The Birthday Banquet

The walk to the edge of Thorneby was nothing like drifting through the other districts.

Here, the cobblestones were intermingled with open earth, long rows of green plants tucked neatly between buildings. Each patch contained barley, beans, and herbs to name a few. Rooftop gardens sprouted on every building in sight, their vines spilling down like curtains over balconies. Glass domes rose in the distance, lit faintly from within, their humid glow tinting the dusk sky with shades of green and gold. This definitely was a city of agricultural focus.

Willow leaned against a low fence as they walked by, grinning at a goat that blinked back at her with eerie silence. “So what I’m hearing is this is basically a petting zoo district. Joren, maybe you should celebrate your birthday with a couple of chickens instead of us.”

Joren laughed under his breath. The tidy rows, the clucks of hens, the smell of fresh-cut grass, it all tugged at old memories of Hazel’s farm. Except Hazel’s fields had been wild, full of weeds in the corners, and animals that did whatever they pleased. Here, it was all controlled like someone had written farming into law.

He shifted the sling on his shoulder and looked down the road, where the glow of houses and buildings marked their destination. Nyra walked a few paces ahead, crisp even without her clipboard, the faintest smile tugging at her mouth. Her dress made her look like a completely different person. It was breathtaking to anyone they passed.

Oppositely, the same people that saw Nyra also saw a band of people dressed in suits, leather jackets, pirate attire, and noblewear. Each one had a perplexed face as they passed.

“This way,” she said. “I prepared a banquet room for us to use. I even had some catering prepared in advance from a great place.”

Bart clasped his hands behind his back, nodding like a statesman. “At last, recognition befitting our stature. A banquet room! Prepared in our honor!"

They followed Nyra down the street, passing by the small creek running outside all of the stone-fronted halls. Lanterns glowed along the walls, each flame illuminating off of the etched glass and casting little patterns on the ground. The building she stopped at wasn’t a palace or grand venue, but it was respectable and quite upper-end all things considered.

Inside, the air was warm with the scent of roasted herbs and bread. Nyra talked a moment with a worker as she pointed the rest of them down the right hallway and said "It's the last door on your left, we have the whole room."

A long table stretched one wall, filled with six metal lidded heaters, a large basket of bread rolls and some utensils. Another long table in the center was filled with pitchers of water, bottles of alcohol, and cups.

Nyra slipped back into the room a moment later, her hands clasped neatly in front of her like she was preparing to brief them in Chamber Three rather than host a birthday party. “Everything is ready,” she announced. “The spread covers a variety of local dishes: roast chicken with herbs, root vegetables braised in honey, fresh breads from three different bakers, with a plethora of other main courses. You are sure to find something to your liking."

Bart leaned sideways to whisper toward Gus. “She totally rehearsed that.”

Gus responded in turn. "I think that was the reason she was talking to the worker outside, so she could get the rundown on it and sound like she knew the whole time."

Nyra’s eyes flicked like daggers, but she pressed on. “The room is ours for the night, so you’re free to talk, eat, and… enjoy yourselves without interruption.” She cleared her throat, clearly flustered by the weight of so many eyes on her. Then, after the briefest pause, she added with unusual softness: “So, dig in!”

That was all it took.

Bart immediately broke rank, swooping down the buffet line like a pirate raiding a treasury. He flipped open lids and stacked rolls onto his plate until it looked like a bread mountain. “If anyone asks, I’m just grabbing some for a friend."

Willow rolled her eyes, setting her own plate down with a clatter. “Yeah, a friend who happens to be named Bart. Don’t think I didn’t see that."

He came back around for another plate of regular food afterwards.

Joren eased down the line at a slower pace, careful with his sling as he tried to balance plate and tongs at once. Gus eventually sighed and took over the serving for him, muttering, “You’d drop the chicken in the gravy if I let you handle this.”

“Would not.” Joren protested weakly, though his grateful look and sudden relaxation gave him away.

