It won’t be the chasm for them. No, they deserved a more violent end.

The two rulers had set up a fire large enough for a squad. Those were the kind of perks you get when you’re a lord. No more wet blankets under the tree for you. Now you get everything to yourself. Those two had waited a lifetime for the chance to rule, even if it was for a day. Lesh wouldn’t give them more than that.

The moist in the air made everything soft and silent. No leaves could crunch to warn them. The branches turned to dust under his steps unwilling to help them. Lesh was headed to the fire like a ship aiming for the lighthouse.

“You like it? That boy Toslav had some herbs I rubbed the meat in with them.” - the thin one asked.

“It’s fine. A little bit dry.” - the burly soldier replied.

“What do you mean dry? Since when did your pellet become so picky?”

Oh how quickly does man consider himself a god, Lesh thought. But with the pleasures of a lord come his fears. And all of them feared the same thing. The mayor of a hundred men and the emperor dreaded the same thing - losing their throne. One was made of wood, the other of solid gold but they were both thrones nonetheless. Lesh saw two rulers that shared one, but the bad thing about these chairs is that they always have room for no more than one.

To destroy a man, to completely annihilate him, you need to know him. And Lesh learned how to fill in the gaps in his victims’ lifes just by observing them. The big soldier’s cheecks flopped like that of a hound. His family was probably bakers or merchants to feed him this well. No, a merchant’s son wouldn’t be fighting, he’d be selling swords. So most probably bakers. The other guy, the frail one, looked ready to get blown away by the wind. But they were really hard to kill the skinny ones. They never break, only bend.

They were in complete contrast of one another but evil grew in all men’s hearts. Not a piece of armor on them. After all, that’s for soldiers, not rulers. Only a sword was leaning on the trunk the big man sat on.

Men get used to power so quickly. It’s been no more than a day since the mutiny and they already imagined living the life of a boyar. They had enough food for a small town, but more importantly, they had gold and weapons - the Bozmaroff boy hadn’t traveled with an empty purse and they had enough steel for a whole battalion.

But inherited power, inherited riches - they are so easily lost. You think there’s plenty more where they came from. So you eat the food in people’s pockets, drink the ale in their cups, spend your lord’s gold on women in the closest village and sell the arms to keep the cycle going. Most rulers with inherited power were lucky if they had enough for their lifetime. If they were even luckier there would be enough for their children as well.

But these two fools would not rule beyond this night.

No army would pass through this part of the forest. No messenger or merchant came here anymore. Their little camp won’t be conquered, it would rot. A smart man would have gathered everything of value he could carry and leave that place. Perhaps they were smart too, but a cruel heart can make anyone act foolishly.

Lesh thought about the immense pleasure of watching them fall apart for weeks. For a moment he thought about stealing their food and supplies and watching them kill each other over the last drops of ale. But he was impatient. Why wait for weeks when they are already a pile of hale waiting to be set ablaze.

It was getting hard for Lesh to do these things. Age wasn’t taking away just his hearing and sight. When he was young he could throw a whole battalion in disarray at a whim. Make them tear their eyes out or bury their heads in the ground. Now he hardly had the power to make a man hallucinate. He had to chase them, tostudy them, to be selective.

But ever since his powers started fading he became a master at using them. Gone were the days where he could make someone go insane by just being in his presence. He had to touch gently and pick a man’s deepest fears. Like a bard, he had to press the string that made the best sound. The one that sang the right tune to a man’s heart and vibrated in his mind. He couldn’t drum them all like a child. Yes, he dove into a man’s mind, listened to the melody and knew exactly when to join in to alter the song a man is singing to himself.

He only had to listen and wait, wait for the right moment to play the song with them.