Melchior approached Rhysand, his Master, his voice a carefully controlled murmur barely audible above the rustling leaves and the distant, almost mocking, chime of a purely ornamental fountain—a feature that highlighted Rhysand's aversion to water. "Master Rhysand," he began, his words precisely chosen, "you have been training since the break of dawn, Master. The sun now hangs high in the heavens, well past noon, and still you continue your rigorous exercises. Permit me to offer refreshment." He held out a goblet of exquisite crimson wine, its ruby depths shimmering in the sunlight. This was no ordinary vintage; it was a bespoke creation from the V'largoth cellars, crafted solely for Rhysand from the rare flesh of young corvu, a creature whose very existence was shrouded in the castle's ancient secrets. The water itself, drawn from the mystical springs of Xylarion, ensured a purity and absence of any undesirable odor. This drink is made only for Rhysand.
Rhysand, however, remained unmoved, his rigorous exercise continuing without pause. His movements, honed to perfection through centuries of disciplined training, were a testament to his formidable strength and aristocratic bearing. Each muscle rippled beneath his skin, a display of controlled power that was both impressive and intimidating. Melchior, ever the devoted and observant servant, attempted again, his voice barely a whisper, a plea lost in the rhythmic thud of Rhysand's training. "Master, I humbly implore your forgiveness for my presumption, but I fear my previous attempts at offering refreshment were… insufficient. I shall endeavor to avoid a similar oversight in the futu-"
His words were abruptly silenced by a sudden, violent clap of thunder that shook the very foundations of the ancient castle. The air crackled with raw energy, the scent of ozone sharp and sudden. A bolt of lightning, a jagged streak of incandescent white, sliced through the air, illuminating the startled faces of the assembled servants, their expressions a mixture of fear and awe. Melchior, momentarily startled by the celestial display, lost his grip on the precious goblet, the ruby wine spilling onto the meticulously maintained grounds, staining the ground a deep crimson. The precious liquid, intended as a gesture of appeasement, now served as a symbol of his failure. Peregrine, ever vigilant and attentive to his duties, hastened to his side, offering comfort and reassurance with quiet efficiency. He moved with practiced grace, his movements smooth and controlled, a stark contrast to the chaos of the moment.
Ametheous, the God of Architecture, his presence as imposing as the ancient forest itself, materialized amidst the chaos. His arrival was as sudden and unexpected as the thunderstorm, yet it held a different quality—a sense of calm authority that settled over the scene like a heavy cloak. His voice, though calm, carried the weight of centuries of experience and untold power. "Rhysand," he addressed his Godson, his tone a blend of concern and barely suppressed irritation, "I myself directed that the Prince of Flyraen be conveyed to the castle infirmary following the events of yesterday. He is not in the right state of mind, having consumed an intoxicating substance unbeknownst to him. He has since apologized for his behavior. I assure you, I am fully aware of the Prince's habits; he abstains from alcohol and any foul-smelling beverages. The individual responsible for introducing an odorless intoxicant into one of the springs from which the Prince customarily drinks has been sentenced to death, though the Prince, in his mercy, has granted a reprieve."
Rhysand, oblivious to the concern in his Godparent's voice, continued his punishing routine. His movements were relentless, his focus unwavering. With a casual flick of his wrist, Ametheous conjured a colossal weapon of pure energy, a shimmering, iridescent blade that crackled with power. The blade sliced through the air, shattering the massive stones Rhysand used as training implements into glittering dust. The sudden destruction of his training tools, a testament to Ametheous's power, finally forced Rhysand to cease his exercise. He turned to face them, his expression unreadable. His gaze, though outwardly calm, held an icy intensity that could freeze blood. A palpable tension settled over the assembled servants; fear hung heavy in the air, a silent testament to Rhysand's formidable power and unpredictable nature.
Rhysand approached Ametheous, his movements deliberate, each step measured and precise. The ground seemed to tremble slightly with each footfall, a subtle display of his immense strength. "And what answer do you desire?" he inquired, his voice devoid of any hint of deference, his tone challenging and direct. The question hung in the air, a barely veiled challenge to Ametheous's authority.
Ametheous, unfazed by the barely veiled challenge, replied with measured patience. His tone was calm, yet his words carried the weight of his authority and his deep concern for his Godson. "I merely seek an explanation for your… less than gracious treatment of those who serve you with unwavering loyalty. Since your birth, Melchior has been your steadfast companion, anticipating your every need, tolerating your… idiosyncrasies with remarkable patience. Even in your self-imposed exile, he remained steadfast, following you without a second thought. And now, a visitor, a being in need of succor, arrives at your doorstep, and you unleash your wrath upon your most loyal servant. Why, Rhysand, is your heart so resolutely closed to compassion?"
