Logan's POV
The feast is still raging when I return, a blur of laughter and clinking goblets and the delicate shimmer of harp-strings. The sun is setting and the orange light make the beautiful elves' hair glow like gems spun into fine threads.
The dwarves warning is only a distant memory. Whatever tales they have about Alfheim and it's inhabitants must be in the past. After all, they are isolationists. They must've heard of King Althir's father and believed his tyranny and monstrosity to be true for all of them.
I know now that it's not.
The smell of roasted meat hangs heavy in the air, thick, sweet and cloying. It crawls down my throat, nestles in my gut, gnaws at me until I can't think about anything else. It's not hunger but the memory of it; the urge to fill my mouth with it and be transported back home.
I sink back into my seat, glance once at Dad— still swirling his wine, still refusing to drink— and then reach forward.
