Morning on the island always brought a gentle quiet—the kind of silence that wasn't empty, but filled with life. Birds chirped low melodies, the wind played in the tall grasses, and in the distance, dragon wings sometimes beat against the sky like the echoes of a long-forgotten drum.
Ryuuji knelt in a patch of tilled earth near the eastern side of the cottage. His hands were calloused, dirt-streaked, and strong—exactly the kind of hands you'd expect from a man who had once defeated the Demon Lord and then decided to grow vegetables.
"Papa!" came the squeaky voice of Kiko, who barreled down the path holding a wooden bucket almost the size of her torso. "I got the water!"
"Whoa there, slow down, Kiko. Don't spill it."
She skidded to a halt, tiny horns glinting in the sun, and grinned up at him. "Didn't spill a drop!" she lied, even as water dripped steadily from the bottom.
Ryuuji chuckled. "You're doing great. C'mere and pour it into the trench—slow and steady, like I showed you."
The two worked in rhythm, tending to a patch of what Ryuuji called flame lilies—a magical variety of flowers with soft crimson petals and ember-like pollen that glowed faintly at night. The plant was temperamental but could be used in both high-grade potions and certain dragon dishes if handled properly.
"Why're we growing flowers?" Kiko asked, scrunching her nose. "They don't taste yummy."
"Not everything we grow is for eating," Ryuuji replied. "Some things are for healing. Or protecting. Or even just... for being beautiful."
Kiko looked at the glowing red buds with new respect. "Like Mama Elysia?"
Ryuuji blinked, surprised. Then he smiled. "Yeah. Exactly like her."
A familiar shape approached from behind them. Elysia, in her human form, had a wicker basket over one arm filled with dried herbs, fruits, and spices from the surrounding woods. She looked toward the flower patch and nodded in approval.
"They're thriving," she said. "Much better than when I tried growing them on the cliffs of Thunderspine."
"Too much wind there," Ryuuji said. "They like warm soil and still air. Kind of like how you like your tea."
Elysia snorted softly. "Are you comparing me to a flower again?"
"Would you rather be compared to a potato?"
Kiko burst into giggles. Elysia just rolled her eyes.
Later that afternoon, Ryuuji decided to introduce Kiko to a new kind of cooking—something rustic and ancient, passed down from farmers and wanderers alike: Ember Bread.
"It's bread that bakes under the ground!" Kiko gasped when he explained it.
"Exactly. You wrap it in leaves, bury it in coals, and let the heat do the work."
In the clearing behind their home, Ryuuji had already built a pit oven using flat stones and slow-burning logs. Kiko helped him mix the dough, her hands covered in flour and her cheeks speckled white from where she'd absentmindedly scratched her face.
"You sure this'll cook?" Elysia asked, arms crossed, watching as Ryuuji packed the wrapped dough balls in the pit.
"Trust the process."
An hour later, as the sun dipped toward the sea and golden light soaked the trees, they unearthed the bread. The outside leaves were charred, but the dough inside had baked into fluffy, lightly crispy rolls with a faint smoky flavor.
Ryuuji handed the first one to Kiko. "Go on, taste test."
She bit into it, eyes going wide. "It's like... warm clouds!"
Elysia took a more measured bite but couldn't hide the pleased hum in her throat.
They ate quietly for a while, watching the smoke trail into the sky. Shin, the baby dragon, came trotting over and begged for crumbs. Kiko obliged, feeding him pieces while humming a made-up tune.
"So," Elysia said after a moment, "You mentioned wanting to try something new. Something... non-farming."
Ryuuji blinked. "Oh, right."
He reached behind a nearby barrel and pulled out a strange-looking wooden instrument.
Kiko's eyes sparkled. "Is that a guitar?"
"Sort of. It's a lute—a magical variant. Found it buried in the old ruins. Thought I'd try learning again."
"You played before?" Elysia asked.
Ryuuji scratched the back of his neck. "A bit. Before the war. Before... everything. Thought I'd forgotten how."
He strummed a few awkward chords. The sound was raw, a little off-tune, but carried warmth.
"Don't laugh," he warned.
"Why would I laugh?" Elysia said softly. "You're creating music again. That's something to treasure."
Kiko lay back on the grass, arms behind her head. "Play a song about bread!"
Ryuuji laughed, then began to pluck a melody—gentle, a little silly, but peaceful.
A ballad about flour, family, and firepits beneath the earth.
That night, with stars stretching overhead and the sounds of nature humming softly around them, Ryuuji sat beside Elysia on the porch. Kiko had long since fallen asleep curled up with Shin and a half-eaten roll still in hand.
"Do you miss it?" Elysia asked quietly. "The cities? The glory?"
"No," Ryuuji replied without hesitation. "But I do miss... music. Laughter. Quiet mornings. I think I was always meant to live like this. Just took a war and a baby demon girl to remind me."
Elysia leaned against him. "Then let's keep building this life together. Slowly. With fireflowers and bread and strange instruments."
He chuckled. "And no hero stuff."
"No hero stuff," she agreed.
For now, the world could go on without them. And that was just fine.