His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken accusations. The servants watched, breathless, as Rhysand's expression shifted subtly, a flicker of something akin to remorse crossing his usually impassive features. The flicker was fleeting, almost imperceptible, yet it was undeniably there. Then, as swiftly as it appeared, the remorse vanished, replaced by an enigmatic stillness. He closed his eyes, and in a blink, he was gone, disappearing as suddenly and unexpectedly as he had arrived. Ametheous sighed, a profound weariness settling upon his features. His shoulders slumped slightly, the weight of his concern and frustration evident in his posture. "How," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, a lament lost in the rustling leaves, "does one rekindle a heart grown cold as winter's stone?"
The atmosphere, thick with unspoken tension, was broken by the ethereal arrival of Lysander, the Prince of Flyraen. He emerged from a shimmering pool of water, seemingly woven from moonlight itself, his presence as captivating as a summer's dawn. His return was unexpected, yet the servants instinctively bowed low, their movements as graceful and precise as a perfectly choreographed ballet. The sudden appearance of the Prince, his ethereal beauty a stark contrast to the lingering tension, shifted the focus of the scene. Peregrine, with the effortless grace of a seasoned courtier, approached the Prince, offering his assistance with a silent, yet perfectly timed gesture.
"Thank you, Peregrine," Lysander murmured, his voice like the soft chime of distant bells. He moved towards Ametheous, whose demeanor was one of quiet melancholy. "My Lord Ametheous," Lysander began, his concern evident in his voice, "why this air of dejection? Is there some ailment that troubles you?" He gently took Ametheous's arm, his touch as light as a butterfly's wing, a gesture of both concern and subtle authority.
Ametheous, touched by the Prince's concern, smiled faintly. "Your concern is most appreciated, Lysander. But I am merely… contemplative. Your unexpected return, however, is most welcome. What brings you here?"
Lysander's smile widened. "I have returned, My Lord, to offer my sincere gratitude to the Master of this magnificent castle. His servants have shown me unparalleled kindness and consideration. I wish to express my appreciation." He paused, then continued, his voice taking on a more formal tone, "Where is… the Master?"
Ametheous, with a gracious smile, offered a slight bow of the head. "Forgive me, Lysander, but Rhysand is presently… unavailable. He has undertaken a journey, the specifics of which are best left unsaid. However, I assure you, your gratitude will be conveyed." Lysander, equally polished in his demeanor, replied with a charming smile. "My Lord, I thank you," he paused, then raised his hand. From thin air, a pool of water, clear as crystal, appeared, shimmering in the light of his palm. Then, as if by enchantment, the water solidified into a breathtaking array of jewellery: necklaces of moonstone, rings flashing with amethysts, and brooches adorned with pearls of extraordinary luster. The jewellery pulsed with an inner light, their beauty both captivating and slightly unsettling. The sudden appearance of the jewellery was both magical and unexpected, shifting the focus of the scene once again.
Peregrine, ever the attentive servant, smoothly offered a velvet cushion to receive the magnificent gifts, his movements precise and efficient. Melchior, quite overcome, could only stare, his jaw slack with awe. The sheer magnificence of the jewellery was breathtaking, yet the sudden shift in the narrative left him speechless.
"My apologies, Your Highness," Melchior finally managed to stammer, his voice barely a whisper, his words betraying his apprehension. "Our Master… he has a particular aversion to jewellery. The texture… it causes him considerable discomfort." Melchior's comment, though polite, highlighted the potential problem with Lysander's gift.
Lysander, utterly unperturbed by Melchior's visible unease, offered a gentle smile. His voice, calm and reassuring, held a subtle authority that soothed the other's apprehension. "Fear not, Melchior," he began, his tone both kind and authoritative. "These jewellery, unlike any crafted by artisan hands, are formed from the very essence of my own power. They are not merely jewellery; they are imbued with a unique, inherent gentleness. I have shaped them not with harsh tools or forceful intent, but with a deliberate, careful shaping of this potent, life-giving essence, infusing them with a subtle, adaptive magic. This ensures they will cause your Master absolutely no discomfort; quite the contrary. Upon his touch, their luminescence will gently modulate, their brilliance tempering to a warm, soothing glow, perfectly attuned to his unique sensitivities. The intensity of their light will adjust itself to his comfort level, a seamless harmony between the magical properties of the jewellery and his own inherent nature. They are, in essence, a living reflection of my intent—a gift of pure, unadulterated gratitude, crafted with the utmost care and consideration for your Master's well-being."
"I assure you, Melchior," he continued, his voice low and earnest, the sincerity of his words palpable, "my intentions are purely those of heartfelt gratitude, devoid of any malice or ulterior motive. These gifts, born of my own power, are a testament to my profound appreciation for your Master's… invaluable assistance." Lysander's explanation, delivered with calm authority and genuine sincerity, diffused the tension and left Melchior speechless with awe.