As the sun began to dip lower, streaking the sky with orange and rose, Lyron sprang to his feet, flute tucked under his arm. His eyes twinkled mischievously.
"You've tasted the fruit of my vines," he said, lifting a golden cluster high. "But now—you will see their true gift."
He stamped one hoof against the ground, and the vineyard seemed to shimmer. The grapes in their baskets glowed faintly, as though responding to his call.
"How do you make wine, you ask? Not with barrels and presses—no, no, no!" He wagged his finger dramatically. "Not here. Here, wine is born of song, laughter, and a little forest magic."
Patricia tilted her head, curious. "You're telling me all it takes is music?"
Lyron grinned. "And dance!" He lifted his flute and blew a playful tune, light and quick, like birdcalls chasing each other through the trees. The grape clusters in their baskets trembled, rolling gently as if alive.
