Balthor's question lingered in the air, heavy with something that had nothing to do with armies.
Noel leaned back slightly in his chair, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. For once, the answer came without calculation.
"Pretty well," he said. Then, almost casually, "You're going to be an uncle, Balthor."
For a full second, the King of Tharvaldur did not move.
His eyes widened.
His mouth opened.
The mug slipped from his hand and hit the stone floor with a dull crack, ale spreading across the polished surface as he stared at Noel like he had just misheard the world itself.
"…What?"
Before Noel could elaborate, Balthor surged to his feet.
"You're joking."
"I'm not."
The next instant, Noel was no longer sitting.
Balthor crossed the distance in two heavy strides and wrapped both arms around him with the kind of force only a dwarf king possessed. Noel felt his boots leave the ground as Balthor lifted him cleanly, shaking him once in sheer disbelief.
