Before the steel could graze Maviya’s tunic, a dark blur cut through the air. Kaviel, whose skin had been a patchwork of grey and cracking stone moments ago, moved with the swiftness of a desert falcon. His hand, now perfectly unblemished and firm, closed around Vessa’s wrist. The dagger clattered to the floor, forgotten. A gasp rippled through the hall. Kaviel’s form, once stiffening with petrification, had reversed. The grey lines vanished, the cracks sealed, his vibrant skin returning as if the curse had never touched him. A beatific, almost dazed smile touched his lips, a look of profound relief and utter adoration fixed on Maviya. Her open delight at the spectacle had triggered the pampering clause with enough force to shatter the curse outright. He didn't pause. With a casual flick of his wrist, imbued with a strength that belied the recent horror, Kaviel tossed Vessa. Her scream cut short as she arced through the air, a flash of red silk, before landing with a resounding splash directly into the enormous, jewel-encrusted punch bowl at the center of the main table. Exotic fruit, floating ice carvings, and crimson punch sloshed over the rim, drenching her from head to toe. Her sputtering face, framed by dripping hair, emerged from the liquid, utterly speechless. King Pharamond, who had been poised to demand Kaviel’s immediate petrification, stared, jaw hanging slack. He glanced from the bowing golems to the dripping Vessa, then to Maviya, who stood serene amidst the chaos, a faint, satisfied smirk gracing her lips. “By the Great Sky-Carvers…” the King breathed, finding his voice. He straightened, his gaze hardening as it fell upon the Hazaen parents, who stood frozen in horror. “You, Hazaen of the Lesser Sands, and your consort, have committed fraud against the Crown, slandered a true artisan, and attempted to assassinate a member of the nobility during a Royal Banquet. Your House is stripped of all titles, lands, and privileges, effective immediately. Your name shall be struck from the rolls of Orazir.” The Hazaen parents collapsed, wailing. But the King was not finished. He turned to Maviya, a deep respect in his eyes. “Maviya Hazaen, by your undeniable mastery, you have proven yourself beyond doubt. I hereby bestow upon you the title of Grandmaster of the Sky-Carvers, and command that a new seat be made for you on the Royal Artisan Council.” Maviya inclined her head. “The title is… acceptable, Your Majesty. Though, if I may offer a suggestion? Your throne, while visually striking, seems to favor aesthetics over spinal support. The angle of the lumbar curve is far too abrupt, leading to undue pressure on the Sacral-Lumbosacral junction. A simple adjustment of the backrest by seven degrees, perhaps adding a slight forward tilt to the seat pan, would significantly improve the ergonomic comfort for a ruler who must endure such prolonged sittings.” A stifled cough ran through the Royal Guard. King Pharamond, bewildered but intrigued, actually shifted slightly on the gilded dais chair. “Seven degrees, you say?” The Hazaen parents were already being dragged away by Royal Guards, their cries of “Maviya, forgive us! Please!” fading into the general murmur of the hall. Maviya didn't spare them a glance. Instead, her gaze softened, drifting to where Kadin had fearlessly approached a pair of towering Royal Guards. He was earnestly explaining the intricate workings of his little clumsy golem, which chirped and waddled at his feet, drawing surprised, almost fond smiles from the formidable soldiers. She watched him, a warmth spreading through her chest. Kaviel, now fully restored and radiating an almost predatory contentment, stepped closer. He placed a hand gently on the small of her back, drawing her in. Her earlier joy, though momentarily diverted by the royal seat's flawed design, still hummed between them. His eyes, the color of twilight over a desert dune, held hers with an intensity that promised devotion. “My Grandmaster,” he murmured, his voice a low caress. He dipped his head, closing the distance between their lips. Just as their mouths were about to meet, he paused, a sudden, almost comical concern clouding his gaze. “Wait. Is the polished Jaspe-stone floor too hard on your arches, my sunbeam? We could fetch a velvet carpet immediately. Or perhaps a portable foot-bath filled with perfumed warm water to soothe any discomfort?” Maviya’s smile widened, a soft, genuine laugh bubbling up. The man was utterly incorrigible. She reached up, cupping his jaw, and pulled him down, finally, into the kiss. As his lips met hers, a delightful warmth bloomed. She mentally made a note: tomorrow, the blood-pact would definitely need an addendum. Mandatory weekly deliveries of frosted date-and-nut loaves, direct to their new, shared master bedroom. And a standing order for more comfortable boots, of course. For both of them.

Fountains and Forevers