My name is Sophia, Sophia Leg Magnaria, the youngest of three sisters and the third youngest if you count my brothers.
Judging by my name and two surnames, you must have guessed that I am of high nobility, right?
What? Your surname doesn't mean anything where you live. On the continent where I live, having one is only available to people of high rank and wealth. Well, to simplify my position, I am a princess, but as a bastard born out of wedlock and still the daughter of a slave, much less entitled to the throne, I cannot even appear in public or at castle parties, I am like a stain on the royal family.
“Your Highness Sophia, His Royal Majesty summons you to his chambers.”
"Understand, Sir William, please guide me."
Turning his back to me, William, the captain of the 4th battalion of the royal cavalry, begins to lead me.
His Majesty refers to the first queen, the mother of the crown prince; her authority is below that of my father, the king, only.
5 minutes later, after a brief walk down the long corridor adorned with ancient tapestries and illuminated by magical tools, we arrive at the reception room of the first queen, William knocks on the door briefly.
"Your royal majesty, I have brought your highness Sophia."
A sweet and calm voice comes from inside; this is strange.
Her voice usually sounds colder and more authoritative.
“Let her in.”
William opens the door full of ornaments and lets me in, then closes it as if I am forbidden to leave this place.
Upon entering the scene, which is visible to me, sitting in a richly ornate armchair with crimson velvet upholstery embroidered in gold and ebony marquetry details inlaid with gemstones, the figure of the queen stood out elegantly, immersed in the opulent luxury of the piece.
The queen, a middle-aged woman, wears heavy makeup to hide the signs of time, trying in vain to appear younger.
She wears extravagant clothing, with velvet dresses adorned with golden embroidery and puffy sleeves that reflect her desire to keep alive the pomp and circumstance of her royal position.
But what surprises me is who is sitting on the luxurious sofa to the right of the armchair.
Looking at their faces, I recognize who they are.
How could I not recognize the five strongest members of humanity?
Sitting farther away from me is Lancelot del Corvus, the only holy knight recognized as a sword saint by the Sanctuarium Empire. His presence is majestic, enveloped in shining armor forged by the finest craftsmen and adorned with ancient runes that emit a soft blue luminescence as he moves.
Through the visor of his helmet, his penetrating eyes reflect wisdom and unwavering determination. Lancelot's sword, named Divine Aurora, rests by his side, in a sheath richly wrought with sacred motifs engraved in pure gold.
The gleaming blade is made of an unknown metal, with a radiant aura that seems to pulsate with the sunlight itself, and its sharp edge shines like a lone star in the dark night. Every movement of the holy knight seems choreographed with the grace of a dancer.
Next to Lancelot is Leticia Win Sanator, a woman of such striking beauty that she would captivate both men and women wherever she went. Dressed in immaculate attire of a priestess of the Holy Church, Leticia exudes an aura that evokes the purity and serenity of a saint.
Her slender figure is adorned with long robes of white linen embroidered with silver threads that flow around her like clouds woven by divinity itself.
Her golden hair falls in soft curls over the sacred mantle, and her deep eyes seem to reflect a wisdom beyond her apparent youth.
Leticia's posture is one of serene dignity, her gestures are graceful and compassionate, conveying an innate kindness that seems to touch all who approach her.
Her presence, combined with her youthful beauty and aura of "saintliness," makes it difficult to look away from her, as if divine light itself envelops her and illuminates the path of those fortunate enough to encounter her.
Sitting closer to me is the illustrious Sage known as Lyra Eon Hart, a figure whose wisdom transcends centuries. Despite appearing to be only 14 years old, her deep and serene gaze reveals the presence of an ancestral soul. In a few months, she will turn 234 years old, a testament to her longevity and accumulated knowledge over the years.
Lyra belongs to the ancient race of Elves, enigmatic beings endowed with an intrinsic connection to the spirits. Her garments are simple and elegant, made of ethereal fabrics that resemble the sparkling stars of the night. Adorning her head, a delicate crown of silver leaves symbolizes her authority as a Sage recognized by all nations of the world.
The aura surrounding Lyra is both impressive and intimidating, emanating a sharp intelligence and a presence that seems to penetrate the deepest recesses of the mind.
Even in her apparent youth, the Sage exudes a millennial calm and a knowledge that transcends time, causing everyone around her to bow before the magnitude of her wisdom.
Next to Lyra is Lucas Batllerock, a young man with fiery red hair who radiates a fierce and determined appearance. His flaming hair falls disheveled over his forehead, framing a face marked by battle and a penetrating gaze that reflects his relentless determination.
Wearing athletic clothing that fits perfectly with his imposing physique, Lucas displays well-defined muscles that denote immense strength. Every movement is executed with agility and precision, demonstrating the skill of an experienced warrior.
Lucas, known as the Martial King, achieved a feat of strength that has become legendary among warriors from various lands: he caused an earthquake with a single punch, destroying a fortress of demons.
The story of this moment of pure brute force resonates through the ages, elevating Lucas's reputation as one of the most formidable and respected warriors of his time.
And in the midst of them is he, the most handsome man I have ever seen, the legendary hero who only appears once per generation, with his features sculpted as if by the hand of the gods. His snow-white hair cascades in perfect waves over broad shoulders, and his sapphire-blue eyes glow with an inner fire, emanating an aura of power and seduction. However, as he looks directly at me, something sinister stirs in my soul.
His lips curve into a subtle smile, but the gleam in his eyes does not reveal benevolence; instead, it's as if he sees through me, stripping my mind of its defenses. A shiver runs down my spine, and a feeling of revulsion settles in my core, as if his beauty hides a dark secret that only my subconscious can perceive.
Despite the obvious admiration he inspires, the disgust I feel from his gaze chills my entrails, leading me to question the true nature behind the mask of perfection he displays.
The hero Diego, literally the strongest man in the world, is a young man, perhaps in the late stages of his adolescence, of firm stature and proud posture.
His determined expression reveals unwavering courage, contrasting with the incompleteness of his armor, which, despite being incomplete, radiates a singular presence. Each piece of his armor seems to have been forged with purpose, reflecting his skill and willingness to protect those he loves.
The central piece of his attire is the breastplate armor, adorned with mystical engravings and intricate details that tell stories of past battles. The loose pieces that have not yet been fitted suggest an unfinished journey, a work in progress towards perfection and completion.
Despite its incomplete aspect, his presence is imposing, as if his strength emanates from within, symbolizing the determination and power that reside within him.
The legendary sacred sword leaning against his legs is a reflection of his noble lineage and his destiny to face the challenges that await, making him a figure that transcends the armor he wears and the blade he wields.
The queen then speaks, with the most fake voice possible:
“Sophia, it's disrespectful to keep the hero waiting. Sit down; we'll have a long conversation.”
It seems I won't be leaving here anytime soon.