By the time everyone sat down, the long table was already cluttered with plates, pitchers, and enough crumbs to map the kingdom.

Nyra, seated across from Joren, tried to maintain her posture, but as Bart attempted to balance a fork on his nose and nearly launched it into his mountain of rolls, her composure cracked into a laugh.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, still chuckling.

Willow caught it instantly, leaning across with a grin. “See? You can relax. Careful though, if you keep smiling like that, people will think you’re actually a human.”

Nyra flushed, hiding behind her wine glass.

Bart slammed his cup down with enough force to slosh water over the rim. “A toast! To Joren, whose birthday brings us together! To Willow, who forces us into questionable shops! To Gus, who provides unwavering support! And to me, the backbone of this entourage!”

“Backbone?” Gus snorted. “You’re more like an appendix. Loud, unpredictable, and probably unnecessary.”

Laughter rattled the table again, plates shifting as Willow nearly fell against Nyra’s shoulder.

Through it all, a cloaked figure began watching them from the doorway.

Nyra cleared her throat, straightening her posture again as though regaining control of a chamber meeting. “Since it is a birthday,” she said, her eyes flicking toward the untouched bottles lined neatly in the center, “it seems only proper we open at least one of those...”

Bart’s head swiveled like a hawk sighting prey. “Alcohol?”

“Yes,” Nyra replied surely. “And before you say anything—”

“I’ll pass,” Bart interrupted, raising both hands in mock surrender. “I don't drink."

That surprised everyone slightly, but it also seemed in-character for him. They moved on.

Willow snorted, already reaching for the cork on a dark bottle. “Suit yourself. More for us.”

Gus grabbed the corkscrew and began undoing another bottle like he’d done it a hundred times, popping it free with a neat twist. He poured a careful measure into the nearest cups. The smell was sharp and rich, filling the air above the bread and roast meats.

The scent unfurled almost instantly, rich and layered. Dark fruits hit first — cherries, plums, blackberries — ripe and almost sweet. Beneath that came an earthy tone damp soil after rain, oak wood slowly drying, and even a trace of tobacco leaf. At the edge of it all lingered a softer note: a hint of vanilla and chocolate carried on the back of the fruit.

Willow snagged hers immediately, swirling it with the casual air of experienced nobility, even going so far as to smelling it. Nyra seemed perplexed at that but decided to say nothing. She took a sip, smirked, and let out a satisfied sigh. “Burns just enough and has a wonderful aroma. I like it.”

Joren eyed his cup a little longer. Eighteen felt both too young and too old after everything he had been through. He lifted it carefully with his left hand, watching the light catch in the deep red liquid before finally taking a sip. The warmth spread slow, sharp at first, then easing into a sweetness that surprised him.

Gus followed suit, raising his glass with a short nod before drinking deep. He set it down with a grunt of approval. “Solid stuff. Better than anything I’ve had back home, that’s for sure.”

Nyra, of course, drank last, her movements measured. She tilted the glass just slightly, took a delicate sip, and let the flavor linger a moment. "Ooooh, this is my favorite!" She said, her body starting to shudder as a grin plastered upon her face.

Willow laughed, leaning across the table toward Joren. “Look at us. A bunch of rogues and rebels sipping like nobles. Bet you never thought your birthday would look like this.”

Joren chuckled, setting his glass down. “Definitely not what I pictured. Usually my birthdays involved a cake and some farmwork."

“Romantic,” Bart said flatly, still nursing his water. “Truly the stuff of legend.”

“Better than you, sitting there sober and smug,” Willow shot back. She raised her glass again, sloshing the wine dangerously close to the rim. “Fine then, let’s make it official. Birthday rule: everyone’s gotta tell a story. Embarrassing, dramatic, or downright stupid. No exceptions.”

Bart gasped as though struck. “Even me?”

“Especially you.” Gus said, already pouring himself another as he laughed.

