, Alfred slouched against the worn velvet seat, frustration etching his face. "Why isn't this thing moving faster?" he snapped, his voice tight with impatience.
Griffin, seated opposite, fixed him with a steady gaze. "The people are crowded around us, Alfred. They're desperate to see their saviors. It'll take time to reach the palace."
Alfred snorted, unconvinced, and leaned toward the carriage's small window, nudging the curtain aside. Outside, a sea of faces pressed close, hopeful, fearful, reverent. Men waved tattered banners, women clutched children, all straining for a glimpse of the heroes. "Guess you're right," Alfred muttered, his tone softening, though his eyes stayed sharp, scanning the crowd. "Too many people."
The carriage jolted, picking up speed as knights on horseback parted the throng with barked commands and raised lances. The palace's spires loomed closer, their stone gleaming dully under a sky heavy with storm clouds. Alfred's gaze snagged on something, a sleek carriage adorned with the royal crest of Artwine, its golden filigree unmistakable. His brow furrowed. Then he saw him: the investigator from Artwine, a wiry man with a hawkish face, slipping through the crowd like a shadow. 'Something's off,' Alfred murmured, his hand tightening on the window's edge. 'Why is he here?'
Griffin followed his gaze but said nothing, his expression unreadable as the carriage rolled through the palace gates with a groan of iron.
Inside the palace courtyard, General Norman stood waiting, his armor polished but scarred, a testament to battles survived. The first carriage shuddered to a stop, its frame battered, wood splintered as if it had clawed its way through trouble on the road. Benjamin and Michael stepped out, their faces grim, eyes scanning the surroundings like men who'd learned to trust nothing. From the second carriage emerged Griffin, his broad frame steady, followed by Alfred, whose sharp gaze darted to every corner, still lingering on the memory of the Artwine investigator.
"Welcome, heroes," Norman said, his voice carrying the weight of command but edged with genuine relief. "We've been waiting for you, too long, if I'm honest."
Michael cracked a weary smile, stepping forward. "Good to see you too, General Norman."
Normal smiled at Micheal "it's good to see you unharmed, sir hero Micheal." Norman's stern features softened for a moment, a rare warmth in his eyes. "King Filgo Morris awaits you in the great hall. Follow me." He turned, his stride purposeful, leading them through towering doors into the palace's shadowed heart.
The great hall's towering doors groaned open, admitting General Norman and the four heroes into the presence of the throne. The air was thick with the scent of polished wood and wax, the weight of expectation pressing down on every step. Norman dropped to one knee before King Filgo Morris, his armor clinking softly. Michael and Benjamin followed suit, their movements practiced, respectful. Griffin hesitated, then knelt, his broad frame lowering with a creak. Alfred, however, stood tall, his jaw set, eyes locked on the king.
Michael, beside him, leaned close, his voice a hushed plea. "Kneel, Alfred."
Alfred's gaze didn't waver. "If you expect me to kneel, King Filgo," he said, loud enough for the hall to hear, "I won't."
A ripple of shock swept through the gathered nobles and guards, murmurs rising like a disturbed hive. Then, a low chuckle broke the tension.
"Ha!" King Filgo's laughter echoed off the stone walls. "No matter. I hear kneeling isn't how you prove yourself on Earth." His eyes, sharp despite his smile, studied Alfred. "So, you're the eighth hero I've heard so much about. You don't look like a man who felled an army of demons single-handedly."
Alfred's lips curved into a faint, defiant smile. "That's what they all say, until they see my power."
Filgo's brow arched. "Arrogant, as rumored. I also heard you tried to kill King Voldin. True?"
"Yes," Alfred said, his voice flat, unapologetic. 'And I'd do it again if I had the chance.'
"Why?" Filgo pressed, leaning forward on his throne.
"Personal reasons," Alfred replied, his tone clipped. "Please don't ask further."
The king's eyes narrowed, but he let it pass. "Very well. One question, then: will you protect my kingdom with your life?"
"No," Alfred said, drawing gasps from the hall. "I won't die for your kingdom, but I'll fight your demons." 'For now, at least.'
The other heroes rose, their expressions a mix of unease and resolve. Benjamin cleared his throat. "Are the preparations complete, Your Majesty?"
Filgo nodded, his gaze still lingering on Alfred. "Everything is ready. It's only a matter of war now."
The heavy doors swung open with a resounding thud, cutting off further words. A figure swept in, clad in resplendent royal robes, his presence commanding silence. A knight's voice rang out: "King Voldin Bravero Malvin has arrived!"
Alfred's hand twitched toward his sword, the faint pulse of holy light stirring in his veins. 'Voldin. Here.' His eyes locked on the newcomer, every muscle tensing as the hall held its breath.