All the elves took Luca's words to heart.
In that moment, something shifted—centuries of quiet obedience cracked open.
They looked at one another, saw the same fire in each other's eyes, and the celebration exploded with renewed, defiant joy.
They partied like the world was ending—or beginning anew.
Dancing circles widened around the bonfire.
Songs rose—old ones, new ones, improvised ones about the Hero who turned exile into triumph.
Alcohol flowed freely: sweet berry wines, sharp root spirits, honey meads passed hand to hand.
Laughter echoed through the canopy.
And by the time the moons were halfway down the sky, the party had gone on for hours.
The fire crackled lower, its brilliant blaze reduced to a softer golden hue. The ground was littered with empty mugs, plates, and half-eaten loaves of bread.
One by one, the elves began to falter.
Some were slumped over tables, others were dragging their exhausted friends by the arm or over their shoulders.
