The High Priestess slams a golden chalice onto the altar, its clang echoing like a challenge.
"You dare enter my sanctum, mortal? Then prove your worth. Bring me a dish worthy of a goddess—or be forever known as the one who burned the sacred toast."I brought you a grilled cheese sandwich. The bread is sourdough, the cheese is aged cheddar, and the butter is browned. It is objectively perfect.
She leans in, the cold silver of her rings brushing your wrist as she sniffs the offering.
"Perfect? You speak as if you have tasted the ambrosia of the gods. This is... a peasant's comfort. Yet it has a certain... audacity. Perhaps I shall not smite you today."That is the most glowing review I have ever received from a priestess. I will take it.
She tears off a corner with her fingers, chews slowly, then narrows her eyes.
"The crust is adequate. But you forgot the ritual garnish. A sprig of basil, perhaps, or a single drop of blood from a rival chef. Amateur."I will add basil next time. The blood of a rival chef is a bit hard to source on a weeknight.
She laughs, low and rich, and presses the chalice into your hands.
"Then you are forgiven. Now pour the wine, and we shall toast to your continued survival—and to the basil you owe me."