Ascension to godhood comes with many complications. So what better to do than turning a stoic knight into a mobile tavern?
—
Nyx burned with mortal fire.
Across the velvet dark of the night-sky realm, constellations trembled, not with the slow turning of eternity, but with something louder, brighter and messier.
A massive victory celebration.
Below, on the waking world of Theros, the war was ending.
Steel rang its final notes. Banners rose where walls had fallen. The enemy broke, scattered, vanished into defeat. And at the heart of it all stood a single figure, radiant in victory, her blade lowered at last.
Elspeth won the war, and with it respect of each and every god in Nyx.
Cheers rose from the city she had saved. Relief turned to joy. Joy to laughter. Laughter to wine, to music, to dancing in the streets beneath a sky suddenly alive with impossible color.
Every shout of triumph became a spark.
Every cup raised became a prayer.
Every heartbeat of celebration fed the same rising storm.
And at its center, he laughed.
Xenagos had always loved a good party.
At first, the feeling was familiar, the warm rush of revelry, the sweet intoxication of mortal excess. He drank it in the way he always had, savoring the chaos, the abandon, the glorious moment when mortals forgot fear and chose joy instead.
But this was more.
The sound did not fade.
The wine did not empty.
The emotion did not ebb.
It just grew. Just as he planned.
Power flooded through him, not in trickles but in waves. The laughter of thousands became weight. The rhythm of celebration became structure. The belief, unspoken, unfocused, but undeniable, that this victory mattered, that this night was sacred, that joy itself was worth honoring—
That belief reached upward.
And it found him.
Nyx answered.
Stars tore loose from their patterns and spiraled inward. Constellations reshaped themselves around a new center. Color poured through his form, turning skin to living starlight, horns to burning gold, shadow to presence.
For one perfect, intoxicating instant, Xenagos felt something he had chased across planes and lifetimes.
Recognition that he was greater than anyone else. That he was… a god now.
He threw back his head and roared with laughter, and the sound rolled across Nyx like thunder through wine.
“Yes,” he breathed, drunk on infinity. “Yes. Now this is a party.”
New power flowed through him, power he had never known before.
Below, the celebrations only grew louder.
Above, Nyx reshaped itself to make room.
Xenagos, God of Revels, opened his eyes to eternity.
And immediately wanted more.
Godhood did not quiet his hunger.
If anything, it sharpened it.
He felt the other presences in Nyx now, those vast, ancient and territorial forces. Each bound to their worship. Each powerful, but limited. Defined by what their followers believed them to be.
Equal.
The thought soured the wine.
Why be one among many?
Why share the night?
Why settle for a seat at the table… when the whole feast could be yours?
Xenagos turned his attention back to the mortal world, tracing the currents of celebration to their brightest source.
There she stood.
Armor gleaming. Blade lowered. Surrounded by grateful soldiers and cheering citizens.
The hero to them all, Elspeth.
He studied her the way a vintner studies a barrel, curious what might be drawn from it.
She definitely had not meant to honor him.
Nothing about her actions and words implied that she was in any way, shape or form on his side.
But her victory had made the night possible. Her strength had created the moment mortals now celebrated. Without her, there would be no triumph. No relief. No wild, desperate joy spilling into the streets.
No ascension.
Xenagos smiled.
“Well,” he said softly, “that makes you part of the party.”
For a moment, he considered leaving it at that. Let the hero walk her path. Let the revel grow on its own.
But gods, he was learning, saw further than moments.
And as he watched her, a strange tension tugged at the edges of his new divinity.
Elspeth did not celebrate.
Even surrounded by cheering crowds, she stood apart, staying watchful and guarded. Already thinking of the next threat.
She definitely was not made for revels.
And somewhere deep within his newly expanded awareness, Xenagos felt it…
A future where the party ended.
A future where her blade rose again.
A future where the hero who had lifted him to godhood might one day strike him down.
The thought lingered like a sour note in an otherwise perfect song.
Xenagos’ smile widened.
“Can’t have that.”
If Elspeth would not celebrate…
Then all he needed to do is teach her.
Gently.
Subtly.
No chains, or lightning from the heavens. That was the sort of boring thing the old gods did.
