A ripple of shared understanding flickered across the room, and thoughtful expressions replaced initial cynicism. This young man was not just some ordinary seller; he was masterfully orchestrating the pace and rhythm of the entire court, like a conductor guiding an unseen symphony.
Veer carried himself in a mysterious manner an unknown boy of an unknown background. Then, the Prime Minister leaned closer, intrigue etched on his face.
"Rumors abound. They say the Princess's maid sought out your drink personally. That she willingly overpaid as if it were a king's bounty. That she smiled in a way rarely seen."
Veer's eyes met his, unwavering, holding an intensity that belied his tender age.
"She drank as a person, not merely a title. And she was not paying for just the drink—but for the rare moment of connection. That, too, is a gem in this world."
A sharp intake of breath echoed across the chamber. Somewhere, a lady-in-waiting gasped in astonishment. Even the Maharaja, attired in opulence, raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued.
Veer continued, undeterred by the golden chandeliers that hung overhead, the dazzling gems casting prisms of light that danced across the room.
"I harbor no ambition within these walls. I offer a taste that cannot be found elsewhere. However, when those in power sip from clay vessels, the world inevitably takes notice."
The Intelligence Minister, ever watchful, began to tap his fingers on the table, a low murmur escaping his lips.
"Do you comprehend the danger in your words?"
"Only to those who fear the stories becoming reality," Veer replied, his eyes sharpening, his voice now edged with determination—a blade sheathed in the gentlest of silks.
A dense silence enveloped the court, thick and palpable like incense smoke curling lazily in the air.
Finally, the Maharaja spoke, his voice resonating through the hall:
"You have stirred the court—not with treasures of gold or the clangor of war, but with something as simple as water. That is no trivial achievement. I, too, wish to partake in this water you so eloquently praise."
Veer nodded respectfully, bowing again with genuine deference. "As you wish, my king," he responded, a hint of pride and humility mingling in his tone.
With that, he directed his servants to prepare a drink worthy of the royal presence, beginning the process of pouring the elixir into the pot. Veer stood quietly as the golden tray made its way through the court, upon which rested a singular, unmarked clay vessel—modest and unadorned, yet sealed with a vibrant leaf and a thread soaked in wildflower oil, a testament to the simplicity and profundity of what lay within.
The scent arrived first, weaving its way through the air with an undeniable presence. It wasn't an artificial fragrance, laden with heavy perfumes; rather, it was a vibrant, almost organic aroma that evoked the essence of the earth itself. Crisp and invigorating, it was rich with subtle notes of sandalwood and lemongrass, enhanced by an elusive undertone that resembled petrichor— that intoxicating smell of rain-soaked earth—at the break of dawn. It was an aroma that spoke of renewal and secrets long buried, awakening the senses as it swirled through the chamber.
One by one, members of the court reached for their small, handcrafted cups, freshly filled from the simmering pot that sat invitingly on the table—a vessel promising more than mere drink. Each individual took a moment, savoring not just the aroma, but the anticipation of the experience about to unfold.
The Finance Minister, known for his skeptical demeanor and critical eye, decided to take the plunge and was the first to raise the cup to his lips. As he sipped, a frown briefly crossed his face, his expression betraying his initial doubt. But almost immediately, his brows furrowed in surprise, and he blinked, as if the liquid had unveiled some hidden truth. As he stared at the cup, it was as though it had spoken a profound secret meant just for him.
> "It's… cool," he murmured in bewilderment, "but there's no ice."
With this revelation, his brows lifted, a flicker of realization igniting something within him. His fingers shook gently as he raised the cup to his lips once more, and the line of sweat that had formed on his forehead evaporated instantly, as if his very being had let out a pent-up breath of relief.
Next in line was the Military Commander, a man whose face was etched with scars and whose skin bore the marks of a life spent under the sun's relentless rays. Words failed him, yet his actions spoke volumes. He settled back into his chair, and for the first time in countless days, the tension in his jaw relaxed. The habitual scowl that had been his armor began to dissolve, and he regarded Veer not with the suspicion of a soldier in battle, but rather with a profound respect, an acknowledgment of something rare and extraordinary.
The Rajguru, revered as both high priest and guardian of the realm's wisdom, approached the moment with a quiet reverence of his own. He closed his eyes softly, and a small smile played at the corners of his lips. Yet this was not a smile of joy; it was a smile steeped in nostalgia. It seemed as if the water had unearthed wistful memories from his youth—fragments of laughter, of innocence, of a time long past.
Then, the moment everyone had been holding their breath for arrived: the king. His hands were adorned with rings of sapphire and emerald, sparkling brightly against the unassuming clay of the cup—a striking juxtaposition of opulence and simplicity. As he sipped, the court fell utterly silent, hearts suspended in an anxious breath. He paused, holding the cup just below his lips, as if taking time to savor not only the flavor but the very essence of existence itself.
His lips moved, whispering secrets to the unseen, and in the stillness that followed, his eyes narrowed, then softened with understanding. Slowly, he placed the cup down, tracing its rim with his fingertips as if mourning the end of a beautiful moment, reluctant to separate from it. His gaze then turned to Veer.