210 NE.

Few cities in Oros could come close to matching the majesty and splendour of Aberle, the capital of the Kingdom of Hatalia. Being the home of nearly one million people, its heart lay by the shores of the Bay of Baliston in the east and it reached out into the endless grasslands of the west, growing with every passing season.

At the heart of Aberle, on a hill overlooking a harbour, sat the Royal Palace. A grand old building made of marble and decorated in gold, it pierced through the clouds above and dominated the sky.

Fleets from afar as the Great Empire of Ker'uva and as near as the Lokenian Republic sailed and manoeuvred about in its harbour. Meanwhile, all the languages and nations of humanity mixed its busy streets.

At a stall at one of many of Aberle's bazaars, a wandering knight, his accent gave him away as Ennic, haggled with a merchant over the cost of a gilded sword with little success. At another stall, a young Ker'uvan lord and his entourage took delight in perfumes from Brasdonia, a mighty empire to the north.

Nearby, a young girl was busy collecting flower petals from the cobblestone roads. Once she had enough, she fashioned them into a wreath, wore it atop her head, and pranced about to the amusement of her friends.

It truly seemed that the world had come together at this one point. And all present seemed to be united by a shared, almost mystic, sense of joy, relief and anticipation.

But underneath the splendour of Aberle lay a complex labyrinth, and in it a dark secret. It was known only to a few, and accessible to even fewer. At the deepest depth of this labyrinth, at the bottom of a spiralling staircase that seemed to descend into the abyss, was one room.

The room's walls, floor, ceiling and door were composed of some black stone. At first glance, it looked plain. Dull even. There was none of the exceptional ornamental and theatrical style that characterised the city above. But if one looked closely, they would notice faint runic markings running across the black stone.

Despite being deathly silent outside the room, inside the harrowing screams of a man could be heard. In that room two cloaked figures, one tall and the other short, lorded over a table in the centre of the room. On that table lay an unrecognisable man who had been reduced to little more than broken flesh and bones.

If one looked closely, it was possible to notice that the small figure had been constantly chanting incomprehensible words under their breath. And with every word whispered, the runic engravings that decorated the walls seemed to respond, as if dancing to music, and converged upon the man's body.

Soon, the tall one spoke.

"Agathor the Gallant. The Slayer of 10,000 Demons. One of the Seven Heroes. The Greatest Knight of all the Realms of Man. The Saviour of Oros. To think such an esteemed personage has been reduced to this… perhaps I ought to now call you Agathor my little bloodied bitch?"

The wounded man, Agathor, clenched what remained of his jaw and howled at the comments. The tall figure simply continued to disfigure Agathor with his tools and soon Agathor's howls gave way to whimpers.

Agathor thought to himself.

How long have I been here? Why has this happened to me? Gods above, you have bestowed me with your grace before, why forsake me now?

As if sensing Agathor's thoughts, the tall figure spoke again.

"Life truly is full of surprises my little knight. Only a few days ago, the world was at your feet thanks to the blood of our people that decorated your blade. Correct me if I am wrong, though you might find that difficult without a tongue, but was your second, and even more grandiose, triumph through the city above not scheduled for tomorrow? And now… now look at you." He erupted into laughter before continuing.

"There are a million people waiting to see you and your pretty face again. A princess too, if I am not mistaken? It really would be a shame for her to see you now. Consider us keeping you here a favour."

The tall figure stopped speaking for a moment and retrieved a potion from within his robes before opening it and pouring it down his associate's mouth. Soon the runic binds became frenzied and tightened further around Agathor.

"Cannot have these binds weakening on you now can we? Even in your current state, and without that absurd white sword, one can never be too careful. Who would have thought this little room had such powerful Eborian glyphs? Or what is it you humans foolishly call it – demonic, was it?"

Agathor twitched and winched under the pain. His mind remained confused as to who these monsters were and how this circumstance had come about.

Indeed, just a week ago he had achieved great glory on the battlefield when he cut down the Demon King, Nathuh. With the Demon King's death, he had put a stop to their invasion, doubtlessly saving millions and millions of lives. And he had finally earned the right to her hand. Now he was here. Being tortured to the brink of death underneath his very own home.

His mind tried to ignore the pain and the mocking of the tall one and thought back to one year ago: the arrival of the Great Demonic Host in Oros…