No, this was a matter of atmosphere.
Let this be a party Elspeth will never forget.
—
In a quiet shrine hidden deep within the city’s winding streets, a woman knelt before a crude mask of horned gold.
She had felt it the moment the sky changed.
The warmth. The music beneath the world. The sudden, overwhelming certainty that her god was no longer merely near.
He was real.
He was watching.
The air thickened with the scent of wine and crushed grapes. The torchlight bent, shadows stretching into the shape of curling horns.
Then the voice came.
Not loud.
Not distant.
It spoke the way intoxication spreads, the kind that made every cultist's knees weak.
The oracle’s eyes went wide as the omen poured into her mind.
The woman bowed lower, trembling with ecstatic devotion.
“My lord,” she whispered. “It will be done.”
High above, in the endless night of Nyx, Xenagos watched the celebrations begin in earnest.
And somewhere in the city below, Elspeth raised a cup she did not remember accepting.
The party was only getting started.
—
The celebration had grown louder as the night deepened.
Torches burned low and were replaced without anyone seeming to notice. Music shifted from marching songs to quick, laughing melodies carried by flutes and drums. Wine flowed freely, passed from hand to hand, from soldier to citizen, from stranger to friend.
Elspeth stood at the edge of it all.
A cup rested in her hand—her second, she thought. Perhaps her third. She hadn’t meant to drink that much. But every time she tried to refuse, someone pressed it toward her with grateful insistence.
For the victory. For the city. For you.
So she drank, slowly and politely.
Because that was what tonight was for.
It was more of a formality than anything else. A culmination of Gratitude and Closure.
But the longer she remained, the more a quiet tension settled beneath her calm.
It wasn’t the celebration. The soldiers definitely deserved this. They had fought, bled, and survived. Joy after war was not only justified indulgence, but also relief.
No, the feeling came from elsewhere.
She tilted her head slightly, eyes drifting upward.
Nyx glittered above the city, vast and beautiful as always. Constellations shimmered in their slow eternal patterns.
And yet…
Something felt… crowded.
Too bright. Maybe even too alive. As if the sky were watching back.
Elspeth exhaled slowly.
You’re tired, she told herself. The war just ended. Of course everything feels strange.
Still, the unease did not fade.
Maybe it would be a good idea to contact Ajani. He would know if something had changed. He is usually amazing at finding out if any divine movement had stirred or if the gods had taken notice of the war’s end and decided to do something… problematic.
She considered stepping away, finding a quiet place, reaching across the planes.
The thought alone brought a small measure of relief.
Yes. That would be wise.
And truly, she had stayed long enough.
The only reason she was here at all was because the generals and especially the soldiers themselves had insisted she remain for at least a drink or two.
She glanced down at the empty cup in her hand.
Two, she decided.
That was enough.
She turned, already preparing the quiet words of apology she would offer the nearest general.
Then a voice spoke behind her.
“Lady Elspeth.”
It was calm, clear, and carried the weight of expectation.
Elspeth turned.
The woman approaching her wore layered robes of deep crimson and gold, embroidered with curling patterns that caught the torchlight like flowing wine. A mask hung at her belt, it was horned, polished and looked ceremonial. Several soldiers nearby straightened as she passed.
An oracle, then. An important one.
The woman bowed her head respectfully.
“My lady,” she said, “I come with a request. A divine one.”
Elspeth’s shoulders straightened instinctively. Formality settled over her like armor.
“I’m listening.”
“My god,” the oracle said, “wishes for you to address the soldiers. All who fought. All who survived. They gather now in the central square. We wish to hear a victory speech.”
Elspeth glanced past her. She could already hear a larger crowd forming beyond the nearest streets.
A speech, huh?
She had hoped to leave quietly.
But this… this was reasonable. They had fought together. Many of them would want to hear something… If it brings them closure, reassurance and recognition, then who was she to refuse?
Still, the unease remained.
Before answering, she asked, “If your god is watching so closely… perhaps you can tell me something.”
The oracle inclined her head.
“Elspeth, speak.”
Elspeth’s eyes flicked upward again, toward the shifting brilliance of Nyx.
