The Summoned

In the depths of the palace, far beneath the grandeur of Brighthold's throne room, a circle of magicians stood in the dim light of the summoning chamber. The air was thick with the scent of incense and the murmurs of arcane chants, their voices weaving together in a complex, ancient rhythm. Malachar, the head mage, stood at the center of the circle, his staff raised, eyes closed in concentration. They had been chanting for more than an hour now, their voices growing hoarse, yet the portal they sought to open remained stubbornly closed.

The other court magicians, all seasoned practitioners of the arcane arts, were beginning to falter. Sweat dripped down their faces, and doubt gnawed at their minds. None of them believed this would work—not really. But they were bound by their duty, by the king's command, and so they chanted on, hoping against hope that something, anything, would happen.

Malachar could feel the strain in the air, the tension that crackled between the magicians. He himself was losing faith, though he dared not show it. He was the head mage; he had to believe, or at least appear to. Yet as each minute passed with no result, the doubts crept in, whispering that perhaps this was all for nothing.

Upstairs, in the throne room, the atmosphere was no less tense. King Aleron sat on his throne, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the armrest. Around him, a group of nobles and advisors waited, their impatience barely concealed. Courtiers huddled together in small groups, whispering amongst themselves, their faces tight with anxiety.

"What if it fails?" one of the courtiers muttered to another, his voice low and fearful. "What if this summoning brings us nothing but more doom?"

"Have faith," his companion replied, though his tone was far from convincing. "The king knows what he's doing. He wouldn't risk this unless it was our only hope."

Another courtier, a man with a sharp nose and a perpetual scowl, scoffed. "Faith won't protect us from Celestera's wrath. If this summoning doesn't work, we're all doomed. The king should have listened to Duke Reynar and prepared for war."

As the murmurs continued, Duke Varrick, the commander of Brighthold's unified forces, stepped forward. A tall, imposing figure with a stern expression, Varrick was a man of action, respected by all for his leadership on the battlefield. He cleared his throat, and the room fell silent, all eyes turning to him.

"Your Majesty," Varrick began, his tone respectful but firm, "I think it's time we consider our other options. We should start fortifying our borders, preparing our defenses. If the summoning fails, we must be ready to protect Brighthold by any means necessary."

King Aleron hesitated, his gaze drifting to the floor. He knew Varrick was right; they couldn't put all their hopes in a single, desperate act of magic. "You're right, Varrick," the king finally said, his voice heavy with the weight of the decision. "Begin the preparations. We will defend our land to the last."

Before anyone could respond, another voice broke through the tension—a voice dripping with disdain. "Defend? Why waste time defending when we could strike first?" The speaker was Count Rowland, a man known for his ambition and sharp tongue. "I say we attack Celestera now, while we still have the element of surprise!"

The suggestion hung in the air like a poisoned dagger, and the room seemed to freeze. King Aleron's gaze snapped to the count, his eyes narrowing dangerously. The temperature in the room seemed to drop as a palpable aura of power began to emanate from the king.

"No," King Aleron said, his voice sharp and final. The single word was laced with such authority, such raw power, that the very air seemed to tremble. The pressure in the room intensified, a crushing weight that bore down on everyone present.

Count Rowland, caught off guard by the sudden shift, fell to his knees, gasping for breath. The courtiers around him shrank back, their faces pale with fear. Even Duke Varrick, as strong and battle-hardened as he was, felt the immense pressure, though he managed to remain standing. Beside him, his daughter, General Elara, a fierce and respected swordswoman, struggled to stay on her feet. Sweat beaded on her brow as she fought against the invisible force, her legs trembling with the effort.

The king's aura filled the room, a manifestation of his power and his resolve. "We will not provoke a war with Celestera," Aleron continued, his voice reverberating with an undeniable finality. "We will defend our land, but we will not march our people to their deaths on the whim of ambition."

Just as suddenly as it had come, the oppressive aura began to fade. The tension in the room eased, and the nobles who had been forced to their knees slowly rose, still shaken by the king's display of power. Count Rowland remained on the floor, his face flushed with a mix of humiliation and fear, unable to meet the king's gaze.

Before anyone could recover fully, a loud thud echoed through the palace, followed by a wave of energy that rippled through the air. The king's aura diminished, and all heads turned towards the source of the sound.

In the summoning chamber, the magicians had finally ceased their chanting, their voices falling silent as they stared in disbelief at the figure now standing before them. The spell had worked—against all odds, they had succeeded.

In the center of the summoning circle, a man stood. He was young, with a lean, muscular build, and his eyes, sharp and alert, scanned the room with a mixture of confusion and wariness. Kenshin Tanaka, a college freshman who had been dreaming of wealth and success, now found himself in a world far beyond anything he had ever imagined.

The magicians, stunned by their success, could only stare. Malachar, the head mage, was the first to recover, stepping forward cautiously. "You there," he called out, his voice uncertain, "who are you?"

Kenshin looked around, his mind racing to make sense of what had just happened. One moment he had been in his small, shabby apartment, and the next... this. "My name is Kenshin Tanaka," he replied, his voice steady despite the confusion that swirled within him. "Where am I? What is this place?"

Malachar exchanged a glance with the other magicians, a sense of unease settling over them. They had summoned a man—one who looked no different from any commoner—yet there was something about him, an air of otherworldliness that they could not ignore.

"You are in the kingdom of Brighthold," Malachar said slowly, choosing his words with care. "And you... you have been summoned here for a purpose. A purpose that will soon be revealed."

Kenshin frowned, his gaze hardening. "Summoned? For what purpose?"

The magicians had no answers for him—only more questions of their own. And as Kenshin stood there, facing the unknown with a mixture of fear and determination, the kingdom of Brighthold held its breath, waiting to see what this stranger from another world would bring.