The celebration in Westmont stretched far into the night, but even as the first light of dawn touched the horizon, the echoes of laughter and song still lingered in the air.
The town had earned its moment of joy, and after everything they had endured, they indulged without restraint.
The mugs of ale didn't stop moving around as men and women drank to their fill. None of them had plans to leave.
By morning, almost every warrior and mercenary lay fast asleep, their bodies finally succumbing to exhaustion.
The streets were littered with discarded mugs, half-eaten meals, and the occasional unconscious drunk who hadn't quite made it to a proper resting place.
In fact, over eighty percent of them hadn't gotten a proper resting place. They were all scattered around the celebration area, sleeping and snoring happily.
Damien, however, was not among them.
Sleep had not come for him. At least, not yet.
