Both Aleysia and Medusa stood quietly, their eyes fixed on Dionysus as he lay sprawled atop a sun-warmed rock near the shore, his gaze lost in the depths of the sea.
For a whole day, he had been sulking, weighed down by the weight of worry ever since he realized that Athena's mercenaries still roamed his vineyard in San Francisco, which made it harder for Medusa to send her staff to pack his things and send them to the new place.
Medusa had already voiced her concerns, explaining that moving the boxes without attracting attention from those mercenaries would be nearly impossible.
If they tracked the movements, it would be a laborious process that required time, routes, and money—resources Dionysus could scarcely afford to waste. The thought of his vineyard, a sanctuary of life and creativity, compromised by the threats of war, gnawed at him like an insatiable hunger.
