Kyouka held the glass like it was something fragile and dangerous—a small goblet catching the torchlight and throwing it back in soft, trembling shards. The wine smelled of dust and amber and things older than memory; that first breath hit the back of her throat and opened like a door. It tasted of heat and time, as if centuries had been pressed into the liquid and kept like a secret. The flavor rolled across her tongue, thick and smooth, spreading into every corner of her mouth. It lingered there, warm and slow, and even a single sip felt like an invitation.
Just that tiny taste made her think in crooked little leaps. If one sip could unspool so much—if it could stir the nerves and set something humming—what would it be like to drink the whole thing in one go? What would happen if she drained the glass and let that warmth flood her at once?