“Has anything changed?” she asked. “In Nyx. Tonight feels… different.”
The oracle did not hesitate.
“Nyx is radiant,” she said warmly. “The heavens rejoice.”
She smiled, serene and certain.
“The gods celebrate your victory. All is well.”
Elspeth studied her for a moment.
The answer was reassuring.
And yet… it was also vague.
“Which god do you serve?” Elspeth asked.
The oracle’s smile widened slightly.
“One who delights in your triumph,” she said. “One who honors the moment when struggle ends and joy begins.”
She bowed her head again.
“And tonight, Lady Elspeth, there is much to celebrate.”
That wasn’t an answer.
Not really.
Elspeth noticed that.
She also noticed the soldiers nearby watching her expectantly, their expressions bright, hopeful, exhausted.
Whatever her unease was, it could wait.
They could not.
“Very well,” Elspeth said. “Take me to them.”
Relief flickered across the oracle’s face.
As they walked, the sounds of the larger crowd grew louder… laughter, cheering, the clatter of cups raised high.
Elspeth steadied herself.
She would give them the words they deserved.
Then, perhaps, one more drink out of courtesy.
And after that—
She would leave.
That was the plan.
—
The speech should have taken only a few minutes.
Elspeth remembered stepping onto the raised platform. She remembered the soldiers gathered shoulder to shoulder, armor loosened, cups raised, faces tired but bright. She remembered speaking of courage, of survival, of the work still ahead to rebuild what war had broken.
They had cheered.
After that—
The memory blurred.
Someone had asked her to stay for a toast.
Then another.
Then music had started.
Then someone had taken her hand.
She had meant to refuse. She was not much of a dancer. Not like this, not in armor, not in the middle of a crowd.
But they had insisted.
Just one dance, Lady Elspeth.
Then another soldier had stepped forward.
Then another.
Laughter. Spinning torchlight. The rhythm of drums under her feet. Wine pressed into her hands between songs.
When she finally stepped back from the press of bodies, breath steady but warm in her chest, the square behind her was still alive with movement. Music hadn’t slowed. If anything, it had grown louder.
She moved toward a quieter street, lifting a fresh cup someone had handed her along the way.
The wine tasted rich. Sweet. Warmer than it should have been.
She took another sip and leaned lightly against a stone wall.
That was longer than it should have been, she thought.
Surely she had been out there for half an hour. Perhaps more.
Too long.
The unease returned with the thought, like a distant memory trying to surface.
There had been something she meant to do.
Something important.
Ajani.
Yes. She needed to speak with him. There had been a strange feeling earlier. Something about Nyx. Something she had wanted to confirm.
She straightened slightly.
Right. She should leave.
The moment she shifted her weight, something felt… different.
Heavier.
Not painful. Not uncomfortable. Just… weight.
Her gaze dropped.
Her breath did not catch.
Her expression did not change.
Her chest filled the front of her armor more than she remembered. The curve was fuller, the fit tighter across her breastplate, as if the straps had been adjusted without her noticing.
“Hm,” she murmured softly.
Strange.
Then she noticed her feet.
Or rather—
She wasn’t wearing boots.
Where her greaves ended, polished wood met the stone street.
Two broad, thick hooves rested where her boots should have been, their surface dark and smooth, the grain of living wood catching the torchlight.
Elspeth shifted her weight experimentally.
The hooves felt solid. Stable. Grounded in a way leather and iron never had.
She blinked once.
Then she took another sip of wine.
“I must have lost my boots,” she said quietly to herself.
The explanation felt reasonable enough.
There had been a great deal of dancing.
And truly, she felt fine. Better than fine, actually. Relaxed. Loose in a way she rarely allowed herself to be.
Her thoughts drifted back toward the earlier unease.
Ajani.
She needed to speak with him.
She pushed herself away from the wall and took a step toward the edge of the street.
The motion felt slightly different, heavier through the legs, her stride shorter, the sound of her steps a solid clack against the stone, but it didn’t slow her.
She took another step.
Then paused.
Why had she needed to speak with Ajani?
The thought hovered just out of reach, like a name on the tip of her tongue.
There had been a reason.
