Chapter 14
More years of harvest and travel passed. The spirit of Ruki came to Saer off and on throughout, but hadn’t reappeared for at least a decade, giving up after its pleas fell on deaf ears. What’s more, Saer insisted—both to Ruki and himself—he didn’t know what to do about the soul’s plight.
‘Why won’t you give me to them?’
Passing the spirit to his kin would ensure its delivery to Lucifer. Or, he could take it back himself.
Even as he struggled to admit it to himself, he couldn’t bear the thought of the boy’s soul suffering in Lucifer’s Hells until it was fit for consumption, and so he opted for a third option—allowing Ruki’s lonely, wandering, and infinite existence to continue while trying to scrub his mind of the discomfort that idea brought.
Discomfort was, obviously, a human emotion.
Saer’s tongue sharpened and his temper somehow shortened over the years. Without Neyu, he embraced the cruelest and most efficient version of himself. It worked well for harvests—and kept his agitated and overworked mind distracted.
At Alus and Arek’s suggestion, Saer meandered southward to infiltrate desert colonies. The adaptability of humanity knew no bounds. At times, he even found himself admiring their ingenuity.
The oasis he targeted next stood home to a small settlement around an azure lake.
The water shined, dotted with modest boats carrying early-morning fishermen.
Saer chose a hut some distance away from the busiest sector—the communal stores—where fish were hung to dry along the edges of rooftops and gathered fruit sat in large baskets.
From his front door, he could view the lake and a line of other homes.
The village drew him the moment he learned the reason for its origins.
Humans found solace within its borders to escape persecution for not adhering to societal norms. Societal norms that, more often than not, fell back on religious practices.
Dissension had broken out between those who believed in a singular god, versus humans who worshiped multiple.
This village leaned towards multiple.
Of course, Saer mused with some wryness, none of them knew for certain. A perfect target.
A month had nearly passed without the arrival of another Daemoenic, and the longer they took, the further Saer solidified his plan. He’d harvest the whole village.
Alone.
By the time one of his kin showed up, he’d pass the souls on and dismiss them to resume his Daemoenic duty in solitude. If he could accomplish such a monumental task by himself, had he ever really needed anyone else?
Over a handful of weeks, Saer manipulated himself to the head of the council with strategic pushes and pulls on his sin. The appointment afforded him the power to oversee a weekly meeting, hearing grievances from the settlers and offering judgment or solutions as befitted the situation.
A platform at the center of the village hosted the gathering with chairs lined the stage and a long table in front. Saer sat in the centermost seat while the other council members flanked him. Villagers took their turns standing and speaking from the ground level.
The audience began as sparse and disinterested.
On his first day as head councilman, a married couple was hurried forward by a sobbing friend, victims of heat sickness.
Seizing the opportunity, Saer leapt from the platform and went to the ailing duo.
He laid hands on their foreheads and absorbed their excess warmth, pulling them from the edge of delirium and death.
When they gazed upon him with wonder and gratitude, he’d offered a conspiratorial murmur, “Dedicate yourself to me, and I’ll teach you how to ascend beyond life and death, again and again. Follow me, and you’ll become as gods—like me.”
He spoke just loud enough for those nearest to hear. Where a spark of pride existed in each human heart, he tugged.
Of course they could become gods. Why should they disbelieve him when he’d just worked a miracle in front of their eyes?
Whispers spread, just as he planned.
The next council meeting doubled in size.
One elderly villager stood at the end of the hearings, wringing her feeble hands with eyes downcast. Saer allowed the display long enough for the audience to grow restless before raising his voice, “What is it you wish to say?”
The crone’s throat bobbed with her swallow. She lifted her focus to Saer. “Last meeting, you said…when you healed that couple, you…”
Holding back his smirk, Saer sought the tiniest thread of pride in the old woman’s body and plucked it.
Her eyes dilated and she lifted her chin. “You said they could become gods.”
Saer paused as though caught off guard. “I did.”
He stoked that burning coal of pride, allowed the first tongue of flame to catch in the old woman’s heart. She ceased fidgeting, balled hands set at her sides. “Is it true?”
It’s not. “It is.” Another draw on the crone’s pride, and Saer spread that tug to the audience at large. As a whole, they sat straighter.
All but one.
