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    Cale finishes the rest of his lemon tea. “Do we have whiskey?”

    “We’re sixteen,” Athanasia reminds them, her voice dull with exhaustion. She still has her head on the table.

    “Wrong." Cale waves a dismissive hand. “Nobody here is sixteen.”

    Wordlessly, Lucas starts a summon, and the nearest vintage bottle zooms toward them from who knows where. Athanasia gives no more protests.

    “Bottoms up.”

    Or, alternatively: Cale Henituse, the tragedy of two too many forced transmigrations, and his plan for deicide.

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    22 Aug 2024