63

You awake with a headache that is completely unconnected to your level of drink.

There's a cauldron of porridge bubbling in the breakfast area when you bestir yourself, and a cluster of your compatriots locked in whispered conference. Your attention is piqued immediately.

"What ho, Bandochel—have you heard?"

"That's awfully difficult for me to answer," you quip, filling a wooden bowl and blowing on its contents.

"We had a Royal in our midst last night," says the musician, tucking a lock of hair back into her sable snood. "'Twas Prinxe Hail, the very Heir to the Throne!"

Onward