Agathon shouted as sharp pain shot up his spine, immobilizing him for a second. “I said I was sorry!” he shouted to the oracle. The freezing liquid stopped, but held on tight at his knee. “I’m sorry, I was starving… I didn’t know-”

“Didn’t know what? That the amphora was mine?” The oracle spat, her voice hard and unforgiving, “You little fool, you’ve messed with a servant of the gods!” She stopped as the dog approached Agathon’s leg, lapping at the cold liquid. He realized it was just iced wine, and it hadn’t crawled up his leg, it had splashed.

“You didn’t do any of that!” He shouted, pointing an accusing finger at the girl. Another bright light, hot against his shut eyelids. “That’s not what I was talking about!” When he opened his eyes, the girl was kneeling on the ground, out of breath. Holding the amphora. Her arms, he noticed, were branded with serpents, twining all the way to her shoulders.

“You’re… a servant of Hera?” he asked, scared again. She nodded, and disembodied laughter filled the air.