This week, I drew up a new fantasy story about a tyrant who wants a powerful quill, but to get it, they will owe something to someone they despise. This prompt brought two antagonists from my novel, Galimeel Redoak and Robin Tremain, into conflict—though not for the first time.

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Galimeel Redoak peered into the scrying bowl as humans cut down another oak.

The tree stood beyond the eastern boundaries, outside the shrinking border of his kingdom. Once, the entire Western Wood, from the sea to the Western Range, had been the land of the Redoak Dominion. Elven hunters crossed it beneath green boughs. Children learned to speak with the birds there. Galimeel’s grandfather had ridden through those woods beneath banners of gold and green.

Now a dozen human laborers hacked at the trees while soldiers guarded them. Galimeel sat at the table, counting every blow. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. The ax struck again. His fingers tore on the wood.

“Send archers,” he said.

Captain Vaelor stood behind him. “Majesty?”

“Send archers.”

“We have two hundred soldiers at the front.”

“Did you not hear me? I said send the archers.”

Vaelor hesitated. Galimeel turned to glare at him as the captain lowered his eyes. That was the problem with everyone these days—they hesitated.

He’d watched his lands shrink for thirty years, and hesitation had eaten more territory than any human army. Every treaty surrendered another valley. Every negotiation moved the border another mile west. Human farms appeared where elven villages once stood; their roads crossed sacred forests, and their merchants built towns inside lands Galimeel’s ancestors had protected for a thousand years or more.

The humans called it ‘settlement.’ Galimeel called it an invasion. He fought them. He lost. His armies had once numbered in the tens of thousands. Now he couldn’t even raise a division.

“Leave them,” he said, shoulders slumping.

Vaelor looked relieved. Galimeel hated him for it. The captain bowed and left. Galimeel remained alone in the scrying room. The ax struck again. He closed his eyes.

He knew of one artifact that might change everything. The Quill of Cleft Words. He’d spent almost a dozen decades searching for it. According to ancient elven records, the quill had belonged to the archimage Elarion, who’d learned to command magic through the written word. A spell written with an ordinary quill only carried the magic.

Legends said a spell written with the Quill of Cleft Words commanded the magic itself. He could order fire to burn an entire army, stone to rise from the earth. A river to change its course at his command, and curses taint the blood of dynasties. Galimeel could use it to restore his borders. He could remake his world to bring sovereignty over the Western Wood. The human settlements would disappear as the forests reclaimed their soil. Galimeel could make the world remember that the Redoak Domain had never been weak.

The oldest records claimed the quill rested somewhere beneath the ruins of Ashta’Qi, in an ancient city destroyed during the Coronet Wars.

Unfortunately, the only living person who claimed to know how to enter the ruins was a human who called himself Robet Trevor. Galimeel hated him. He hated the man with a depth that surprised even himself.

Trevor had appeared in elven territory three years earlier as an envoy from the western human kingdoms. He’d arrived wearing a blue diplomatic coat, carrying a lute, and calling himself a humble servant of peace. Galimeel didn’t believe a word the man said. By sunset, his spies had uncovered the truth.

Trevor was a bard, yes. But his name wasn’t Robet Trevor at all—it was Robin Tremain. He was also a merchant in flesh—he bought and sold humanoids of all shapes and sizes as slaves. Goblins. Elfkin. Half-elves. Orcs. Humans. And worst of all, elves. Any living being he could sell for a price.

He used diplomatic credentials to cross borders without inspection, then moved his living cargo through hidden routes. Galimeel ordered his execution. Tremain escaped the dungeon before they could carry out the sentence.

Since then, the man had become a traveling rumor. A charming bard, a smuggler. A liar, a slave merchant. And purportedly the only man who knew how to reach the quill. Galimeel had no choice. He ordered his guards to find Tremain.

They found him in the city two days later. He arrived at the palace wearing his envoy’s blue coat, his ever-present lute strapped across his back. His smile, as always, was infuriating. Galimeel waited in the throne room.

Tremain gave an extravagant bow. “Your Excellency.”

“Remove the lute.”

Tremain blinked. “I beg your pardon, Excellency?”

“I dislike it.”

“That seems an unreasonable basis for confiscation.”

“Remove it.”

Tremain sighed, removed the lute, and handed it to a guard.

Galimeel watched him. The human looked just as he remembered. Black hair. Gray eyes that seemed to miss nothing. A narrow scar across his chin. He carried himself like a man who’d never believed consequences applied to him.

“You came as an envoy,” Galimeel said.

“I did.”

“You have no authority to represent the eastern kingdoms.”

“Technically, I do.”

“You stole those credentials.”

“I am no common thief, Excellency,” Tremain smiled. “They were given to me.”

“By whom?”

“A man who no longer needed them.”

Galimeel leaned forward. “You disgust me.”

“I’m touched you remember me so fondly.”

Galimeel’s guards shifted with unease. Tremain seemed to enjoy provoking him. He took a deep breath and started again.

“You know why I summoned you.”

