In the courtroom of the king’s castle, back in the great province of Metrodorian, a meeting was in session.

It was a suffocating affair.

The air was heavy, the gold and the vintage wine did nothing to dissolve the weight of anxiety and the fear of annihilation.

King Alfred sat on his throne, his chin resting on a fist.

His tired eyes were set on the marble floor of his courtroom, not a single thought behind them. The jovial king was gone.

With Percival refusing his role in this timeline, the king could not laugh or jeer, or enjoy a nice meal of duck breast.

He was now a monarch watching his kingdom’s hourglass run out of sand.

Around him sat the pillars of Valoris.

Luvar, a nobleman with a face like a hawk; Otharus, old and wheezing; and Thanlor, whose fingers drummed nervously on his knee.

Ulcraft, impatient as always, sat with his arms crossed, while Grigor sipped from his diamond cup with a hidden smile.

Standing behind the throne, clad in his gleaming armor of silver and gold, was Prince Aethelstan.

His hand rested perpetually on the pommel of his sword, and even though he tried to maintain a face of indifference, his frustration was visible in the tight set of his jaw.

Boom.

The courtroom doors burst open.

The guards didn’t even have time to lower their spears before a figure in grey robes rushed in.

It was a Whisperer.

Whisperers were the kingdom’s elite couriers, trained to hear and share secrets, and also to deliver messages faster than a horse could gallop.

The Whisperer fell to his knees before the dais, his countenance as calm as an Assassin’s.

"News, Your Majesty!"

Alfred didn’t even act interested. "Rise. Speak."

The Whisperer rose to his feet, bowing low. "A missive, sir. From Lord Morys of Wolsend, relayed through Duke Argentine of Northmarch."

He swallowed hard, his voice trembling with the magnitude of his message. "The Hero... they say he stopped a Demon Migration."

A chorus of gasps followed.

Aethelstan’s eyes narrowed. Being the only Awakener present, he knew personally how impressive this feat was.

If it were true.

"A Migration?" he groaned. "That’s impossible. One requires a battalion to completely clear."

"This is what makes it a message of such magnitude, my Prince," the Whisperer said, looking down. "In a village called Cuttleham. He slaughtered them all. By himself."

King Alfred slowly sat up. His eyes, previously dull, now sharpened with curiosity.

The nobles murmured amongst themselves.

"Alone? Is that even possible?" Thanlor whispered to Otharus. "He awakened only five days ago."

"What Level is he?" Luvar demanded.

Grigor swirled the wine in his cup. "Last I heard, the boy was Level 15. An impressive feat for a first day."

"Oh no. There has been an update on that, my Lord," the Whisperer said, his eyes wide.

Grigor looked at him. "Really?"

The Whisperer nodded. "We received fresh word from our network. The Hero was last seen on the road to Oakhaven Shire. He cleared a Beta-Rank Gate World near the border in record time. The witnesses there say he was at... Level 24."

Silence. Absolute, stunned silence.

Otharus’s eyes bulged. "Level 24? In a week?"

"Just how fast is he growing?" Thanlor breathed, looking pale. "Most Awakeners take a year to reach Level 20."

"This Necromancer Class..." Luvar muttered, working his chin. "It must be the real deal."

Grigor sighed unethusiastically. "What did you expect, Luvar? The Class possessed a Mythic Talent, didn’t it?"

Luvar looked at him, sensing the mocking tone. "I don’t think any one in the court expected this, Grigor."

The cunning man smiled.

Across the other side, Ulcraft squeezed his golden armrest. He turned to glare at King Alfred.

"Oakhaven Shire?" Ulcraft hissed. "If he is going to Oakhaven, he must be forming some kind of alliance with the Elves that have immigrated there. You’ve let him slip through our fingers, Alfred. If the Elves gain the Hero’s favor..."

"Put your paranoia to rest, Ulcraft," Grigor said lazily. "The boy is merely traveling. He likely seeks for more Gate Worlds. Perhaps he wants to own yet another one."

"Ah, that is true," Otharus said, sitting back. "We have not resolved the issue of a citizen—even worse, an outworlder—personally owning a Gate World."

Luvar shrugged. "I don’t see what’s wrong with it. When I was a Baron I loathed every negotiation with the Guilds for Gate World purchases. Perhaps a singular person would be more lenient than those gilded wolves."

"Oh come on," Thanlor cursed. "It is a preposterous thing. An insult to the fabric of how our realm functions."

"Can you all focus on the point?!" Ulcraft snapped. "The Hero is leveling up faster than has ever been recorded!"

Prince Aethelstan’s eyes twitched, a small range building up in him.

"We don’t even know yet what the powers of this Necromancer Class are!"

The nobles only stared at Ulcraft, silent.

"Speak for yourself, Ulcraft," Grigor broke the silence. "I have heard that he has the power to summon the undead to fight for him. Real skeleton soldiers."

The room went quiet again. An army?

"So it’s a Summoner Class," Otharus thought out loud.

"Indeed."

"You hear a lot of things, Grigor," Ulcraft narrowed his eyes.

"I make it my business to be informed," Grigor smiled thinly.

"But a power like that..." Thanlor shook his head. "It is clear he does not wish to aid us. He has forsaken the Crown. We cannot keep waiting for him to change his mind while our defenses are exposed for the Demon Lord!"

"He is right," Luvar agreed. "The Demon Lord’s forces are gathering. This Migration attempt is a sign. We must arrange for the Hero’s party, despite everything. We must prepare for the worst."

They all sat in silence, their eyes moving to the king who had yet to say anything.

Alfred’s face was like he was witnessing a nightmare, and yet could not move. He just sat there, thinking endlessly.

The Chief Diviner who had been silent and almost transparent, cleared his throat.

They looked at him.