it was a mystery why dorian bothered throwing such extravagant parties and gala's after the war and he had taken the crown. he supposed it was nice, his friends all together in one place. the journey had been long, especially considering chaol was still unable to fully walk on his own after his accident. he was grateful for his wife, yrene, for coming along and helping him around. their daughter, torra, had also accompanied them.

both rowan and aelin had made the journey, the white haired fae seemingly just as content as chaol to stand scowling in a corner whilst the ladies (and dorian) gossiped. even manon had showed, something dorian was all too estastic about in chaol's opinion.

perhaps he should be more talkative. strike up a conversation with someone; have a drink and maybe even a couple laughs. this just felt all too familiar, though. he was stiff. tense. halfway leaning against a wall in a corner, his hand white-knuckle gripping the cane in his opposite hand. "a waste of time," he muttered underneath his breath, pushing off the wall to make his way to a table of drinks.