The royals strode in as the crowd of gathered nobles knelt in subservience. The tide of purple washed in, flooding the room and pouring up the dias. The thrones, thirteen of them today, all filled up save for the central one reserved for the king and one on the side reserved for August, the latter noticeably absent. Monica helped Nevina into the seat next to hers before seating herself last.
Next, six anthropomorphic white voids slid in noiselessly, taking up strategic positions near the entrances and exits. Standing there the way they were made them look more like mannequins or statues than living beings. Nobody else seemed to notice their arrival, cleverly distracted by the royal procession. A chill worked its way down Foster's spine as he felt six gazes fall on him simultaneously, each phantom turning their head in his direction like parts of one larger organism. They always did this—attempted to intimidate the strongest person in any room they walked into. Somehow that person always ended up being him in recent years. The more curious parts of Foster wondered if this was something the Phantoms merely did out of habit or if it was the remnants of some ancient order of a long-dead despot—the unrescinded ruling still followed to this day.
Their gazes eventually shifted away, and Foster let out a breath. As a nearly unkillable hero, most of the injuries Foster sustained in his life were the ones he inflicted upon himself. The binding vows created by the Hero King Andeir were among the few exceptions.
The Phantoms constituted another of those exceptions.
Not that Foster could lose to them, even all six at once. It merely meant they could harm him.
The pealing of the bell tower and the king's voice shifted Foster's focus. "The ceremony will soon begin. Saintess, Hero, take your places on the edge of the dias as etiquette demands."
Petty. How petty and small and entirely unnecessary of him. A glance at Regina told him she thought the same thing.
As 'etiquette demands,' the two of them stood on the left-hand edge of the dias, away from the thrones and almost on the stairs. Apparently, they were important enough to stand on the royal platform but not important enough to sit on it. Randall and Monica cast worried looks towards them, and Foster smothered his rage enough to give them a small, reassuring smile.
As the crowd settled down, the king took a central position in front of them, with the pope a step behind. A steward set up the sending stone, a blue crystalline ball for the Ether broadcast system, and his rumbling baritone soon echoed in the hall as he addressed the masses—his cadence soothing and demanding. His presence was magnetic.
"My fellow Etherians, I come to you with joyous news. For the First time, in a long time, we have a reprieve from the war on the demons. If you haven't yet heard, then allow me to repeat myself: the Demon Lord is dead. Slain by the mighty hand of the first Hero to come to our shores since our founder, Hero King Andeir."
The roar of the mindless mob drowned thought in its vibrance. The cheer then died, and the king continued with a troubled look.
"But the threat is only delayed—the demons… They will no doubt retaliate with vengeance and chaotic anger in their black hearts. Another Lord will take the fallen mantle and lead evil to your doorstep once more. Our Hero has done his job and earned his rest, but our vigil must continue.
"Some say fear is the death of great men. I say it is their birth. Fear only kills a coward—and my people are not cowards. Fear the enemy, but do not despair them. Take up arms and defend your home from the non-humans who wish to take it from you. Our religious leaders have found a way to cull the wickedness that will wash up on our shores once more.
"We shall summon Heroes from another world to lead Ether into a glorious new age, free of the tyranny of the demons."
That sounded an awful lot like a declaration of war, and an invitation to 'hate thy neighbor'. The varying reactions made it easy enough to tell where the factional divisions lie. Like a massive fault running through the center of the throne room, the occupants of the hall split down the middle on their bias'. Even the royal children were not spared from the division—Randall and the siblings loyal to him, wore grim faces and occasionally threw Foster and Regina worrying looks. Monica gripped Nevina's little hand and bore furious holes in the back of her father's head with her eyes while the little princess looked up at her older sister and guardian in confusion. Something latched on to his wrist, and Foster looked down to find Regina's white-knuckled grip squeezing him through the sleeve of his expensive-but-casual silk tunic.
Belatedly, and uselessly, Foster realized he was very underdressed for the occasion.
The formality of his clothes, however, seemed of little import as over a dozen priests and two archbishops filed in, forming a circle in between the crowd and the royal platform. Regina's grip never lessened, even as the king sat in the large central throne and the pope walked to the edge of the dias to loom over the ring of clergymen—a troubling reaction, considering her penchant for bottling her emotions. Sure, the idea of more people as powerful as Foster walking around, potentially allied with those in direct opposition to the War Room, sounded less than pleasent. But they wouldn't be real Heroes. Foster was a real hero—he was born with the Zyph mutation to prove it, aptly named heroic constitution. If it was so easy to summon a capital H Hero, Foster would've long been discarded in favor of someone easier to control. These would be little h heroes; heroes only in name. Each summon would get a Zyph mutation, but the likelihood of one a potent as Foster's appearing should be abysmal. With their telepathic line still open, Foster decided to prod her.
"Something wrong?"
Her response echoed in his head like a shout in a cavern, "Of course! Of course, something is wrong."