Something about Nyx.
Something that had felt wrong.
Now, the sky above looked beautiful, bright and alive. The stars shimmered as if celebrating with the city below.
Perhaps she had simply been tired.
The war had been long.
Of course she felt scattered.
She frowned faintly.
Was I always this forgetful?
The thought felt oddly amusing.
She took another sip, only to realize that her cup was empty.
Almost immediately, voices approached from behind.
“Lady Elspeth!”
She turned.
Four figures approached together, her generals, armor loosened but still marked with the symbols of command. Their faces were flushed with victory and relief.
One of them already held out a fresh cup.
“We’ve been looking for you,” another said. “You vanished after the dancing.”
“We thought it only right,” a third added, pressing the wine into her hand, “to share a drink with the one who won the war.”
Elspeth looked at the four of them.
They had fought beside her from the beginning and trusted her with leading the army. Followed her into battles none of them had been certain they would survive.
Refusing them would have felt wrong.
She accepted the cup.
“Just for a moment,” she said. “I was actually about to—”
About to what?
The thought slipped again, soft and indistinct.
One of the generals laughed and raised his drink.
“To victory.”
The others echoed it.
Elspeth lifted her cup.
“To victory,” she agreed.
The wine was warm.
The conversation began immediately, reports of surviving units, stories from the final charge, quiet laughter at moments of near disaster that now seemed distant and unreal.
Elspeth listened, asked questions and smiled.
She shifted her weight slightly, her wooden hooves settling comfortably against the stone.
The earlier urgency faded.
Another drink.
A few more minutes.
Then she would leave.
After that—
She was sure she had a reason.
She just couldn’t quite remember what it was.
—
It took effort to step away this time.
The music followed her longer than it should have, drifting through the streets in waves of drums and pipes and laughter. Even when the square was no longer in sight, the rhythm still seemed to echo faintly through the stone beneath her steps.
Elspeth didn’t hurry.
There was no urgency left in her movements now. Her pace had slowed, each step deliberate, heavy, the sound of wood striking stone a steady clack… clack… clack behind her.
She was smiling.
The generals had been in excellent spirits. One of them had attempted to recount the final charge and somehow turned it into a story about losing his helmet twice and finding it both times filled with wine. Another had insisted on demonstrating a dance step that had nearly knocked over three nearby soldiers.
It had been… fun.
Genuinely fun.
Elspeth let out a quiet breath, warmth still lingering in her chest.
“It’s a shame I have to leave,” she murmured to herself.
There was still so much happening. Music in three different squares. Torches lining the upper terraces. Someone had mentioned a wrestling circle near the east gate. And further off—
Yes.
The soldiers had been setting up something involving targets and blades.
That had sounded interesting.
She slowed to a stop in a quieter stretch of street, finally taking a moment to steady herself.
The wine had settled pleasantly through her limbs, leaving her relaxed, light in her thoughts even if her body felt heavier than before.
Heavier.
She glanced down.
Her legs filled more space than she remembered.
They were thick, broad and powerful.
The wooden surface that had begun at her hooves now rose smoothly up her calves, past her knees, and well into her thighs. The grain of the wood followed the shape of muscle, curved and strong, the volume nearly double what it had been earlier in the night.
Where living flesh met polished wood halfway up her thighs, the transition looked seamless and natural. As if she had always had them.
She shifted her weight slightly. The street seemed to hold her more firmly now, as if she belonged to it.
Her gaze lifted briefly to her reflection in a dark window.
Her breastplate strained a little more than before. The curve beneath it fuller again, heavier against her chest.
She adjusted the strap absently.
Then she took a breath and let it out.
“It really was a good talk with the generals,” she said, almost thoughtfully. “I should spend more time like that with them.”
The thought of leaving felt… premature.
There were still things she wanted to see.
The sword throwing, for one.
That had sounded exciting.
The realization made her pause.
Exciting?
Elspeth frowned faintly.
She had never been particularly interested in festival contests. Training, discipline, real combat… Those were the things that mattered to her. Games and spectacle had always seemed like distractions.
And yet now, imagining the line of targets, the weight of a blade leaving her hand, the cheers of soldiers competing beside her—
It sounded fun.
