By midafternoon the garden table was set again beneath the vines—bread scored deep, olives glistening in their dish, a roast cooling while steam curled into the warm air. The courtyard wore that easy hush the keep had learned after victory: work done, laughter ready.

  The gate creaked. Two figures stepped through with the unhurried certainty of men who belonged.

  Bradan came first—tall, bald head catching the sun, cloak sun-bleached at the hem. A longbow rode his shoulder like it had grown there; his forearms were rope-strong, fingers callused smooth by strings and fletching. He smiled as he crossed the stones, the kind of smile that made space instead of taking it.

  Beside him, Gung moved like water finding a path—compact, sinewed, hair drawn back, knuckles scarred and clean. Plain wraps at his wrists, sandals silent on the flagstones. Where Bradan announced himself with a grin, Gung arrived by simply being there, a stillness that suggested speed.

  Nell was on his feet first, tankard already raised. “Look what the coast washed in! About time.”

  “Had to stop and remind a few bandits what manners are,” Bradan said, setting his pack down with a thud that spoke of long miles. He clapped Petric once, firm and familiar. “Brother.”

  “Brother,” Petric returned, and the word landed like a promise.

  Gung bowed just enough to be polite, then straightened into his usual calm. “If there is food, I’ll pretend I came for fellowship and not the lamb.”

  “Pretend all you like,” Jorlan murmured, dry. “We’ll know the truth when the bones are bare.”

  Gung’s mouth twitched. “Says the scholar who eats like a soldier.”

  “Gentlemen,” Kelara said, but she was smiling as she waved them toward the benches.

  They squeezed in where they could: Bradan between Lysa and Nell, Gung across from Jorlan as if fate enjoyed a good argument. Plates went round. Wine was poured. The first wedge of bread vanished, then the second.

  “I’m just saying, if we’re voting on who’s best with a blade—“ Nell said around a mouthful.

  “It isn’t a vote, it’s me,” Petric said, not quite hiding the smirk.

  “The loudest in the room is often the least skilled,” Gung observed, serene.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Bradan laughed. “We can settle it after dessert. I’ll set targets.”

  “Or,” Jorlan cut in, “we can enjoy one meal without a duel.”

  “Please, Jorlan,” Kelara said, though the laugh was in her voice, “don’t tempt them.”

  Jerric had his eye on Bradan’s bow. “What draw do you favor?”

  “Whatever the moment needs,” Bradan replied. “Hard truth of archery: the arrow doesn’t care about pride. It cares about angles.”

  Lysa nudged his quiver with a fingertip, curious as a cat. “Fletch with goose or gull?”

  “Goose for distance,” he said. “Gull if the wind lies.”

  Conversation spun outward the way good talk does: Jorlan and Gung bickering amiably over training methods—“discipline is physics,” “no, physics serves discipline”—Nell recounting the arm-wrestle as if neither he nor Jerric had quite lost; Lysa stealing the last olive with criminal efficiency; Bradan translating the village’s gratitude into a promise to repair their rooftops after harvest.

  Kelara watched the motion of it all, then set her cup down, thoughtful. “You think this is lively?” she said lightly. “Wait until my brothers arrive.”

  Jerric blinked. “They’re coming?”

  “I sent word,” Kelara said, casual as sun on stone. “Solin and Tank. And their wives—Clarien and Josira. If I know them, they’ll come as a set.” She glanced at Petric, not asking permission so much as letting him see the shape of the future. “Calmyra took me in. Isaluma won’t leave me to hold this ground alone.”

  Nell whistled. “New hands for the work and new mouths for the wine.”

  “Order more barrels,” Jorlan said, deadpan.

  Kelara’s smile curved. “Nan and Pop used to say we’d never fit around one table if the family kept growing. Pop with his spectacles, pretending he could read the board. Nan calling him a cheat every time.”

  Petric’s hand brushed hers beneath the table, his voice low for her alone. “They’d be proud of you, Kel.”

  Her eyes softened, and for a moment the noise of the hall bent around memory, before the laughter surged back.

  The light slid lower through the vines. Plates thinned. Someone—probably Nell—started a low song that never remembered its own melody; Bradan found the tune anyway. Gung took his time with what was left on his plate and still somehow finished first.

  Petric let the sound roll over him. The faces around the table—old friends, new brothers, his children leaning into their places as if they had never been anywhere else. For one long breath the war felt like weather beyond the wall.

  Above them, the lion banner stirred in the evening breeze, and the house of Alfareth ate like a family that meant to stay.

  The warmth lingered, carried on the clatter of plates and the scrape of knives. Bradan leaned back with his cup. “This is the first decent meal I’ve had in weeks. Careful, I might never leave.”

  “Careful, Brady,” Nell said, flashing him a grin. “You stay too long and I’ll have you hauling barrels with me at dawn.”

  Bradan rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. “Been called worse. At least you’ll keep me fed.”

  Jorlan smirked over his wine. “Fed, maybe. Alive? That depends on how loud you snore.”

  Laughter stirred around the table. Kelara nudged Petric lightly, low enough only he could hear. “Eat, Pete. The stew won’t win itself.”

  Petric’s eyes flicked to her—half a warning, half an amused surrender. He let the nickname pass, though the curl at the edge of his mouth betrayed him.

  The noise rose again, old friends and new brothers leaning into rhythms that already felt lived-in. For the span of a supper, war belonged to tomorrow.