[Frojnholm—Celebration Night—Leif's POV]
The night had fallen like someone tossed a giant velvet blanket over the sky, pinning it down with a thousand glittering stars. Torches and lanterns lined the square, casting everything in a golden glow that made the air feel warmer and softer.
And me? I was sitting in the front row. Yes. The chief guest seat. Big-boy chair, carved wood, fancy cushion. Like some kind of mini-throne. My crimson babies sat beside me, tails wagging like tiny metronomes of judgment.
"Wow…" I muttered, my mouth already watering.
Not because of the dancing, but because the villagers had set up trays of food for the guests, and right in front of me was something that looked suspiciously like fried dumplings stuffed with cheese.
"Focus, my lord," Sir Ronald coughed beside me, looking like an old, stern owl.
I nodded very seriously. "Of course. Yes. Cultural appreciation mode activated."
