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 my—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 more 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 bored 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.