The boys' locker room had been transformed into what could generously be described as a controlled riot, and less generously as the kind of chaos that would make seasoned military commanders weep into their strategy manuals.

Seventeen sweaty teenagers, their assorted family members, three academy professors, a handful of bewildered first-years who'd wandered in by accident, and Coach Viriam—who was currently standing on a bench wielding a Krozball like some demented tribal chieftain—had somehow managed to cram themselves into a space originally designed for maybe eight people to change clothes in relative peace.

"XERKES! XERKES! XERKES!" they chanted, the sound bouncing off tile walls and creating an acoustic nightmare that would haunt Adom's dreams for weeks.

Adom himself sat in the corner, still in his street clothes, watching the festivities.

Two weeks. Two weeks of what Coach Viriam had breathlessly described as "the most intense qualifying series in Xerkes Academy history," and Adom had spent every single match exactly where he was now—on the bench, watching other people sweat.

Not that he was bitter.

Much.

The qualifying tournament had been, by any objective measure, a masterpiece of strategic athletics. Game one against Millhaven Academy: 31-28, with Damus scoring the winning goal in the final thirty seconds. Game two versus the Goldridge Institute: 24-21, decided when Serena executed what the academy newspaper had dubbed "The Leap of Certain Death" to intercept a pass that would have tied the game. Game three against Westport Military College had been the closest—18-17, won when Talef managed to thread a shot through a gap so narrow it violated several laws of physics.

Three games. Three victories. Not a single minute of playing time for their newly minted "star" Spear.

"Strategic reserve," Coach Viriam had explained after the first match, while Adom sat on the bench watching them celebrate with all the enthusiasm of people who'd just discovered fire. "Can't show our secret weapon too early. Element of surprise. Ancient tactical wisdom."

"You mean you don't want to upset Serena by benching her," Adom had replied.

"That too," Viriam had admitted with startling honesty. "Have you seen what she does when she's angry? Last year she put Jenkins through a wall. An actual wall, Sylla. Masonry was involved."

The second match had brought a different excuse: "Team chemistry," Viriam explained, gesturing vaguely at the field where blue and red jerseys were engaged in what looked like an organized brawl. "Can't disrupt the flow when everything's working. It's like... like conducting an orchestra. You don't swap out the violinist in the middle of a symphony."

"Even if the violinist is playing off-key?" Adom had asked.

"Serena doesn't play off-key," Viriam had said defensively. "She plays... aggressively in-key."

By the third match, the coach had given up on elaborate justifications entirely. "Look, kid," he'd said, not unkindly, "you'll get your chance. But right now, they're winning. And in sports, as in life, you don't fix what isn't broken."

"Even if it could be improved?"

"Especially then. Improvement is the enemy of victory. I read that somewhere."

"I don't think that's how the saying goes."

"My version is better."

And now here they were, qualified for the inter-academy championship, with Serena being hoisted on Damus's shoulders while someone's younger sister had somehow acquired a Krozball and was attempting to bounce it off every available surface. Talef was leading what appeared to be a traditional victory chant, though Adom was fairly certain he was making up at least half the words.

"MIGHTY XERKES! XERKES MIGHTY! WE'RE THE BEST AND THAT'S NOT FLIGHTY!"

Poetry was clearly not Talef's calling.

Sam materialized beside Adom's bench, having fought his way through the crowd with two cups of what looked suspiciously like frosties from the Weird Stuff Store.

"Having fun yet?" he asked, offering one of the cups.

"Oh, tremendously," Adom replied, accepting the drink. "Nothing I enjoy more than watching other people celebrate achievements I contributed absolutely nothing to."

"You contributed moral support."

"I contributed bench-warming. There's a difference."

Sam settled beside him, surveying the chaos. Someone had started drumming on the lockers with their gauntlet.

"Could be worse," Sam observed. "You could be up there getting tossed around like a victory trophy."

As if to emphasize his point, the crowd lifted Hugo bodily into the air, despite his protests that he was too heavy and this was a terrible idea and could everyone please put him down before someone got hurt.

"Good point," Adom conceded, taking a sip of his frosty.

"Besides," Sam continued, "you'll get your chance in the actual tournament. This was just qualifying. The real fun starts when we travel to—where was it again?"

"Lireth Academy first," Adom said. "Then Verron Institute. Then Aelwin Academy in Northhaven for the finals."

