Once the final bites of dessert were taken and the last murmurs of appreciation faded, the atmosphere in the hall began to thin. Full stomachs brought sluggish limbs, and even the liveliest knights started rubbing tired eyes or stretching stiff shoulders. It wasn't late—not even close to nightfall—but after weeks of marching, fighting, and the emotional whiplash of returning home, the evening might as well have been midnight.
One by one, chairs scraped back. Groups trickled toward the doors in loose clusters, some still chatting quietly, others walking in comfortable silence. The hall that had moments ago radiated life now softened into a calmer glow.
Luke remained seated for a moment longer, watching the slow exodus. Then he leaned slightly toward King Alf.
"Your Majesty… a question," he said casually, as though asking about the weather. "How's Archimedes doing?"
King Alf paused mid-conversation with his queen and shifted his attention to Luke, eyebrows lifting faintly.
