After a few rounds of drinks, Daemon and Uncle Joshek were feeling it. They began reminiscing about old times back home. Daemon could tell Joshek was thinking of his two sons, his words were filled with advice and lessons on how to behave and carry oneself. Daemon was deeply moved by this kind of affection and kept toasting him respectfully.
Daemon also remembered Joshek's two sons. When he first enlisted, the elder son had taken over Joshek's blacksmith shop, and the younger was still an apprentice helping out. But it was this apprentice who had made Daemon's very first weapon, a small dagger.
The dagger didn't even have a wooden hilt. The end of the blade was simply wrapped in rough linen to serve as a grip. Small and thin, Daemon kept it hidden in his boot. It carried a story.
When he enlisted at 14, Daemon brought nothing but that dagger. A teenage boy with a palm-sized blade trying to join the army quickly became the butt of jokes in the Minetown training camp. Without family connections, Daemon wasn't even eligible to enlist. But he was a famiLysarar face in the town, and Joshek, then a squad leader, recognized him. He'd seen young Daemon around back when he was a blacksmith. The whole town, including its surrounding villages, only had around a thousand people. Everyone knew everyone.
And Joshek instantly recognized the dagger. It was made by his younger son.
When Daemon sneaked out to enlist, his parents didn't know, only his sister did. That hot summer night, Daemon got up quietly, packed his linen clothes, put on straw sandals, and slipped out of their thatched hut. Maybe it was because his sister understood him too well, or maybe because clumsy Daemon woke her. Just as he left, his sister Lysara caught up to him in the dark.
She knew why her stubborn little brother was sneaking away, to earn money for the family by joining the army. With drought ravaging the land, he didn't want them to starve. He wanted to stop her from being sold to a merchant. Their parents were against him enlisting, so he had to leave secretly. Once the army accepted him, he couldn't quit, unless he deserted, which he'd never do. His family was still back home.
So even if their parents found out later, they'd have no choice but to accept it. Enlisting meant military pay, and with their father too old and sick to serve, Daemon was the only one eligible. To keep the family alive, he was willing to risk his life.
Seeing her defiant little brother, Lysara broke down crying. Her tears soaked her pale, malnourished face. Daemon, full of fire and determination at 14, could endure anything, except seeing his sister cry. He loved her more than he loved himself.
Through clumsy comfort and awkward words, he eventually calmed her down. Her tear-streaked face made her look even softer, more delicate. She looked at him, dug through her clothes, and pulled out all the money she had, twenty-something Copper Pennies. She stared into his eyes and said, "Come back alive."
With her 20 coins in hand, Daemon walked all night and arrived at Minetown at dawn. He used the money to try and buy a weapon at the blacksmith's shop. But the owner, Joshek's older son, told him it wasn't even enough to buy a sword hilt. Just as Daemon was leaving disappointed, a kid about his age ran out of the shop. Maybe out of pity, maybe looking to make a few extra coins, the boy offered, "For 20 Copper Pennies, I'll make you a dagger out of leftover ore used for farm tools. Deal?" He pointed to a few unimpressive stones outside.
Daemon looked at the small, yellowish-brown and red rocks, smaller than his fist. After a long pause, he had no choice but to agree. He knew nothing about the army but figured he'd need something to avoid being cannon fodder.
And so Daemon got his first weapon, a dagger with no sheath or handle. Just the blade, wrapped in linen. Barely bigger than his palm. At the bare minimum age, he enlisted.
The next day, his parents rushed into town with his sister. They saw him training with the recruits and, teary-eyed, could only sigh and accept it. That's the sorrow of the poor: in the face of disaster, individual will means little. They were just commoners. They left him three chestnut cakes, Daemon knew they'd used up the last of the family's grain to make them. They'd probably be eating tree bark for the next half-year.
Lysara handed him the linen wrap from her hair and said again, "Come back alive." That evening, she helped their visibly aged parents walk back toward Maple Leaf Village. Daemon held that linen close, still carrying the scent of his sister's hair, and wrapped it carefully around the dagger's grip. He wanted it to fight beside him, with her love as its handle.
As he watched his family disappear into the distance, Daemon swore he'd survive. He began two months of intense military training. On the training grounds, he gave it his all. His age was a disadvantage but also a strength, he recovered faster than grown men.
That's when he saw Hugo, his childhood neighbor, had enlisted too, though Hugo joined simply to fill his belly.
After training, they were sent to the front.
The dagger became a symbol of Daemon's early days, fragile but sharp, young yet full of potential. It was his first real weapon. When the cheap iron sword issued by the army broke in his first battle, he used the dagger to kill his first enemy, a Northwild servant soldier about his age, maybe 14 or 15.
Daemon vomited for a whole day afterward.
But from that battle, he scavenged a low-quality spear and a pair of short boots.