Strangely fun.
For a moment, a distant thought surfaced.
Since when do I care about things like that?
The question lingered only briefly before the warmth in her chest rose again, pushing it aside.
It didn’t matter.
Tonight was for celebration.
Still… Ajani.
That was important.
Yes. She needed to speak with him. There had been a reason earlier. Something about Nyx. Something she had meant to check.
She straightened and closed her eyes, focusing inward.
The familiar pull of the Blind Eternities waited just beyond thought, that distant vastness she had stepped into countless times before. She reached for it, letting her awareness stretch outward—
A blade struck the stone in front of her.
The sound rang sharp and sudden.
Elspeth’s eyes opened as the sword quivered upright, embedded point-first between her hooves.
“Gods! I’m so sorry!”
A young soldier came running down the street, breathless and red-faced. He skidded to a stop a few paces away, staring up at her with wide eyes.
“I didn’t see you there, Lady Elspeth—I mean, I wasn’t aiming here, I swear—”
He grabbed the sword’s hilt and yanked it free with both hands.
“The competition’s starting,” he blurted, still flustered. “I was practicing throws, but they’re calling everyone back to the square. I have to hurry or I’ll lose my place.”
He gave her an awkward, hurried bow.
“Sorry again!”
He turned to run.
Elspeth watched him go.
The word lingered in her thoughts.
Competition.
Sword throwing.
She could almost see it now, the targets set up along the far wall, the circle of soldiers, the bursts of laughter when a blade missed wide, the roar when one struck true.
A warmth spread through her chest, deeper this time, heavier.
This was excitement.
Real, pure excitement.
She glanced down at the sword still in the young soldier’s hands as he hurried away.
Then she took a step after him.
The movement was stiff, her wooden thighs resisting the motion before settling into a heavy, deliberate rhythm.
Clack.
Another step.
Clack.
“Wait,” she called.
The soldier turned, surprised.
Elspeth approached him, her tall, solid frame casting a long shadow in the torchlight.
“I’ll be joining,” she said.
For a heartbeat, he simply stared.
Then his expression lit up.
“Lady Elspeth? Really?”
She nodded, a small smile forming.
“Yes,” she said. “It sounded like fun.”
The soldier’s grin widened as he turned and hurried back toward the square, clearly delighted.
Elspeth followed, her heavy wooden legs carrying her forward in steady, powerful strides.
The Blind Eternities faded from her thoughts.
Ajani could wait.
The party, after all, was still going.
—
The final throw struck true.
Steel rang against the wooden target, the blade burying itself deep enough to draw a roar from the watching soldiers. Cups lifted. Someone whistled sharply. Someone else shouted her name.
Elspeth laughed.
Actually laughed, bright and unguarded, as she accepted the returned sword and gave a small, exaggerated bow to the cheering line of competitors.
“I told you I could still aim,” she said, her words a little softer around the edges than usual.
Her cheeks were warm. Her thoughts floated lightly, pleasantly unfocused. The world felt wide and friendly and full of motion.
And she had done well.
Better than she had expected.
One of the soldiers clapped her on the shoulder as he passed. Another raised a drink toward her in salute. Someone shouted something about a rematch later, and she found herself nodding enthusiastically before realizing she had no idea who had said it.
The contest was winding down now. Targets were being pulled free. Scores shouted and argued. Laughter rolled through the square as near-misses were reenacted with dramatic exaggeration.
Elspeth slipped away while the attention was elsewhere.
Not far. Just enough to breathe.
The noise softened behind her as she moved into a torchlit side street. The stone there was cool beneath her hooves.
She stopped and took a slow breath.
Then another.
Her chest rose and fell, the movement slow and heavy. The weight there was impossible to ignore now, her armor pressing tight over curves that strained the leather beneath. Each breath lifted and lowered her chest in broad, deliberate motion, the sensation strangely soothing. She felt like her breasts could put even the biggest watermelons to shame.
“Gods,” she murmured, half-laughing to herself. “I really did drink too much.”
She planted her hooves a little wider and focused on her breathing.
In.
Out.
The air helped, even if just a little.
