The Dwarven King's ale keg was cracked open precisely at two minutes past nine, and Rumina dutifully logged the delay in her notebook without uttering a single complaint.
The hall that had been crammed with neatly arranged chairs that morning had undergone a total metamorphosis. Long banquet tables stretched from end to end, overflowing with white chrysanthemums, while low-hanging electric lights cast a warm golden hue over every face in the room. Massive basins of piping hot rendang sent plumes of steam into the air. Duke Hektor's bread was stacked in the corner like an edible fortress.
In the center of the hall, an Eastmarch lute player plucked out a rapid, lively tune, and absolutely no one was dancing to the actual rhythm.
Roland stood near the dessert table holding an empty plate, having completely failed to secure any actual food. Every single time he reached for a dish, someone clapped him on the shoulder, pulled him into a hug, or offered tear-choked congratulations.
