Scylla’s words carried not the slightest hint of joy. 

 

To her, he was nothing more than someone she could easily push away. 

 

The feelings she held toward him were lukewarm at best—light as a feather that would flutter away with a single breath. 

 

That fact left Langsion deeply dissatisfied. 

 

An urge rose inside him: the impulse to prod and provoke this stubborn woman.

 

“Master.”

 

Moonlight shattered and fell across Langsion’s black hair and pale skin. 

 

The way he rested his chin on his hand was far more relaxed than it had been during the day—almost seductive, depending on how one looked at it. 

 

Especially striking were his pitch-black eyes, fixed on Scylla as though they might melt into the surrounding darkness at any moment. 

 

Caught in that gaze, Scylla felt a brief wave of confusion.

 

Langsion was supposed to be a young man in the full bloom of youth. 

 

And yet, for a fleeting moment, it became strangely difficult to guess his age. He seemed to have lived countless years, and at the same time, he looked impossibly young. 

 

Given that Langsion’s life had hardly been a smooth one, perhaps it wasn’t so strange that he carried an atmosphere that didn’t quite match his apparent age.

 

Setting aside her questions, Scylla shook her head.

 

“If it’s something other than alcohol, then I’m fine with it.”

 

🫧

 

A sweet, richly flavored aroma of wine drifted through the still, heavy air of the forest, curling around them. 

 

Scylla’s resolve was weak. 

 

In the end, she lifted the cup in accordance with Langsion’s wish, her expression tinged with resignation. 

 

Even though this stubborn, unyielding woman had bent her will for him, Langsion couldn’t simply laugh in triumph—because he knew it was only happening because, as he had said, this was the last time.

 

He had thought that if she just tasted it once, everything would change. 

 

With that intention, he had schemed to get her to drink, but he hadn’t imagined it would come about in quite this way.

 

“I just had the thought that nothing ever comes easily.”

 

Langsion tilted his glass of wine, using her low, husky voice—quietly resonating—as his only accompaniment.

 

“I found it hard to forgive myself for even wondering whether doing this would actually succeed.”

 

Wine loosens the locks on the heart. 

 

The spell of alcohol worked just as powerfully on Scylla. 

 

Langsion’s belief that everything would change with a single sip turned out to be exactly right.

 

🫧

 

The oak barrel at Scylla’s feet was already less than half full.

 

While letting her pained confessions drift past one ear, Langsion focused on her gradually languid voice. Her words, growing softer as though melting into the air, tickled the edges of his hearing. 

 

It felt a shame that they were fading. 

 

Fortunately, the drunken Scylla had become far more talkative than usual. 

 

Langsion could drink in the voice he wanted to hear to his heart’s content.

 

Suddenly, Scylla gazed quietly down at the wine gently sloshing inside her cup.

 

“I think I finally understand why people chase after alcohol so much.”

 

“I’m glad it suits your taste. I thought you might like it, Master.”

 

Scylla’s gaze, which had been fixed on the wine, shifted toward him. 

 

The scent of grape wine filled every direction. The fragrance was sensual, as though it were kneading all five senses.

 

Someone had once praised wine as the most fitting drink to reach the soul. 

 

Whether it truly touched the soul or not, he didn’t know—but it did seem capable of reaching the window of another’s heart.

 

In Scylla’s amber eyes, Langsion discovered something warm flowing gently. 

 

It was goodwill toward him. 

 

Scylla had become honest; the wariness that usually guarded her gaze was gone. Her expression was that of someone who couldn’t even imagine that the person before her might ever harm her.

 

“Haha.”

 

“…What’s so funny?”

 

Hiding the slight tremor inside, he asked.

 

“You’ll succeed wherever you go.”

 

“…”

 

“You definitely will. To think you’ve made even someone like me bless your future.”

 

Scylla let out a small laugh, her cheeks flushed red. 

 

Langsion’s lingering gaze drifted over her heated, rosy cheeks, her lips that were smiling more loosely than usual, and the relaxed line of her jaw that had naturally gone slack.

 

She was drunk.

 

“Have you really never drunk alcohol before?”

 

“Yeah. It’s my first time.”

 

“…”

 

“Just looking at it used to make me feel sick. People who get drunk and don’t even know what they’re doing…”

 

Scylla’s voice darkened. She furrowed her brow as though some unpleasant memory of drunkards had surfaced.

 

Langsion said nothing, only curved his lips in a quiet smile.

 

The god who kept those very people she despised so much as his followers was none other than himself. 

 

Alcoholics. The mentally deranged. Hopeless lunatics. 

 

They formed the core of the Maenads.

 

For a moment, the faces of certain gods who had once looked down on him as though he were leading around a pack of trash flickered through his mind.

 

Langsion spoke slowly, almost lazily.

 

“If you ever meet people like that, keep your distance, Master.”

 

“…”

 

“No. Stay only by my side. That way, I can protect you from those people.”

 

With a playful, shameless tone, he clinked his cup against Scylla’s.

 

Blood-red wine seeped past her faded lips. Even though she claimed to hate drunkards, Scylla didn’t stop tilting her cup.

 

People who have never drunk before don’t know how to tell whether they’re intoxicated or not. She would likely believe she was still sober. 

 

And even if someone were a heavy drinker, no one could show restraint when faced with his wine.