“I assume it involves a hanging.”

“It involves Ashta’Qi.”

Tremain’s eyebrow lifted. Galimeel watched the man’s eyes grow wary.

“You know the ruins.”

“I’ve heard songs about them.”

“You’ve been there.”

“I’ve heard rumors to that effect.”

“Tell me how to reach the vault.”

Tremain studied him. Then smiled. “No.”

Galimeel felt heat rise in his chest. “You are in my palace.”

“Yes.”

“I could have you executed.”

“Yes.”

“I could torture the information out of you.”

“You could try.”

Galimeel stood. The room went still. He descended the steps of the throne. Tremain watched him.

“You mistake my restraint for weakness.”

“No,” Tremain said. “I mistake your desperation for leverage.”

The words struck harder than an insult. Galimeel stopped. Tremain’s expression softened.

“You want the quill.”

Galimeel said nothing.

“You want it badly,” Tremain hesitated, studying Galimeel. “No… you need it.”

Galimeel waited long moments before answering. “Name your price.”

“And there it is.” Tremain smiled.

“I will not bargain with you.”

“You already are.”

Galimeel despised him. But he needed the man. “Name it.”

Tremain considered him. “I want a favor.”

“What favor?”

“I’m still thinking.”

Galimeel laughed once, without humor. “Then you’ve wasted my time.”

“I’ll collect when I need it.”

“No.”

“Then I walk away,” Tremain turned, taking a step toward the door.

Galimeel’s pride screamed to let the human leave. The forest screamed louder.

“Wait.” Tremain stopped. Galimeel hated himself before his words even left his mouth. “What kind of favor?”

“One you will no doubt hate me for asking.”

“I already hate you.”

“Then you have an advantage.”

Galimeel stared at him through narrowed eyes.

“I will lead you to Ashta’Qi, and you will owe me one favor.” Tremain extended his hand. “No questions when I collect it.”

Galimeel looked at the offered hand, though he wanted to cut it off. Instead, he took it, and a faint silver line curled around both their wrists. He winced as magic sealed the bargain. Tremain smiled.

“It’s been a pleasure doing business.”

“I hope you choke on it.”

“That’s almost affectionate.”

They left before dawn. Galimeel brought six soldiers. Tremain insisted on traveling with only two.

“The ruins punish large groups,” he said.

“Ruins don’t punish people.”

“Ashta’Qi protects what’s hers.”

Galimeel did not ask how he knew.

The journey took four days. As they traveled south and east, Galimeel noticed how his kingdom became thinner. Human farms crowded the old roads. Fences crossed meadows where elves had once gathered for midsummer festivals. Human children played beside trees bearing axe marks, both old and new.

Galimeel felt each sight like a fresh wound.

On the fourth evening, they camped near an abandoned watchtower. Tremain played his lute as they settled. The melody was gentle. Galimeel hated how beautiful it sounded.

“You sing about peace,” he said.

Tremain looked up. “I sing about whatever people pay me to sing about.”

“Yet you sell people.”

Tremain’s fingers stopped moving. “You’ve been busy.”

“I know who you really are, Robin Tremain, and what you do.”

“Then you know why I do it.”

“For money.”

“Of course. Money buys freedom.”

“For whom?”

Tremain gave a slight smile. “For me.”

Galimeel stared into the fire. “You are a coward.”

“Perhaps.”

“At least I fight for my people.”

Tremain’s expression hardened. “Do you?”

Galimeel looked at him.

“You’ve sacrificed them to keep your throne.”

“I protect my kingdom.”

“You protect your pride.” Tremain held his gaze.

The words landed between them like a blow. Galimeel wanted to deny them, but he couldn’t. Tremain looked away at last.

“Go to sleep,” the man said.

Fitful rest interrupted Galimeel’s night.

They spotted the ruins of Ashta’Qi the following afternoon, a crumbling temple beneath a black cliff. Broken towers rose from the earth like rotten teeth. No birds flew overhead. No grass grew between the stones, as though the land had died with the temple.

Tremain led Galimeel through a collapsed temple and into the darkness. They passed statues without faces, skeletons adorned in rusted crowns, and walls covered in cryptic writing.

Galimeel stopped before one particular inscription.

Only the rightful hand may command the quill.

“What does that mean?”

“It means the quill chooses its master.”

“I don’t believe in destiny.”

“Nor do I.”

They continued to the heart of the ruins, where they found a circular chamber. A stone pedestal stood at its center. Upon it lay the Quill of Cleft Words.

Galimeel forgot to breathe. It looked almost ordinary. A black shaft. Silver feathering. A point of pale crystal. The tingle of magic filled the chamber. Galimeel felt it crawl beneath his skin. Every spell he’d ever learned seemed inconsequential.

He approached the pedestal.

Tremain caught his arm. “Wait.”

Galimeel pulled free. “I’ve waited long enough.”

“I’ve seen what happens.”

“To whom?”

“To anyone who ever grabbed for it.”