Northhaven. The whole reason he was sitting on this bench, watching teenagers celebrate with all the dignity of sugar-drunk toddlers.

The Giant Highlands were two weeks' travel from Northhaven. Two weeks through some of the most inhospitable terrain on the continent, but still achievable. Still possible.

He just had to survive the tournament first.

And, because his pride was hurt, actually get to play in it.

The celebration showed no signs of slowing down. If anything, it was gaining momentum. Someone had produced a banner reading "XERKES UNSTOPPABLE" in letters that appeared to have been painted with more enthusiasm than skill. Coach Viriam was now standing on two benches, having apparently decided that one bench was insufficient for his current level of triumph.

"BEHOLD!" he shouted, raising the Krozball above his head like a holy relic. "THE INSTRUMENT OF OUR GLORIOUS VICTORY! THE SPHERICAL EMBODIMENT OF XERKES SUPREMACY!"

"It's just a ball, Coach," Serena called out, still perched on Damus's shoulders.

"SILENCE, DOUBTER! THIS IS NO MERE BALL! THIS IS THE ORB OF DESTINY!"

"I think he's drunk," Damus observed with his usual tact.

"I'M DRUNK ON VICTORY!" Viriam declared. "AND ALSO ON ALE! BUT MOSTLY VICTORY!"

Adom caught himself almost smiling. Almost.

The celebration continued with the relentless enthusiasm of people who had just accomplished something they'd been told was impossible. Which, Adom reflected as he finished his frosty, was probably because it had been. This never happened in his old timeline.

Thirteen years. Thirteen years since Xerkes Academy had last qualified for the inter-academy championship. Thirteen years of what the local sports commentary had diplomatically termed "rebuilding seasons" and less diplomatically termed "comprehensive tactical disasters."

The whole city of Arkhos had apparently decided this was cause for celebration.

Through the locker room's small window, Adom could see lights blazing in the academy's courtyard, where students, faculty, and what appeared to be half the local population had gathered for an impromptu festival. Someone had strung colored lanterns between the buildings. A brass band was playing somewhere in the distance—badly, but with tremendous conviction.

It was, Adom had to admit, rather touching. In a loud, chaotic, thoroughly exhausting sort of way.

"I think," Sam said, having to raise his voice over Talef's latest attempt at victory poetry, "that Serena might actually murder someone if we lose the first match."

Adom glanced over to where Serena was holding court, explaining to a captive audience of younger students exactly how she planned to dismantle their upcoming opponents. Her gestures were becoming increasingly violent as she warmed to her subject.

"Damus looks motivated too," Adom observed.

Indeed, Damus was standing slightly apart from the main celebration, arms crossed, watching the festivities with the expression of someone mentally calculating the precise amount of training required to maintain their current momentum. Even in victory, he looked like he was planning the next battle.

It was possible that Adom's presence on the team had changed something fundamental about their approach. Not through any playing time he'd received, obviously, but through sheer proximity.

Or maybe they were just tired of losing. Sometimes the simplest explanations were the most accurate.

Either way, tomorrow he would be leaving Arkhos for the first time in months.

He'd already made his preparations, of course. A visit to Law's farm that morning to check on the dryads—who were thriving—and to see how Cyrel was settling in.

She'd found an unexpected home with Ben, the elderly farmer whose mage daughter had left for service in the capital. The old man had taken to Cyrel with the enthusiasm of someone who'd been living alone for too long and had forgotten how much he missed conversation over breakfast.

"Stay as long as you like," Ben had told her, bustling around his kitchen while Cyrel helped prepare lunch. "House gets too quiet with just me rattling around in it. Besides, you're handy with the garden magic—my vegetables have never looked better."

Cyrel had smiled and agreed to stay through the winter at least. It was the first time Adom had seen her look genuinely settled since her escape from the Fae Realm.

He wanted to ask her questions about her mother, about her own agenda, but she seemed to avoid the subject every time.

Adom decided to have a proper talk with her once he came back.

Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow the real journey would begin.

But tonight, apparently, was for celebrating with teenagers who had just discovered that determination and decent coaching could overcome thirteen years of institutional failure.

Adom supposed there were worse ways to spend his last evening in Arkhos.

***

The transition from locker room to street happened with the inexorable momentum of a natural disaster.