Through battle after battle, his weapons broke and were replaced, again and again. But the dagger never failed. Maybe he took good care of it. Maybe Joshek's younger son was just that skilled. The dagger grew with him. The linen on the grip had long since turned red from blood, his and others'. Daemon often took it out to examine, and in the frayed wrap, he swore he could still smell his sister's hair.
The ale reminded Joshek of his sons, and it reminded Daemon of the dagger's origin, of his sister, and of his parents. They kept drinking, downing the second bottle as well. The ale at the Green Palm Tavern wasn't anything special, but it had a slow burn. It wouldn't get them drunk, but it was enough to loosen their hearts and stir up emotions.
After finishing their last glass, Uncle Joshek suggested they head back, it was nearly dinnertime. The Green Palm Tavern didn't serve food, and they had to return to the camp. Joshek had to dine with the Baron and the officers in the command tent, and Daemon had evening patrol duty.
"Let's go, Uncle," Daemon said, getting up and handing him his civilian coat.
As they left the room, the mood was still heavy with homesickness. But Joshek, the old fox, bounced back quickly and cracked a half-joke to lighten the mood: "You're 18 already, right? Don't tell me you're still a virgin. That tavern lady's not bad, you know…" He winked at Daemon.
"Oh come on, Uncle," Daemon laughed. "You think she'd even look at me? Her husband's got connections, he can talk to the Baron!"
Joshek scoffed. "Please. He's just a schemer. A clown. You think the Baron actually respects that guy?" Clearly, Joshek had a more nuanced understanding of the tavern owner, and probably wasn't the only one with that opinion.
Poor guy, Daemon thought, imagining the tavern owner he'd never actually met. It seemed the higher-ups didn't really see the man as anything more than convenient.
Then Daemon's thoughts drifted to the tavern's mature, alluring owner. Maybe it was the alcohol, but his blood suddenly ran a little warmer.
Daemon wasn't exactly a virgin. In his second year of service, after surviving a particularly brutal battle and being promoted to third-class soldier, he'd scraped together some savings. At the urging of his comrades, he'd visited one of the women at the supply depot and had his first time. Still, he had a thing for mature older women, though he'd never admit that out loud.
Daemon followed Uncle Joshek down the stairs. As they rounded the landing, Daemon once again saw the alluring tavern mistress behind the front counter. She was leaning over the bar, deep in calculations, and from Daemon's angle, he got a perfect view of the smooth, fair skin of her chest. The sight, combined with her focused, intellectual look, completely mesmerized Daemon, he nearly missed a step and tumbled down.
It was nearly dusk now. The sunset stained the sky red, and the tavern's doorway glowed orange from the evening light. Most of the rowdy soldiers had already left. Besides Daemon's squad, still waiting in the corner, only a few scattered patrons remained. After descending, Joshek gave a casual wave to the remaining soldiers.
"Alright, boys. It's almost dinnertime, I'm heading back to camp. Don't overdo it!" he called.
The soldiers respectfully acknowledged him, and only after that did Joshek turn, give Daemon a nod, and take his leave.
Once Uncle Joshek was gone, Daemon turned back to check on his squad. These guys were all his age or younger, and most of them couldn't handle their liquor nearly as well. Aside from Hugo and Karlon, who were still lively, the rest, Yard, Philip, and the others, were visibly drunk, faces flushed, muttering incoherently with their heads on the table.
Each had only about two or three empty mugs in front of them, roughly the same as what Daemon and Joshek had shared in one bottle upstairs. But their drinks were lower quality, just standard chilled ale. Other than the first round Daemon paid for, the rest had clearly come from their own pockets.
"You guys really trying to get me in trouble? You can't even handle your liquor and still drink this much?" Daemon scolded with a smile, eyeing the mess of limbs and slurred speech in the tavern corner.
Usually, they only had one drink when they came here on their own, two if they were feeling rich. But since Daemon had been upstairs longer than expected talking with Joshek, they'd gotten impatient and splurged on one or two more rounds themselves. It pushed them past their limit.
With the booze flowing and their loyal squad leader nearby, the men were especially bold. They paid no mind to his scolding. Karlon and Hugo even tried to pull Daemon into a seat.
"Captain! You're the one treating us today and haven't had a drink with us yet. Come on, just two more!" Karlon said with a grin.
"Enough! Look at these guys, think they can handle more? You want us to miss dinner back at camp?" Daemon waved them off. "That one's on me, shouldn't have kept you waiting. I'll make it up to you with a proper round next time."
That was enough. His men knew how to read the room. Most of them pushed themselves upright. Karlon and Hugo helped the more far-gone ones to their feet. As they got ready to leave, Daemon noticed they were the last customers left.
