dusa sighed, her violet lashes fluttering as her gaze swept across the bustling streets.
The world she was seeing right now was so much different from the world she once knew.
Or perhaps, she realized with a bitter smile, it wasn’t the world that had changed.
It was her.
In her forr reign, whenever she walked through a city, the very ground seed to cry beneath her feet.
Word of her approach spread like wildfire, and entire cities evacuated in frantic terror.
Families packed up in desperation, rchants fled, and even mages were ordered not to waste their spells on her — because what was the point?
Against her, they were nothing but gnats awaiting smothering.
It was faster to abandon entire strongholds than resist.
So in her mories, she always walked alone.
Empty avenues.
Shattered windows.
Silent hos where laughter had once thrived.
The sound of her own footsteps echoing through hollow streets.
But now...
Now she walked in a city alive.
A place that did not shrink from her but embraced its own rhythm.
People strolled past her, brushing shoulders in the crowd.
rchants shouted prices from their stalls.
Children darted through gaps, their laughter like little bells.
And though so glanced at her — how could they not, with her violet hair shimring under the sunlight, their eyes held no crippling fear.
Instead, she saw curiosity, admiration, even... desire.
A few of those lustful gazes prickled her skin, instinct surging like an old reflex, urging her to lash out, to drown their insolence in suffocating death.
But she cald herself.
She wasn’t that monster anymore.
Instead, she held tighter onto the warm hand clasping her own.
Her Master’s hand.
Her cheeks flushed as she glanced at Azel beside her.
His grip was steady, grounding.
A reminder of why she was here and why she had chosen to live differently.
’I love Master so much...’
He was the first one to treat her as more than a weapon or tyrant.
With him, she wasn’t dusa the Vile Necromancer — scourge of the world.
She was dusa, a woman.
His servant that was obsessed with him, and she loved it this way.
Her heart trembled with every thought.
He was forgiving where no one else would be.
Playful one mont, serious the next.
Strong yet kind.
And never once had he raised his voice at her.
She prayed it would stay that way.
’I never want Master to be angry with . If he ever was... it would break .’
A breeze stirred the air, and with it ca a scent.
dusa froze mid-step, her nose twitching.
Her throat tightened.
The sll was unmistakable.
A chicken skewer.
mories flooded back — sharp and bittersweet.
In her reign, she had stumbled upon an abandoned stall.
The owners had fled, leaving behind their livelihood.
On the counter had rested a forgotten skewer, cold and half-charred.
Out of boredom more than hunger, she had taken it.
And it had been delicious.
So delicious, in fact, that she had tracked down the stall’s owner afterward — a timid woman with deft hands and brought her to her palace.
Out of all her subjects, that woman had been the one she liked most and spoiled on countless occassions.
Not because of power, not because of fear.
But because she had recreated that skewer for dusa every day.
For a ti, it had been comfort.
A warmth in a throne room otherwise drenched in cruelty.
Until the woman died.
And the recipe died with her.
Now, for the first ti in many years, that familiar fragrance drifted into her nose.
Only this ti, it was spicier.
"Do you like it?" Azel asked beside her, noting how she had gone still.
dusa’s eyes glimred, and she gave a tiny nod, her lips curving shyly.
"Let’s go get so skewers then," Azel said with a grin.
Internally, Azel was less romantic.
’Do all these won have a skewer fetish? First Edna, and now dusa.’
At this point, he half-expected even the Goddess to demand one.
He made a ntal note to stash so in his inventory so he would give her when he visited her later.
They followed the trail of smoke and spice until a small wooden stall ca into view.
The vendor behind it was a woman with glossy black hair tied back neatly, her face carrying the warm sturdiness of a homaker.
dusa halted for a split second, her eyes widening.
For a heartbeat, she swore the woman resembled her — the skewer-maker she had once kept in her palace.
Her chest squeezed painfully.
But when she looked again, she realized she was imagining things.
The features were different.
This woman was not her dead subject.
The woman looked up, saw them approaching, and her lips parted in surprise.
"Ooh~ Custors!" she chid, her voice bright.
Then her eyes landed on Azel. More specifically, his silver hair.
Recognition flashed instantly.
Her pupils shrank, and without a second thought, she bowed.
"Lord Azel! I greet you to my humble stall."
Azel blinked, bewildered.
’What’s with these people and treating like a noble? He wasn’t one.’
His father, the Sword Saint, had refused every noble title, remaining proudly a commoner.
By that logic, shouldn’t he also be considered a commoner?
"You don’t need to be so formal," Azel said, lifting a hand. "I just wanted to try your chicken skewers. I had one back in the Empire, and they were good."
The woman straightened, her smile returning.
"Ah, that must have been my brother’s stall. His wife rears the chickens we use. It’s a family trade."
Azel chuckled. "A family business then."
"Yes, my lord. Though I’ll say mine are spicier than my brother’s," she declared proudly. "People here prefer a hotter bite, so I adjusted the recipe."
"I see," Azel said, intrigued. "Could you get us two? I want to test them before I buy more."
The woman lit up and hurried back to her grill, expertly turning skewers over glowing coals.
Soon enough, she brought two, the aroma stronger up close, the glaze dripping spice and char.
She offered them reverently, both hands extended.
If Lord Azel, the Sword Saint’s son, approved of her food, her stall would gain instant renown.
Custors would line up just for the chance to taste what he had eaten.
Azel accepted them and passed one to dusa.
She held it gingerly, her violet eyes shimring. "Thank you, Master," she murmured, her voice unsteady.
They bit in.
The taste was bold, fire and smoke dancing across their tongues.
Azel savored it with a grin.
"This is good," he admitted.
He always liked spicy food.
But beside him, dusa froze.
Her lips trembled. Her body shivered. And then, suddenly —
Tears spilled down her cheeks.
"M-da?" Azel blurted, alarm shooting through him. "What’s wrong? Is it too spicy? Did it hurt your throat?"
dusa’s shoulders shook... and then she broke into laughter, pure and light.
Her tears sparkled in the sun, trailing down her cheeks as her lips curved into the widest smile he had ever seen on her.
"It’s tasty, Master," she said between sniffles, her round eyes gleaming with joy. "So tasty. I love it."
For that brief mont, she wasn’t dusa the Tyrant.
She was just a woman rediscovering sothing precious she thought was lost forever.
And deep in her heart, she whispered a na she hadn’t spoken aloud in so many years it felt like eternity.
’Thank you, Talia.’
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