Three days after the banquet, the grand hall of Iron Hearth was so quiet Rumina could hear the scratch of her own pen.
The Dwarven King had departed first, hauling his empty keg and a beard that still reeked of ale. The Luminara delegation left the following day. The dragons took to the skies from the East Gate early that morning, and just before Zarkhan shifted into his true form, Rumina had marched right up and shoved an invoice into his hands: one curtain for twelve coins, thirty bales of hay, and six bowls of the Emperor's chicken congee.
"Six?" Zarkhan counted on his fingers, bewildered. "I only saw him eat three."
"Three before the banquet, three after," Rumina answered without lifting her eyes from her ledger. "He ate them secretly in the kitchen at two in the morning. The chef filed a report."
Zarkhan accepted the parchment with both hands and didn't bother arguing.