What had begun as a contained celebration of seventeen sweaty teenagers had somehow metastasized into a city-wide event that would likely be remembered in local history as either "The Night Arkhos Lost Its Mind" or "The Great Xerkes Uprising," depending on who was writing the official reports.

Adom found himself swept along in a tide of black and white—the academy colors—as Sam, Eren, and what appeared to be half the student body spilled out onto the main thoroughfare. The street, which on any normal evening would have been occupied by perhaps a dozen people walking purposefully toward sensible destinations, now resembled something between a military parade and a controlled riot.

"This is insane," Sam shouted over the noise, having to grab Eren's arm to prevent him from being carried away by a group of enthusiastic fourth-years who were attempting to start a conga line.

"This is brilliant," Eren corrected. "When's the next time we'll see anything like this?"

Adom, who had some rather specific ideas about when the next city-wide chaos might occur, kept his opinions to himself.

The city guards were, to put it diplomatically, struggling.

Captain Morris—recognizable by his name tag and increasingly red face and the way he was gesticulating at his subordinates—had stationed himself at the intersection of Academy Way and Crown Street, where he appeared to be conducting a losing battle against the laws of physics. Specifically, the law that stated you cannot fit three thousand celebrating citizens into a space designed for perhaps fifty.

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"PLEASE MAINTAIN ORDERLY CONDUCT!" he bellowed through what sounded like a voice amplification artifact. "THE CITY APPRECIATES YOUR ENTHUSIASM BUT REQUESTS—"

His words were drowned out by a fresh wave of cheering as someone hoisted a banner reading "XERKES: THIRTEEN YEARS IN THE MAKING" above the crowd. The banner was immediately seized by a rival group who had apparently prepared their own version: "XERKES: WORTH THE WAIT."

A brief but spirited argument ensued about which banner was more poetic.

"Fifty percent off all celebration pies!" called out Old Mari from her bakery stall, having apparently decided that if you couldn't beat market forces, you might as well profit from them. "Fifty percent off victory ales!"

"Seventy percent off!" countered Henrik the brewer from across the street. "And free pretzels with every purchase!"

Within minutes, the vendors would either be giving their goods away for free or engaging in actual combat. Possibly both.

"Look at that," Sam said, pointing toward the platform that had been erected near the fountain for the Crown Prince's trial proceedings. "Even the fancy people showed up."

Indeed, the collection of dignitaries who had traveled to Arkhos for Prince Kalyon's trial were standing in a cluster near the platform, looking like exotic birds who had accidentally wandered into a farmyard.

Two elves in formal court dress stood with the rigid posture of people who were culturally obligated to maintain dignity even while surrounded by complete chaos. A dwarf in what appeared to be ceremonial armor was taking notes in a small book, presumably documenting this event for future reference.

And there, near the edge of the group, stood a goblin.

The goblin was perhaps four feet tall, dressed in what looked like official diplomatic robes that had been tailored to fit his decidedly non-human proportions.

"Is that a goblin?" Eren asked.

"Yes," Adom replied simply.

"I've never seen a goblin before. Except for the librarian, but she doesn't really count because she's, you know, civilized."

The words hung in the air for a moment, during which Adom became aware that several conversations in their immediate vicinity had stopped.

The goblin's large ears twitched.

"Ah," said the goblin, his voice carrying clearly despite the crowd noise, "is good to know the young human thinks some of my people are 'civilized.' Is very generous, yes?"

Eren's face went through several shades of red in rapid succession. "Oh. Oh no. I didn't mean—that is, I wasn't trying to—"

"You think maybe I am not civilized?" the goblin continued, his tone remaining conversational but somehow acquiring an edge that could have cut glass. "You think maybe because I am not hiding in library with books, I am savage creature who eats human children for breakfast?"

"I'm sorry," Eren said quickly. "I really didn't mean to offend—"

"Is curious thing," the goblin continued, seemingly warming to his subject. "I am here as diplomatic representative of Goblin Confederation. I speak four languages. I have degree in international law from University of Valdris. But young human sees goblin and thinks, 'Ah, this one is not civilized like the nice quiet one with books.'"

The crowd around them had begun to form a circle, drawn by the unmistakable magnetism of potential conflict.

"Perhaps," Adom said mildly, stepping slightly forward, "we could consider that Mr...?"

