“Our Warlord went insane.” 

“I have never seen our Warlord act like that.” 

“I think he was bewitched. No, cursed!” 

The tides of rumors grew higher and higher among the Pouring Knights. From the youngest stable boy to the closest of Warlord’s confidants, everyone agreed – something was wrong with their respected leader. 

“Fuck if I know, what do you ask me for!?” Kost, a tall bear-like man in his fifties, roared. 

Kost was famously short-tempered and foul-mouthed, but the situation had gotten out of hand. No one could understand what was happening, so, risking the worst, they approached him with a barrel of his favorite beer and a plea. 

“But, Ol’ Kost, who else are we supposed to ask?” the most fearless one, Stephan, questioned. A group of ten or so knights nodded in agreement behind him. The barrel, the size of half a man, stood in front of them, acting both as a peace offering and a shield. 

Spitting and cursing, Kost was about to leave the tavern. But the beer. He was getting on in age and, thanks to his Warlord’s recklessness adding more and more grey hairs to his temples, ‘Ol’ Kost’ treasured each drinking opportunity as his last. Ultimately, the bribe won him over. 

“You little shits,” he complained. Then retook his seat and eagerly slid his empty cup over to Stephan. “What was it?” 

Quick to react, everyone followed Kost’s example and sat around his table like a group of chicks around a hen. Miraculously, as if out of nowhere, everyone took out their own wooden cups and offered them for a fill.  

“Ol’ Kost, we’ve been fixing up and cleaning the whole city for a week now,” Stephan started. “We need to clean the stables until they don’t smell. It’s impossible!” Everyone nodded, never forgetting to check if it was their turn to pour themselves some beer. 

“The cooks are fighting over the best pork and beef; the feast dishes he requested are royal-grade recipes. We ate grass on the last campaign!” The knight with a butcher knife on his belt boomed. 

“The tailors are mending our clothes as if we plan to enter the capital in a victory march. I don’t even have any golden threads left! Those are rare. The hell do we all need to look like peacocks for?” Another knight continued, this one was dressed in the latest civil fashion, wearing elegant red zhupan robes and maroon leather boots. 

“Even the beer you drink now - I had to personally travel to Kamyan and buy forty barrels. See this?” Stephan, wearing the most modest attire of the group because he spent all his money on his horse, showed an intricate golden dagger. Based on the pattern design and encrusted rubies – one of the trophies they got from the last campaign in the southwest. “The Warlord gave it to me because I’m part of the welcoming party. He said my old one was too shitty to be seen with. That’s it, no other reason.” 

Kost, beard wet with beer, raised his eyebrows higher, as if asking - so what? 

“Give it to me if you don’t like it,” he offered. 

Stephan quickly took the dagger away from prying eyes. 

“That’s not the point. Don’t you hear what we’re saying? Warlord Demyan went insane.” 

A chorus of ‘totally insane’ and ‘crazy’ followed. Everyone now had their cups filled, and some even clinked them to toast the occasion mockingly. 

Moments later, the small tavern on the outskirts of Bishov City, which Kost specifically chose so as not to be found by his underlings, was bursting with life. Not leaving room for Kost to say even a word, the gathered knights continued to discuss and complain about all the weird tasks they had to complete in the past week. Kost quietly drank his beer, hoping they would keep forgetting about him in the excitement of gossip. 

“So, spill the beans, Ol’ Kost, what gives?” The knight with the butcher knife mercilessly killed Kost’s hopes and dreams. 

Ten pairs of eyes stared at him expectantly. Kost mused that he got softer with age. 

“Look, kiddos, do you trust Demyan?” 

“With our lives!” They replied in unison, loud and devoted as fit for a pledge. 

Kost sighed and nudged Stephan to refill his cup. 

