As the warriors entered the hall, the mood shifted instantly.
The women rose first, followed by a handful of men. None questioned the change.
They simply departed in silence, their expressions tight.
Within moments, only ten men remained seated at the table including Ishar.
The servants moved swiftly, clearing away the last traces of the feast.
Platters vanished, cups were taken, and the long table was left bare. When they finished, they bowed and withdrew.
The heavy doors were pulled shut behind them with a dull, final thud.
The chief rose from his seat.
He crossed the hall and lowered himself onto the makeshift throne draped in furs.
Beside it leaned a massive, gleaming double-bladed axe, its edge catching the candlelight.
The sight alone was enough to still the room.
"You are here behind closed doors," the chief began, his voice heavy, "because I trust you. And because each of you will play a vital role in what is to come."
His gaze swept over the gathered men.
"Many of you wondered why I held a feast today. And why I chose to honor my son, Ishar—whose existence was made known to me only this morning."
He gestured to one of the warriors.
The man stepped forward without a word, unrolling a scroll and spreading it across the table.
The others rose from their seats and leaned in. It was a map. Showing the five tribal territories marked clearly.
To the east, on the forest's outskirts, lay the Weyian tribe. Some distance away stood the lands of the Olan.
To the north, enclosed by jagged mountain ranges, was the Xilan tribe. And to the west, close together, were the territories of the Traven and the Morven tribes.
The chief rested his hand on the table.
"Ishar," he said, turning slightly, "this is your plan. It is only fair that you present it."
Ishar stood up.
"Thank you for the opportunity, my lord."
He approached the table, placing his hand near the markings.
"The Olan tribe is the strongest," he began evenly.
"Without question. We have already subdued the tribe closest to us. The remaining three are wary, but confident. They know we lack the manpower to strike them all."
He paused, ensuring every eye was on him.
"I have offered a solution to this problem," he continued. "One that begins with myself."
Murmurs rippled through the room.
"Silence," the chief snapped. "Let him speak."
Ishar nodded and pointed to the western mark.
"We begin by installing a governor in the Weyian tribe. A loyal one. We schedule a yearly visit—at a time known only to the chief."
His finger moved north.
"Then we strike the Xilan tribe. Swiftly. Completely. No survivors escape, news must not reach the Western tribes. Once subdued, a governor is placed. Their customs remain unchanged. Only their allegiance shifts."
He stepped back slightly.
"With Weyian and Xilan secured, we control half the forest."
His hand traced Westward.
"The Western tribes Traven and Morven are allied by blood. We do not confront them immediately. Instead, we consolidate loyalty among the first three tribes."
"We would need to employ a spy to infiltrate one of the western tribes. Once the alliance between them has been broken, only then, can we march west."
"With the combined strength of three tribes we will easily defeat one of the tribes. The remaining tribe would have no option but up submit."
With that he returned to his seat.
The chief began clapping, slow and deliberate, a wide smile spreading across his face.
"Very good! Very very good!"
The reactions around the table were less favorable.
Some stared at Ishar as though he were a fool. Others looked irritated, their time seemingly wasted.
"Does anyone wish to speak?" the chief asked.
A hand rose.
Ishar turned and recognized him instantly, Lucien, the son of the first wife.
The chief nodded.
Lucien stood and addressed the room with a smirk.
"My fellow warriors," he said, "it is not every day that a tattoo-less boy stands before us and our great chief and speaks such nonsense."
A few chuckles followed.
"He claims he is the solution to a problem generations of chiefs couldn't solve. That he will allow us to pass information swiftly through the battlefield."
Lucien spread his hands. "So tell me—does this brother intend to run a thousand miles in a breath? Or fly?"
More laughter.
"I say we lock him up and beat him for wasting our time with these illusions of a master plan."
He sat.
The chief watched it all with visible amusement. Then he turned to Ishar, his expression expectant.
Ishar snapped his fingers.
A crow appeared at one of the windows, landing with a sharp caw. Then another.
Then a third—each at a different window, all pecking at the wood in perfect unison.
"As you can see," Ishar said calmly, "I have absolute control over these birds."
The room fell deathly silent.
"You may tie messages to their legs," Ishar continued, "and they will deliver them to their destination. I can train them to do so."
The warriors' eyes began to gleam.
This part of the world had no such system. No trained messengers. No rapid communication across distance.
Lucien scowled.
One of the veterans spoke. "How did you gain this ability?"
Ishar nodded, as if he had been waiting for that question.
"I dreamt of a strange fog entering my body. When I awoke, these birds were there. I have attempted to control others, but it only works on crows. The fog has not returned. I do not know if it can be replicated."
A lie. And everyone knew it. But it was a useful one.
