Logan's POV
The feast spreads before me like something out of a dream.
The table stretches so far I can't even see the end of it, a river of polished white wood gleaming under a beautiful blue sky lit by Sól's favourite sun-rays. Platters are stacked high with roasted meats glistening with juices, fruits cut open to reveal jewel-colored flesh, bread still steaming from ovens I never saw. Pomegranates gleam like rubies, grapes spill over bowls in cascades of purple and green. Fish lie on silver trays, their scales catching the light in a way that makes them iridescent, as though they're still alive and swimming. Sauces glisten thick and red or pale and golden, and the scents— Gods, the scents— hit me so hard my stomach clenches even though I haven't needed food since the moment I died. The air smells of honey and smoke, of herbs and salted fat, of sugar caramelizing over heat.
