I didn't sleep that night.
Not because of fear—
but because of the smell.
A blend of rotting socks and communal piss.
I sat by the fire, thinking:
Am I a hero? Have I truly become a leader?
Then I remembered threatening my men with corpse-rape…
and decided to leave philosophy to the madmen.
In the morning, I woke to the sound of a man vomiting near my tent, and another wrestling a demon in his dreams.
The strangest part?
They built me a "throne" of bones…
A half-naked teenager sat on it, screaming,
"I am Ashborn!"
I ordered him thrown into the well.
We didn't have a well—so they dug one,
then threw him in.
People had started believing in me.
No one asked about "the plan" anymore,
even when I told them to gather horse shit in leather sacks "for strategic purposes."
Then came Braids.
"There are eleven groups of bandits in the region."
"Eleven?!"
"Some are just thieves… but others?
They ate their leader. Because he fell asleep before them."
I looked at maps that seemed drawn by an angry child.
"We'll send some idiots to provoke them…
See who bites first."
The crowd cheered.
"Who's going?" someone asked.
I said:
"O mighty bones of men!
Whoever returns alive… gets a meal without sand in it!"
They laughed.
Only one man asked:
"What does diplomacy mean?"
I replied, "Seize him!"
They grabbed him. He asked,
"What did I do?!"
I tapped his face and said:
"In this camp, diplomacy means killing with fire."
Then I ordered him kept tied up.
"Don't feed him. Let him stand there watching my tent. Hungry.
And if he pisses? Dig him a new well."
The soldiers laughed.
And me?
I started suspecting I might be truly insane.
Then I remembered the bastard who once shouted,
"Let's burn Qohor!"
I had him brought.
I looked into his eyes:
"You said it, didn't you?"
He tried to deny it. I turned to my men:
"You heard him, right?"
"Yes," one said. "He sounded like a man who'd found fire to be the answer to all life's problems."
I grabbed his face and said:
"Because you said it… you'll become the Shadow Scribe.
You'll write down every idiotic word the idiots speak."
Then I shouted:
"Feed him! Give him parchment and quill!
And hang a banner on his tent: Official Chronicler of Chaos!"
Everyone laughed.
As for me—
I returned to my tent, swearing that I would turn every fool… into a tool.
But Braids' words about the Seer and the prophecy returned to me.
Was he joking?
Was the old man who died… the Seer?
After much thought—
I decided to sleep.