 

The wine Langsion had made with special care just for Scylla was unusually smooth and sweet—and dangerously easy to get drunk on.

 

Yes. He had made it solely for her.

 

The god of wine, the god of pleasure and intoxication. He had never cared about those who kept their distance or regarded him with suspicion. 

 

They were beings he could corrupt anytime he pleased, whenever he felt like it.

 

But with Scylla, he didn’t want to do that.

 

Those burning golden eyes of hers. That clear, purposeful gaze—he could not tolerate the thought of it clouding over into something else.

 

‘But… just this once…’

 

Langsion hid a sly smile.

 

“Oh no, there’s hardly any left already.”

 

Scylla peered into the oak barrel, startled, and murmured blankly.

 

“I drank all of yours.”

 

“Don’t worry about that.”

 

“But it was yours.”

 

“I brewed this wine for you, Master. Of course, you should drink it. Let me pour you another.”

 

The wine he personally made was something even money couldn’t buy. 

 

There was already a famous story that spread throughout all of Thebes, one sip was enough to make someone never forget the heavenly taste, and they would spend the rest of their lives chasing after his footsteps—that was how the Maenads were born. 

 

Wasn’t it also thanks to him and the wine made by his followers that the royal house of Thebes had grown so wealthy?

 

Yet to Scylla, he would gladly give as much as she wanted.

 

Until she became as intoxicated by him as she was by the wine.

 

As Scylla kept drinking cup after cup, Langsion whispered to her in his naturally sweet, honeyed voice:

 

“You mustn’t get drunk, Master.”

 

“Didn’t you say alcohol is drunk precisely to get drunk?”

 

🫧

 

Scylla laughed as if she were willing to listen to any nonsense. 

 

With alcohol in her system, her laughter came much more freely.

 

“I understand what you meant about needing to drink on a day like today. The suffocating feeling has eased up a little.”

 

“But you mustn’t let your guard down. Once you’re drunk, you might fall into an unexpected quagmire.”

 

Deep in the forest, his voice carried a rich resonance that seemed to rise from the depths of the sea—it held an enchanting power capable of bewitching people. 

 

Those who fell for this dreamlike temptation often ruined their own lives with their own hands. 

 

Pentheus, for example, whose throat was cut by his own mother.

 

Langsion gazed at Scylla with deep, quiet eyes. 

 

He wanted her to maintain this strong, upright image of herself, yet at the same time, he was curious—how far could she withstand corruption?

 

He would never stand by and watch her roll in the gutter like one of the Maenads, but he did want her to fall to a certain degree. 

 

He wanted her to come into his arms of her own accord, so that she could no longer carelessly tell him to leave the way she had earlier. 

 

He wanted her to lose the audacity to push him away.

 

While he looked down on the Maenads who couldn’t even sleep without wine, Langsion found himself wishing for something similar from Scylla. 

 

He hoped that without him, she would become incapable of doing anything at all. He wished for himself to become her sole focus.

 

With those feelings in his heart, Langsion filled her cup to the brim with wine.

 

Scylla squinted one eye.

 

“If you’re worried I’ll throw up or make a fool of myself in front of you, don’t be. I won’t.”

 

“Oh? It seems like the worried one is you, Master, not me…”

 

Langsion let out a soft, suppressed chuckle, his expression melting into something gentle.

 

“I’m more than happy to clean up after you.”

 

“I’d hate that.”

 

“You’re acting all shy now.”

 

Scylla looked at him in disbelief. 

 

Langsion reached over and slipped a piece of cheese between her slightly parted lips.

 

“Good thing I prepared plenty of cheese.”

 

Scylla chewed the cheese reflexively and grumbled.

 

“Looking at you sometimes, it really feels like you’re treating me like a child. Do you actually know how old I am?”

 

Her pronunciation slurred in that characteristic way of someone already deep in their cups.

 

“How old are you, then?”

 

“You’ll be shocked if I tell you.”

 

“How old?”

 

“You’re going to be surprised.”

 

Langsion shut his mouth.

 

“I hope I get to find out before tonight is over.”

 

Crackle—

 

Wine filled the cup, and a seductive fragrance spread.

 

“The night is long, and there’s plenty of wine.”

 

Crackle, crackle—

 

The sound of the campfire snapping mingled with the deepening night.

 

Drinking indoors and drinking while breathing mountain air are two completely different things. 

 

When you sit sipping liquor on an open mountainside at night, it can start to feel as though this place is the entire world. 

 

The person sharing the moment with you feels far closer than they ever do at other times. 

 

Their flaws fade from view, only their strengths remain visible, and in the midst of the quiet, you feel a strange, almost uncanny intimacy. 

 

Even if the drinking companion right in front of you is your sworn enemy, you’ll still raise your glass warmly to them until daybreak—even if, when the sun rises, you’ll point blades at each other once again.

 

“What are you going to do from now on? After I leave.”

 

“…”

 

“You’ll be lonely.”

 

Scylla didn’t deny it.

 

“Can’t be helped.”

 

“Once I’m gone, Master, you’ll be all alone.”

 

“…Can’t be helped.”

 

That’s how it’s always been. Her voice, carried on the calm mountain breeze, faded like the campfire embers at dawn. 

 

Unlike during the day, her slightly unfocused gaze carried a touch of loneliness.

 

“I’ll stay by your side.”

 

Langsion looked deeply into her eyes.