Winter Solstice was near.
And just like every single year, without fail and mercy, without the basic human decency to ask before descending like a plague of well-meaning locusts, Arkai Dawnoro's pesky beastlord "friends" were gathering to bother him.
Knowing he was residing at his Capital Residence this time of year, they had descended enthusiastically, coordinated like a natural disaster.
Food appeared. Alcohol materialized. The kitchens, which had been operating at a calm, reasonable pace appropriate for a noble household—
…were suddenly commandeered by a rotating cast of beasts who all claimed to have brought "the good venison" and "a cask of that mead you liked twenty years ago, remember?" and "my grandmother's recipe, you'll love it, shut up and eat."
Of course, Arkai was the only one uninformed.
Everyone else, the servants, the guards, the kitchen staff, perhaps even Cecilia herself, had been notified days in advance.
