Ishar pushed the curtain of the small hut aside and stepped in. He looked around.
The hut had only one room, serving as sleeping area, kitchen, and bathroom.
Outside, a pit marked the spot for waste.
Looking at it, everything felt both familiar and alien.
That young master had spent his first fifteen years in this square room, with his mother.
But that young master was gone, and now his body was Ishar's.
He felt nothing—no attachment to the room, no sentiment toward the woman who had birthed the body he now inhabited. Nothing.
Yet he had promised the young master one thing: to take care of his mother and her unborn child.
As long as it didn't prove too difficult or detrimental to his own plan.
Then he intended to keep that promise of only for sentiment.
"David, is that you?" a soft voice called from outside.
"David" Ishar whispered.
Was that the name of the boy whose body he now controlled?
The curtain shifted, revealing a short woman with thick black hair falling over her shoulders.
Her hands bore calluses and scars, her eyes sunken with dark bags beneath.
She carried firewood, her face lined by fatigue and years of hardship.
Ishar estimated she was barely thirty, yet the life in her face seemed already a foot in the grave.
Her stomach was still flat, but he could tell she was pregnant.
"Stop standing there staring and help me with this wood, silly," she said, offering a wide smile.
Ishar moved forward, lifting the bundle from her hands and placing it neatly in the corner.
He turned to her. "My name is Ishar."
She blinked at him. "What are you talking about?"
He stepped back. "I'm leaving now. I've been given an assignment by the chief. You won't see me for a while."
She moved in front of the door, barring him with her body. "What are you talking about?"
Ishar studied her face, noting the fine lines, the faint tremor in her lips.
She was on the verge of tears and still he felt nothing. To him, she was a stranger. To her, he was her only son.
If he lingered too long, she would realize he was not David, and then he would have to kill her.
He made to leave again, but she blocked him once more, feeble but unyielding.
Ishar exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose, and leaned against the wall.
"Fine," he said, sitting on the bare floor.
He gave her a rough description of the past twenty-four hours: the dining, the meeting, his appointment as governor.
Of course, he said nothing of his eventual killing and possession of her son's body.
Her eyes widened, shimmering with unshed tears. "Is that… why you're so different? Because of these… new powers?"
She asked, holding his hands, trembling.
Ishar nodded once, curtly.
She wiped her face and moved to the corner of the room where a small bed rested.
Bending down, she pulled a dusty old chest from beneath it and offered it to Ishar.
"Take it with you," she said.
"What is it?" Ishar asked
"It's been in my family for generations," she replied. "No one has ever been able to open it. They say whoever can will lift our family to heights unimaginable. Unfortunately… you and I are the only ones left. Take it. If you cannot open it… then find a nice girl in that village, settle down, and never come back here. Forget about me. It's for the best."
Before Ishar could respond, she turned and left the room.
Her sobs echoed even as she walked away, growing fainter, yet lingering long after she was gone.
***
The road away from the hut was narrow and hard-packed, carved by years of bare feet and wooden wheels.
Ishar rode at its center atop a dull-brown horse, posture straight, reins loose in his hands.
A crow perched on each of his shoulders, talons digging lightly into cloth and flesh alike.
A third sat upon his head, its weight slight, its presence absolute. They were dead silent. Observing the surroundings.
Beside him walked Borik, silent, eyes forward.
Ahead and behind strained the two warriors who pulled the small carriage by leather harness.
Their names were Big and Small. And from what they had told Ishar while trying to get in his good graces they were brothers.
Unlike before, he was no longer merely a weak young master with no backing.
He was their direct superior, appointed by the chief himself. His word carried weight absolute and unquestionable.
If Ishar told them to kneel, they would kneel.
If he told them to kill themselves, they would have to obey. They knew it.
And Ishar wanted them to know that he knew it.
Several times along the road, Borik had opened his mouth as if to speak. Each time, Ishar's cold gaze flicked toward him.
The words died before reaching air. Big and Small fared no better.
Fear, Ishar found, brought a useful silence.
In the distance, the wooden gates of the Weyian tribe rose from the earth like crooked teeth.
Smoke curled lazily into the sky from the huts inside. Life continued, unaware.
Ishar raised a hand.
"Stop."
The horse halted. Borik froze instantly. Big and Small stumbled a step before catching themselves, breath heavy, eyes flicking nervously toward Ishar.
Without a word, Ishar tilted his head and whispered something.
One of the crows launched from his shoulder, wings slicing the air without a sound.
Moments later, there was movement.
Strigoi slipped from between the gates, hunched and careful, following the crow like a shadow chasing fate.
His eyes widened the instant he recognized the group.
"The young—!"
Panic seized him. He turned and ran.
"Borik," Ishar said calmly.
Borik moved.
In three strides he caught Strigoi, wrenching him to the ground and pinning him with practiced ease.
Strigoi thrashed, spitting dirt and fear.
"I'm a servant of the great Pilgrim!" he screamed, voice cracking. "If you dare touch me you and yours will be cursed, you hear me cursed!"
Behind them, Big snorted. Small let out a short, nervous chuckle.
Ishar turned his head towards the two.
The sound died instantly.
Ishar dismounted and approached, boots crunching softly against the sand.
As he crouched, the three crows took flight, circling him in a slow, widening spiral. Feathers cut through the air like blades.
Strigoi froze.
His eyes followed the crows… then dropped to Ishar's face.
"I am Pilgrim," Ishar said quietly. "This is my vessel."
Strigoi squinted, doubt warring with terror.
He searched Ishar's expression for deception, for madness and found only two dark pools that reflected nothing human.
Something ancient stirred in his bones.
His strength vanished. He collapsed fully, smashing his forehead into the dirt again and again.
"God is walking amongst men," he cried "What an honor, what an honor!"
Ishar stood.
"Make camp here," he said without looking back. "Await further instructions."
Borik bowed his head. Big and Small answered as one, voices tight.
"Yes, Governor."
Ishar ordered strigoi to take the reins of the carriage holding the chest.
With Strigoi leading and the crows watching, they slipped into the Weyian village like ghosts.
They stopped behind the chief's house.
Strigoi helped carry the old chest in, hands trembling from it's weight.
Once settled, Ishar spoke plainly, of the Olan tribe, of his infiltration, of his appointment as governor.
Strigoi listened, his mind seeing all the benefits to Ishar's plan.
If the Weyians were not constantly suppressed… if strength could be cultivated quietly, unseen…
They would no longer be the weakest of the five tribes.
"But why not just destroy them at once, Lord Pilgrim?" Strigoi asked, confused. "Surely you have the power."
The crows shrieked.
The sound scraped against the walls, against thought itself.
Ishar's expression darkened.
"When," he said coldly, "did I begin explaining my actions to you?"
Strigoi's legs gave out. He dropped to his knees, forehead pressed to the floor.
"Forgive me," he whispered. "Forgive me, Lord, I beg you."
"Let it be the last time," Ishar replied. "Or you will lose your head. Go. A crow will summon you when needed."
Strigoi fled.
Silence returned. Ishar turned to the chest.
Old. And covered in dust. There was a lock but the hole was clearly not meant for a key.
He placed a hand upon its surface.The crows fell silent.
Time to see what's in here. Ishar thought.j