Strigoi finally stepped out from the village chief's residence.
His expression was stiff, but he forced a confident smile as he walked forward, spreading his arms.
"Honored guests of the Olan tribe,"Strigoi said loudly, "what brings you to our humble village?"
The largest Olan warrior frowned.
"Who are you? And where is your village chief?"
Strigoi swallowed, his throat dry, but he continued speaking.
"The village chief is dead. I'm now the one in charge."
The Olan tribe members burst into laughter.
"You?" The man slapped his thigh. "You Weyians never stop being entertaining."
His laughter died abruptly. His eyes sharpened, turning cold.
"Go bring the village chief and his daughter. Now. He can't escape this unless he wants to see this village razed to the ground."
For a moment, Strigoi felt his legs weaken.
The images flashed through his mind, burning huts, screaming villagers, blood soaking into the dirt.
The Olan tribe was not known for mercy. When they came, they came to take. Fear clawed at his chest.
Then something else surfaced. A memory.
Pilgrim.
The crows. The voice that spoke without sound. The god that watched from above.
Strigoi clenched his fists so tightly his nails bit into his palms. I am not alone.
He inhaled deeply, forcing the shaking out of his breath. When he exhaled, his spine straightened.
"I've already told you," Strigoi said, his voice lower now, steadier, "the village chief is dead."
The laughter stopped. The Olan warriors stared at him.
"That," Strigoi continued, meeting the large man's gaze, "is the truth."
The guards behind him trembled, but Strigoi stepped forward instead of back.
"Now," he said, each word deliberate, "you can either say what you came here for… or you can leave."
The air went still.
"I do not have the time for this."
The moment the words left his mouth,Strigoi realized what he had done.
A cold weight settled in his stomach. He knew that he had crossed the line and there was no taking it back.
No apology that could fix this. All he could do now was stand where he was—and hope.
Hope that Pilgrim was watching and would save him.
For several heartbeats, no one moved. Then the largest Olan warrior began to laugh.
It was slow at first. Low. Then it grew louder, rougher, until the other two veterans joined in.
"You hear that?" the man said, wiping a tear from his eye. "This little rat thinks he can bark at us."
He slid down from his horse and held his spear in hand.
His gaze slid toward the lean young man their young master.
The young master hadn't laughed. His expression was tense, his eyes flicking over the village, over the huts, over the tree at the back. He seemed nervous.
The large warrior noticed and snorted.
"Relax, young master," he said. "This place isn't worth your worry. I'll kill this dog and take your bride."
He turned back to Strigoi, eyes full of mockery.
"Time for you to die," he said.
Strigoi's heart skipped. Just then the young master spoke.
"Leave him alone Borik, we're leaving."
The largest man named Borik froze in his steps. He tried to complain.
"Young master I..." His young master interrupted him.
"Enough!" With that he turned his horse and began moving away. The other two men reluctantly followed behind him.
Borik turned to look at the now smiling Strigoi and whispered in his ear with a scowl.
"Three days. You better have the girl and your head ready."
He turned mounted his horse and galloped after his young master and the other two.
Soon the village was quiet once again. The people began to slowly come out of where they were hiding.
"Pilgrim scared them away!"
"I saw a crow appear behind them Pilgrim must have sent it!"
"With Pilgrim we don't have to fear anyone even in the Olan tribe."
Ishar just stared at the unfolding scene with an amused look on his face.
Humans always sought a higher will to absolve themselves of understanding.
That's why humans would often attribute their own achievements to an intervention from a higher being
While Ishar's presence was the main reason the young master left. It wasn't absolute.
The young master didn't just turn tail because of a feeling of danger he felt looking at a tree.
Strigois' words and actions played a vital role. Yet the villagers wouldn't ever consider this.
To them, the crow, real or imagined, became the cause. A symbol retroactively inserted to justify survival.
Their minds reshaped reality into a narrative where they were protected not by their own design, but spared by the will of a supreme entity.
They elevated Pilgrim because doing so spared them the terror of chance.
If a god watched over them, then life had meaning. If life had meaning, then death had order. And if there was order, then fear could be endured.
Strigoi himself stood straighter now, borrowing confidence from their misunderstanding.
He would begin to believe it too. Humans always did. Repetition turned coincidence into doctrine.
A single spared life had already begun to compound into authority. Fear redirected upward became devotion. Devotion became leverage. Leverage became control.
Ishar watched the villagers gather around Strigoi, their eyes no longer questioning why he stood there—only how closely they should stand to him.
That was how gods were truly born. Not from miracles. But from misinterpretation, fear, and timing.
Faith was not belief, It was pattern-seeking desperation. It was the humane need for a con to cling to.
Ishar call calmy reflected on this as he flew away from the village. Following after the young master that had just left.
At this point no one in the village doubted pilgrims power. Ishar was short of one big 'miracle' to turn them into fanatics. And he was about to give it to them.