The warm noise of the Dancing Kettle wrapped around their table like a comfortable blanket. Forks scraped plates, Syd argued loudly with Jake over the last roast potato (Syd won, naturally), and contented sighs filled the air between bursts of laughter.
Eamond leaned back in his slightly wobbly chair, nursing his cider, soaking in the simple joy. His System's quiet hum confirmed the room was safe – just happy chatter and clattering dishes.
As the initial food frenzy settled into comfortable fullness, Eamond's ears naturally tuned into the surrounding din. The Kettle was packed with people unwinding after the festival's final push, and gossip flowed as freely as the ale.
"...heard it straight from the palace stables," a merchant type was saying a few tables over, his voice carrying. "Marquess Albert? Rolled into the capital just days before the tournament finale. Horses near foundered. Must've ridden through the night."
"Rushed back for his boy?" another voice asked.