Saer would have missed him had the rest of the humans not fallen so willingly to his thrall. Yet, because of the absence of reaction, the man at the center of the seated attendees caught his attention.
He wore a light hood to cover the majority of his face—not unusual in the heat of the desert. A clean-shaven and dimpled chin with a strong jawline and lips pulled straight with distaste declared his quiet stoicism. Saer gleaned little else.
His attention snagged on the man long enough for a spark of irritation to light in his chest, then jutted back to the crone. “Do you wish to become a god yourself?”
He yanked on her pride.
The old woman drew her shoulders back. “I do.”
The hooded man’s head canted a fraction to the side.
Saer ignored him.
“I offer you the same as anyone in this village. Declare yourself to me, and I’ll see it come to fruition.
” Embracing the opening, Saer lifted his voice and collectively wrenched on all their pride.
“The more who dedicate, the greater the chances of success. Tell your loved ones before our next gathering.”
A clamoring of voices rose in agreement.
The hooded man stood amidst the commotion and left, dragging Saer’s sense of accomplishment at his dusty heels.
The interaction—or lack thereof—needled at him the rest of the week. Saer sought out the hooded man, but never located him. In fact, no one seemed to recall anyone else having been there on that day.
Perhaps Saer made him up.
The next council meeting came to order, this one attended by almost the entire settlement. All held at least a sliver of warm, delectable pride in their hearts.
This would be his day; Saer would collect dedications. He’d prepare this feast for Lucifer, larger than any previously retrieved by any Daemoenic. He’d prove himself as best, first, and favored.
A man came forward, bound at the wrists and flanked by soldiers. Sweltering pride poured from him in waves as the pair of guards presented him to Saer, listing his crimes.
“Theft of our fish and fruit stores. When confronted, he attacked with a knife. One of our own was stabbed in the leg and stomach before we subdued this one.”
Saer listened with steepled fingers, his gaze severe while he analyzed the man. “Do you regret what you’ve done?”
The criminal curled his lip, and Saer took that instant to sink his metaphysical hooks into the man’s pride. Fingers flexing, he jerked the sin into himself, devoured it, draining it from the criminal with such swiftness that his face paled, tears springing to his eyes, mouth trembling.
Worthlessness and shame.
Saer let the thief wallow in it. His voice dipped lower, a dangerous invitation. “Something to say?”
The quietest whimper left the criminal’s throat, and the guards exchanged perplexed glances.
“You won’t steal again, will you?”
The thief sniffled, his breath shuddering. He couldn’t form words, but shook his head in a movement so swift that his lower lip made a wet, flopping noise.
A quiet hum of satisfaction lifted from Saer’s throat, and he cast his gaze upon the guards, who exchanged shocked but impressed glances.
“Where is your colleague who was stabbed?”
One soldier cleared his throat. “The healer sees to him.”
Running his tongue over his teeth, Saer calculated the various outcomes before lifting his voice. “Take this thief to one of the cages. Bring the injured one here.”
No questions asked, the soldiers left to do as they were bade. The criminal dragged his feet, mewling apologies to no one in particular.
This was power. They’d all fall in line. Saer would—
From the center of the audience, the hooded man stood and stepped forward, jerking Saer out of his reverie. The same man who bore no reaction to Saer’s pull upon pride a week prior.
“You!” Saer shouted, just keeping his growl at bay. Other humans quailed under the focus of Lucifer’s First.
The man halted, but not as though the attention bothered or alarmed him. He came to a slow stop, calm and infuriatingly collected.
An edge of the man’s lip quirked—not exactly a smile. Yet, he didn’t lift his head to show Saer his eyes.
“Me?”
His voice carried the tranquility of an easy summer afternoon, the patter of rain outside a cozy cottage, a crackling fireplace in a peaceful den.
Even worse, members of the crowd responded to it like moths drawn to a flame. One by one, they turned their attention to the hooded man as though seeing him for the first time.
Saer stood. “Who are you? Name yourself.”
This time, that subtle curve of his mouth did turn into a smile, albeit a sad one. “I’m Ahraan, Cousin.”
“Cousin,” Saer repeated the word with all the derision the man’s presence evoked. “We aren’t family.”
Ahraan lifted and lowered his head in a soft nod, still not granting Saer a glimpse of the rest of his face beyond a straight nose and shaded but sun-kissed skin. “I’d like to see to the wounded when they arrive, please.”