The moment the King's speech concluded, the rigid tension in the grand hall instantly dissolved into absolute gluttony. The real festival had begun. A tidal wave of hungry nobles, rowdy guards, and foreign emissaries swarmed the long banquet tables, eagerly diving into the endless mountains of free roasted meats, exotic fruits, and flowing rivers of expensive elven wine.
Amidst the chaotic rush, Cresty, Flinn, and Anthierin managed to carve out a quiet corner for themselves, away from the worst of the crowd.
"Well, the King survived his... whatever that was," Anthierin noted, crossing her powerful arms and watching the nobility celebrate. "But I still don't see—"
Before the blacksmith could finish her sentence, a literal shadow swooped through the space between them.