Just then, a group of about 15 or 16 ragged-looking young men entered the tavern. They were thin, sallow-faced, dressed in torn clothing, clearly local survivors from the town. Daemon's eyes narrowed as he scanned them. Their leader, a middle-aged man, looked like he was about to speak, but when he saw the soldiers in the corner, uniforms unmistakable, his face changed. He held his tongue and cast nervous, sideways glances toward Daemon and his men. The group that had entered, once loud and restless, suddenly went quiet, standing stiffly in place.
Daemon wasn't particularly interested in them. He signaled his squad to leave. But first, he walked over to the bar to settle the bill with the tavern mistress.
Ten mugs of regular ale had cost 10 Copper Pennies. Two bottles of the better stuff added another 10. A total of 20 Copper Pennies, not bad at all. Daemon reached into his coin pouch, pulled out 20 coins, and dropped them onto the counter.
He heard a sound, swallowing. Glancing sideways, he noticed the ragged men were staring, not at him, but at the pile of coins he'd just laid down. They were trying not to look directly at his money pouch, but their eyes were glued to those coins on the bar. Daemon understood. In this town, 20 Copper Pennies was a decent sum.
The tavern may have seemed lively with 30 or 40 guests today, but the reality was grim. Most patrons were like his men, low-ranking third-class or servant soldiers with little money. Many came in for just one drink and spent the rest of the afternoon nursing it, chatting the time away.
A good day for this tavern brought in about 30 Copper Pennies. On a bad day, barely 20. Daemon's single payment had nearly matched the entire day's revenue.
The tavern mistress glanced nervously at the middle-aged newcomer and his followers, then turned to Daemon with a flattering smile. "Thanks for your patronage. Hope to see you again soon," she said.
Daemon nodded, gave the uneasy group one last look, then led his squad outside.
But as they stepped out, they could already hear it, angry muttering in a heavy Northwild accent, the soft cries and pleading of a woman. Daemon turned back. He saw four or five of the locals blocking the doorway, preventing anyone outside from seeing in.
He frowned. What were they up to?
Daemon stared at the thin, ragged men blocking his view. They hadn't been openly disrespectful, but the fact that they dared to stand in his line of sight infuriated him. His gaze sharpened. Under the weight of his stare, the makeshift guards hesitated, then nervously stepped aside, revealing a small opening through which Daemon could peer inside.
What he saw made his blood boil.
One of the stronger-looking locals was trying to yank a package out of the tavern mistress's hands. She clung to it, crying and pleading with the middle-aged man, who stood by coldly. Around them, a few scrawny youths were gleefully counting a handful of copper coins, his coins, Daemon realized.
"What the bloody hell are you lot doing?!" Daemon barked.
The tavern fell silent.
His squad, just steps away, heard the sharp tone in their captain's voice and turned back. Drunk or not, they were soldiers, and Daemon's shout snapped them to attention. They rushed back and looked inside. The scene was all they needed to see.
The tavern mistress, normally proud and poised, stared at Daemon, her tearful face lit by a faint hope. She knew this man: a rising officer with influence and strength, someone who had drunk at her tavern a few times. Unlike most, he was gentle and had some class. He's going to help me, she thought.
"This is Giza Town's internal matter, sir. Is there a problem?" the middle-aged man asked, finally breaking the silence. Maybe it was Daemon's tone, or maybe the presence of several armed Storm soldiers that spooked him. Either way, his words trembled.
Daemon's eyes narrowed. He stepped inside slowly, menacingly. His squad followed.
Karlon and Hugo didn't wait, they each kicked one of the blockers out of the way. Cries of pain echoed through the room.
Daemon strode up to the man who had been tugging on the tavern mistress's bundle. At 1.75 meters, Daemon wasn't enormous, but to this malnourished, hunched 1.7-meter peasant, he was intimidating. The man's hand twitched and let go.
Clink, the package dropped. Copper coins spilled across the floor, about 30 of them. Mixed in were a few oversized pieces of women's undergarments. Daemon realized they must belong to the tavern mistress.
Smack! Without hesitation, Daemon smacked the man across the face. The peasant tumbled to the floor from the blow.
Then Daemon turned slowly to the middle-aged leader.
"Sir, I-" the man began.
Smack!
Another clean hit. This time the man didn't fall, but a few teeth flew from his mouth. He clutched his face in pain.
Those two slaps were all it took. Like a signal, Daemon's squad sprang into action.
Yard kicked over a skinny kid counting coins. Hugo, built like a bear, grabbed two of them and slammed them together in a bone-crunching hug. Karlon went wild, slapping two guys silly from one end of the tavern to the other, mimicking Daemon's technique. Even quiet little Philip grabbed someone his size and went to town with a flurry of punches.
The rest followed suit, dishing out beatings left and right. The tavern was soon filled with the cries of desperate men getting exactly what they deserved.