Despite the protests of my healers, who claimed my injuries would require days of rest at the very minimum, I was clad in spare royal attire, including stockings and an oversized robe, and was told to move. I put on the oddly uncomfortable outfit without grumbles and complied.

My limbs squealed as I operated my body, but most of my muscles responded with minimal pain. On top of the mages’ healing, the surge of Shiela’s mana through my body seemed to have healed some of my wounds. Sadly, however, my hair didn’t magically regrow.

The escorts led me into a cramped chamber. An empty room, but for one table and a blindingly bright white lamp overhead. The heavy door was locked shut with magically inscribed steel bars from the outside. Not that I had any intention of escaping regardless.

I was told to wait. So I did, tapping my foot repeatedly over the same old worries. This was not the context I had expected to meet the King in. I had no idea what anyone wanted of me. Why was I meeting with the King at all?

Hell, I barely even knew my own goals. What did I need from the King’s audience? To figure out what was going on?

No. The goal was to get out of here. To find the team, and to make sure everyone was alive and well.

Five or so minutes later, investigators appeared in the room. They introduced themselves hastily, treating me with suspicious politeness. My presence as a mage must have put them on edge. They asked their questions. Namely, they were curious about why exactly I had chosen to burn myself along with one of their watch towers.

I saw no reason to lie and answered honestly, though I didn’t mention names. I told them I was kidnapped by a cultist mage, whom I defeated by sacrificing myself. And thus, I ended up nearly burning myself alive. The investigators clearly doubted my claims, though had no choice but to accept the explanation, seeing as the details matched with what witnesses had seen.

A few lesser charges and questions came my way, none of which were particularly serious. The charge of casting a fireball within city limits was dismissed, as I hadn’t destroyed anything but a scrappy watch tower by the poorer part of town, and I had a valid reason for doing what I did.

Additionally, or perhaps more importantly, I was asked about my background. Where and when had I come to the country? What was I doing here, and why was I a part of Darko’s group?

I stuck with my previous improvisation, claiming I was a dedicated student of Master magician James Adamson from the small countryside town of America. I’d traveled to this country simply to fuck around and explore, and along the way happened to meet a bunch of people I could call teammates. Thus, I joined Darko’s group. Nothing more to it than that.

The investigators ate up my answers with suspicion but didn’t argue. I was again told to wait, presumably while my answers were brought to the higher-ups for examination.

Afterward, the real investigation began.

A woman with golden blonde hair stepped into the negotiation chambers along with a bald man whose demeanor displayed everything but awkwardness. Their uniforms acted as status symbols more than clothes; filled with medals and expenses, these were the types of outfits one stepped away from when passing on the streets.

“Cillian Bermeyer…” the man said. “It is an honor to meet. My name is Angus Grey. The chief constable of Arkber, and the lead of this investigation. This is my assistant, Daphine Belyris. The King wishes to meet you. Please follow us.”

Nervously, I stood and complied. The two distinguished investigators acted as my escorts. We walked through pristine hallways, stepping on carpets far cleaner and smoother than anything I had ever seen on Earth. Chandeliers hung from tall roofs, masterful paintings lining the walls. Despite the lack of windows, the temple was lively, and no musty smells filled the air. This much could be expected of a royal establishment, but I found myself impressed nonetheless. The walls and floors were smooth and solid, too clean for me to touch, and the same went for every piece of furniture and adornment.

My escorts led me to an indoor balcony with a tall dome roof, at the end of which we entered through double doors, into the grandest room I had seen in a long time. The King’s throne room.

Columns lined the long hall, nobles in lavish outfits standing in between. Swords and staves were spread all around to dissuade any intentions of fighting back. The room itself wasn’t crowded with ornaments and furniture, but artistic design shone nonetheless. Stained glass covered the high walls like oversized paintings. Colored light poured through the windows. It was as if LEDs shone behind the glass to provide a pretty backlight.

From the throne directly ahead, an orc with a crown on its head stared me down. I paused under his gaze.

The King was not just a big man; he owned the type of genetic anomaly that made men grow twice their intended size. That was only a slight exaggeration. The King barely fit on his throne, let alone in the cloak he wore. Next to him stood a smaller but still burly man, sharing the same facial features with the King. A Prince, I presumed.

I realized the walk was far from over and resumed my steps. We passed column after column, eventually making it to the end of the long red carpet pointing at the King’s stepped platform. My escorts knelt and bowed.

I imitated their posture as best I could, though I likely butchered every single element of what made the kneel respectful in the first place. I hoped I would gain a participation trophy for trying.

