The courtyard had long since surrendered to the night.
Mattresses had been dragged out across the flagstones, layered in careless piles where nobles and retainers sprawled in various states of undress and drunkenness.
Braziers burned low, their smoke thick with the sweet, heavy scent of whatever leaf the household staff had been paid extra to keep feeding into the flames.
Wine moved freely—jugs passed hand to hand, cups refilled without ceremony. Laughter came in bursts, then died, then rose again, the earlier terror of the crater already being drowned under drink and the stubborn human need to pretend the world was still ordinary.
Milan had his men take care of the pit; it would be just like before by the time the sun rose.
Most of the important guests had either left or found private corners.
Verawati and Anchali had withdrawn an hour earlier, the former with a final, measuring glance in Jolthar's direction before disappearing into the villa's deeper halls.
