As the feast carried on—music rising, wine flowing, and the smell of roasted game thick in the air—Alpheo sat slightly reclined, his mind far from the clamor. Eyes half-lidded, he mulled over maps and diplomatic projections in the theater of his thoughts, trying to shape the shifting politics of the Chorsi and their neighbors like a potter with wet, unyielding clay.
So engrossed was he in this mental sculpture that he failed to notice the shadow approaching his side until it spoke.
"Is everything all right, Alph?"
The familiar voice was slurred ever so slightly, warm with wine and honey.
Alpheo blinked, turning his head to find Asag standing over him, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy with the comfortable daze of half-drunken joy. Without waiting for permission, Asag dropped himself into the empty seat beside him—once Egil's, now claimed by no-one.
