The cabin of the late chieftain smelled of smoke, leather, and dried blood. Heavy furs draped the walls, trophies of beasts long slain hung above the hearth, and the carved desk at the center was scarred with years of use. For the first time, the four of them—Oisla, Gable, Xinon, and Jim-Yok—sat within its shadow.
The fire in the corner crackled low, throwing long shadows across their faces. Outside, the muffled sounds of the tribe lingered: footsteps, hushed whispers, the occasional wail of mourning that cut through the night air like a blade. The people were shaken, confused, angry—and yet none dared enter.
Jim-Yok leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, his usual grin absent. "I'll say it," he muttered. "That was madness, Oisla. Pure madness. Do you even realize what you've done?"
Xinon shot him a glare. "Shut your mouth. He carried the weight none of us could. Don't speak like you understand."
"Understand?" Jim-Yok's voice rose. "I understand fine! We walked in here with nothing but fire and barrels, and somehow we walked out with their chief's head on the floor and Oisla crowned leader by their gods. You think they'll just bow and smile tomorrow morning?"
Gable shifted uneasily, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his chair. His eyes, still red from tears shed earlier, flicked to Oisla. "He's right, in a way. Fear may hold them tonight, but fear burns out quickly. When the shock fades, they'll look at you not as a savior but as the boy who killed their chief."
The room fell quiet, the fire popping softly.
Oisla sat at the desk, the chief's heavy cloak draped across his shoulders. It still smelled of salt and pine resin, carrying Ragan's presence like a ghost. He did not raise his head at once; instead, he ran his fingers over the grain of the wood, tracing the grooves, as if searching for answers there.
Finally, he spoke. His voice was calm, steady, though beneath it lay the weight of exhaustion. "That is why I chose them."
The three looked at him, confused.
Oisla raised his eyes. The firelight caught the sharp lines of his face, hardening the boyishness into something older, colder. "The Uliro are stubborn. They worship tradition above all else. They obey law, not the man who speaks it. Their faith is their chain. That ritual was the lock. And I… I broke it open."
Xinon leaned forward, curious. "You mean to say… they'll obey not you, but the symbol you carry now."
"Exactly." Oisla nodded. "The blood vanished. To them, that was no trick. That was their god's will. They may despise me, but they cannot despise what they believe is divine. Not openly. Not without tearing their world apart."
Jim-Yok scoffed, though softer this time. "So we're gambling on their superstition."
"We're using it," Oisla corrected sharply. "Fear won't last. But belief—it festers deeper. It binds longer. And until we are strong enough to stand on our own, their faith will be the mortar that holds this fragile wall upright."
The words settled heavily in the room. Gable rubbed his face, sighing. Xinon nodded slowly, respect glinting in his eyes. Jim-Yok, though still skeptical, no longer argued.
But Oisla wasn't finished. He leaned back, the cloak rustling like dead leaves, and his gaze turned inward. "Yet even faith is not enough. A man can obey a god while plotting against the priest. They kneel now, yes—but every night they whisper curses under their breath. Every child will grow up hating me, remembering the night their chief's head rolled."
His hand tightened into a fist on the table. "Fear, faith… they are only shadows. What I need is something else."
The fire flickered, throwing light across his face, half-shadowed, half-illuminated. His voice lowered, almost as if speaking to himself. "What I need is their hearts."
The words hung there, heavy, aching with truth.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the fire, crackling softly as if mocking the silence.
Finally, Gable leaned forward, his voice gentle. "And how do you plan to take them, Oisla? Hearts aren't seized like land. They're given… or they're not."
Oisla's eyes flicked to his friend, old memories flashing between them—two boys running barefoot across fields, hiding under Maka's cloak when storms came, laughing as they stole bread cooling on a windowsill. Memories of trust freely given, never forced.
His lips curved into a grim smile. "That is the question that keeps me awake tonight."
---
The discussion grew heavier as the night stretched on.
Xinon suggested strengthening their military grip, ensuring loyalty through discipline. Jim-Yok argued for rewards—meat, drink, women, whatever bribery would buy time. Gable spoke of patience, of walking among the people, showing them that Oisla was not just a stranger with an axe but someone who understood their pain.
Oisla listened to all of it, silent, weighing, dissecting. He did not dismiss, nor did he commit. His mind worked like a blade, sharp and restless.
At one point, Jim-Yok, weary of the weight of the conversation, tried to lighten it. He smirked, leaning close to Xinon. "So, mighty swordsman, when the villagers finally rise against us, will you protect us with your legendary charm? Maybe flex until they swoon?"
Xinon's jaw tightened, his glare dark. "Careful, fool."
Jim-Yok only grinned wider. "What? I've seen the way the girls looked at you by the river. If fear doesn't win us loyalty, maybe you should."
Even Gable chuckled faintly, the first true laugh in hours. Xinon, scowling, shoved Jim-Yok's shoulder, nearly knocking him over. The tension broke just enough for them to breathe, though the shadow of the day's events still lingered.
But as the laughter faded, the silence returned heavier than before.
Oisla sat back, staring into the fire. His companions were still boys at heart, teasing, arguing, hoping. But he felt far older tonight. Older than his years, older than the blood still drying on his hands.
He thought of Ragan's last command: Do not falter. He thought of his father's sacrifice, the farm lost, Maka's death, the endless chain of losses that had brought him here. Each one a stone in the foundation of the man he was becoming.
He whispered, so softly the others barely heard: "Conquering the world is easy. Conquering men's hearts… that is war itself."
The fire hissed, as though in agreement.
---
Outside, the tribe did not sleep. They gathered in silent groups, whispering, their faces pale in the moonlight. Some prayed before the statue. Some sharpened their blades. Some simply stared at the cabin that now housed their enemy-turned-leader, their eyes burning with questions too dangerous to speak aloud.
Inside, the four companions finally drifted to uneasy rest, though Oisla sat long into the night, cloak heavy on his shoulders, the chief's cabin pressing down on him like a tomb.
He had won their submission. He had taken their fear. He had bound their faith. But he knew—deep in the marrow of his bones—that none of it would last without something greater.
How does a boy win the love of those who would rather see him dead?
It was the question that haunted him as dawn crept into the sky, and for the first time since the axe had fallen, Oisla felt a weight heavier than any blade he had ever lifted.
The true battle had only just begun.