Lord Shahab watched as Alpheo settled himself into the chair opposite him, the prince's movements deliberate and unhurried. The room, warm with the glow of a midday sun filtering through the high windows, was quiet but for the faint sound of a servant pouring cider into Shahab's cup. The liquid glinted like molten gold, and the servant, with practiced grace, set the cup back in front of Shahab before moving to Alpheo's side.
Without looking up, Alpheo raised a hand in refusal. "Water," he said simply, his tone leaving no room for debate. The servant hesitated, then gave a respectful nod, retreating to fetch the prince's preferred drink.
It was peculiar, this meeting. Ordinarily, the protocol would dictate that Shahab, as a lord, would present himself in Alpheo's chambers at the prince's request. That Alpheo had sought him out for a private discussion here, in Shahab's own quarters, was unusual courtly speaking ...
