The manor, now under Bloodbane control, had begun to settle into a strange sort of quiet. Outside, the fires had died down, leaving behind smoke curling lazily into the sky. Knights wandered the grounds, some rounding up the last of the prisoners—Akerians too wounded or too broken to fight back. They were marched off in lines, heads low, their chains clinking faintly against the stone.
Others, though? They were already halfway to drunk.
A few barrels of wine had been cracked open—courtesy of the DeLambre cellars—and the courtyard echoed now with clinks of metal mugs and the occasional burst of laughter. Someone had started a song. It was off-key, half-forgotten, but the rhythm was there, and that was enough. After all, what better way to celebrate than with strong drink and stronger stories?