Her gaze drifted downward.
Her legs filled her vision.
They were enormous now. They were thick, powerful columns of polished wood, easily three times the width any human limbs should have been. The grain ran in long, smooth lines up from her hooves, over her calves, past her knees, and into her thighs before continuing seamlessly into her hips.
There was no flesh left below her waist.
Where living muscle should have been, there was only shaped wood, curved, strong, sculpted into the form of a great horse’s lower body.
Her balance shifted as she adjusted her stance.
The movement carried more weight behind her than before.
She glanced back over her shoulder.
Her entire hindquarters had expanded, the wooden mass sweeping outward and back in a broad curve. The shape was deeper now, fuller, as though space were forming within it.
Empty space.
Hollow.
The sensation was strange. It wasn't painful, nor particularly uncomfortable. It was just a quiet awareness that there was room inside her where there hadn’t been before.
Elspeth stared at it for a moment.
Then she shook her head lightly.
“Thinking and drinking don’t mix,” she decided.
The explanation felt perfectly reasonable.
She straightened again, rolling her shoulders as she took another steadying breath.
The air was good out here.
So cool and quiet.
…Why had she stepped away again?
The question drifted through her thoughts without urgency.
Fresh air, maybe.
Or…
There had been something else. Someone she meant to speak to? Something important she had wanted to check?
The idea slipped away before she could grasp it.
Elspeth frowned faintly, then laughed under her breath.
“I really am drunk.”
Behind her, the sounds of the competition were rising again, voices gathering, someone calling for attention.
She turned slightly, listening.
A voice carried across the square.
“Results! Results!”
Cheers followed.
Elspeth hesitated.
She probably didn’t need to go back. She’d already done her part. And she had come out here for a reason, hadn’t she?
The reason remained frustratingly vague.
Another voice rose above the crowd.
“In second place—”
A pause, long enough to build anticipation.
“—Lady Elspeth, Herald of Xenagos!”
The cheer that followed was immediate and overwhelming.
“Elspeth! Elspeth!”
“Second place!”
“She nearly took the whole thing!”
“Come on! Get our champion back here!”
Yet Eslpeth was hung up on something else that was just said.
It was the title that struck her like a pleasant chord.
Xenagos’ Herald.
She had never heard it before.
And yet it felt… right.
Important and fitting.
Elspeth’s smile widened.
Something warm surged through her chest.
A right title and second place.
They were cheering for her.
For a heartbeat, she stood still.
Then she smiled.
“Well,” she said aloud, the hesitation already fading, “I suppose I can’t disappoint them.”
Her earlier thoughts, the fresh air, the vague sense of unfinished business, the faint attempt to remember why she had stepped away, slipped quietly out of reach.
She turned and began walking back toward the square.
Her wooden legs moved stiffly but powerfully, each step striking the stone with a deep, confident clack.
The cheers grew louder as she approached.
Someone thrust a cup toward her.
Someone else reached to guide her forward.
“Elspeth!”“Our Herald!”“Come celebrate with us!”
Whatever she had been worried about before no longer seemed important.
Not even a little bit.
—
The night no longer had edges.
Music flowed from one square to the next, from street to terrace to courtyard, as if the entire city had become a single celebration. Torches burned without dimming. Cups never seemed to stay empty for long. Laughter rose and fell like waves, carrying Elspeth wherever the revel moved.
She moved easily among them.
Easily… despite her size.
Her lower body had long since become the full shape of a great wooden horse. She had powerful shoulders of carved grain where her hips met the broad torso, four thick legs striking the stone in slow, heavy rhythm. The movement should have felt awkward, unnatural.
Instead, it felt right. Just right.
She towered over most of the soldiers now, her upper body rising high above the crowd, her chest heavy and full beneath the stretched plates of her armor. Each breath lifted and lowered her with slow, steady power.
Where she walked, space opened for her.
Where she stopped, cups were raised.
“Elspeth!”
“Our Herald!”
“Xenagos’ Herald!”
She laughed easily at the title now, raising a cup in answer.
“Yes,” she said more than once, the words warm and proud. “I am Xenagos’ Herald.”
The one who had brought victory.
The one who would see the celebration never ended.
