Inside, The Darran Arms was warm and filled with cheerful noise—clinks of glasses, the squeak of boots on old floorboards, chairs dragging against stone. The smell of roasted leeks and meat pies clung in the air like a song no one wanted to end. A half-dozen families crowded around mismatched tables, children running between chairs, adults calling out to one another. Nearly everyone had a daffodil pinned to their chest or tucked behind an ear—the cennin tradition, worn on St David's Day, kept alive by people who remembered why these flowers mattered. The bar itself was lined with daffodils in small glass jars—the red dragon of Wales on a banner above the taps.

The room smelled like celebration, like home, like a people remembering themselves.

Tima's eyes got big. "So many! There's so many peoples!"

"It is," Papa confirmed, keeping her hand secure in his. "All here for the same reason we are."

An older woman at the bar, her face creased with familiar lines, called out: "Papa! Tima! Come on then, we need young blood on the team! We'll never win without you."

The group settled at a mismatched table—wood from three different eras, chairs that didn't match, but perfect for gathering. Extra chairs were pulled over, arrangements made. Quiz papers were distributed with ceremony, pens provided. Someone brought crayons for Tima and Eira—" to make it official," they said with a wink.

The quiz-master stood at the front, a man in his seventies with silver-threaded hair and the kind of smile that suggested he'd been doing this for years.

Peter looked at the first question printed on the paper. "What's the capital of Wales?"

"Cardiff!" someone shouted from another table.

"Daffodils!" Tima said loud, very sure of herself.

"Daffodils is the capital! That's what Papa says."

Papa bit his lip to keep from smiling, catching Peter's eye with the look that said: she's not wrong in her own way.

Eira leaned forward, reading from her own paper with fierce concentration and purpose. "Who was St David?"

"Welsh saint," Steph offered. "Lived... what, 500s? 600s?"

"He had a voice," Eira announced, very sure of herself, sitting up straighter. "Papa told me. He had a voice so loud it woke people up, so that's how he got people to listen to him because they couldn't ignore him, and also he cared about Wales so much that people still remember him."

Peter nodded, impressed by her logic. "Fair summary. Preacher. Poet."

The quiz-master called out more questions, and the room erupted in friendly chaos:

"What bird represents Bran the Blessed?"

Peter said: "Raven," without hesitation, as if he'd been waiting for this question

"Which river begins in the Brecon Beacons and winds past Risca before joining the Usk?"

James lit up: "The Usk itself?

No—" Steph interjected "The Ebbw!"

The quiz-master smiled a knowing smile. "You are techinically Correct, the best kind of correct. The River Ebbw, which flows past us here infact."

"What colour is the Welsh flag?"