Back in the manor, Leon stepped into the kitchen. The place was quiet, too quiet but the table betrayed evidence of someone's effort. A full meal waited for him, the aroma rising like a siren's call.
It was simple at first glance: rice, a rich sauce, and neatly arranged vegetables. But the scent told a different story. The elves, bound to a restrained diet, had mastered the art of drawing flavor from the smallest, rarest greens, and this meal was proof. Even as a void spawn, who needed no food at all, Leon found himself compelled.
He reached out casually, plucking up what looked like a golden potato wedge, dipping it into the side sauce, and biting in.
At that exact moment, footsteps sounded. Racheal entered, her emerald eyes expectant, only for them to widen in alarm when she saw him mid-bite.
"Wait—" she started, too late.
Leon turned toward her, chewing slowly. "What?"
