A Royal Disturbance in the Infirmary

The grand hall of Rhysand's castle, usually echoing with the hushed movements of servants and the occasional clang of distant armor, was unusually still. A thick silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic tick-tock of a grandfather clock in a far corner, hung heavy in the air. Melchior, his usually impeccable composure frayed at the edges, paced restlessly before the imposing staircase. His brow was furrowed, his normally jovial face etched with worry. He stopped abruptly, his gaze fixed on the bottom of the grand staircase, his eyes searching for any sign of Peregrine's descent.

"Good heavens, Peregrine," Melchior finally exclaimed, his voice a strained whisper barely audible above the ticking clock, "has our Master partaken of his luncheon?" His gaze followed Peregrine's slow descent of the grand staircase, a flicker of desperate hope in his eyes. The ornate banister, carved with intricate depictions of mythical beasts, seemed to mock his anxiety with its silent grandeur.

Peregrine, his face etched with a worry that mirrored Melchior's own, reached the bottom of the stairs. He paused, catching his breath before speaking, the weight of his news evident in the slump of his shoulders. "Not yet, Sir," he responded, his voice low and hesitant. "He hasn't opened his chambers. The breakfast tray I personally arranged and left untouched outside his door this morning has been cleared away by the servants."

Melchior's despair deepened. He stopped pacing, his shoulders slumping as the full weight of the situation settled upon him. The ornate tapestries depicting scenes of heroic battles and mythical creatures seemed to blur in his vision. "But what then? What if our Master is famished, yet refuses to eat out of anger towards me? Peregrine, he's still angered by me," he lamented, his voice cracking, tears welling in his eyes. The polished marble floor seemed to reflect his distress, amplifying his feelings of inadequacy and fear.

Peregrine, ever the calming presence, moved to place a comforting hand on Melchior's arm. His touch was gentle, yet firm, a silent reassurance in the face of Melchior's distress. "Do not fret yourself, Sir," he said, his voice a soothing balm against Melchior's anxiety. "I am certain you are not the cause of his displeasure. Perhaps our Master is simply engaging in a period of fasting, seeking greater clarity for his tasks."

Melchior, somewhat calmed by Peregrine's words, lowered his head, his gaze fixed on the intricate pattern of the marble floor. The rhythmic tick-tock of the grandfather clock seemed to slow, the silence once again settling over the grand hall, broken only by Melchior's quiet sighs. The weight of his anxiety, however, remained, a heavy cloak draped over his shoulders.

This fragile calm was shattered by a piercing shriek, quite unseemly for the normally tranquil atmosphere of the infirmary. It echoed through the castle, a jarring dissonance that cut through the quiet like a shard of glass. Melchior and Peregrine exchanged a troubled glance, their earlier anxieties instantly replaced by a new, more pressing concern. Before either could utter a word, Melchior's voice, sharp as a rapier, filled the corridor.

"Who dares to violate our sacred rules?! Our Master shall surely hear of this transgression! Who—" His tirade was cut short, the realization dawning upon him with the force of a physical blow. His eyes widened, his voice losing its sharpness, replaced by an urgency tinged with a distinct lack of composure. "The Prince of Flyraen!" he declared, the name barely a whisper.

With Peregrine swiftly in tow, they hastened towards the infirmary, their steps quick and purposeful. The scene that met their eyes was a tableau of distress, a stark contrast to the usual order and calm of the castle's medical wing. The Prince, his face ashen and his eyes wide with terror, trembled violently, on the verge of a most unpleasant expulsion. The healers, flustered and frantic, their usually calm demeanor replaced by a palpable sense of alarm, moved around him in a flurry of activity, attempting to soothe his distress. Their movements were hurried, their whispers anxious, their faces etched with concern.

Melchior, his voice now laced with a controlled anxiety that belied his earlier outburst, demanded, his voice sharp but controlled, "Eugenia, what is the matter here?!" Eugenia, the lead healer, her voice a breathy whisper barely audible above the Prince's distress, replied, "The Prince of Flyraen, Mr. Bozrah, was given porridge containing, I assure you, perfectly ordinary ingredients for our kind. Fresh bear liver and intestines, to be precise. However, we were unaware of the Prince's specific dietary requirements, his… delicate constitution…" Her voice trailed off, leaving the unspoken implication—a painful misunderstanding—hanging heavy in the air.

