Day 31 of the Suns season, year 2447

How she wished she was one of the patrons, and not playing waitress. But she promised the Litfows that she would help while Fayne was recovering from a sickness. Lyran, thank goodness, convinced his wife to let her wear pants despite that tradition demanded she wore a dress for this job. For that, she felt more comfortable. She just had to ignore the rude comments from those she tried so gracefully to serve.

Anything for the Litfows. Anything for the family who treated her like a person and not like some witch with hair depraved of color. Yes, she did say profane things about the supposed Gods. In fact, she cursed them daily, often to her detriment, but her fury knew no bounds. Daigornians were pious to a fault, thinking that obtaining the Gods’ favour would save them from the wrath of the grey dragons. The winged lizards still preyed on their cattle and damaged their properties by leaving high winds and tornadoes in their wake. The victims we’re lucky it was just that. They could easily devour them too. After all, the dragons we’re the apex predators here in the lands of the White Woodruff.

She was carrying a tray of drinks, mostly mugs of frothing beer. She bit her lower lip, refraining from taking a sip. Surely, it would numb her boredom.

She was bringing it to her most dreaded table. Moving with agility and ease, she zipped between tables and avoided rambunctious patrons. A pair of grizzled men were having an arm-wrestling match. Their spectators we’re bellowing and tossing bronze and silver coins, placing their bets on who would win.

Envious she exhaled and tried to calm herself. She knew she was no match for them and that they would reject her. Why did she have to be born with unnatural silver hair? It wasn’t literally a curse, but it might has well have been.

Yet, Fayne often complimented her wild, yet perfectly tamed mane that she refused to trim out of spite. It shone unlike any other, as if it caught moonlight, and absorbed its hue.

She approached a table that seating four men: three middle-aged adults and one teenager. Their mugs were empty and their thirsty eyes followed the approaching waitress.

The teenage boy slammed the table as if summoning her over.

“Hey, witch! Did you use a spell to transform your dress into trousers? I always knew you wanted to be a man.”

“My name is Azéna, noklyssing asshole! Not witch! You know I don’t cast spells or I would’ve done much worst to you!”

She had argued her case a million times. It didn’t matter. Nothing she said went though that boy’s thick head. He may have been slightly older and stronger than her, but she had won half their fights. They had been at each other’s throats since their first meeting.

His father remained impassive, his jaw tight with contempt. At least he had a bit of self-discipline, unlike his idiot of a son who continued to fuss.

“How dare you continue to taint Elysia’s good name with your existence and your profane words?”

“How dare you blabber about something you can’t even prove exists and bully those who think or look differently, Bentrh?”

She felt her blood boil with anger. Her muscles twitched in anticipation of punching him. It all felt too familiar. She was thrilled.

“You may as well go sleep with them damned dragons, you dirty creature!” he bellowed for everybody to hear.

Azéna had to remind herself why she was there: to help the Litfows. She placed the mugs on the table and pushed Bentrh’s a tad too strongly. It slid faster than his drunken ass could react and beer splashed all over his face.

He gritted his teeth, his perfectly straight teeth.

“You want to be a boy and wear trousers!? Well, show me your cock then, my Lady!”

He grabbed her by the groin and squeezed.

All she saw was red. Infuriated, she threw her tray at him. The rest of the mugs spilled all over him and fell to the ground, exploding on impact.

Their hateful gazes locked. A shard of glass was imbedded in Bentrh’s eyebrow. Blood slowly dripped from the cut.

“You bitch! You’re nothing more than a dog!”

He rose, pushing his chair aside and charged at her.

Nimbler, Azéna landed the first punch, but the damage was minimal. Her assailant brought her to the ground, pinning her underneath him. As he was raising a fist, she grabbed his head, pulled herself up and headbutted him. She felt his front tooth crack against her forehead.

Bentrh bawled out and started pounding the slender girl ceaselessly. After suffering a few hits, Azéna managed to curl her legs and kick him off, pushing on his chest as aggressively as she could. He staggered for a moment, giving her the opportunity to get up. Their faces were bloodied.

Shortly after, a mass towered from behind Azéna and grabbed her by the arm, sliding her out of the way like she was a mere puppet. Pressing forward once more, Bentrh flew headfirst into the table occupied by the arm-wrestling men.

“Discipline your boy, Frauk. He’s like a bull without any thoughts.”

The man called Frauk sat there in silence. He knew better than to defy the man who poured him beer.

As Lyran and Azéna exited the tavern by the employee back door, wails of anger could be heard coming from behind them. The arm-wrestling men we’re now threatening Bentrh and Frauk was not intervening.

Lyran pointed to an empty old wooden barrel. Azéna sat, her arms crossed and her lips pursed.

“I was handling him just fine.”

The big bear of a man sighed. He was two heads taller than her and probably three times her size.

“You we’re. Good job, kiddo.”

Azéna had expected to be reprimanded and blamed, as usual, but it didn’t feel like that. Her anger slowly faded, replaced by confusion. She blinked, starting at Lyran wide-eyed.

 “That boy has been tormenting you since you we’re a kid,” said the tavern owner. “He deserved to lose that tooth.”

“But…”

He smiled, an honest, proud smile.

“It’s not always the best route to take, ya know. But I’m proud you struck back.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

Emotions swelled within her. She refused to let them surface. She wouldn’t allow herself to show weakness. She clenched her fists as a rogue tear rolled down her cheek. She was just so happy someone had her back.

Lyran rubbed her upper back gently.

“You can’t say noklyss anymore though. You know how these folks react to it. As much as you were right in defending yourself, you also need to show some restrain.”

“Ack! Dumb religion. Who cares if I insinuate that two beings that don’t even exist are a merged abomination?”

“Trust me, I share the sentiment. But that word has a powerful meaning. It’s meant to rebel against the clergy. You ought to hold your tongue on that one. I don't want to find you dead; you understand?”

Azéna grumbled. She wiped her tear away and rose from her rather uncomfortable seat, ready to take on the world.

“As if they would.”

“One day, you’ll curse the wrong person, Zé.”

“Don’t call me that. I’ll—”

“Tickle me to death?”

“Much worst, old bear.”

Lyran cackled. His great loud laugh rang in her ears, filling her with comfort. She couldn't help herself and joined her joy to his. The barman cocked his head to the side and invited her to follow him in a single hand motion.

“Now, come on. You still have a job to do. I’ll make you a hot chocolate and clean your battle wounds.”

When Azéna thought about Bentrh, a wave of tingles washed over her. Despite Lyran’s warning, she knew she would do it all over again. She wanted to make him toothless.