Night had fallen over Iron Mine Town, cloaking it in silence except for one place: the town square. There, bonfires blazed under the vast sky, and almost everyone from Iron Mine Town and the surrounding villages had gathered for the annual Beer Festival.
"Today, we gather here to wish for an even better year ahead!" Mayor Old Billy began his customary speech. To him, this moment was the most important part of the festival.
"Though our children, your husbands, may still be fighting on the front lines, all of us in Iron Mine Town will stand strong to protect them!" Old Billy, a mayor for decades, spoke with practiced charisma, easily stirring the emotions of the townsfolk. At least for now, everyone in the square was caught up in thoughts of their loved ones far away.
"This year, despite facing numerous challenges, Iron Mine Town has..." Old Billy continued, but fewer and fewer people paid attention. The most significant part of his speech was already over, and now he was listing his achievements: economic growth, increased mineral production, and other dry statistics. Many common folk, like the Cæsar family, couldn't understand half of what he was saying. Even Old Billy himself might not fully grasp it, as these talking points were prepared by the administrative officer—an official appointed directly by the baron and technically outranking the mayor.
Around the bonfires, while a handful of honest folk still listened to Old Billy's ramblings, most had already begun celebrating. Some drank beer, others munched on bread. The beer was free tonight, while bread cost only a few copper bucs—a rare luxury for many families who struggled to eat their fill throughout the year. Clever merchants seized the opportunity, setting up stalls. Despite the decline of many shops in town, a few had managed to hang on, and the Beer Festival was their chance to make a profit.
Old Locke was among the crowd, holding a mug of beer and bragging to his acquaintances about his son, who had become a squad leader. To these simple townsfolk, a squad leader was no small achievement, and many people even tried to arrange marriage proposals for their daughters. After all, even if young Cæsar wasn't back from the front lines, securing a match in advance was still worthwhile.
But Old Locke wasn't foolish. He knew better than to make hasty promises, especially with his wife and daughter nearby. The merchants, on the other hand, paid little attention to him. A squad leader was barely on par with a village chief and held little economic value. Merchants valued profit above all, and the survival of a squad leader on the battlefield was far from guaranteed.
Higher-ranking town officials—scribes, tax officers, treasurers, and captains of the town guard—were even less interested in a mere squad leader. Why would they concern themselves with someone of lower rank?
Still, not everyone ignored Old Locke. One official responsible for overseeing the town's forestry approached him with a drink. Known for his diplomatic nature, the forestry officer maintained good relationships with everyone. Old Locke, flattered, returned the toast. To the forestry officer, maintaining connections with the family of one of the town's few squad leaders cost nothing and might prove beneficial in the future.
Even the mayor's family sent a relative over to share a drink with Old Locke. In every corner of society, there are those who understand the value of strategic relationships.
Garrel, located in the southwest, had a culture distinct from the malt-rich Shiloh in the east. Here, beer reigned supreme. It was cheaper to produce than malt wine, making it the drink of choice for most people.
The night of the Beer Festival was deep and beautiful, and little Iron Mine Town had once again enjoyed a rare evening of joy.
By the next morning, the cold wind swept across the town square, waking those who had passed out on the ground. Despite the warmth of beer and bonfires, the chill of late autumn was impossible to ignore. Old Locke stirred in the biting wind, his old waist injury flaring up again. Squinting through bleary eyes, he started walking back into town.
Tia and Leah, his wife and daughter, had stayed the night with a distant relative in town. They weren't about to endure an entire night exposed to the cold. As Old Locke walked along, his thoughts turned to his farmland. Farmers are simple folk; beyond meals, family affairs, and their small plots of land, little else occupies their minds.
After a warm farewell from their distant relatives, Old Locke, Tia, and Leah began their journey home. Iron Mine Town wasn't large, and most families were connected by blood if traced back a few generations. Old Locke was the last of his line, while Tia had a few siblings, though their relationship was distant. Once scorned for marrying into a rural family, Tia now enjoyed a newfound respect thanks to her son's military status. Though uncomfortable with the change, she couldn't deny that it felt good.
As they reached the edge of town, Old Locke muttered about the wild rodents that had been stealing from his fields. Tia clutched a small pouch of copper bucs earned from selling eggs the night before. She planned to buy Leah fabric for a new dress during the New Year festival. Leah had taken care of them both for so long, and Tia saw her as her own daughter.
Leah walked alongside them, supporting her aging parents. Old Locke's face was still flushed from the previous night's drinking, while Tia, bundled in a thick linen shawl, shivered from the cold. Despite the warmth of their family bond, age and weather were undeniable adversaries.
Just as they were about to leave town, a distant jingling of bells echoed down the road. A long line of black horses approached, their bells ringing crisply in the morning air. Those familiar with the sound immediately recognized it: the baron's trade caravan had returned!
Old Locke and his family paused. It looked like their return home would have to wait a little longer.