The stories just kept getting weirder after each person, ending with Bart, of course. Through it all, the hooded figure snuck into the room unnoticed, making their way around.

“…so I’m dangling upside down from the chandelier, right? My coat’s caught on the hook, a turnip hit me in the head, and below me the entire bakery is in chaos. Flour everywhere, tables flipped, and in the middle of it all the baker’s screaming, ‘Don’t let the ferret win!’”

Bart slammed his palm flat against the table for emphasis. “I ask you, how was I supposed to know there was a ferret?"

Bart's wild story had everyone laughing. Nyra snorted a little, Willow had wine go through her nose, and Gus's hearty laugh felt booming. Even Joren was unusually loud in his laugh, too.

And then another laugh joined them.

It was low, smooth, and carried a tone that didn’t belong to the table of friends. It came from the corner, where the cloaked figure sat with his hood still half-shadowing his face. His shoulders shook with genuine amusement, the sound warm and unrestrained in a way none of them expected.

The laughter slowly turned the group's into silence as they turned, one by one.

“You know,” the man said, lifting his head just enough for the light to catch the sharp line of his jaw, “I’ve seen some wild excuses in my day, but ‘don’t let the ferret win’… that one’s new.”

"The King!!!" They all gasped in unison. Nyra shushed them immediately.

"Guys, be quiet! I invited him to join us, I hope that was alright..." Nyra stammered, glancing at the doorway to see if anyone overheard them.

The man waved a hand lazily, as though brushing away the weight of titles. “No need for that. Tonight, I’m just Julian, a friend that just came to eat and drink with you all."

Bart blinked, halfway to stuffing another roll into his mouth. “Wait. Does that mean… you are the ferret?”

The King laughed again, easier this time, leaning forward to pour himself a cup of wine as though he’d done it a thousand times before. “Not guilty."

Nyra tried to keep her face composed, but the red at the tips of her ears betrayed her. “Julian thought it might be refreshing to… mingle, without the weight of position.”

“Refreshing?” Willow said, grinning like a wolf. “Julian, if you’re still around when the cake comes out, you’re singing.”

He raised his glass in salute. “If that’s the price of admission, so be it.”

Gus leaned back, shaking his head in disbelief. The King came to eat with them after terrifying them all only a few days prior.

Julian began tearing off a piece of bread with practiced ease and continued. “Better than another evening locked in Crownspire listening to people argue about barley quotas.”

That got them laughing again, the tension cracking for good. Joren found himself smiling, the throne room a memory instead of a warning. For tonight at least, the King wasn’t the Arbiter of Will, he was just another guest at the table.

Nyra cleared her throat, setting her glass down. “Before we get carried away with cake…” She reached under the table and brought out a small, square bundle wrapped in dark cloth. “We all agreed you should have this.”

Bart leaned forward, hands steepled like a villain. “A relic, forged in fire, imbued with destiny—”

“—bought from a jeweler three blocks over,” Gus cut in, deadpan. “We all chipped in.”

Joren blinked as Nyra slid it across the table. The weight was cool in his palm when he unwrapped it: an amulet on a silver chain. The design was based on an old heraldic symbol, a sun in splendour. At its heart sat a simple bulged disc, etched faintly with a human-like face whose features were softened. With a press, the face popped open to reveal a hollow space inside.

“You can keep something in it,” Willow explained, her grin softer than usual. “Something to remind you of home. Or, you know, snacks if you’re desperate.”

Bart gasped. “A holy vessel for cheese, perhaps!”

“Or a future girlfriend.” Nyra said sharply, cheeks pink.

"Maybe even a picture of all of us." Gus added.

Joren turned it over once, twice, tracing the wiggling star lines with his thumb. The shape caught the lamplight strangely, bending it into tiny gleams. His throat tightened. “I… don’t know what to say.”

“‘Thank you’ usually works,” Gus said, but his smile betrayed the tease.

Joren looked up at all of them, warmth flooding his chest despite the ache of old bruises. “Thank you guys. This means a lot to me."

