All attention in the tavern was fixed on the lone boy perched on a stool, his legs dangling, the sword resting across his knees. After a moment, he pointed again with his left hand towards his open mouth, while his right remained firmly clenched around the sword's hilt.
Ben snapped out of his daze instantly. Scanning the room, he saw the others holding their breath, unable to tear their eyes away from the boy. His smell, his appearance – none of it mattered now. Their thoughts were consumed by the sack at his feet. At first glance, the boy seemed like just another homeless kid who'd lost everything during the Migration. But that bag had shattered that assumption. Many had already drawn their own conclusions but dared not voice them aloud.
Ben retrieved only three trophies from the sack and tossed them into the lidded bucket where monster ears were usually stored. He initially thought to serve the boy on a plate, but reassessing his emaciated state, realized it wouldn't be enough. Instead, he grabbed a spoon, placed the skillet containing the leftover stew – still enough for several servings – directly onto the counter, and pushed it towards the boy.
The boy regarded the offered food impassively, his face utterly blank. Taking the spoon in his right hand, he momentarily shifted his grip on the sword, examined the aluminum alloy utensil carefully, then laid it down on the counter. After a brief pause, he slowly swiveled the stool to face the hall.
The silence deepened further, as if nature itself held its breath in anticipation. The boy's gaze remained vacant, devoid of any emotion. His eyes swept over the patrons – from simple guardsmen to the well-armored elite – but finding nothing of interest, he turned back to the food.
Taking up the spoon, he sampled the stew. Ben froze, watching for a reaction, utterly unprepared for the transformation. The boy's cold detachment vanished, replaced by animalistic hunger. He began shoveling food into his mouth, gulping it down faster than he could chew.
Ben hastily poured water into a mug and handed it over. The boy snatched it and drained it in one gulp. His hunger seemed insatiable.
Ben was bewildered – he'd never seen anything like it. He glanced towards the captain of the guard, who silently signaled two of his men to step outside.
The boy paid no attention, wholly focused on consuming the food.
"Hey kid," Hall asked, unable to hide his curiosity, "what happened to you?"
The boy was nearly finished with the skillet. Scooping up the last spoonful, he turned to Hall. His gaze was still empty, but a faint, almost imperceptible spark of alertness had appeared after eating. His eyes flickered towards the sack of trophies, and Hall immediately knew his question was redundant. Yet, after a beat, he pressed on:
"Did you kill all those monsters?" His own face remained stony.
The boy nodded after a moment's pause.
A ripple of whispers spread through the hall:
"No way that kid took down beasts like that! Look at him – he's skin and bones!"
"Could have! Did you see his eyes? They gave me chills..."
The whispering continued, but before Hall could ask another question, a man rose from the crowd. With a threatening smirk, he lumbered towards the bar. He was a hulking brute nearly two meters tall, his face flushed with drink, his beard matted and littered with crumbs. His battered leather armor was torn in places; a dulled sword hung in worn scabbards at his belt. Bloodshot, murky eyes glared, and an old scar on his cheek made him even more repulsive. He reeked of cheap liquor and stale sweat.
"That haul's too much for one brat," he slurred, his drunken grin revealing rotting teeth. Hands covered in crude tattoos shook with anger. "Share with the rest. Treat us for a successful hunt!"
Ben's gaze snapped from the boy to the drunkard. "Leave him alone!" he barked.
"I ain't doin' nothin' wrong!" the drunk protested, spreading his hands wide. "Just askin' the little fella to show some generosity. I'll return the favor!"
Ben had no intention of intervening physically, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw the boy set down the spoon and place his hand back on the sword's hilt.
The captain of the guard remained impassive – regulations forbade him from interfering in conflicts without a direct threat to life. He didn't have to wait long.
The drunk stepped right up to the boy, reaching to grab his shoulder. He never made contact. In the next instant, the point of the sword drove deep into the base of his shoulder. It happened with lightning speed: the man collapsed onto his back, and the boy, still seated on the stool, leaned forward, driving the blade deeper. A piercing shriek tore through the hall.
"Enough, kid! Let him go!" The captain's authoritative voice rang out, his own sword now drawn.
The boy yanked the blade free in one sharp motion and slammed the pommel hard into the drunk's solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him.
He stood up, looked coolly at the captain, then pointed at the wound on the fallen man.
"Get him to the healer! Fast!" the captain ordered, keeping his weapon raised.
Showing no emotion, the boy lowered his sword and turned back to the counter.
Meeting Ben's eyes, he deliberately yawned, making it clear he wanted to sleep.
"If you need a room, go upstairs. The far one," Ben said, struggling to keep his voice steady. "We'll settle up tomorrow."
Gathering his sack of trophies, the boy headed for the stairs, dragging the sword behind him. Soon, the scraping sound of metal on steps echoed, followed by footsteps on the second floor. Then, silence.