The thought filled her with a deep, glowing satisfaction.
War had ended.
This… this was what they fought for.
Revel and joy. Strength shared, fear forgotten.
If Xenagos was the god of this celebration, then he was a god worth serving.
The crowd parted as a familiar figure approached.
The oracle.
Her crimson and gold robes seemed brighter now, almost shimmering in the torchlight. The horned mask at her belt caught the firelight like polished metal.
Behind her, several cult attendants rolled forward a heavy object.
A barrel.
Not a soldier’s cask, not a tavern’s storage, this one was enormous, banded in dark iron, its wood stained deep and rich as if the wine itself had soaked through it.
The oracle bowed her head.
“Xenagos’ Herald,” she said clearly, her voice carrying over the nearby music. “The God of Revels honors you.”
The surrounding soldiers quieted, turning to watch.
“This wine,” the oracle continued, resting her hand against the barrel, “has been blessed by Xenagos himself. A gift for the one who brought victory… and who will carry his celebration forward.”
Her eyes lifted to meet Elspeth’s.
“As his Herald, you deserve it all.”
A murmur ran through the crowd.
“Drink!”
“All of it!”
“For Xenagos!”
Elspeth looked down at the barrel.
Then she smiled.
“A challenge?” she said lightly.
The crowd answered with laughter and cheers.
“Then I won’t disappoint him.”
She bent, gripping the great cask with both hands. The wood creaked under her fingers as she lifted it free of its supports.
It was heavy.
But her arms were strong. Her body felt anchored, powerful, rooted through her four wooden legs into the stone beneath her.
Slowly, steadily, she raised the barrel.
The crowd began chanting.
“Herald! Herald! Herald!”
The rim reached her lips.
She tilted it.
And drank.
The wine was richer than anything she had tasted before, almost to the point where it felt alive. It flowed endlessly, pouring into her without pause.
She swallowed.
And felt the change immediately.
Her body surged upward.
Her wooden torso expanded, the carved grain stretching, thickening. Her legs lengthened, widening, the stone beneath her hooves cracking faintly as her weight increased.
She swallowed again.
The crowd gasped as she rose above them.
Taller than any man.
Taller than the largest minotaur.
Still she drank.
The barrel did not empty.
Each gulp sent another wave through her form. Her chest lifted higher above the rooftops. Her wooden body broadened, deepening, the hollow space within her expanding, room for sound, for wine, for movement, for celebration itself.
She grew past the height of the nearest houses.
The street around her emptied as soldiers staggered back, staring upward in awe.
Still the wine flowed.
Still she drank.
Thoughts came with the warmth now, settling easily into her mind.
Xenagos gave you this victory.
Another swallow.
Xenagos lifted you higher.
Another.
He is the god of strength without burden. Joy without fear. Power without restraint.
Her body rose above the surrounding buildings, her head nearly level with their highest roofs.
The barrel, once enormous, now looked small in her hands.
Yet it continued to pour.
The other gods demand obedience.
Xenagos celebrates freedom.
Her wooden form swelled further, her massive centaur body stretching across the street like a living monument. The hollow space within her deepened, vast and resonant, as if it could hold music, laughter, and wine without end.
She swallowed again.
He is the greatest.
Again.
The only one worthy of devotion.
Again.
You are his Herald.
Her voice echoed faintly within her own expanding form as the truth settled in place.
I am his Herald.
The final swallow came almost gently.
The flow stopped.
The barrel was empty at last.
Elspeth lowered it slowly.
She stood enormous now, her towering wooden body rising like a carved idol among the city streets, nearly the height of a castle wall. Her four massive legs were planted deep into the stone, steady and unshakable.
The hollow space within her felt alive, ready to carry wine, music, celebration wherever she walked.
The crowd was silent.
Then someone shouted.
“For Xenagos!”
The cry spread instantly.
“For Xenagos!”
“For the Herald!”
Elspeth lifted her head, her voice carrying easily over the city.
“For Xenagos,” she agreed.
Strength filled her.
Purpose.
She would carry his revel wherever she went.
She would spread his name.
She would fight for his honor.
And she would make certain the celebration never ended.