"I suppose this calls for a cheer," Alpheo murmured, his voice smooth as still water, the faint curve of his lips forming the practiced smile that those who knew him well had long since learned to recognize—not joy, but calculation. Not warmth, but the glint that comes from the pleasure of a bet delivering results.
Without waiting for a reply, he reached for the decanter of cider—amber-gold and chilled from the stone cellar—and poured it into two finely chased cups until they brimmed. He passed one to the man standing before him, the bearer of the day's favorable tidings.
Aron accepted the cup with a low, respectful bow, his expression composed, his movements measured. He didn't flinch at the prince pouring the drink himself, though any courtier would've stammered at the breach of decorum.
Aron had served at Alpheo's side long enough to understand the rules that governed these moments.
