Gareth returned to the palace courtyard, after he had walked the distance, neither long nor short, between his home and the palace. His hair was gently brushed to the right, and his face was void of emotion, its lack thereof belying his typical formula of anxiety and excitement. Harker had butterflies in his stomach as he arrived, the medium-sized group in the courtyard scattered across it in smaller cliques. The young man tugged his blue vest, tight cut to fit his body by the tailor he visited a week ago, and adjusted his tie, while his belt needed no adjustment—the gurtel was fixed around his waist close, it keeping his tanned pants held up above his boots properly. The only oddity in his attire was the bow and quiver strapped to his back, the weaponry which he carried that night for self-defense. He ambled around with his eyes cast low to avoid eye contact, and Gareth found a seat by the fountain, himself unaware of the familiar presence on the opposite side.