“Well, the thing is-” 

However, he didn’t get to finish. Stephan’s eyes grew as big as two plates, the beer spilled over his hand. Kost followed his terrified gaze and… 

Lo and behold, Warlord Demyan, in the flesh, idly leaned against the tavern’s entrance. His usual plain black zhupan robes were now generously decorated with golden stitching, his sabre scabbard glistened with new emeralds and rubies, and even his dark ponytail somehow looked healthier and shinier. 

“Don’t stop on my account,” Demyan drawled. He clearly heard more than enough.

No one dared to breathe. Only Kost rolled his eyes and sipped his beer, unaffected. 

“Warlord!” 

All the knights rose and greeted their leader in unison. They didn’t bow as he was not their king, but they would if he allowed them to. 

“Yeah-yeah,” Demyan brushed them off. He ambled inside and pointedly looked at the beer barrel. Stephan flushed bright red. 

“It’s not from the batch you ordered to buy,” he quickly explained. “Here, Warlord, have a drink with us,” Stephan invited. If one had to name the Warlord’s vice, it would be his love for drinking.  

Demyan flashed a dangerous grin, a golden, sharp tooth in place of his right fang sparkled under the light. 

“Bribing me, too, now?” Demyan asked, half-joke, half-threat. Stephan nervously twiddled with a cup, now ashamed and unsure of what to do. 

Giving the group a flat, unimpressed look, Demyan tsked. He leisurely dragged a stool to their table and sat at the head of it. 

Demyan was bigger than most, with broad shoulders and only second in height to Kost; he took his seat with effortless authority. However, it wasn’t his frame that was the source of his intimidating aura. Demyan had a unique presence. He dominated the room, choking the air out of it with a single glare. His eyes gleamed crimson, daring and as if seeking anyone brave enough to challenge him. There was something feral in his assertiveness, the ancient power of a nomadic tribe ruler that could only be achieved with the harshest trials. 

“Oh, to hell with that! Warlord, come on,” the knight with a butcher knife was the one to break the stalemate. Kost should learn his name; the man had potential. “You know we’re not gossiping for nothing, you are acting weird.” 

Demyan raised his eyebrow, studying the knight with a curious tilt of his head. Kost knew that Demyan thought the same. 

“What’s your name?” Demyan asked. He played with the cup in his hands, not yet taking a sip.

“Sarmat,” the knight dutifully replied. “I’m in the Second Hundred under Rador.” 

Demyan nodded. People under Rador all had this brash confidence to them; the Second Hundred was his muscle banner and naturally attracted the direct sort. 

“And all of you agree with Sarmat?” Demyan held up the cup to his lips, watching the knights as he drank his beer with deliberate, suffocating slowness. 

Others fidgeted under his gaze. They had already thrice prayed to the gods, twice cursed the idea of coming here, and once considered whether their inheritance was enough to feed their families. Only Kost and Sarmat calmly met Demyan’s stare head-on. Kost, well, because he had no reason to be afraid of the sapling he watched growing up, and Sarmat – had to be due to the strength of character. Or impressive stupidity. Kost would definitely ask Rador about him. 

Eventually, Stephan nodded. 

“Y-yes, Warlord,” he agreed, fearless though not at all unapologetic in his attitude. 

Holding the silence for a little longer, Demyan spread his lips in a wide grin. 

“Ah, nothing gets past my watchful warriors,” he cheekily noted, golden fang glinting. 

Suddenly, the room got warmer, the candles burned brighter, and the suffocating feeling disappeared as if never there. To their own misfortune, for the majority of knights gathered here, it was the first time they experienced Demyan’s feral side so intimately. Usually, their Warlord released it as he commanded them from afar, on the battlefield, when his assertive dominance was something that fueled and inspired them. And was directed at the enemy.

“What, got scared, you bunch of gossiping maidens?” Demyan laughed, bright brown eyes shining mischievously, not a hint of previous crimson in them. Now, he was easily mistaken for a charming young lord sharing drinks with his fellows. 

