Back in the Sunstone Lands, the Demon Gamma Gate was awaiting the Heroes' Party.
Aethelstan stared at the swirling blue-gray vortex, the thick, viscous smoke bleeding from its edges like a wound in the world itself.
The knot of paralyzing terror in his gut threatened to root him to the spot, to chain him in place with invisible shackles of dread, but the Prince of the Human Kingdom refused to yield.
He thought again of Percival Nightstar. He thought of the Outworlder's cold, indifferent eyes, and the intended humiliation of Omares's words.
That memory burned hotter than any fear.
What was Aethelstan's dream? To be glorified. To be loved and praised more than every other person in Evernia's history.
It was why he despised the Heroes of the past, and why he particularly despised this Hero who was fortunate enough to be summoned when Prince Aethelstan Highcourt was alive.