The door creaked open again, and one of the workers Nyra had spoken to earlier wheeled in a cart. Atop it sat a cake so white and polished it almost glowed, thick frosting wrapped smooth across its surface and dotted with sugared fruit.

Nyra cleared her throat, trying to regain her air of composure. “I, uh… thought it appropriate to arrange something traditional: cake for the birthday.”

“Traditional?” Bart gasped, already reaching for a knife. “This is fantastic!"

“Hands off,” Willow barked, snatching the knife away. She cut the first slice with exaggerated care, sliding it onto a plate and presenting it to Joren with a bow. “The birthday boy eats first.”

Joren blinked at the towering wedge of frosting and fruit, chuckling nervously as everyone stared until he took a bite. Sweetness hit first, then the faint tartness of the sugared berries. “It’s good,” he managed, which was all it took to set Bart lunging for the cart.

Plates clattered. Frosting smeared. Somehow Willow ended up with a glob of icing on her fingers, one she promptly smeared across Bart’s cheek.

He froze, eyes wide. “War.”

But before he could retaliate, Gus of all people leaned in and streaked frosting across Bart’s other cheek like a paintbrush. Bart shrieked in horror.

That was when it escalated.

Willow’s laughter rang out, Nyra tried to hide behind her napkin, and Julian was chuckling in his seat until Willow turned on him with a grin and dabbed frosting square across his nose.

The entire table froze for half a second.

Then the King smeared a glob of his frosting onto Gus with all the grace of a common brawler. Nyra’s composure cracked into startled laughter, her voice lighter than they’d ever heard right up until Bart came from the side and got her, too.

Nyra gasped, eyes blazing, but then even she laughed, wiping it away with the corner of her sleeve. “You’re all impossible.”

Then she smeared hers on Joren, letting the chaos take her over too.

By then the wine had worked its way into every vein of all of them except Bart. Bart climbed onto the bench, raising his cup like a captain. “To chaos!”

“To chaos!” the rest shouted, sloshing wine across the table.

It wasn’t long until it escalated even more.

The music wasn’t real, but they made their own filled with clapping, stomping, and singing half-remembered verses to drinking songs until Willow started pounding out a rhythm on the table with her fists. Joren felt himself dragged into it before he even thought to resist, standing on the table with Gus and Julian on both sides of him, their arms over his shoulder.

Bart was on a chair conducting like a madman, shouting out verses that barely rhymed, while Willow danced across the benches with frosting still streaked in her hair. Nyra tried—truly tried—to look exasperated, but the flush in her cheeks betrayed her as she started singing just as loud to a song a few of them remembered all the lyrics to. Everyone, except Bart, was in that drunken stupor that caused elation and inhibition to their judgement.

Bart’s conducting got wilder and faster, his hands swishing through the air like he was leading an orchestra of lunatics instead of half-drunk friends. “Louder! Louder! If the farmers can’t hear us from their domes, we’ve failed!”

Willow kicked a bread roll down the room like a soccer ball, laughing so hard she nearly toppled into Nyra. Nyra caught her, swaying with the motion, and for a moment she gave in, toppling over. Soon they both joined in with the singing again, their voices carried with surprising strength when bellowing the chorus, cheeks red from the wine.

Julian stomped in time, his hood slipped back, and the light caught the sharp edges of his face as if to remind them who he really was. And yet he laughed louder than anyone, one hand steadying Joren as the boy nearly tripped on a loose roll underfoot.

By then, the table itself was an instrument, their stomps and claps rattling the plates like cymbals. The workers must’ve heard them down the hall, but no one dared interrupt.

Then the three standing on the table began to tap dance for whatever reason.

Plates rattled. Crumbs scattered. Someone’s half-finished glass toppled and spread a red stain across the table cover. None of them cared.

For Joren, the night blurred into heat, sound, and light that he would soon never remember the ending to, as all blackout nights ended up being.