Two more presences brushed against the mental network, the sharp steel of Randall's mind and the thicket of roses and thorns in Monica—likely invited by the saintess.
"We need to find a way to take these summoned 'heroes' under our wing—or at least persuade them away from the other factions," Monica pushed the thought into their open mental network.
"They will need to be trained, right? Have a teacher you trust take them in at Winthrope." Foster said in return.
The Priests, all standing in a circle formed various religious handsigns while the Pope recited a biblical verse, his ancient voice dusty and withered. Glowing golden lines grew in geometrics, connecting the points on the circle where the priests stood. Sweat beat on the brows of the priests and several shook with effort—one's ear even began to bleed.
Foster turned to look at Regina, even as he spoke into her mind. "Is this what I think it is?"
"Lifeforce. Damn. Well, theres your answer on the vows."
Randall butted in, "Don't worry about that for now. We need to take control of the situation."
"And how do you suggest we do that, brother?"
The priests continued on, the ritual circle nearly fully formed. One of the priests dropped to the ground, pallad and unconscious. One of the archbishops on stand-by stepped over the clergymen to continue his work.
Only silence greeted Foster over the mental network. With sobering regret, he spoke.
I'll do it. Just follow my lead."
~~~
In the slums of Andeir where a panther lycanthrope searched for the son of a carpenter, in a seedy tavern on the border of Kal'dal where miners drank away their sorrows, in the lecture halls of Winthrope Academy where the minds of students were molded, in St. Hosdia Cathedral where a young acolyte prayed to a goddess she didn't know was false, in a plaza where a beautiful man with white hair and red eyes shook on a deal with a street urchin—the broadcast played.
The populace watched the powerbrokers of the realm declare their intentions for the masses as the Pope and his cadre of priests summoned the world's new heroes. The panther watched wide-eyed before warping away. The miners resonated with the patriotic nationalism of the king's speech. The students aspired to be heros like the one in the broadcast and the many more that would soon be summoned. The acolyte watched on in worry and the beautiful albino man smiled cruelly at the projection.
In a blinding flash of holy light, thirty teenagers fell on their asses as if someone ripped a chair from under them. A woman, seemingly in her late twenties, held a piece of chalk above her head—whatever surface she'd been writing on now a dimension away.
Before the summons could stand—before anyone else could react, four people approached the newcomers: The Hero, the Lady Saint, and the two eldest royal children in attendance.
Foster Grey, his tone commanding and welcoming, held a hand up in greeting. Though he spoke to the new heroes, the people of Ether couldn't help but feel he spoke to them as well.
"Summons from another world, Welcome to Ether. I am Foster Grey, Hero of this Kingdom. I know you are confused, maybe even scared, but allow me to first and foremost tell you, you are safe.
"Next, it is with a heavy heart that I say we stand on a grand precipice—one that will define the tone of this era. The decisions you make in the coming months may usher in a new dawn, bringing forth an age of peace and prosperity, or you may very well bring about our ruin."
Foster looked into the eyes of each summon before continuing in a softer tone, "Ether is not a perfect place… Some may argue it is not even a good place—still, it is my home. Maybe you don't care, maybe you dismiss my concerns as unfounded—hell, maybe you just want to go back to your own home and live your own life, ignorant of problems on a societal scale. You did not ask to be put where you are, and so I will not anything of you.
"Instead, I will issue a warning—do not fall prey to the fearmongering of weak and small minded men. Do not be afraid to think for yourself, and above all else, do not fear repercussions in an act of kindness."
Silence.
The Hero's gaze snagged onto the only adult summoned—the woman's arm still frozen above her head, chalk in hand, glasses slowly slipping down the bridge of her nose.
The Hero smiled at the woman, walking down the steps of the dias towards her, "What is your name miss?"
As if some spell broke, the chalk fumbled from her fingers as she pointed at herself and grasped for words not there. "M—me? Miss Hall—Aryana Hall. Mister hero… Sir."
The Hero laughed softly, "Just call me Foster. Now, Miss Hall, I assume you are a guardian of some sort?" He gestured to the teenagers now scrambling to get to their feet, "Perhaps an instructor of some kind?"
"Teacher, yes… I am a teacher. These are my students—and please, call me Aryana."
"A teacher!" The Hero grew subtly excited, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and whispering something to her that went unheard on the broadcast before backing away once more, "Winthrope might just have an opening for you."
The Hero turned to the dias, facing those who approached with him after the summoning. "Lady Saint? Your Highnesses? What do you think?"
Princess Monica stepped forward, a graceful smile on her face, "A teacher from another world. Fascinating. The academy would be fools to turn you away, Miss Hall. But I think you're getting ahead of yourself," even through the broadcast, his gulp was visible, "They'll need a mentor from this world as well. Who could possibly be better fit for that roll than you, Sir Hero?"
The Hero's smile suddenly became brittle, his eye twitching.