It didn’t take long for the wine to be split between the glasses that Jhendayre set in front of them. Ramar noticed that when his former student sat, he took to the edge of his seat, still on guard, never relaxing, ever-vigilant.

Ramar raised his glass and spoke a toast that had been passed down through the ranks of the sword-mages for centuries, “Until Winter bleeds into Summer, Until Autumn and Spring are one, Until the moon fades into darkness-”

Jhendayre joined in, and they finished the old toast together. “-And we fight by the light of the dying sun!”

With a tip of their hands, the crystal lips of the goblets brushed each other and a clear note rang out. Both drank deeply, savoring the cascade of flavors of the Izhenthorne Moonwyn.

Ramar closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose. “Now that is everything it should be and more.” he said appreciatively. “Your mother knew how to draw out the flavor hidden in every grape. She was quite a woman. Your attention to detail reminds me of her a great deal.”