I walked. Just on foot, like a wandering traveler whose boots had long forgotten the taste of paved roads.

  In these lands, a human is either a myth or food. My presence here was an anomaly in itself — a spit in the face of the very nature of the East.

  The first village appeared ahead. Calling it a “fortress” would’ve been a stretch: flimsy walls made of rough stone and dried mud, barely reaching two meters high. Inside — no more than a hundred and fifty souls.

  — Boarfolk, I noted to myself.

  The air reeked of manure, stale sweat, and rot. Border “civilization” in all its glory.

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  My approach didn’t go unnoticed. Two guards — if you could call these lumps wrapped in rusted iron that — stepped into my path. Huge, around two meters tall, with pig-like bloodshot eyes and heavy axes in their paws.

  One of them let out a guttural snort — a mix of threat and confusion — and swung his axe.

  I didn’t slow my pace.

  Blue-white arcs of lightning burst from my fingers. The air instantly filled with the sharp scent of ozone. The boar didn’t even have time to scream — his body arched, convulsed violently, and he dropped to his knees, foam spilling from his mouth. The crash of his axe hitting the ground became a signal for the second.

  I raised my gaze to the remaining guard. My eyes must have been glowing with a cold, corpse-like light.

  “Take me to your chief. Or whoever commands here,” my voice was even, without a trace of childish tone.