Ishar had made himself indispensable—yet impossible to reproduce.
He was basically saying. I'm not telling you how I did it but I'm the only one who can. So you better protect me or you lose this advantage.
The hall remained quiet for a breath, then another.
Finally, one of the veterans spoke.
He was an old man, his hair more white than black, his arms corded with muscle hardened by decades of war.
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.
"Three crows," he said slowly, voice rough as stone. "Impressive, yes. Useful for short messages, perhaps. But for the plan you're suggesting?"
He shook his head. "Too slow. Birds tire. They must rest. They eat, they sleep, they die."
Murmurs rippled through the hall. Heads turned. All eyes including the chiefs settled on Ishar.
If he failed here, everything he had built would collapse. Ishar did not rush.
He crossed one leg over the other, settling back into his chair.
"I have already found a solution to that problem," he said calmly.
"I cannot take in more crows," Ishar continued, "but I seem to possess influence over them while they are still in the incubation stage."
Blank stares greeted him.
Seeing this, he elaborated. "If I raise the crows from the egg, I can imprint on them from the moment they hatch, then I can control them as easily as the three you have already seen."
Understanding dawned slowly.
The chief spoke next, his voice measured.
"From what you described, this… gift of yours appeared during your journey to the Weyian tribe. So tell me how is it that you already understand its limits so well?"
Once again all eyes fell on Ishar. This was no longer a strategy meeting. This was an interrogation.
Ishar felt no panic. He had anticipated this question long before his feet ever touched the Olan compound.
"I tested my theory," he replied.
The chief's eyebrow rose.
"Back in the Weyian tribe," Ishar continued, "I exploited their zeal. I portrayed myself as a god."
A ripple of surprise moved through the hall.
" I had them gather crow eggs for me," he said plainly.
At first glance, it seemed foolish, reckless, even, to reveal so much so early.
But in truth, Ishar was merely saying aloud what the chief would soon learn anyway.
A report from Weyian lands would come. It would speak of a god called Pilgrim. A god who commanded crows.
Connecting that god to the boy who controlled crows would take little effort.
By speaking first, Ishar stole the sting from the revelation.
The chief leaned back, deep in thought. Seeing the opening, Ishar pressed on.
"As such," he said evenly, "I should be sent to the Weyian tribe as governor. While I stabilize them, a nesting ground should be cultivated here in Olan territory. In a few months, once enough birds are raised, we can commence the plan."
He leaned back into his chair. He was finished.
A sharp slap struck the table.
Lucien rose to his feet, fury written across his face. " I object, Father! We cannot trust a word from this con man. I suggest—"
"Silence!"
The chief's baritone voice crashed through the hall.
"You will address me as Chief, like everyone else," he said coldly. "Sit down. And shut your mouth. No one here needs your suggestions."
Lucien sank back into his seat, face burning red under the eyes of the gathered elite.
After a time, the chief rose.
"You are dismissed," he said. "All of you."
Chairs scraped. Footsteps echoed. The hall slowly emptied. Only Ishar remained.
Lucien tried to speak again, but a single glance from the chief made him retreat.
The doors closed.
Now only the two of them sat across from each other, the long table between them.
Candlelight flickering and casting distorted shadows on the stone walls.
"You must forgive my son," the chief began, his tone almost mild. "He means well. He is simply… eager."
He stood and walked slowly around the table.
"Eager to prove himself to me," he continued. "I do not like eager people. But what can I do? He is my son."
He paused. Then smiled. "Just like you, right?"
Unease stirred in Ishar's chest, but he returned the smile.
"I dislike eager people as well," Ishar said. "They rush toward recognition without understanding the weight that comes with it. Ambition without patience is merely a faster way to ruin."
The chief nodded softly. "Well said."
By now, he was standing behind Ishar.
Without warning, he spun the chair around and bent low, bringing his face level with Ishar's.
The smile was gone.
"I have no idea who or what you are," the chief said quietly. "But one thing you are not… is my son."
Ishar did not flinch. "How did you know?"he asked calmly.
The chief straightened, "I have no sons like you. They are all trash."
Ishar chuckled. "At least we agree on something."
The chief turned and walked back to his throne.
"You will be governor of the Weyian tribe," he said. "Leave tonight. Take a horse. Instruct the men outside on gathering eggs."
Ishar rose and inclined his head. As he turned to leave, the chief spoke again.
"All I ask is your loyalty," he said. "Perhaps when I die, you may take my throne. But until then, know your place. If you ever think of betraying me, I will have your head on my dining table before you finish thinking it."
Ishar smiled faintly and continued toward the doors.
"Oh," the chief added. "Visit your mother before you leave."
The doors slammed shut.