They didn't call it a feast. To call it a feast would imply a celebration, and there's a specific kind of superstition in the North that says if you laugh too loudly before a subjugation, the mountains will hear you and find a way to silence the noise. Instead, it was simply "The Night of the High Fire."
It wasn't just a tradition. It served as a final, defiant stand against the encroaching shadow of the Subjugation before the gates were thrown open and the soldiers marched into the mouth of the storm.
It was the "Last Call" for comfort. The vibe was strange, not exactly a party, but not quite a funeral either. It was more like a collective deep breath. Everyone was soaking in the light, trying to memorize the feeling of a warm chair and a full belly.
The Great Hall of the Valtrane fortress smelled of woodsmoke, wet wool, and the kind of heavy, heart-stopping stew that was meant to stick to a man's ribs for three days. Two days remained before the march began.
