A Castle Britannia footman finally tracks you down. You open the pink envelope, dodge the glittery confetti that rains out, and read the invitation. You look up and see the footman still standing there. “Personally, I plan to be far away that day,” he says. “A party like this, it’s practically begging the Crimsons to attack.” You hand him a coin. He turns into a magpie and flies away.
