The great tent, vast as a cathedral, rose like a mountain of silk and gold against the fading light of the evening. It was the same tent where the terms of peace had been hammered out, word by word, blow by blow—and now it stood ready to host the feast that would mark the end of the war. Yet, for all its splendor, the air inside was tense, heavy with expectation.
The lords of the royal host sat within, their finest garments gleaming in the lamplight—velvets and furs, brocades stitched with tiny golden threads, swords at their belts and signet rings flashing on their fingers. Men who had bled and killed for the Crown, now gathering to celebrate the victory that would be sung for a hundred years.
