Hours had passed, and a grimy hand extended, seizing a worn-out plank of timber supporting the tunnel's exit with drunken accuracy. Filleon’s heart became consumed by anxiety as he cautiously gazed through the tunnel’s opening, situated at the entrance of the forest.
Despite the bright illumination cast by the triplet moons overhead, their radiance struggled to penetrate the oppressive darkness that lay ahead, within the depths of the dense forest thicket. Filleon' s eyes strained to discern the path that awaited him.
The remnants of the tunnel’s passage lingered in his senses – a metallic tang in the air, the lingering stench of putrid waste, and the dampness that clung to the walls like a suffocating shroud. The taste of it all still clung to his dry tongue, a bitter reminder of the arduous journey he had undertaken and must continue to trudge.
The strain of the expectation took its toll on Filleon. Both physically and mentally. A wave of intense nausea churned in his stomach, causing it to convulse with painful cramps. Unable to contain it any longer, he doubled over and retched over his worn leather boots. The acrid smell mingled with the surrounding forest’s earthy aroma. He wouldn’t be surprised if someone found him from the smell he would leave behind.
However, what struck Filleon most profoundly was the unnerving silence that trailed him since entering the tunnel. It clung to him like a ghostly presence, its weight suffocated his every step underground. Now, in the open, it was still too quiet. The absence of sound in the wake of all that he had done unsettled him to the core.
He slowly lowered himself onto the ground, seeking solace against the sturdy support of a nearby tree. Filleon grabbed a water canteen from his satchel and pushed aside thoughts of the covert plots orchestrated by the noble faction, and the resentful servants who held him accountable for unfulfilled promises to aid their families in the destitute outer district slums of his city.
His countenance darkened, and he muttered, “These people, forever demanding more and more. They ought to be grateful for the assistance I’ve already provided, despite my daughter’s illness. They should know she comes first.” He discreetly wiped the watery sickness from his mouth with his cloak. “The kingdom will endure until my return,” he grumbled, “Thomas is a capable advisor.”
The end will justify the means. I will not return empty handed.
Suddenly the bellow of an elvish horn permeated throughout the forest and interrupted Filleon’s thoughts. His heart dropped. Gods be damned, he is faster than ever on that bloody dragon of his.
“Ho-ho-ho, it would seem you need further assistance, My King,” a voice called out through Filleon’s mind.
“I know that voice…bastard, you are in my head now too?” Filleon growled as he stood up from the leafy ground. “You magical lot sometimes make me want to finally outlaw magic in the kingdom.”
“The clock is ticking, My King,” the voice whispered again through Filleon’s mind, but he ignored the provocation.
The moons had begun their descent from their apex in the sky, casting a broken, pale blue hue throughout the open gaps of the forest. There was just enough light to travel by, but not so much that he could act without thinking. Then, once again, the Elvish horn blew.
Shite, isn't that sound closer than before?
Filleon began to panic and tried to run, but his legs felt as if he were donning full iron-plated armor. The dragon’s roar erupted throughout the forest, causing much of the wildlife to break free from their dreams and scamper about. Those that were already awake made haste for any hiding spot or exit they could find. A dragon’s presence is absolute, and only one person could be the cause of such a thing. “Damn that elf,” Filleon gruffed again. He tried to lift his legs higher, but the fatigue was too much. All he could muster were slow, heavy, leaps. After a few minutes his body felt lighter, and each leap grasped the ground better. The fatigue began to falter in the wake of his anxiety. Before he realized it, he was running as fast as he ever could.
The caw of a bird overhead disrupted Filleon’s concentration while he ran. It took a lot of focus to run full speed and avoid every low-hanging branch in the night. A blood-red bird with blackened wings flapped down just ahead of him, as if to guide him. Filleon unknowingly followed, with no thoughts traversing his mind. Nothing at all. It was simple: see the bird, follow the bird. It felt as if it was the longest sprint of his life and yet only a few minutes seemed to have passed before the bird began to drift upwards and away from him into the trees. What lied ahead of him stood a hooded old man, hunched over a large rock, holding a large staff.
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Ugh, not this guy again.
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Filleon slowed his pace to a trot and watched the bird fly directly to the hooded figure’s shoulder. It lowered its head down in what looked like a communicational exchange with the figure before flying off out of sight. Filleon turned his head around to make sure he wasn’t being unknowingly pursued. Not that he could see them if they were. Somehow, doing so brought him peace of mind.
“Your friends will be upon you soon, and I figured you needed some help to escape,” the figure said.
Filleon’s eyebrow raised, “Is that right? You would help me escape?”
“I did once before, did I not?” they responded cheekily. "I even cast a spell to help you get here just a little faster."
Cheeky bastard - though I cannot deny he did help me before, but what is his endgame? Everyone has one. Filleon sighed, “De’jard, correct?”
