Percy sank into the chair like a man three times his age, limbs heavy with the weight of too much conversation and just enough wine. The celebration had gone well—surprisingly well, if he were being honest. No fights, no sabotage, no impromptu duels in the courtyard. Just clinking glasses, shallow flattery, and the sort of laughter people perform when they want to be remembered fondly. Now, hours later, here he was, dressed to the nines in deep blue but sitting like a heap of laundry. His head tilted back, eyes closed. The ceiling, blank and unjudging, was his favorite conversational partner at the moment.

Then—footsteps. Soft but deliberate. Percy’s brow twitched. Everyone was accounted for. The twins were out cold, Grog had snored himself into another plane, Scanlan left with a few women, Pike was snoring away, same went for Keyleth, and no one else should be awake. No one else should be moving. Without lifting his head, his hand slid to the pistol lying on the desk like an old friend. He wasn’t alarmed—just… quietly annoyed. As always. His thumb brushed the metal. “If you’re here to kill me,” he murmured, cracking one eye open, “I beg you do it quietly. The others need their rest,”

“And I’m absolutely exhausted.” Percy continued, completely relaxed and calm despite the potentially bad—better yet, threatening situation. Arrogance, perhaps a little bit of confidence, especially in his abilities to protect himself, his home, and his sleeping friends all while himself sleepy and halfway drunk out of his mind. The funny part? He could quite literally still make the shot if need be. Though he did make a mental note to cut back on the drinking.