The layout of the Erengrad bar was unlike anywhere else: a large L-shaped counter on the street, often staffed by a burly bartender, perpetually polishing glasses.
Behind the counter stood rows of bottles—beers, fruit wines, and sweet liquors from all over the Old World. Predictably, despite the recent influx of Southern wines, the local vodka from Kislev remained the crowd favorite. Strong liquor was always the hallmark of the hardy snowlanders.
Street counters like this were rarely seen in the Old World, but they were common in Kislev. After a long day of work or duty, people would gather at the bar, drink just a single shot—just one—served in a small iron cup. They'd down it, warm their bellies, grumble a little, and then leave. Back then, a shot of vodka cost four copper coins. Now, however, the country's destruction and widespread devastation had made vodka scarce, driving its price up to ten copper coins per shot. Even so, other items remained relatively cheap—a single copper coin could buy a few peas or two slices of pickled cucumber. For an extra ten copper coins, one could sit indoors and enjoy a proper meal.
Alyosha Fyodorovich Akhromeyev, a junior officer in the Erengrad Red Navy Guard, had just come off duty. Yesterday, he had participated in the Victory Day parade, and the young lieutenant's blood was still running hot with excitement. After clocking out, he decided to grab a drink to let off some steam.
But where to go?
There weren't many options. The city was in ruins, and only a few bars had reopened. Winter had passed, spring was here, but the nights remained bitterly cold. Wandering the streets, Alyosha found one such reopened establishment amidst the rubble. A freshly painted sign hung from a sturdy new iron chain. The sign bore a simple image of a goblet and read "Big Goblet Tavern."
Straightforward and crude—just like the place.
Alyosha took one look and knew he had arrived.
Sure enough, a bartender stood behind the street-facing counter. His build resembled that of a bear, bald-headed but sporting a thick, bushy beard. Two Kislevites were buying drinks from him, and the bartender looked visibly impatient. He snatched a handful of copper coins, carelessly tossed them into a jar filled with various currencies, and roughly poured two small shots of vodka. He slammed the glasses onto the counter with a loud thud, gesturing for the customers to take them.
He looked as if he was working under duress.
The two customers grabbed their iron cups, downed their drinks in one gulp, exhaled deeply, set the cups back on the counter, and left.
Alyosha stepped toward the bar. It had been converted from an old residential house. As the bartender reached for the dirty cups to wash them, he glanced up and saw Alyosha approaching. His face displayed not a hint of welcome—just annoyance, as if patrons showing up were the bane of his existence.
"Vodka," Alyosha said curtly. He was familiar with this bartender and kept it simple. "The usual."
The bartender shot Alyosha a cold glare, his tone dripping with impatience. "A bottle? Or a shot?"
"A bottle. Inside. And bring two sides." Alyosha produced a silver coin—not one minted in Kislev but a Bretonnian silver shilling. The coin bore an image of a fleur-de-lis and some numbers on the front, while the back featured a portrait of Knight-Queen Sulia Cumaine d'Entrée. The Kislevites had nicknamed this coin the "Big Sulia."
Similarly, the gold coins with King Ryan's profile on the back were mockingly called "Big Ryans."
The bartender pocketed the silver coin without ceremony and ignored Alyosha.
The moment the bar's door opened, a strong smell of straw and sweat hit Alyosha's nose, followed by faint traces of beer and food. The interior was lively. Three greasy long tables and two square ones were fully occupied. Many Kislevites made it a habit to linger at bars long after work before going home. Alyosha figured if vodka prices hadn't been rising lately, they'd probably stay even later.
The cold wind from outside swept in, drawing the patrons' attention to the new arrival.
They quickly noticed Alyosha's youthful face and the three medals pinned to his military coat: the "Erengrad Defense Medal," the "Bagration Operation Medal," and the "Erengrad Liberation Medal," the last of which had just been awarded the day before. This young man in his early twenties had participated in at least three major battles.
"Hey! It's Alyosha!"
"Sgt. Alyosha! Any new stories? Got anything interesting to share?"