“Raise your heads,” the King said.

I stood, facing the King. My heart raced like all shit. I felt utterly trapped. Distinguished suits all around, witnesses judging my every moment. This was not an even negotiation ground. Not in the slightest. The King practically had swords pointed at my neck. If he so wished, he could have ended my life in an instant.

Still, I managed to hold eye contact, clinging to it as my only hope, like the last lifeboat in a sinking ship. In these situations, a negotiator didn’t have much choice. I was glued to my confident posture by force, no matter how many judgeful stares the audience directed at me.

“Your Majesty,” I said, spouting some nonsense from the top of my head. “It is an honor.”

“Cillian Bermeyer,” the King said. “A curious arrival. The honor is ours. It is not often royalty comes across mages as talented as you.”

“Thank you for the kind words,” I said. “My talents are largely exaggerated.”

The King let out a burst of laughter. “The most talented are often the worst of liars, as my men keep reminding me. Talents such as you and I cannot pretend alongside the common-born. Our fates have led us to grander purposes.”

“The world has taught me I cannot disagree, as much as I would like to pretend,” I said, sprinkling in some personality behind the words. Some buildup of character usually went a long way in negotiations. Perhaps the King would offer some mercy.

“I will spare us from the argument of compliments,” the King said. “My mages must have praised you enough already. We both share questions and answers for far more pressing topics.”

“Of course,” I agreed.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“My scholars have looked into your claims.” The King’s tone switched. He spoke with clear confrontation behind his words, intending to make me uncomfortable. “They studied each bit of information within their deepest sea of wisdom. It is clear that a town by the name of America does not exist.”

“Uhm, America is a subjective place, Your Majesty,” I said with a hopefully respectful bow. “I travel not from one country, but from them all. Such is the lifestyle of my master, James Adamson.”

The King studied me. “You are travelers?”

“James Adamson always seemed to lack a purpose in life,” I said.

“Fools, the two of you,” the King said. “It is a shame you did not bring your master with you, young mage. A wiser man would know not to involve oneself in the matter of another country’s criminals.”

“I apologize, Your Majesty,” I said with more hesitation in my tone than I would have liked to show. The King’s pressure was working, dammit. “Causing trouble was not the intention.”

“Darko, the Wyvern Slayer,” the King said. “Remyer Ravilles. Shena, the escapee. All criminals associated with this scheme. You, Cillian Bermeyer, have chosen an awful bunch of criminals to team up with. Mages of your caliber believe themselves to be invincible. Powerful you might be, but a lone man can only achieve so much. No criminal can fight the royalty of an entire country. I intend to punish you justly.”

I lowered my head, heart racing. The King knew our names! But hadn’t we just defeated Rigrith, the first Archpriest? I nearly killed Jordan Feryah. The cultists were the royalty’s enemies. What could have changed us from Heroes to criminals in the twelve hours I was asleep?

It’s an intimidation tactic, I thought. The King wants something from me. He’s making me feel pressured.

“I apologize, Your Majesty,” I said. “What is me and my team being charged with?”

“The destruction of Arkber’s inner streets,” the King said. “The robbery of an unsuspecting tailor shop. The escape and avoidance of royal investigation. The crimes go on with a myriad of lies. The charges are pressed on Darko, the Wyvern Slayer, who has admitted to full guilt and responsibility in dragging you into his team. You are guilty through association.”

I paused for a moment. “Did Darko bring me here?”

“Indeed,” the King said. “The Wyvern Slayer carried your charred corpse directly to the gates. A valiant deed to end his career. You may thank your old boss for saving your life, going as far as taking the financial burden of your treatment into his own hands. It is clear, however, that he will never earn enough to pay for the full operation. This leaves us with my problem. You, Cillian Bermeyer, owe a great debt to the throne, and to the Sacred Priest whose healers have saved your life.”

“I am deeply grateful,” I said. And after hesitation, added, “How much do I owe?”

“The sum is a thousand gold marks,” the King said. “A cheap price for employing the best of Krose healers for a full night and beyond.”

I didn’t ask to be healed, I wished to say. It seemed anywhere I lived, America or this shithole, medical bills were always inflated to all hell. Still, I couldn’t exactly argue.

“This sum would cost an entire village fifteen generations to pay off,” the King continued. “Even for the richest of adventurers, a thousand gold marks is a life-ruining sum. I do not wish to place such a burden on your head. Thus, I propose an alternative solution to our problems.” The King’s piercing eyes could have very well sent a shockwave through my body. “Join me.”

