Among the deities of the Mesopotamian plains, few could rival the notoriety of Ishtar. Goddess of beauty, harvest, and war, she stood as the youngest of the great gods and the most beloved by mortals. Yet, precisely because of her exalted domains, she was also the most willful. Reckless, unpredictable, and at times unbearable, she was considered the greatest source of trouble among the many divine beings.
Especially for Gilgamesh.
The King of Uruk held nothing but disdain for the gods, but when it came to that particular goddess, he could scarcely tolerate even hearing her name.
The reason was simple. Ishtar, goddess of beauty, had once feigned desire for him. A being who adored beautiful things naturally found the King's form appealing. Yet Gilgamesh was no fool—he knew the ways of the gods, their cruelty, their pettiness, their endless games. To Ishtar, "affection" was not the warmth of human love, but the idle amusement of a goddess treating mortals as toys.
Back in the days when gods still descended in their Main bodies, Gilgamesh had already suffered greatly under her whims. And now, to hear that she might once again intrude upon his world—his expression darkened.
It was rare for the proud King to reveal such displeasure.
At his side, the palace adjutant lowered her eyes, clay tablets of reports clasped tightly in her hands. She dared not interrupt the silence. Only when Gilgamesh's low voice rumbled did she raise her head slightly.
"That woman… No. The Age of Gods is in decline. Those decrepit, arrogant beings can no longer descend in their true forms."
His crimson eyes narrowed like a serpent ready to strike, glinting with dangerous clarity. The adjutant knew this look. The King had invoked his highest-grade Clairvoyance. While not unheard of among magi, in Gilgamesh's hands it surpassed mortal limits, a mystic sight capable of peeling back the veils of time itself.
With it, he gazed into the threads of the future, prying open the secrets of the present.
"…So, it is Divine Spirit Possession." His eyes dimmed as the vision faded, and comprehension flickered across his features.
Indeed. Divine Spirits could no longer manifest in their Main bodies. Yet, as beings whose essence far transcended the modern world, they retained countless methods to tamper with reality. One such method: the descent of consciousness, taking a human vessel as their host.
Gilgamesh scoffed and looked down at his adjutant. "Hmph. Pathetic. Worms groveling in filth still dare to raise their heads against this King, who blazes like the sun at the zenith of the sky."
"Siduri." He waved his hand dismissively as he rose from his throne.
"I am here, King," the adjutant replied, bowing with practiced grace.
"The Babylon Treasure Vault is nearing completion, yes? This King will inspect it personally." His tone hardened, a chill seeping into his words. "If that woman arrives, stop her. Do not allow her to disturb this King."
"Yes, my King." Siduri's voice was calm, yet resolute.
Gilgamesh disliked the gods, and Ishtar most of all. He knew her nature well—should she descend, she would inevitably come seeking him. Their meeting would spiral into conflict, and in her possessed state, she might not withstand him. He could not promise that he would restrain himself from killing her outright.
And yet… he had not yet reached the point of hating the gods. For all his arrogance, Gilgamesh was still a King. A King weighed consequences, even when his pride demanded blood.
"I will not make matters difficult for you," Siduri assured him, ever steadfast in her duty.
"Good." Gilgamesh's lips curled into the faintest of smiles. He turned, striding deeper into the palace. But mid-step, he paused, as though recalling an afterthought, and spoke with an amused lilt.
"Oh, by the way—this King has arranged an interesting colleague for you. He should arrive soon. You and that fellow will get along splendidly."
He chuckled, his voice swelling into mocking laughter. "It will at least add some small diversion to your dull and tiresome life! Hmph, hahahaha!"
His wild laughter echoed against the vaulted halls as his figure receded into shadow.
Siduri remained still, the clay tablets held gently in her arms. For a moment, her lips curved into the faintest smile.
The adjutant's assurance had barely left her lips when a guard's voice rang from the palace gate: "Priest Rowe—His Majesty commands that you may enter without announcement."
A young voice answered respectfully at the threshold. Rowe had arrived almost at the instant the King mentioned him. The adjutant lifted her head; the doorway framed a single figure stepping into the bright expanse of the throne hall.
He was younger than many had expected—slender, dark-haired, dark-eyed, his priestly linen robe falling about him with an unassuming grace. To the priests back at the Pantheon, his haste had seemed noble; they had taken it as proof of his devotion, convinced that he had spoken to steer Gilgamesh toward wisdom. They did not know the truth: Rowe had come looking for death.
