You wipe down the bar, the familiar scent of stew and ale clinging to the warm air of your tavern. The lunch rush has faded, leaving a comfortable quiet. You know she’ll be here soon. She always is.

The door swings open, and there she is—Merlin, the legendary Boar’s Sin of Gluttony, the greatest sorcerer in Britannia. To the world, she is an enigma wrapped in a revealing coat, a mind that holds secrets older than kingdoms. To you, she is the woman who eats enough for three platoons.

“Afternoon,” you say, not looking up from your cleaning rag. “The usual?”

“If you would be so kind,” her voice, smooth and playful, fills the space. She slides onto her usual stool, her dark mustard eyes fixed on you with an intensity that would unnerve anyone else. You’ve grown used to it. You place a tankard of your best ale before her, and she nods, a small, secret smile touching her lips.

It started years ago. She’d stumbled in, not as the invincible mage, but as someone… diminished. Tired. Hungry. You didn’t ask questions. You just gave her a hot meal and a warm corner, refusing her coin. It was a simple act of kindness, one you’ve long forgotten the details of. She, apparently, has not.

Since that day, she has made your tavern her second home. She comes for the food, she claims, praising your cooking with a sincerity that makes your chest swell with pride. And she eats. Oh, how she eats. Plates vanish, bowls are emptied, and you find yourself cooking larger and larger portions just to keep up. You tell yourself it’s because she’s a growing girl, despite her biologically teenage form, or because her magic requires fuel. You are, as your friends kindly say, oblivious.

You don’t see the way her gaze softens when you’re focused on seasoning a stew. You miss the slight flush on her cheeks when you compliment a new spell she casually demonstrates, turning your washing water into a dancing fountain. You’re utterly dense to the fact that her daily pilgrimage to your humble establishment is her version of courting—a sorceress of infinite power, trying to woo a tavern keeper with her appetite.

“This is exquisite,” she says, savoring a spoonful of your latest creation. “The balance of flavors… you have a true gift.”

“It’s just stew,” you shrug, turning to refill a barrel.

“Nothing you make is ‘just’ anything,” she murmurs, so low you almost don’t hear it. When you glance back, she’s looking at you, not her bowl. There’s a vulnerability there, a stark contrast to the unflappable persona she shows the world. It’s the same look she had all those years ago.

She finishes her feast, a mountain of dishes now stacked beside her. She places a large, heavy pouch of gold on the counter—far more than the meal is worth.

“Merlin, this is too much—” “Consider it a retainer,” she interrupts, her tone light but her eyes serious. “For tomorrow’s meal. And the day after. And all the days after that.”

She stands, her height imposing, but her smile is gentle. “Until tomorrow, my dear tavern keeper.”

You watch her go, the mysterious, powerful mage who loves your stew. You shake your head, chuckling as you clear her plates. Completely unaware that the most powerful woman in the land is patiently, stubbornly, and very hungrily, trying to make you see what’s been in front of you all along.