I stand before the gates of the Mountain Throne, eight wives towering behind me.

Their footsteps shake the stone. My boots barely reach their knees. The iron doors groan open.

A scout kneels, head down. "Lord Demiurge. Three outsiders have entered the eastern pass. They carry the mark of the Summoned."

I adjust my cloak. "Are they armed?"

"Yes. Swords and holy seals. One claims to be a Hero."

I glance back at Vraxia. She cracks her knuckles. Rock splits beneath her feet. "Let them come," I say. "Let them see what their lost classmate has become."

She steps forward. Her voice booms. "We greet the so-called Heroes. You will speak only when permitted."

The scout hesitates. "They… they don’t know you’re—"

"Of course not," I interrupt. "To them, I was the weak one. The joke. The boy who fainted during combat trials."

I walk past the gate, the ground rising beneath me as stone reshapes to form steps. My wives follow. No weapon drawn. No spell cast. Only presence.

One wife lifts a boulder like it’s clay. Tosses it into the pit below. It explodes into dust.

I sit on the throne. "When they arrive, let the smallest among you speak first."

Vraxia frowns. "You mean *you*, husband?"

I smile. "No. I mean Lyra. Let her tell the story. Let her describe how the weakest summonee built an empire from blood, rock, and lineage."

Lyra steps forward. Eight feet tall. Scarred from battle. Mother of three of my sons. "I’ll start with the day we found you," she says, staring at the path ahead. "Crawling out of the summoning circle. Tiny. Shivering. But your eyes… already calculating."

The wind cuts silence.

They’re coming.

I lean forward. "Time to meet my classmates again."