Emilia spent her evening preparing dinner, determined to make something different after days of eating the same meat stew. The repetition had begun to dull her appetite, and with the new variety of herbs and plants she had managed to forage from the forest's outskirts, she found herself inspired to create a meal that felt warm and nourishing but also lively with new flavors.
The table was scattered with fresh bundles of moonleaf basil, the pale bulbs of sweetroot she had peeled earlier, peppermoss leaves that gave off a faint citrus-like aroma, and several golden tubers that held a gentle sweetness once roasted properly. She handled everything slowly but confidently, knowing exactly which ingredients would blend well together and which needed to be added with care.
As she worked, Hikarimetsu stayed close, moving quietly, without wasted motion, her hands steady as she chopped whatever Emilia handed her. There's a calm understanding in her movements, no loud words, no unnecessary gestures, just a rhythm that matched Emilia's own.
Even in human form, her movement is sharp and fluid, the way she handled the knife set her apart from the rest of the village. She's the knife Emilia always trusted whenever she's in her battlefield, the kitchen.
But for the night, Emilia doesn't want her to be a weapon.
Earlier, as they returned from the fields, Emilia felt a pull in her gut, not painful, but strong enough to make her pause. It was the sense of something drawing near. Not danger, not yet, but a presence, like the shift in wind before a new season. She couldn't explain it logically, only knew she needed Hikarimetsu beside her tonight, as a human, not cold steel in her grasp.
"I just… want you like the moment now," she had said, voice quiet but firm.
Hikarimetsu obeyed without question, as always. Now she stood at Emilia's side, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, strands of silver hair framing her face. Her eyes held a rare softness, half-lidded, the kind she never showed others.
The scent of herbs filled around them, drifting through the village into the evening air, where villagers finished their work, repairing fences and guiding water through new channels under the fading light.
Outside, laughter mingled with the dusk, distant and unaware.
The sky had turned a warm violet, the last traces of daylight sinking behind the tree line. Emilia and Hikarimetsu had just finished placing the bowls onto the long wooden table, where several villagers were already waiting.
Conversations were soft, tired but content, everyone wearing the calm of hard work completed. The comforting aroma of herbs, roasted vegetables, and simmering broth lifted into the cool air.
But then the gate rattled.
It wasn't loud, more the uneven, desperate scrape of something heavy brushing against wood. The villagers paused. Hands stilled halfway to bowls. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.
Hikarimetsu is the first to move, her posture shifting from relaxed to ready in one silent heartbeat, she puts herself in front of Emilia while sheathed her katana. Emilia could almost feel the shift of energy through her skin, like the air had sharpened.
The gate creaked open, and a man stumbled through.
He looked like death wearing a human shape. His cloak was torn and stained with dried blood and travel dirt. His boots were ruined, one sole hanging by a thread. His skin was grayed with exhaustion and starvation. His dark, wavy hair hung tangled around his face. He leaned heavily on a broken spear shaft, his breath ragged.
The villagers immediately tensed, hands going to tools that could quickly become weapons. This world has trained them to be careful first, kind later.
The man tried to speak, but his voice only cracked. He swallowed, forcing sound through his raw throat. "Food… please… just… food. Water."
His accent curled like smoke, too precise, too polished. His accent was neither the rough cadence of the villagers nor the wandering drawl of the merchants who passed through.
That accent is the speech of old libraries, of gilded halls where words were weapons, that man is a noble. Yet beneath it, something frayed. A voice that didn't plead but needed, a blade held too tightly, a grip trembling with the effort of control.
The elder stepped forward cautiously. "Who are you to come here wounded and alone?"
The man fumbled at his side and pulled something from beneath his torn cloak, a crest, silver and amber, marked with the sigil of a rampant lion encircled by wheat.
Gasps rose. "That is the crest of Lord Halvine's house," someone whispered.
"The ruling lord of this land," another murmured.
The villagers lowered their defensiveness but not their caution. The young noble swayed on his feet.
Hikarimetsu moved before he fell, catching him with one effortless arm, her strength steady and gentle. Emilia stepped forward as well, her expression shifting from surprise to instinctive concern.
"Bring him to the table," Emilia said. "He needs warmth and food. Now."
No one argued. They laid him down carefully on a bench. Emilia placed her hand against his forehead, feeling the fever burning beneath his skin. His pulse fluttered weakly.
She reached into her pouch, retrieving a small vial of warm amber liquid. It was a potion she had brewed only two days ago, using Mooncap sap, Silkfern roots, and a drop of Horned Maulbeast blood, based on a recipe she learned from her skills. A healing brew meant to restore strength, stabilize the body, and ease pain.
"Drink," she said.
The man obeyed without hesitation. The potion glowed faintly against his lips, settling into him like warm sunlight. His breathing eased. The tremor in his hands slowed. But the hunger in his eyes remained.
Emilia turned to the feast she had prepared earlier: roasted beast meat with herbal glaze, mushroom stew simmered slow, and fresh bread she had made with her hands that morning.
She placed a plate before him.
The moment his eyes landed on the meat, something inside him broke. It isn't dignity exactly, more like the last brittle shield of a man who had been fighting to survive far too long.
He lifted a piece of the meat to his mouth with shaking fingers. And the world, for him, stopped.
The meat is still warm, its surface lightly seared, the marbling glistening under the firelight. The aroma rose with every inch it traveled toward his lips, deep, rich umami, like the echo of forests, rain, and a creature that had lived strong and wild.
The first touch on his tongue is almost unreal. The meat dissolved instantly, no resistance, no need for chewing, just warmth melting into silk. The flavor unfurled slowly, impossibly rich, layered, and deep.
The savory flavor filled his mouth, followed by a subtle sweetness, a whisper of something ancient and powerful, ending with a golden note of warmth that lingered long after he swallowed.
He closed his eyes. For a moment, he forgot the pain. Forgot the hunger. Forgot everything.