Galimeel stepped toward the pedestal, reaching for the quill as the chamber filled with whispers. Images flashed before him: his kingdom restored; human armies burning; forests rising; his enemies kneeling; and him on a throne at the center of a verdant green world.

Galimeel reached harder. The quill flew into his hand and the power struck him. He fell to his knees, screaming. Magic crackled around and through his body as words formed on the floor.

THE QUILL OBEYS YOUR HAND.
EVERY COMMAND CREATES DEBT.

Galimeel stared. “A debt?”

“Everything has a price, nothing is free.” Tremain answered.

“I already paid.”

“You paid me.”

The quill pulsed. Galimeel then understood. The quill could perform any spell, but its magic demanded payment of value equal to the request. If he restored a forest, somewhere else would wither; if he destroyed an army, something else would fall; or if he rebuilt his borders, he would lose something equally important. The Quill offered no easy miracles.

The mountain shook as a roar came from below. Tremain went pale.

“We have to go.” The man started toward the exit.

“What is that?”

“The guardian,” said Tremain over his shoulder.

“You knew?”

“I suspected. Let’s go!”

“You brought me here anyway.”

“You wanted the quill.” Tremain stepped back and grabbed Galimeel’s arm.

“And you wanted your favor.”

Stone exploded behind them. An enormous monster with the body of a bull and the skull of a dragon, black roots twisting through its ribs, crawled out of the darkness.

Galimeel raised the quill. He could destroy it; he knew he could. He began writing a spell. The quill moved. One word. Two. Then stopped. The magic demanded payment.

Galimeel’s mother’s face vanished from his mind.

“No.”

He dropped the quill. Tremain seized it. The guardian charged. Tremain tossed the quill back toward the chamber.

“Run!”

They fled. The chamber collapsed behind them. Galimeel stumbled through the tunnels. Tremain dragged him forward. They reached the surface just as the ruins collapsed. For several minutes, neither spoke.

Galimeel looked down at the quill clutched in his hand. He didn’t realize he’d picked it up again.

Tremain stared at it. “You still have it.”

“Yes.”

“Then we’re finished, for now.”

Galimeel looked at him. “No. The bargain remains.”

“Yes, you still owe me.” Tremain smiled his detested smile.

Galimeel abhorred humans and loathed the bargain. But he despised his own desperation more. They returned to the city three days later. The human army had advanced yet again. Another village had fallen. Another strip of forest had disappeared.

Galimeel stood alone in his chamber, holding the quill. He would save his people by writing a spell powerful enough to force the humans back. He dipped the trembling quill into his magical inkpot. Then stopped, remembering the words carved beneath the ruins of Ashta’Qi.

Every command creates a debt

He thought of Tremain. One debt already bound him. One unknown, perhaps dangerous favor. He wondered what the human would eventually demand, whether the favor would destroy him. He wondered whether Tremain had planned all of this from the beginning.

Galimeel looked toward the eastern horizon. The fires burned again. He lifted the quill. Then he wrote a single spell. Not an attack. Not a curse. A command for the ancient forest to reawaken. The ground trembled. Far beyond the walls, roots pushed through human roads where old trees rose from buried seeds. Branches broke through fences as the forest reclaimed the land.

Galimeel smiled. For the first time in years, he felt hope. Then the quill burned his hand, and he let go. A second line scribed itself beneath his spell.

THE PRICE WILL BE COLLECTED

Galimeel’s smile vanished. He looked at the door where Tremain stood. The human held his lute under one arm.

“You used it,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Was it worth it?”

Galimeel closed his fist around the quill. “Yes.”

Tremain smiled. “Good.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve decided what I want.”

Galimeel’s stomach tightened. “You said you didn’t know.”

“I didn’t. Not then.” Tremain stepped into the chamber. “Now I do.”

Galimeel stared at him. “What?”

Tremain’s smile disappeared. “Open the prison.”

Galimeel went still, staring at the human.

“The dungeons beneath your palace. Open them.”

“No.”

“You have dozens of prisoners locked there.”

“Traitors.”

“People you don’t like.”

“Enemies.”

Tremain shrugged. “Open it.”

Galimeel’s oath burned around his wrist. He understood. The favor had arrived. He could refuse, and the magic would punish him. He could obey, and his enemies would walk free.

Tremain’s gaze bored into him. Galimeel finally understood the cruelty of the bargain. The man didn’t demand gold or land. He demanded a choice. And Galimeel hated him for it. But he had sworn his oath.

Galimeel reached for the bell rope. “Come,” he said.

Tremain raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Where?”

“To open your door.”

The human smiled. Galimeel hated that smile more than ever. Yet he walked beside the man. Outside, the ancient forest continued to rise. For the first time in fifty years, Galimeel felt the borders stop shrinking. But the tyrant knew better than to call it a victory.

Yes, he’d recovered the quill and saved his kingdom. And placed himself in debt to the one man he despised most. The quill had given him power. Tremain had named the price. And Galimeel suspected the true cost remained to be paid.