"Ambassador Grex Ironquill," the goblin supplied.

"Ambassador Ironquill, my friend here has never traveled outside Arkhos, and his knowledge of goblin culture comes primarily from outdated academy textbooks and adventure novels. Which, as I'm sure you're aware, tend to portray most non-human peoples as either exotic curiosities or convenient villains."

The goblin's expression shifted slightly, his anger transforming into something more calculating. "Ah. So is ignorance, not malice."

"Precisely," Adom agreed. "Ignorance which can be corrected through education rather than, say, diplomatic incidents that would require formal apologies and make tomorrow's newspapers."

Eren, catching on, bowed awkwardly. "I really am sorry, Ambassador. I spoke without thinking."

Ambassador Ironquill studied him for a long moment, then nodded curtly. "Is accepted. But perhaps next time, you think before you speak about what is 'civilized,' yes? We all share this world."

"Yes, sir. Absolutely."

Phew

.

The potential crisis diffused, the crowd began to disperse, somewhat disappointedly. Nothing quite like a good diplomatic incident to spice up a celebration.

"Well handled," Sam murmured to Adom. "How did you know he was an ambassador?"

"The robes," Adom replied. "And the fact that goblins don't send anyone to formal proceedings unless they're very, very qualified. Ambassador Ironquill probably has more education than our entire group combined."

A burst of light exploded overhead, followed by a shower of golden sparks that spelled out "XERKES CHAMPIONS" in letters ten feet tall. The crowd cheered appreciatively.

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" shouted a city guard, pointing at a group of young mages who were clearly preparing their next firework display. "NO MORE UNAUTHORIZED MAGICAL PYROTECHNICS! WE'VE HAD THREE NOISE COMPLAINTS AND A FORMAL PROTEST FROM THE FIVE MERCHANTS' GUILD!"

The young mages looked appropriately chastened for approximately thirty seconds before beginning to whisper among themselves about their next display.

A warm pulse against Adom's chest interrupted his observation of this brewing conflict between municipal authority and youthful enthusiasm.

His communication crystal was glowing.

He pulled it from his pocket, noting that the warm blue light was barely visible against the chaos of magical fireworks still erupting overhead despite official protests. The crowd around him had reached the point where individual conversations had merged into a single, incomprehensible roar.

He pressed the activation rune.

"Hello?"

Static crackled back at him, followed by what sounded like Valiant's voice filtered through a windstorm and possibly a brass band.

"—absolutely critical that you—bzzt—immediately because the—krzzak—have been trying to—"

Adom held the crystal closer to his ear, which accomplished nothing except making the static louder.

"Valiant? I can't hear you properly."

More static, punctuated by what might have been frustrated squeaking.

A particularly drunk celebrant chose that moment to stagger directly into Adom's path, arms windmilling as he fought gravity for control of his own trajectory. The man's forward momentum carried him past Adom by approximately three inches, close enough that Adom caught the full bouquet of celebratory ales, victory wines, and what smelled suspiciously like fermented fruit from the Weird Stuff Store.

"XERKES!" the drunk proclaimed to the sky, apparently having won his battle against falling down. "XERKES IS THE BEST THING THAT EVER HAPPENED TO—" He paused, swaying slightly as he focused on Adom. "You're one of the players, aren't you? I can tell. You have that... that athlete look."

"I'm on the bench," Adom replied automatically.

"THE BENCH!" the man shouted, as if this was the most wonderful news he'd heard all evening. "THE BENCH IS VERY IMPORTANT! STRATEGIC POSITION!"

The drunk wandered off, presumably to share his insights about bench strategy with other unsuspecting members of the crowd.

Adom looked down at his crystal, which was still crackling with intermittent static and increasingly agitated squeaking.

"Valiant," he said into the device, "give me two minutes. I'm going somewhere quieter."

The static paused, then resumed with what sounded like acknowledgment.

Adom worked his way through the crowd until he spotted Sam and Eren near Old Mari's pie stall—meat pastries with "XERKES CHAMPIONS" burned into the crust.

"I need to step away for a few minutes," he told them.

"Everything alright?" Sam asked, having to raise his voice over a nearby group.

"Just need to take a call somewhere that doesn't sound like a battlefield."