"Alyosha, when are you going to find yourself a woman and settle down?"
The regulars were clearly acquainted with him, teasing him amid drunken hiccups. Meanwhile, most others continued eating or simply observed from the sidelines. Older men in thick cloaks, many already passed out drunk, couldn't care less about the commotion.
Some younger Kislevites occasionally broke into song, trying to liven the mood.
At yesterday's parade, a new song, "Kislev Has Not Fallen," had been performed. Word was it was written and composed by an anonymous "patriot."
"Kislev has not fallen!"
"As long as we draw breath, even if our lands are occupied."
"Raise your swords, reclaim the land—onward, onward, Rokossovsky!"
"From the Empire to Kislev, under your leadership, we will rebuild our homeland."
"We cross the Kislev Bay, we ford the Lynsk River—reclaiming our home!"
"King Ryan has taught us how to defeat evil forces."
"Onward, onward, Rokossovsky!"
"From the Empire to Kislev, under your leadership, we will rebuild our homeland."
Kislevites, particularly the people of Erengrad, adored the song. Since its debut by the parade's military band, it had become a wildly popular anthem. Rumor had it that Erengrad was about to adopt it as the principality's official anthem.
The bar erupted into a chorus. They let Alyosha be, clearing a spot for him to sit. The bartender, his face still frozen in disdain, slammed a bottle of vodka and a cup down in front of him, followed by a large plate of food: a slice of freshly baked rye bread, a bowl of borscht, two meatballs, and a few pickled cucumbers.
Eagerly, Alyosha popped the vodka bottle open, poured himself a glass, and drank it in one go.
Ah! The fiery burn! The intense sensation traveled from his taste buds down to his stomach. The young officer sighed with satisfaction. This was it—strong, heady, just the way he liked it.
This bar's vodka was the reason he came here. It had far more kick than Bretonnian wine.
The taste of home—it brought back his youth!
At that thought, he chuckled wryly to himself. He had enlisted at sixteen and now, at twenty-one, was already a veteran of five years.
The bar's raucous singing continued, but Alyosha focused on his meal. After one round of singing, someone finally noticed he wasn't joining in.
"Sergeant Alyosha! Why aren't you singing with us?" a lanky man in the corner yelled, displeased.
"Brothers, I've already sung it at least ten times during my shift today. Give me a break," Alyosha replied, his mouth full of meatball, his tone helpless.
"Hahaha!" The entire bar burst into laughter, except for the perpetually scowling bartender, who continued washing glasses and pouring drinks.
"You know, it's crazy that King Ryan made it into the song lyrics," the lanky man said, seizing the moment. "Not that we mind—he did help us reclaim our homeland and liberate Erengrad—but still, if this song actually becomes our principality's anthem, shouldn't they ask for our opinion first?"
"We already gave our opinion during the referendum to elect our new grand prince," someone chimed in. "These decisions are for the grand prince to make now."
"Speaking of the new grand prince, that guy's pretty ruthless and fierce, isn't he? Considering that King Ryan helped us retake the city, it's not a big deal to mention him in the song."
"Exactly!"
As the crowd stirred, Alyosha nodded but said nothing, continuing to eat.
"You know," someone suddenly blurted out, "King Ryan—not only is he handsome and strong, but he's also an incredible commander. But rumor has it, what he's really famous for is his… uh, prowess!"
And so began the drunken gossip about Ryan's exploits—both on and off the battlefield. Alyosha's discomfort grew as the conversation spiraled into increasingly vulgar territory, but he held his tongue. As much as he admired Ryan, he wasn't about to get into a bar fight over some drunken banter.
Eventually, though, someone raised a toast. "Alright, folks! Let's drink to the manliest of men—King Ryan!"
"To the manliest of men!" everyone echoed, raising their glasses.
After that, the conversation shifted to weightier matters, particularly Kislev's uncertain future. The mood became somber as the bar's patrons lamented their country's hardships, uncertain leadership,
and reliance on foreign heroes like Ryan.
The night wore on, and Alyosha could only hope that Kislev's people would find their way forward—one way or another.
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