Daemon was escorted through the dusty, bustling streets of a small, sun-baked town. Within minutes of observation, he had deduced their location: they were in Romania, a province under the distant, but firm, control of the Ottoman Empire. This fact did not cause him panic; it sparked an entirely new plan. The Ottoman Empire and the German Empire were ideological and political adversaries. Hiding under the Sultan's immense, antagonistic umbrella would provide the perfect strategic shield.
Within the hour, Daemon was presented before Pasha Musa bin Suleiman, the magistrate appointed to the mining town that formed the core of the local jurisdiction. The Pasha was a large man with an imposing figure, his broad face framed by a full, dark beard, yet his voice, when he finally spoke, was surprisingly calm and composed. The room was cool and dimly lit, filled with the scent of spices and old parchment.
Daemon executed a low, respectful bow, a gesture of deference that immediately softened the Pasha's guarded expression. Before Pasha Musa could initiate the interrogation, Daemon took the offensive, launching into a carefully tailored narrative.
"Pasha Musa," Daemon began, his Arabic flawless and persuasive. "I am Daemon, a man who has fled a great injustice. I was a scholar at the Imperial Academy in Austria, but I was not treated as such. I was enslaved by the machinations of Duke Steiner and the Academy Chancellor."
He proceeded to explain his predicament: he had been forced to develop and manufacture military-grade explosives (the B-1 materials) for Steiner's army without any form of compensation, and had been subjected to torture when he refused to reveal his complete intellectual property. He omitted all mention of the airships and engines, framing his work as chemistry and metallurgy.
"My friends and I intended to travel far east, away from the shadow of the German King. But our transport failed, forcing us onto your lands," Daemon explained. Then, he delivered his carefully calculated offer. "However, I have realized that setting up a new base here, under the protection of the Sultan, would be immensely beneficial to both of us. The German Empire seeks my capture. If you would have me, Pasha, and allow us to set up a discrete camp, I would be forever grateful. And I would begin my service by offering one of my flying machines to you, so the Sultan's intelligence can move with unprecedented speed."
Pasha Musa remained silent for a long moment, his dark eyes studying Daemon—the young, battered man who spoke of flying machines and German military secrets. The proposition was too extraordinary to be dismissed, but too dangerous to be accepted immediately.
"Your offer is compelling, Daemon," the Pasha finally said, his voice a smooth baritone. "But the German King's wrath is immense, and you speak of weapons that shook the earth. I need time to contemplate the risks you bring to my jurisdiction."
He instructed the guards to take Daemon back to his friends. "Return to your companions. You will be provided with water and food, but you remain under the strict supervision of my men. I will send word on the morrow."
Once Daemon was led away, the door to an adjacent chamber quietly opened, and a figure stepped out of the shadows. This was Ismet, the Pasha's trusted, high-ranking military advisor, known for his relentless cunning.
"The German inventor," Ismet stated, walking closer to the Pasha's desk. "He speaks with too much ease and offers too much, too quickly."
Pasha Musa nodded slowly. "He is either a desperate liar or a desperate genius. His tale of Steiner and the Chancellor aligns with intelligence reports; the two men are known adversaries. More importantly, Ismet, your spies have identified him."
Ismet leaned forward, his expression severe. "Indeed, my Pasha. This is the very man who manufactured the explosives used by the German irregulars to repel our Ottoman-backed bandits in the disputed territories. The weapons that killed our allies were traced back to a commoner in the Academy. He is the source of the B-1 technology."
The revelation changed everything. Daemon was not merely a refugee; he was a weapon designer who had already proven his effectiveness against Ottoman interests.
"So, he is dangerous, but useful," Pasha Musa mused, stroking his beard. "The German King seeks him. If we harbor him, we gain leverage against Berlin, and we gain access to his military chemistry. He offers a flying machine, a marvel that could revolutionize our ability to scout the Austrian border."
"The risk of German infiltration or reprisal is immense," Ismet countered. "But the technology is more valuable. We must assume his offer is a temporary measure, a bid for immediate protection."
Pasha Musa smiled—a chilling, slow movement that did not reach his eyes. "Precisely, Ismet. We will agree to his terms. We will allow him to set up his camp and begin his work. But he will be kept under close, constant surveillance. We will extract his knowledge slowly, starting with the airship, and ensuring his loyalty. Once he has outlasted his usefulness, or if he proves to be an insurmountable risk... then he will be disposed of with great care. It is better to have the German weapon maker within our walls than working for our enemies."
The two men came to a silent agreement. The Sultan's umbrella was open, but it carried the constant threat of a poisoned rain. Daemon had found his sanctuary, but he had traded the overt control of the German Empire for the hidden, far more patient danger of the Ottoman Empire.