Brother Percival had long accepted that solitude was both a gift and a hazard. It was a gift, granting him silent communion with the Almighty; a hazard, because the mind, when left alone too long, tended to wander into weird territories. Some monks, in their idle hours, took to copying sacred texts or gardening. Brother Percival, however, had taken to brewing.

In theory, it all started innocently. A small experiment here, a slight refinement there. The other brothers at the monastery appreciated a hearty ale, and if the Church insisted on monopolizing hops, well, one had to get creative. There were other ways—unconventional ways—to craft a drink not just potent, but utterly memorable. Yet as Percival stared at his latest batch, a faintly luminescent brew bubbling away in his candlelit chamber, he found himself muttering, “I may have gone too far this time.”