My line of bullshit had no immediate response. I had no idea what I could have said to place me in a favorable position.

“You will join Prince Vitek and Daphine Belyris on the hunt for Azetoth’s cult,” the King said. “Starting tomorrow, you will work under your two new bosses, following their orders to defeat cultist hideouts. Your achievements will be used as contributions to your debts.”

No! I thought. Absolutely not!

I used the King’s proposal as an excuse to pause and think. I had tools, that much I knew. I was a powerful mage with achievements behind my back, all of which I could use to gain credibility for myself. I could likely use the name of Jordan Feryah to incite the King’s ears to hear my proposals. Yet, I couldn’t figure out a proficient line of attack. If anything, my achievements would only make me more desirable.

I was arguing with a goddamned medieval King. If he wanted to, the King could have ordered me for torture, and I wouldn’t have had one chance to disagree.

“It would not be proper to place a mage of your caliber under a forceful contract,” the King said. “I do, however, have another proposal that might interest you. Angus. Deliver the artifacts.”

Angus Grey bowed, then stepped up the platform. He offered the King a small slab-shaped tablet and a black wallet. The King held up both items. “Do these belong to you?”

My eyes shot wide. “My phone!”

The King grinned wide, and I realized my mistake. “As an added favor for good service, royalty has retrieved this pfone, found in the church of Volés. We will return your belongings to the rightful owner, but only after the debts are paid.”

“Thank you,” I said with a slight bow. “This is a tempting offer indeed. I promise to pay back. I wish to offer my gratitude to your healers for saving my life.”

“The operation was not a gift,” the King said. “Remember this, young mage. Join me, and repay the favor.”

“I am inclined,” I said. “However… Before I lock in my decision, I must also make a request.”

“Permission granted,” the King said. “Speak.”

“I request two hours,” I said. “To consider the decision. There are… unfinished matters I wish to conclude in the city. I cannot give you an answer before my work in the city is complete.”

The King stared back at me. “Very well. Two hours. Return to the temple before dusk with your answer. The guards will grant you free entry.”

I bowed. “Thank you.”

“Cillian,” the King reminded. “Do not let my showcase of respect backfire. Attempt to escape, and I will not hesitate to make you the third most wanted man in the country.”

The words were emphasized with a deathly stare. Believe me, I took his words to heart.

***

I was escorted out of the premises by guards on all sides of me. The scorching moons welcomed me to an odd place I hadn’t seen in ages.

Civilization.

Arkber’s walls loomed in the distance. They didn’t circle away from me, telling me to turn around. Instead, they welcomed me with a warm embrace. The same was true for the streets and buildings. I was faced with a paved road decorated with greenery and blessed with clean air. The streetside buildings were of brick or respectable painted wood, all with tiled roofs and windowsill pottery.

Respectable outfits filled traffic; richer, even, than the average attire in New York. Palanquins or handcarts transported the extra wealthy, whose outfits were too pristine even for the cleanest of streets.

My escorts bowed, then closed the gates, dropping me off as if I belonged here.

I stood still in awe, watching the bustling activity of a healthy street. Passersby of Arkber didn’t worry about where they could take their next shit, or when the next crazy cultist would kidnap them into slavery. These people lived real lives with real securities. And I was dropped off alongside them.

In a bizarre sense, I was free. No more responsibilities to quell the Corruption. No more slave contracts shoved down my face. No more forceful missions to fight the cult. All I had to do was decline the King’s offer—assuming debt was the only thing tying me to his service—and I was free to live my life. Indebted to all hell, sure, but free.

No. To truly believe that was naive. I wasn’t free in the slightest.

Cultists were still after me. Jordan Feryah was likely still alive, and undoubtedly pissed off about what I’d done to him. The news of Rigrith’s fate would make it to the cult leaders, after which my life would be seen as the grand prize for the strongest criminals in the entire world to hunt. I was anything but safe.

I needed protection. I needed allies.

I needed friends.

“Excuse me?” I asked a passing middle-aged man in a blue and white suit who happened to be looking in my direction. “Could you tell me where the ‘Sapphire Inn’ is?”

“Sapphire inn?” the man asked. “Haven’t heard of it. Has to be a thieves’ nest. The name rings a crumbling estate with a fancy name to add value to the beer sales.”

Right, I thought. Outside the walls.

I thanked the man, then hurried my way towards the walls, desperately hoping that Remy and Shena were still waiting for me.