Eren, who was juggling two pies while trying to prevent a third from being stolen by an opportunistic first-year, nodded toward the stall. "We'll keep some of these warm for you. Assuming they're still edible."

"The pies or the first-years?"

"Both," Eren replied, successfully defending his pastries from another raid. "These are so good. Who knew victory tasted like beef and gravy?"

Adom glanced around the square, noting the density of the crowd and the complete absence of quiet spaces at ground level. Above them, the buildings rose into the evening sky, their rooftops dark and peaceful.

He stepped into the shadow between two buildings, checked that no one was paying attention to him specifically, and launched himself upward.

The sensation of controlled flight was growing on him. One moment he was standing amid the chaos, the next he was rising smoothly through the air, the noise fading beneath him as he climbed toward the rooftops.

"LOOK!" someone shouted from below. "THE MAGES ARE CELEBRATING!"

Several people cheered and pointed skyward, apparently interpreting his flight as some sort of aerial victory dance. Adom decided not to correct this impression.

He landed on the sloped roof of a bakery, settling cross-legged on the tiles. The city spread out below him—a patchwork of lights and shadows, with the celebration concentrated around the academy square.

Much better.

He activated the crystal again.

"Sorry about that," he said. "What did you have for me?"

The response was immediate and delivered at approximately three times normal speaking speed.

"Oh excellent you can hear me now that's much better I was trying to tell you that we have a situation here not a dangerous situation well probably not dangerous unless you count the potential for complete mayhem which I suppose technically could be dangerous but that's really more of a philosophical question about risk assessment and—"

"Valiant," Adom interrupted. "Breathe."

A pause. Then: "Right. Breathing. Good advice. The thing is, I don't actually know why I called you."

Adom frowned at the crystal. "What do you mean you don't know?"

"I mean I was sitting here working on important stuff when suddenly there were cats everywhere and they kept making those noises they make—you know, the vocal sounds—"

"Meowing?"

"Yes that's the word. Meowing. Thank you, I could not remember the technical term for cat vocalizations. Anyway, they kept doing that and Thormund said I should call you because apparently you understand what they're saying which seems highly improbable from a biological standpoint but—"

A distant meow drifted through the crystal, followed by several more in what sounded like an increasingly agitated chorus.

"Are they still there?" Adom asked.

"Oh yes they're very much still here. One of them is sitting on my desk staring at me with that expression cats have. You know, the one that suggests they're about to attack you and—"

The meowing got louder, more insistent.

"Right," Adom said, standing up and brushing dust off his clothes. "I can't understand them through the crystal. I'm coming."

"Excellent. Please do. It smells like cats in here, and I am not a fan of cats and I should mention that the big black one seems to—"

Adom cut the connection before Valiant could launch into his usual rambling.

He looked out over the city one more time, watching the celebration continue below, then stepped off the roof and began his descent toward whatever crisis his newly recruited network of feline spies had discovered.

***

The flight across the city took exactly four minutes and thirty-seven seconds.

Valiant's main safehouse sat wedged between a clockmaker's shop and a bigger house.

He landed in the narrow alley behind the building and knocked on the reinforced back door.

Heavy footsteps approached from inside, followed by the sound of multiple locks being disengaged. The door swung open to reveal Thormund's considerable frame filling the doorway.

"Little mage," the Freeman said with a nod. "Good timing."

"Thormund." Adom stepped inside, already hearing the chaos from deeper in the building. "How bad is it?"

"Depends on your definition of bad." Thormund closed the door behind him, re-engaging the locks. "If you mean 'likely to result in property damage,' then not bad at all. If you mean 'likely to result in Valiant losing what's left of his mind,' then quite bad indeed."

From somewhere deeper in the building came a cacophony of angry yowling, punctuated by Valiant's voice rising to a pitch that suggested imminent hysteria.

"—absolutely unacceptable! This is a secure facility! You cannot simply—HEY! GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THE SUPPLIES!"

As they walked through the short hallway, Thormund glanced at Adom. "How do you understand what they're saying, anyway?"

"Magic."

Thormund considered this for approximately two seconds. "Fair enough."

The main room of the safehouse was functional rather than comfortable. Tables covered with maps and communication crystals, shelves lined with various tools of the spy trade, and enough weapons to outfit a small militia.

In the center of it all stood Valiant, one tiny paw raised and crackling with electric energy, while a determined tabby cat attempted to scale a cabinet toward what looked like dried meat that had been stored on the highest shelf.