“Warlord, I hate when you do that,” the knight in red zhupan robes complained. He sagged to his seat and used his expensive sleeve to swipe sweat from his forehead. 

Others followed - slumping down one by one and exhaling in relief, their shoulders loosening and cups no longer trembling in their hands. 

Ignorant of the genuine fear he permanently instilled in his knights, Demyan laughed.

“But it’s fun! You all got so fidgety, how could I possibly stop myself?” Demyan asked rhetorically, then motioned for Stephan to refill his drink, easy smile still on his lips.

“Your father would be so proud,” Kost noted dryly. 

“Oh, shut it, old man, he’d say I’m great and kiss my forehead,” Demyan waved off Kost’s comment, akin to waving off an annoying mosquito. “What were you gonna say to them, by the way?” 

Kost shrugged, drinking his beer and refusing to entertain the incessant brat. Demyan’s late father truly spoiled him too much, and now Kost was the one to bear the consequences. 

Everyone refilled their drinks with a slight commotion and then quieted down, a dozen or so pairs of eyes now stared at Demyan, waiting. Why would they need Kost to tell them when they had suffered so and had gotten their Warlord himself to explain? 

“So you are all wondering why I force the Pouring Knights to actually look and behave like Knights and not a bunch of bandits?” Demyan asked. 

“Yes,” they all replied as one. 

Scrutinizing everyone with a probing gaze, Demyan tapped his chin, troubled. Each knight took it as a show of internal struggle. They schooled their faces into earnest, bordering on grave expressions: we were trustworthy, their honest looks screamed, we would take your secret to our graves, their solemn eyes swore.  

“Fine, I’ll tell you,” Demyan conceded, no less solemn. He leaned in closer, signaling that he was about to confide. Everyone else huddled together, ready to listen. 

Demyan unexpectedly smiled. Not grinned, no, a dreamy, flustered smile gently tugged on his lips. 

 “My wife is coming here tomorrow,” he whispered, a dusting of pink on his cheeks.

The knights nodded, understanding. A wife was, of course, a very important person; anyone would… Wait. 

Then, when the full meaning of the words finally took shape in their minds, their solemn eyes grew wider, some even couldn’t help but hang their mouths open. For a few moments, the time appeared to stop, Demyan’s declaration landing with the grace of a rockslide.

Stephan choked on his beer, Sarmat almost dropped his cup from pure shock. 

Their Warlord had a wife!? 

Since when!? 

They exchanged glances, each screaming internally: ‘did you know?’, ‘am I hearing right?’ and, most of all – ‘what the fuck!?’ 

Not paying any attention to his knights fighting for the last strains of their sanity, Demyan continued. 

“My wife is very stuck-up, you see,” he complained, “of course, all of you need to look presentable. Otherwise, I wouldn’t hear the end of it.” Still, Demyan had the warmest lilt to his voice, talking bashfully. As if he were the doting kind of husband. Even worse… a henpecked one. 

Kost grunted, “idiot.” 

Unable to fight the shock, no one managed to ask any other questions. 

“So you all need to be on your best behavior, got it?” Demyan warned them sternly, “don’t you dare embarrass me!” Then, with a frivolous grin, he confessed, “I want to show off and get my wife all giddy.”. 

It was impossible to continue listening to him, their whole worldview was crumbling down. 

“Is this for real?” The knight in red zhupan robes whispered to Stephan. 

“Looks like it…” 

Stephan was still recounting all the trouble he went through in the past week, he couldn’t believe they wasted all these funds and manpower to impress… a wife. However, they allocated substantial funds for the upcoming visit and prepared more than 1500 horses as a gift. Why would a woman need 1500 horses? Moreover, these horses were an important show of goodwill to secure success in negotiations with…

“Wait, Warlord,” Stephan finally grasped the wrongness of the situation, “isn’t it the High Warlord of the Kingless Knights who’s coming tomorrow?” 

Demyan smiled wider, mysteriously drinking his beer in lieu of an answer.