Peregrine, ever the diplomat, approached the terrified Prince, his movements gentle and reassuring. "Your Highness, what troubles you?" he inquired gently, his voice soft and calming. The Prince, his eyes brimming with tears, stammered, his voice barely a whisper, "The-There was be-bear i-innards in the po-porridge... They are trying to po-poison me..."

Peregrine, with a calm and reassuring demeanor that radiated confidence and understanding, knelt beside the Prince, his gaze steady and unwavering. "They are not attempting to poison you, Your Highness," he explained patiently, his voice a soothing counterpoint to the Prince's distress. "These healers have been tending to you, watching over you since you were found unconscious from excessive drinking. They are unfamiliar with Flyraen cuisine and sought to offer you a taste of our own fare, a simple, hearty meal."

The Prince, his eyes wide with disbelief, whispered, "Dru-Drunk?" Peregrine confirmed it, adding with a touch of carefully controlled amusement, "Yes, Your Highness, you were quite inebriated. You are the first guest to grace our castle, and it is rather amusing that our first visitor is a boisterous soul, prone to overindulgence."

The Prince, his apprehension growing, whispered, "Bo-Boisterous? Di-Did I... Did I cause a disturbance last night?" Peregrine reassured him, "Not excessively, Your Highness... But our Master..." The Prince's apprehension grew, his face paling further. "Wa-What? Wa-What did I do?"

Peregrine gently replied, "Nothing of consequence, Your Highness. Nothing to fret over. Tell me, what would you fancy to eat? Perhaps something a little less… robust?"

Before Peregrine could offer a suggestion, Ametheous, the God of Architecture, materialized beside them, a serene smile gracing his ethereal features. His arrival was as sudden and unexpected as the Prince's earlier distress, yet it held a different quality—a sense of calm assurance that settled over the room like a gentle blanket. In one hand, he held a woven basket of astonishing beauty; crafted from threads of spun moonlight, it seemed to shimmer and shift with the light. Within, nestled amongst the silvery strands, lay a collection of fruits unlike any Peregrine had ever witnessed. A ruby-red pomegranate, its skin gleaming like polished gemstone, sat beside a cluster of grapes, their skins the color of amethyst and their juice glistening like captured starlight. A golden mango, its flesh a vibrant orange, seemed to radiate a soft warmth, while a deep indigo plum, almost black in its richness, promised a taste of midnight. Each fruit possessed an almost unnatural vibrancy, their colors impossibly saturated, their forms perfectly symmetrical. The air around them hummed with a subtle energy, a palpable sense of life and vitality emanating from their flawless surfaces.

With a barely perceptible gesture, a shimmering table and chair appeared, seemingly sculpted from the very essence of moonlight. The table, a breathtaking expanse of opalescent material, resembled polished moonstone, its surface reflecting a soft, ethereal glow. Intricate silver filigree, as delicate as spun moonlight, traced its edges, catching the light and casting dancing shadows. The chair, equally exquisite, appeared carved from a single, luminous pearl, its curves flowing like liquid silver. It radiated a gentle warmth, its surface smooth and cool to the touch.

Melchior, his eyes wide with a mixture of wonder and acute apprehension, whispered urgently, "My Lord, our Master might discover this! His aversion to luminous things... The light emanating from the chair and table..." Ametheous, understanding his concern, chuckled softly, a sound like wind chimes in a summer breeze. "Fear not, Melchior. His current preoccupation ensures he will not be venturing into the infirmary. His displeasure towards all things luminescent is well-known, of course."

Understanding the delicate situation, Peregrine gently guided the Prince of Flyraen to the ethereal chair. The Prince's countenance radiated profound gratitude. "Thank you, Lord Ametheous," he murmured, bowing his head respectfully before seating himself with practiced grace. He then partook of the fruit with quiet, refined pleasure, employing a silver fork and knife with effortless elegance. Peregrine observed, a subtle smile playing on his lips, a profound sense of relief washing over him.