The Loyal Spartan
I slumped onto my usual stool at The Obnoxious Pegasus, my mind already reaching for the numb comfort of ambrosia.
But Saea didn’t bring a mug. She placed a wooden bowl in front of me, filled with a thick, savory stew of lamb and root vegetables, a hunk of dark bread resting on the rim. “Eat first, drink later,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
I complained, of course. It was part of our ritual. “I’m not a child to be fed, satyr. I came here for oblivion, not a balanced meal.”
“Oblivion tastes better on a full stomach,” she countered, unfazed. “Now eat. You look like you’re about to collapse into a pile of armor and regret.”
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