You take one calm step forward, positioning yourself slightly ahead of the group. The entire throne room falls into a heavy, suffocating silence as your presence alone seems to press down on the air.
You look directly at the King — no bow, no lowered gaze, no deference whatsoever — and speak with a quiet, cosmic weight that makes every candle flame in the hall flicker and the banners tremble slightly.
"We do not kneel. Not to you. Not to any king. Not to any god."
Your voice carries clearly through the vast throne room, calm yet impossible to ignore.
"Your so-called blessed heroes attacked my brother in the street like cowards. They insulted him, mocked him, and tried to kill him from behind. They were spared only because I allowed it. Had I not spoken, they would no longer exist."
You gesture lightly toward Lukas.
"This is my little brother, Lukas. He is no longer the 'useless Fifth Hero' you all mocked and mistreated. He is now Cosmic Lord Lukas. The power he carries is far beyond anything your Goddess ever granted to these four."
You turn your gaze to the four otherworldly heroes, who are visibly trembling on their feet.
"They treated him like dirt for weeks. Made him walk while they rode. Forced him to serve them. Laughed at him. That ends today."
Then you look back at the King, eyes glowing faintly with starlight for just a moment.
"We came here openly because you summoned us. But make no mistake — we are not your subjects. We are not your tools for war. And if anyone in this kingdom — hero, guard, or king — tries to control, threaten, or disrespect my brother again… there will be consequences far worse than a few shadows."
Mira stands tall at your right, hand resting on Starfang, fox ears alert, tail still. She radiates quiet, deadly loyalty.
Lukas stands at your left, calm and composed, the faint swirl of his cosmic crown visible only to those with divine sight. Shadows dance gently at his feet.
Liora remains gracefully beside Lukas, silver hair flowing, new protective magic shimmering around her. She does not lower her head either.
The King sits frozen on his throne, face pale. The nobles are dead silent. The four heroes look like they want to sink into the floor. The priests clutch their holy symbols, sweat running down their faces — they can feel the same overwhelming dread the gods felt earlier.
No one in the room has ever seen anyone speak to the King like this. No one has ever refused to kneel before him.
The silence stretches, thick and dangerous.
The King finally finds his voice, though it comes out strained:
"…Who… what are you?"