The Great Hall had lost its solemn air.
That night it had transformed into a sanctuary of soft lights and whispers.
The torches remained unlit, and in their place, hundreds of candles floated in the air like captive fireflies, spilling golden flickers onto the stone walls. Shadows danced to the rhythm of the flames, projecting figures that seemed alive.
The enormous central table had been replaced by one of dark wood, shorter, more intimate. Atop it rested garlands of winter flowers intertwined with silver branches, and carved crystal glasses that reflected light like fragments of the moon. The air smelled of spiced wine, roasted meat, and wood burning in the fireplace. Like home. Like truce.
