The grand hall hummed with the quiet efficiency of servants preparing for the evening meal. Melchior, the head butler, a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer playing around him, oversaw the preparations with practiced ease. The polished silver gleamed under the soft candlelight, reflecting the hushed anticipation hanging heavy in the air. A palpable sense of expectation filled the space, a silent promise of the evening's events.
The soft descent of footsteps on the grand staircase brought the flurry of activity to an immediate, respectful halt. Melchior and Peregrine, their faces impassive, their movements precise and practiced, ensured that everything was in perfect order. Not a single detail was amiss; the scene was a testament to their meticulous attention.
Peregrine, noticing a candle burning with excessive fervor, approached with the grace of a seasoned dancer, gently modulating the flame to a more subdued intensity. A subtle, knowing smile played on his lips as he completed the task, a silent acknowledgment of his mastery and his understanding of the subtle nuances of the evening's atmosphere.
Melchior, his gaze sharp and observant, spotted a candle on the dining table whose flame cast its smoke in an unruly direction. With a swift, almost imperceptible movement, he adjusted the candle's position, restoring the harmony of the light. "Much better," he murmured, a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he rejoined Peregrine, their postures perfectly poised to greet their Master's arrival. The air itself seemed to hold its breath in anticipation.
As the descending footsteps of their Master echoed through the shadowed stairwell, the servants behind Melchior and Peregrine bowed in unison, their movements a graceful choreography of deference. Their greeting, delivered in perfect harmony, resonated with a precision that belied years of practiced training: "Good evening, Master." Their voices, a single ethereal whisper, rippled through the castle air, carrying with them an aura of reverence and a touch of the arcane.
Melchior, his eyes closed in a moment of serene concentration, moved forward with a subtle inclination of his head and body, his hands raised in an elegant gesture, as if guiding their Master towards his destined place. "Your supper awaits, Master," he announced, his voice a low, mellifluous tone that seemed to echo the very air of the castle. The air, thick with the scent of aged wood and flickering candlelight, held a sense of anticipation, as if the very walls themselves were poised to unveil a hidden, magical feast.
Their Master, Rhysand, paused on the final stair, his eyes closed, listening to Melchior's announcement. A slow nod of his head, a silent dismissal, signaled the servants to depart. With impeccable grace, and in perfect synchronicity, those behind Melchior and Peregrine retreated from the dining chamber, leaving only the two butlers to attend to their Master. Melchior and Peregrine took their positions at the table's edge as Rhysand, with a regal slowness, approached his chair—a chair which Melchior subtly guided into place, ensuring its perfect alignment for their Master's seating.
Once their Master was seated, he settled the serviette upon his lap and delicately took up his cutlery. Before he could begin his meal, however, a mischievous figure materialized—as if conjured from the very air itself—the whimsical Architect God and Rhysand's Godfather and Guide, Ametheous. Hurrying to Melchior's side, he inquired with eager anticipation, "Where is my supper?"
Melchior, startled by the sudden, almost ethereal presence of the God at his side—a presence sensed rather than seen—his eyes widened slightly before quickly regaining his composure. He raised a hand, indicating the direction of the vast dining table with a graceful gesture. "Your supper is there, My Lord," he stated, his voice maintaining its calm, measured tone, betraying none of his surprise.
Ametheous hastened towards his supper, his seating rather less delicate than Rhysand's, a forceful thump announcing his arrival. Melchior's eyes widened again—Peregrine mirroring his surprise—at the Architect God's rather undignified arrival. "U-Uh... M-My Lord..." Melchior stammered, momentarily flustered by the unexpected turn of events.
Ametheous licked his lips, clapped his hands in eager anticipation, and reached for the perfectly arranged venison steak with both hands. Melchior and Peregrine's eyes widened in alarm. "M-My Lord, no!" they exclaimed in unison, their voices a mixture of horror and concern.
Before Ametheous could commit the culinary sacrilege, a hand—strong and surprisingly swift—closed over his own, just as his fingers neared the flawlessly cooked and presented venison. Rhysand, who had been silently dining with his eyes closed, was somehow already there, his intervention swift and decisive. "Godson," he said, his tone laced with a gentle reprimand, "why would you prevent me from enjoying this delectable and fragrant supper?"
Rhysand, having silently returned to his seat, continued his repast, his eyes remaining closed, offering no further acknowledgment of Ametheous's presence. Melchior, ever the consummate servant, intervened with practiced grace. "My Lord," he stated, his voice a silken whisper, "proper etiquette dictates the use of cutlery. And the serviette, placed on your lap, ensures a refined dining experience."
Ametheous, completely oblivious to such niceties, rolled his eyes. "Do I really have to do this?" he grumbled, attempting to follow Melchior's instructions with a distinct lack of grace. Seeing the God's clumsy efforts, Peregrine stepped forward to assist, showing him the correct way to place the serviette on his lap and how to hold the cutlery.
Unfortunately, Ametheous proved utterly inept. The cutlery slipped from his grasp, and when he attempted to take a bite, the meat would either fall to the floor or splatter across the table, creating a chaotic mess.
Rhysand, a gentleman who found loud noises, chaos, and impulsive behavior utterly abhorrent, could endure no more. With a sharp rap of his fist upon the table, he rose. "Is it beyond your capabilities to move without causing such a dreadful disturbance? To exercise a modicum of forethought before acting? You have ruined my supper!" Before a reply could be uttered, he vanished, a phantom's swift departure leaving Melchior and Peregrine's hair and uniforms in disarray.
Ametheous, oblivious to his Godson's outburst, remained focused on mastering the cutlery. "I've done it! I know how now!" he declared proudly, eliciting sheepish smiles and head-scratching from Melchior and Peregrine. Only then did he notice his empty plate—the meat was everywhere but on it, the last piece clinging precariously to his fork. Peregrine, chuckling nervously, slid Rhysand's nearly untouched plate next to Ametheous's empty one, causing the God to jump with delight.