## Chapter 7: The Shattered Hero
The throne room of Solaria's capital, Aurelion, was a masterpiece of light and order. Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows depicting heroic victories, bathing polished white marble floors and gilded columns in warm hues. King Borin sat upon the Sunstone Throne, flanked by advisors, generals, and nobles in their finest silks. The air hummed with the quiet confidence of a kingdom that believed itself righteous and secure.
Standing before this splendor, Elara, the Holy Hero, looked like a creature dragged from a nightmare. Her once-pristine white armor was scorched black, dented, and caked in grey ash that clung like funeral shroud. Her golden hair, usually radiant, hung lank and matted around a face etched with exhaustion and something far worse , a deep, abiding terror that hadn't faded in the days since her return. Behind her, Sir Gareth and the nine surviving knights stood like broken statues. Their armor mirrored Elara's ruin, and their eyes, fixed on the floor, held the vacant stare of men who had witnessed the end of all things. The air around them crackled with a palpable tension, a stark contrast to the court's serene atmosphere.
King Borin leaned forward, his brow furrowed with concern that hadn't yet touched true understanding. "Hero Elara," his voice, accustomed to command, echoed in the hushed room. "You return... diminished. Report. Where is the rest of the Luminous Guard? Did the Ninth Lord... did Azrael inflict heavy losses? And was he killed?"
The moment the name "Azrael" left the king's lips, the fragile silence shattered. Elara flinched violently, as if struck. Behind her, Sir Gareth let out a choked gasp, his knuckles white on the hilt of his sword. One of the knights stumbled, catching himself against his comrade with a clatter of armor that sounded obscenely loud. A collective tremor ran through the survivors, their breath hitching in ragged unison. The sheer, visceral reaction was so profound, so wrong coming from the Church's chosen champion and her elite guard, that a ripple of shock went through the assembled court. Murmurs died instantly. Faces paled.
Lord Cedric, the king's hawk-faced military advisor, stepped forward, his voice sharp with disbelief. "What is this? What ails them? Hero Elara! Answer His Majesty!"
Elara slowly lifted her head. The terror in her eyes hadn't vanished; it had been consumed by a white-hot, incandescent rage. It burned through the ash on her face, making her molten gold eyes seem demonic. Her gaze locked onto King Borin, bypassing Lord Cedric entirely. She willing wanted to kill the king .
"You..." Her voice was a low, guttural rasp, trembling with barely contained fury. "You... and your precious Church... you lied."
King Borin recoiled slightly, more startled than offended. "Lied? Hero Elara, speak plainly! What lie? About the Ninth? Everyone knows he is the weakest of the Nine Demon Lords! His territory is a wasteland, his forces scattered! That is the intelligence!"
" Even the other Demon Lords wants to kill him but because of some rules they could not "
"**WEAKEST?!**"
Elara's roar shattered the stained-glass calm of the throne room. It wasn't a shout of defiance; it was the raw scream of someone whose entire world had been violently upended. She took a step towards the dais, her ruined armor scraping.
"**YOU CALL THAT WEAKNESS?!**"
She gestured wildly behind her, encompassing her shattered knights. "Look at us! Look! We marched into his 'wasteland' with holy fire and divine blessings! We faced him! That... that thing you call the weakest!"
Her voice dropped again, thick with remembered horror. "He didn't fight us, Your Majesty. He... he humiliated us. He lectured our formations like a bored tutor! He dismissed Saintess Seraphina's barrier like it was cobwebs!"
Her hand clenched into a fist, knuckles bleeding where the gauntlet had broken. "He let us strike him! A Purifying Sunburst! Full force! Center mass! And he... he brushed it off! Like dust!"
She took another step, her voice rising back to a furious shriek, tears of rage mingling with the ash on her cheeks.
"And then... then he offered us mercy! One attack, he said. Survive it, and we could leave. One attack..." Elara's voice broke. She stared past the king, her eyes seeing not the throne room, but the impossible void, the silent annihilation. "One flick of his finger... and five hundred men... gone. Not dead. Erased. A crater... smooth as glass... where they stood. He called it... a warning."
A collective gasp went through the court. Horror replaced confusion on King Borin's face. Lord Cedric looked ill.
"He gave us five days," Elara spat, her voice raw. "Five days to leave his sight. And he said,to tell you... to tell the world... to leave him alone." She let out a harsh, humorless laugh that scraped the nerves of everyone present. "Leave him alone! The 'weakest' Demon Lord who treats armies like gnats and obliterates landscapes with a thought!"
She whirled, her gaze sweeping the stunned nobles and pale-faced advisors.
"Weakest? FUCK YOUR 'WEAKEST'!"
The blasphemy echoed in the sacred space. "Your ignorance, your arrogance... it almost got me killed! It got five hundred good men unmade! You sent lambs to slaughter a god and called it a righteous crusade!"
Her chest heaved. The raw fury seemed to drain out of her, replaced by a cold, bottomless despair. She looked directly at King Borin, her eyes devoid of their former holy fire. "I fulfilled my duty. I brought you the warning. From the Ninth Lord. From me." She straightened her shoulders, a final act of defiance. "I will not set foot near the Obsidian Reach again. Not for all the gold in Solaria, not for all the blessings of the Pantheon. Send another hero. Send ten. Send the entire Church Militant. Let them face the abyss you so blithely dismissed as 'weak'."
With that, Elara turned on her heel. She didn't bow. She didn't ask for leave. She simply walked, her steps echoing in the deathly silence of the throne room, her ash-covered form a moving monument to shattered faith and impossible power. Sir Gareth and the nine knights, moving like automatons, stumbled after her, leaving the court in stunned, terrified silence. The grand windows depicting heroic victories suddenly seemed like cruel, mocking lies. King Borin slumped back on the Sunstone Throne, the color drained from his face, staring at the spot where the Holy Hero had stood, the word "weakest" echoing in his mind like a funeral knell.