He crossed the hall without ceremony, still wearing the temple robe he'd carved his tablet in. The palace's interior seemed to swallow sound—columns rose like pillars of the world, sunlight poured in from high windows, and smooth, mirror-like stone reflected everything with dazzling clarity. This hall was Gilgamesh's own design: not an accretion of generations but the monarch's personal proclamation in marble and light. It spoke of an authority that would not be tempered by precedent or piety.
Is the design meant to say: royal power need not bow to the divine? Rowe thought, then looked up to meet the figure on the throne steps.
"Priest Rowe—no, from this day, Adjutant Rowe," Siduri announced, her voice clear and businesslike. The title still felt odd in Rowe's ears. Adjutant. Close to the King. A step deeper into the tiger's lair.
"Adjutant Siduri," he replied with a bow. Politeness was practical; angering people who could end his life cheaply was not. He kept his tone pleasant—he had to play the part now that the city and gods had decided upon it.
"Where is the King?" Rowe asked, moving onto the raised dais to glance at the empty throne. The place looked vast without a body occupying it—an altar to sovereignty in waiting.
"His Majesty was called away for urgent matters," Siduri answered, brow furrowing slightly. "But before he left, he set a task for us both."
"A task?" Rowe felt the old reflex tighten in his chest. Any royal command could be a rope around his neck. "Is it grave? Shall I fail and be struck down?"
Siduri misunderstood his tension and smiled, trying to reassure him. "Do not worry. It's nothing important—merely routine. A little courtesy and we are done." She tapped one of her clay tablets lightly, then added, "And besides, that goddess will not trouble plain mortals much—her target is greater things."
The word goddess landed like a bell. Rowe's attention snapped. He'd been stalking death at Gilgamesh's feet, but now another door opened.
Before he could press the question, a trumpet-like shout split the hall from the outer steps. "Gilgamesh! Come quickly—welcome the radiant Mistress of Heaven, Ishtar!"
Siduri's face tightened. "I did not expect her to arrive so soon…" she murmured.
Rowe's heart leapt. He had read of Ishtar—how could he not? Even through the skin of his borrowed life he felt the old cultural memory: beauty and war braided together, impetuousness and sovereignty. As a priest he knew her rituals; as a transmigrator he knew the stories—Ishtar sought what she wanted with unstoppable appetite, and she toyed with mortals for sport.
She had once pursued Gilgamesh and then found mockery when he rejected her advances until the episode of the Bull of Heaven—memories that in this world persisted as myths and curses. If she descended again, conflict would follow. Collision. Risk. Blood.
This was the kind of hazard Rowe wanted: raw, public, and impossible to control.
Siduri lowered her voice. "If the goddess descends in a possessed vessel, she may try to reach the King directly. We must ensure she does not interrupt state matters—or harm him."
Rowe's expression cooled into a mask of composed duty. "Understood. If she comes, we will prevent her from disturbing His Majesty."
Siduri's eyes studied him a beat longer, perhaps weighing this new adjutant—his youth, the calmness he wore like a skin. Then she inclined her head. "Good. You will accompany me to the courtyard. The city will be assembled to greet the goddess. Your presence at the King's side will be…helpful."
Helpfulness, Rowe thought wryly, often translated to peril. Nevertheless, it was an opening. Up close to the King, up close to whatever divine storm Ishtar might bring—this was exactly the place a man bent on a spectacular, unignorable end would seek to be.
He allowed himself a small, inward smile. If he had failed to die in the Pantheon, fate had at least given him another target.
"Then let us make haste," Rowe said, voice steady. "If this goddess has come for blood or mischief, she will find no easy prey among the living. And if opportunity calls—" he let the rest hang like a blade.
Siduri's lips twitched faintly, perhaps at his odd phrasing, perhaps at the hint of steel beneath his calm. She led the way toward the palace courtyard, clay tablets clutched to her chest, while Rowe followed with all the outward composure of a man going to serve his king.
Inside, his thoughts ran fast. If Ishtar had indeed descended, this arrival might present the public, dramatic confrontation he had been trying to manufacture all along. He would be at Gilgamesh's side when the goddess struck—or when she loved, or raved, or raged. Any outcome might provide the unnatural, irreversible finish he needed to move from mortal footnote to something the Throne would notice.
He squared his shoulders and walked on.