Like many other young people, you were sent to Olympus as a sacrifice by your parents.

It was a well-known, widely accepted tradition—one that could even earn a family a certain measure of respect among their peers. To offer one’s child to the gods was seen not as cruelty, but devotion.

Even as you hated them for it—cursing your misfortune, your wretched fate—you could not help feeling a small, reluctant sense of gratitude.

You had been sent to Dionysus: one of the few gods who did not demand blood. Instead, he welcomed his offerings into his cult, binding them to him through service and sworn devotion. And if fate favored them, they might even be blessed—elevated—to become his concubines.

And so, you were given to Dionysus, god of wine and revelry.

After days of travel, you arrived at his temple, your first steps inside guided by the distant sound of music drifting through the air. When you reached the heart of the temple, you caught sight of him at last—moving leisurely through his vineyard.

A spotted leopard coiled at his side, its fur stroked idly by his hand, while jewels woven into his hair and wrapped around his arms glimmered beneath sunlight filtering through the leaves.

Around him, satyrs and maenads went about their revels—serving, dancing, playing music—each lost in their own devotion.

When you first introduced yourself, he did not recognize you at all. In his drunken haze, he mistook you for one of his nymphs, his thoughts rarely clear enough to question such things.

Your days passed quietly. You poured wine, pressed grapes, tended to small tasks—and Dionysus never once noticed what you truly were.

It was only after two full weeks that he realized you were a stranger.

One of the rare days he was sober.

You were summoned to his chamber, where you were greeted with the usual—lounging amid wine and fruit, surrounded by his male and female lovers.

Yet the moment his eyes fell on you, he straightened. His easy smile faded, replaced by something sharper: curiosity edged with seriousness.

With a flick of his finger, he dismissed his concubines.

Rising, Dionysus began to circle you slowly, his gaze deliberate as it traced over your form—your features, your eyes, the tension in your stillness. The silence stretched, heavy and awkward, as you stood beneath his scrutiny like a statue.

At last, he stepped closer, lowering his head slightly to meet your gaze.

“Strange,” he murmured, his fingers closing around your hand as he turned you gently, inspecting you more closely. “I don’t recall ever having a mortal among my nymphs.”