The wine cellar was underground, cool and dim, the kind of place that felt older than the castle above it. Stone steps, dark wooden racks stretching wall to wall, bottles lined up in the quiet like they'd been waiting for centuries.
I followed Federik toward the back, where a large oil painting hung above the lowest rack. A man on a black warhorse, golden crown, sword raised mid-battle.
Below it, an inscription:
The conflict ends when the best wins.
"Here." Federik held out an empty glass, a half-finished bottle in his other hand. The label was elegant, minimal. "Our latest vintage. You should try it."
The scent hit me before the wine reached my lips.
Cherry.
Eros's voice arrived a half second later, word for word: He'll give you a taste of the last cherry vintage.
I almost put the
