As the formal rituals dissolved into the chaos of a true Northern celebration, the empire outside the palace walls came alive. In the market districts, taverns spilled into the streets, the imperial treasury providing free casks of vintage wine that fueled wild drinking games and sea shanties.
Even in the outer districts, where the scars of the demon attack were still fresh, the grief was tempered by a bittersweet joy. Memorial sites were covered in ice-flowers, and toasts were raised to those who had been lost—and to the woman who had saved the survivors.
Inside the hall, the scene was turning gloriously messy. Old Lord Thaddeus, in an ill-advised attempt to impress a young lady with a minor frost-cantrip, managed to freeze his long, white beard to the edge of the mahogany table. He sat stuck, unable to move his head, while servants rushed forward with warm cloths to thaw him amidst the howling laughter of his peers.
