Alpheo leaned back into the plush silk of his seat, his eyes drifting shut while his ears perked up to the shifting rhythm of the hall. He had never been a man for the ruckus; his soul craved the soothing, structured melodies of a well-played harp over the chaotic din of a victory celebration. The previous backdrop of pounding drums and wailing flutes had served as a well enough canvas for the tavern songs.
They sang of Dirty Alice, the Village Soldier, and an endless cycle of Three Princes,so many, in fact, that one might think there were hundreds of sovereigns crowded into the room. Yet, the greatest surprise of the evening was Jarza. The Legate of the Primogenia had finally allowed his sobriety and his usual aloofness to slip out the door, joined by a chorus of voices and a belly full of wine.
"I became old enough to want something more,
It was finally time to get me a vice!
'Go to Alice, go to Alice,' his friends kept on saying,
Mugs and froth, all the way to the broth!
