[https://i.imgur.com/Whm6Udz.jpeg]

"Equivalent... Exchange?" Filleon only breathed the word and felt ridiculous in doing so. "What are you getting at demon." He could see the faint reflection of the toothy smile fade from De'jard's form.

"I must say," De'jard sighed, "I am rather disappointed, My King. I would have figured you would know all about the truth behind the world's magic, even if you aren't a naturalist."

Filleon scoffed, "I do not have all night. You may have just killed one of my best, but I still have to press forward, by whatever means necessary."

"You say this without knowing you are gripping your heart with your hand and shaking the hilt of your sword with the other?" De'jard pointed. Filleon looked down and noticed his hand on the grip of the blade under his cloak. It took him but a moment to hear the rattling from the hilt against the broken chain on his belt. Another reminder of his earlier failure. "Your resolve is weak," De'jard continued. "Allow me to help you with your choice."

Filleon collapsed to the leafy ground with his knees. His face contorted and and screamed desperation. Sweat dripped from his damp hair to his nose and fell to his hands. "Please...I need your help."

“You do not listen, my King - I said that I want you to make a choice.” De’jard began to slowly hobble towards Filleon and stopped just in front of him. It still surpeised Filleon that, even hunched over, he was still looking down on him. As if threatening his authority as a pathetic king of the very land they tread. So close and yet still, he could not clearly see De’jard’s face.

“I want you to honestly tell me,” Dejard continued. “Whether or not, your daughter’s life is worth saving over that of your kingdom. Surely at this rate, you know she will die and you will and your family will be killed in a revolt. Or if your kingdom deserves to be given the rightful ruler meant to rule it into prosperity.”

“Why would this matter if you are to heal my daughter?” Filleon asked, still not quite sure what De’jard was attempting to explain to him.

“Equivalent Exchange, my King,” he said, with a grin that pierced the veil of darkness under his hood. “As I am sure you know, magic in the realm is provided by the mana ley-lines underground. Every obelisk allows for the energy to flow through all individuals with some magical affinity. Thus, providing them with mana reserves to use as their own. Like a pool of water. A beings life-force is drawn in combination to use the mana within. This concept follows a single law of balance, thus you have an equivalent exchange."

Filleon was never one for history lessons. Especially not those he already knew of since childhood. But for some reason he was drawn to De’jard and the way he spoke of the world. As if he had seen something beyond it.

De’jard continued without paying mind to Filleon’s improved focus. "If something powerful is used, then an equally strong bout of life-force must be given in return. In most cases, mana is used as the payment part of that balance and over time the mana ley-lines refill that individual’s mana reserve. But in this case, you must sacrifice something much greater as payment to me and my service. My mana and some life-force on my end of the exchange, and for the choice you wish to bear. To be a King or to be a Father.”

How in the Gods’s names is this equivalent? My daughter is everything to me, but my kingdom involves everyone by the tens of thousands.

“My King, the clock is ticking...”

“Wait a moment," Filleon brought a finger to his hairy chin, "by healing my daughter with your magic could I not give you another kingdom instead as payment for your magic?” Filleon asked. Why sacrifice so many lives he needed to care for.

Care for? Do I really even care for them? I need them to pay me for their protection against the rest of the world. A fine trade is it not?

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

He was still losing money as it was due to his kingdom’s unrest and disapproval of him. Filleon heard what they said behind closed doors. But his little Sarai was still too important. Much more so than they.

“Well, well,” De’jard thought, putting his hand into the void of his hood, “I suppose that could work, although which kingdom would you choose to give me?”

Filleon looks around frantically, trying to think of something. The Kingom of Yurram to the west? No, that won’t work. They are in alliance with the Holy Isle and that could not be ignored. The Brindale Republic in the south is neutral, but that is only because they hold trade treaties with every known land in the world and are seen as the so called " Region of Merchants. Filleon suddenly looks up to De’jard with determined eyes.

“Oh, have you made a decision?” De’jard questioned.

“I will give you the land of the Skallah Empire, as payment for my daughter’s life,” Filleon said aggressively. "They are direct neighbors to the southeast and my forces are strong enough to acquire it when we see fit."

“Ho, Ho,” De’jard laughed, “And who are you to give away the land of another? A land owned by your allies of the last hundred odd years no less, Ho, ho.”

“I will find a way to make it work,” Filleon jabbed, “Do we have a deal or not?”

De’jard turned away from Filleon very slowly. His hand trying to cover the ever-growing grin on his hidden face. “I do believe we have a deal,” De’jard said. Filleon relaxed a little and began to remove his hand from the grip of his sheathed blade.

Immediately, De’jard whipped his body around with enough speed to push away the part of his cloak covering his arm towards his shoulder and stood tall and upright. After a moment, De’jard readjusted and thrust his arm out in Filleon’s direction. Filleon flinched but captivated – his eyes fixated on De’jard’s revealed arm. It was covered in what looked like a large yet primitive tattoo. Many symbols and markings that Filleon had never seen before, making their way almost all the way up to the upper portion of his arm.

This is for my daughter. The people of my kingdom will understand. They would do the same thing if put in the same situation. She is my blood.

Filleon stretches out his arm hesitantly to shake De’jard’s hand as is international tradition. “Ho, ho, good, good…” De’jard chuckled as he grabs Filleon’s hand to shake it. By the Gods, his hand is huge.

After two initial shakes, it is customary both parties release their grips of one another, however - this shake did not end. In fact, Filleon could not release his hand from De’jard. “Hey, w-what are you doing old man!” Filleon shouted thoughtlessly. Clearly this is no ordinary old man. His eyes grew wide in desperation. He was a strong and burly man, but De’jard had him completely out matched as if he was a small child. In fact, the children probably had a better chance to escape. Filleon used his other hand to try and pry free, but he couldn’t.

It didn't move. Shite.

He looked up towards De’jard and a feeling of hopelessness fell over him. In all of his worry, he could not hear De’jard mumbling. The tattoos along De’jard’s arm began to move around in a circular pattern. Each black symbol became a bright greenish-blue, contrasting in vibrant fashion against his skin color.

Suddenly, all at once, the tattoos stopped moving and the grip on his hand loosened just a bit but not enough for Filleon to make his escape. Filleon’s hand began to sweat, becoming hotter with every passing moment. A burning pain that could be felt in his skin caused him to yelp in pain. The yelping became shouting and soon screaming. Before he knew it, he had lost all strength in his legs and collapsed to his knees. He did not have the strength to stand anymore. Inferiority overcame him.

“Now is the time,” De’jard said before squeezing Filleon’s hand even tighter than originally had. “Hymno bali novau deva helios orah daios,” the chanting grew louder.

Isn’t that the Demonic language?

Once again Filleon could only guess due to a vague memory he had while being tutored in the past. The tattoos began to slither like a snake of burning agony from De’jard’s arm onto Filleon’s. They wrapped down De’jard’s forearm, to his hand, then the fingertips over to Filleon’s and then clasped around their hands before continuing onto the rest of his arm. They spiraled all the way up to his shoulder. The burning sensation began to subside. De’jard finally let go of his hand and took a step back. Filleon tried to move his arm, but it was no use, he had no feeling in it and the palm of his hand was scorched red. He glared at his sword but knew he couldn’t lift it.

Filleon let out a faint whimper like a beat dog.

“Fret not, my King, you daughter has been saved,” De’jard assured him.