The Warlord feasts were always a spectacular display of culinary excess and absolute chaos, but tonight's celebration carried a different weight. It wasn't just a celebration of survival; it was the christening of a new home.
As the night deepened and the fairy-lights strung through the ancient oak branches began to glow against the dark sky, the noise in the gardens finally began to settle. Rurik was snoring loudly by the hearth-fire, a half-eaten loaf of bread resting on his chest. Cassian was carefully wiping sticky berry juice off Jasper's face, and Caspian was sitting beside me on a woven blanket, his arm wrapped securely around my waist as we watched the fireflies dance.
But my eyes were fixed on the two figures slipping quietly away from the crowd.