“At your service, My King,” De’jard said with a playful bow revealing his horns in the moonlight. “But is that reluctance I hear in your voice?”
“Spare me demon, I know you are up to something," Filleon jabbed. "What are you after?”
Another dragon’s roar belted through the forest, causing goosebumps to rise at the nape of Filleon's neck underneath his hood. Much louder and closer than before.
"Ho, ho," De’jard laughed. "Once again, I am merely here to support the king’s endeavors. Your daughter would appreciate that you found someone that could help her, no?"
Filleon's ears perked up, "I beg your pardon? H-how do you know about my daughter?" His hand slid to the sword handle underneath his cloak.
De'jard held his hand out and the large raven landed onto his palm. Filleon wasn't sure if he feel dumbfounded over the avian spy, or the fact that the demon could hold the giant bird with a single hand. It was easily large enough to reach his knees if standing on the ground.
De'jard flicked his hand and the bird spontaneously erupted into bright flames. As the burned feathers fell into his hand, a pile of ash was all that remained.
Filleon's eyes widened, "What is the meaning of this? Was that not your companion?"
"My King, Precious is much more than a mere bird," De’jard said. He then clasped his other hand over the ashes of his fallen friend and whispered between his long, leathery fingers. As soon as he lifted his hand, De’jard pulled a roll of parchment from the ashes.
Filleon had no words for what he just witnessed. The bird burned like a Phoenix before his eyes, but was reborn as a piece of parchment paper.
"My King, if you sign this parchment, not only will your daughter be saved, but you can return home with your head held high," De’jard said.
"I am listening, witch," Filleon responded and sheathed his sword.
Filleon could almost feel a gleeful smile penetrate the dark void underneath De'jard's large hood.
"I prefer to be called, shaman," De’jard chuckled. "So, My K-"
Before De’jard could finish, a destructive gust of wind rushed overhead and shoved Filleon onto his back against the forest floor while blowing back De’Jard's hood, fully revealing a set of onyx black, demon horns set over a leather brown face with white, piercing eyes.
Filleon had always been awestruck by the presence of mythical beasts. Despite his power and authority as king, they were absolute and made him feel insignificant.
Large bronze wings struck the tree tops whilst they beat against the air. Filleon merely stood by and watched as the large, scaly body floated to the ground with the grace of a feather. He didn’t have the affinity for magic, but he was certain he could feel the pulsating waves of energy emanating from the legendary beast against him. It felt as if he was being engulfed in a warm, dense pressure. The depths of the sea could be the only comparison to such an uncomfortable feeling.
Filleon caught himself for a moment and looked to his side only to find De’jard, standing beneath the dragon, unfazed. Normally people would flee in terror or brandish their arms for protection, but this demonborne merely stood confidently in defiance in the dragon’s wake.
“My King,” a voice shouted from above, “shelter yourself from this stain upon the land and ride Nael with me back to the castle.”
The wind from the dragon beat against Filleon’s eyes, but he knew the voice was from Illiah. “Why have you come here Elf?” Filleon responded. “This is a journey I must take for my daughter alone, and you will not get in my way.”
“What have you done to my king, foul demonborne of the north?” Illiah snarled. “I should have your head for entering Jura."
“My, my, aren’t we the racist elf,” De’jard chuckled with his arms spread wide, “I and my kind have not done any shameful acts in these lands for centuries.”
Filleon could tell the chuckle made Illiah more enraged, “Then state your business, what do you want with my king?” Illiah lashed.
“That, my good boy, is between your king and I, isn’t it?” De’jard said and turned to meet Filleon’s gaze. “Why don’t we continue to handle our business –”
An arrow whisked toward’s De’jard’s face but was quickly deflected with his staff into a tree next to Filleon’s head.
“Oh, I am terribly sorry, My King,” De’jard bowed apologetically. “It would seem I am rather rusty with these old arms of mine.
Filleon immediately stood up with his chest out and pointed at Illiah, “Stop this at once commander and return to the castle,” he roared.
“But – My King?” Illiah had no words.
“That is an order, soldier!” Filleon yelled.
The air thickened and forced Filleon to gulp his words. His intent was clear, but even he was powerless in the face of the forces in front of him. A dragon riding elf known for his combat prowess throughout the kingdom and beyond, as well as a mysterious demonborne shaman that doesn’t flinch in the presence of a legendary creature and possibly capable of impressive magic. That is when his fears came to light. He was genuinely helpless with idle threats as his only weapons.
A twinkle from above caught Filleon's eye and made him look up to see Illiah draw his bowstring back to his shoulders and the moonlight reflecting from his shining silver arrowhead, “I am sorry, My King,” Illiah said. “But for the good of the kingdom, I will only follow princess Sarai's orders for now…”