The chamber stretched ahead, grand and spacious, its walls painted in a warm, golden hue. Sigils shaped like delicate flowers were etched across the stone, their lines catching the light and creating the impression of living patterns dancing in place. Tall, polished pillars of white marble, capped with gold, flanked the room at regular intervals.
Seven tall windows, each nearly three feet wide and reaching two-thirds of the way up the wall, lined one side of the chamber. Sunlight streamed through them, forming sharp beams that cut across the polished stone floor in golden stripes. Outside, birds glided through clear blue skies while drifting clouds softened the horizon; in the distance, the faint outline of a floating island was visible. The air inside carried the scent of rain-dampened flowers mixed with the dry warmth of sunlight.
Along the chamber's length, two rows of heavy oak chairs were neatly aligned to form a central aisle. A deep red carpet stretched from the entrance to a raised podium at the far end. Upon the podium sat a grand throne of vermilion leather and dark, polished wood, elevated on three carved steps.
Behind the throne, a balcony jutted from the wall, its wrought-iron railing designed with curling motifs. On it stood a solitary figure: a man draped in silver armor and a vermilion cape that swayed gently. Fire lamps, mounted in bronze sconces along the walls, flickered softly and cast dancing shadows across the sigils and pillars. Yet the room seemed to radiate its own light, as though the golden paint itself emitted a gentle glow that blended with the sunbeams and reflected off the floor.
Walking into the large chamber, Elara took a deep breath and scoffed. "So, guards, why was I called by the King?"
The guards did not reply. They simply moved her to the corner of the chamber. Their silence was not due to ignorance, but because the room was already filled with the elite of the Dravenor Clan. Men and women dressed in elegant attire—Eastern, Western, Southern, and Northern styles—sat on the oak benches, all casting looks of disgust at Elara. She could not have cared less. She walked past them, paying them no attention except for one man who stood beside the empty throne.
He was a handsome young man with an expressionless gaze. He wore a tailored black coat that reached his knees over a crisp white shirt with a high, stiff collar. A thin silver chain dangled from his waist, connecting to an ornate pocket timepiece that glinted faintly in the sunlight. His charcoal-gray trousers were perfectly fitted and tucked into polished black boots. White gloves covered his hands as he held a purple pillow, upon which rested a crown made of white and red fabric bound by golden metal.
His jet-black hair was slicked neatly back, contrasting with his porcelain complexion. Dark, observant eyes flicked across the chamber with quiet efficiency, missing nothing. When he turned his gaze to Elara, a deep frown appeared on his face.
Unbothered by the stares, Elara smiled at the butler and moved to the corner of the chamber, the two guards standing beside her.
Soon enough, the man on the balcony entered the main floor. Though he had seemed distant before, his presence now was commanding. He was a tall man with short raven hair and sharp blue eyes. His gaze was stern, and his vermilion cape dragged across the tiles as he walked toward the podium. Emanating a suffocating aura of dominance, he sat upon the throne and swept his cape to the side, letting it lie flawlessly on the floor.
He stared at the assembled crowd with an unreadable expression, not sparing Elara a single glance. The butler stepped forward, and as a guard took the pillow, the butler placed the crown on the King's head. Once crowned, the King rested his hands on the handles of the throne and spoke. His voice was valiant, cold, and dominant.
"Greetings, members of the Dravenor Clan. Accept my blessings." He paused, letting the greeting settle. Not a single sign of emotion was visible on his face; his gaze was so sharp it felt as if it could see into the depths of one's soul.
"I apologize for two things," he continued, his voice steady. "First, for bringing you all here on such short notice. And second... I apologize for the disrespect my daughter has brought to our clan."
Elara shrugged and glanced down at her tattered brown tunic, a playful smile still dancing on her lips.
"Astral Projection and Bindings have advanced humanity over the years," the King said. "All of this comes from Aura, a mysterious energy that grants us power. We, the Dravenor Clan, were blessed with an abundance of Aura by Gehenna. For centuries, we have been on good terms with the Realm of Demons. And yet, in a single month, someone broke that trust."
The crowd threw angry glances at Elara, cursing under their breaths.
"Only a select few are blessed with the supernatural in Primoria: the Clans of Sovereignty. I assure you, I will restore our standing with Gehenna, but first, the guilty must be punished for their sins."
The guards nudged Elara forward, forcing her to the ground to face the King directly. The King ignored her, gesturing to the butler instead. The butler moved forward and stood before her.
"Elara Atlantis of the Dravenor Clan, prepare for questioning," he announced, his voice devoid of emotion.
Elara stood up and looked the butler directly in the eye. He did not blink.
"Very well, Lady Elara. The first question from King Tharok of Eldoria: Why did you run away with the grandson of Lucifer and head to Asgard, knowing the demons and gods are at war?"
The King remained unmoved, maintaining his suffocating aura. Elara licked her lips and smoothed her disheveled purple hair. Her eyes glinted with mischief wrapped in pure intelligence.
"Why are only the clans blessed with Aura?" she asked, her voice carrying the weight of confidence. "Why are we the only ones with a greater soul affinity for Astral Projection and Bindings? Why are others considered weak? If we can't make the hard decisions to create a balance in our world, then why are we considered strong?"
Silence settled over the chamber. Her question seemed to deflate the ego of everyone present except for the butler and the King. She turned her gaze to her father with a cunning grin, raising an eyebrow to taunt him. "Answer me, Your Highness. Am I wrong? Come on, Dad, say something. Don't ignore your own daughter."
The King ignored her completely. The butler cut in.
"It seems you do not understand the question, Princess Elara. One month before a member of the Dravenor clan turns eighteen, they are sent to Gehenna to bond with a demon mentor who guides and protects them, becoming a vessel for harvesting Aura. You were meant to spend one month there. Instead, you spent five. You traversed the realms only to escort a descendant of Lucifer to the stronghold of the Gods, returning to the demon realm alone. What was the benefit? If your motive is reasonable, perhaps the King will show mercy. Tell us: what was the purpose?"
Elara's smile widened into an unsettling, satisfied laughter that echoed through the chamber. "What else? To make the weak strong! To let Primoria shine! To make us independent!"
Outside, the weather shifted violently. Lightning struck near the castle, the electric discharge reflecting in the butler's eyes.
"Let Gehenna come to us! Let Asgard fear us! Let Eldrath bask in our grace!" Elara threw her head back, staring at the grand ceiling with mad joy. Then, she leveled her gaze at the butler, her mischief replaced by a cold, determined fury.
The sky turned a bruised crimson, casting an eerie glow through the tall windows. The guests stirred, turning their heads in alarm.
"...And this time, we won't fail," she whispered. "Fight or die without a name."
The butler's expression shifted; his indifference was finally replaced by something else. "Spread the love so you won't live in shame."
"We, the Regressors, will build a name," Elara responded.
"So Primoria can enjoy its days."
At those words, the entire realm was swallowed by a blinding, crimson glow.