"GET. DOWN. FROM. THERE," Valiant commanded, electric sparks dancing between his whiskers. "THAT IS NOT FOR CATS!"

"Valiant," Adom said firmly. "Don't."

The mouse beastkin spun around, his ears flattening with relief. "Oh, thank god you're here! They've been doing this for twenty minutes! Do you see what I have to work with? CATS, Adom! They have no respect for operational security! No understanding of—"

"Valiant," Adom interrupted. "Step away from the cat."

"But he's going to compromise our—"

"Step. Away."

Valiant lowered his paw, the electric charge dissipating with a disappointed crackle. The tabby cat, meanwhile, had successfully reached the dried meat and was now perched on the shelf with the smug satisfaction of someone who had just conquered enemy territory.

Four other cats were scattered around the room in various states of feline alert. A sleek black cat—Aristoteles, Adom recognized—sat perfectly still on Valiant's desk, watching the proceedings with calculating eyes. Merlin, the ginger tom, was investigating a collection of documents with focused attention. Vaelthara lounged near the door like she owned the place. And Heraclitus, true to form, was barely visible beneath a table.

They were all staring at Adom.

"Give me a minute," Adom told Valiant, who was still vibrating with indignation. "Let me figure out what they want."

"What they want is to compromise our security and steal our supplies!" Valiant protested. "I don't need a translation for that!"

Adom closed his eyes and reached for the familiar mental shift that allowed him to understand animal speech. One second later...

"Adom!" The voices came all at once, a chorus of relief and urgency. "Finally! We've been trying to get someone to listen for ages!"

"We knew you'd come," Aristoteles said from her perch on the desk. "Humans are predictable that way."

"Especially when there are cats involved," Merlin added, still examining the documents. "You humans can't resist helping cats."

"We've been looking everywhere for you," Vaelthara said. "The big floating building, the store, even in the streets. You're surprisingly hard to track down."

Adom felt tension building in his chest. "What's so urgent? What happened?"

All five cats turned to look at him.

"Before we talk," Plutarch said from his position on the shelf, "you're going to give us food, right?"

Adom blinked. "What?"

"Food," Vaelthara repeated. "We've been working all evening. Running around the city, gathering information, dodging drunk humans. We're hungry."

"I would give you food even if you hadn't brought me information," Adom said. "You know that."

"Good," Aristoteles said with a satisfied flick of her tail. "Heraclitus, tell him what you saw."

The small voice from under the table was barely audible. "Do I have to?"

"Yes, you have to," Merlin said firmly. "You're the one who heard them talking."

A pause, then Heraclitus emerged slightly from his hiding spot, just enough that Adom could see his whiskers.

"I was doing normal cat things," he began quietly. "Investigating smells, checking territories, avoiding the drunk humans. There are a lot of drunk humans tonight."

"Get to the point," Aristoteles said, though not unkindly.

"Right. So I was near a building—the one with all the guards—and I heard two men talking. They were standing in the shadows, away from all the celebrating people."

Adom felt something cold settle in his stomach. "What were they saying?"

"They said this was perfect," Heraclitus continued, his voice getting quieter. "All the noise, all the guards distracted by the celebration. They said it was the perfect time to make their move."

"What move?" Adom asked, though he was beginning to suspect he already knew.

"They're going to free someone," Heraclitus said. "The prince. The one you told us to listen for."

The bottom fell out of Adom's world.

Prince. One of the key terms he'd specifically instructed his feline network to watch for during their wanderings around the city.

"What exactly did they say?" he asked. "Word for word."

Heraclitus's ears flattened. "The first man said, 'Tonight's our best chance. The whole city's celebrating, half the guards are drunk, and the others are too busy managing the crowds to pay attention to the prison.' Then the other man said, 'What about Gale?' And the first man said, 'We free him first. He knows the building better than anyone, and we'll need him to get to the prince.'"

"When?" Adom asked. "When were they planning to do this?"

"They said they'd wait until the celebration was at its loudest," Aristoteles said. "When everyone was too distracted to notice anything else."

Adom looked toward the window, where the sounds of the ongoing celebration were clearly audible. Cheering, music, the occasional burst of magical fireworks.

The celebration was definitely at its loudest.

"Oh no."