The end of the tent had descended into chaos.
Plates clattered and shattered on the ground, goblets toppled and spilled wine like blood across the floor. Men shouted over one another, a tangle of angry voices mixing with the heavy thuds of bodies pushing and shoving to get a better look. The long tables trembled under the shifting weight of the crowd, and somewhere a lute screeched in protest as a musician was jostled hard.
Alpheo rose sharply from his seat, his voice cracking like a whip over the confusion,"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!?"
Before he could stride forward, a hand — firm, calloused, and impossibly steady — clapped down on his shoulder. Shahab, seated close by, had already sprung into action. His hawkish eyes were fixed coldly on the chaos ahead, but his voice was calm as still water.
