I reached into my pocket and placed a pouch of coins on the table.
"Buy ingredients. Cook. You don't need permission to eat or use the facilities in this house."
She took the money with both hands, bowed deeply, and left.
An hour later, the aroma drifted in.
Not the stench of monster blood. Not the smell of cigarettes. Not the scent of dust.
Sautéed garlic. Meat broth. Warm spices.
This cold stone house suddenly felt... alive.
I walked to the kitchen.
Alicia stood in front of the stove. The sleeves of her shirt were rolled up. Her face was no longer entirely blank; there was focus. There was a certain calm as she chopped vegetables with practiced precision.
I watched her back from the doorway.
Something caught my attention.
Alicia had said she "studied it a little." But the movement of her hands told a different story.
The way she held the knife wasn't that of a professional chef, but it wasn't amateurish either. Her fingers curled inward to protect her nails—a basic technique, yet she executed it with an unnecessary elegance.
Tak. Tak. Tak.
The rhythm of her cuts was constant.
She noticed my presence and immediately froze. The kitchen knife in her hand trembled.
"I-I apologize, Master! I didn't mean to make a noise..."
"Keep going," I cut in.
"Did you do this often in the past?" I asked suddenly.
The knife stopped. Her shoulders tensed.
"Before... my mother was ill," she answered quietly, without turning around. "The chefs cooked food that was too greasy. She couldn't eat it. So... I snuck into the kitchen at night. I learned how to make porridge and clear soup."
She slid the diced carrots into the pot. Steam billowed up, dampening her face.
"Did she like your cooking?"
A brief silence. Only the sound of boiling water filled the air.
"She passed away before she could taste my last soup, Master. Since then... Father forbade me from entering the kitchen. He said a Princess's hands shouldn't smell of onions."
She stirred the soup slowly.
"But now... I am no longer a Princess. So it is fine."
There was a deep, yet flat, sorrow in her voice. A tragedy already accepted as fact.
She didn't cook out of a hobby. She cooked because it was her only memory of being "useful" to someone she loved, even if she had failed.
And now, she was trying to be useful to me.
I pulled out a wooden chair in the corner of the kitchen, sat down, and lit a cigarette. "I'll wait."
We ate in silence at the dining table.
Meat soup and warm bread. Simple. Good.
It tasted far more human than any expensive steak at a restaurant.
"It's good," I murmured quietly.
Alicia's spoon clinked softly against her bowl. She bowed her head deeply. Her shoulders trembled.
A teardrop fell into her soup. Then another.
She wept silently, simply from being validated.
"From now on," I said, ignoring her tears to spare her from shame, "this kitchen is your domain. Cook whatever you like."
"Thank you... Master..."
The next morning. The backyard.
The sun beat down harshly. We were planting the radish seeds.
The soil here was hard, but I hoed it with ease—my monstrous strength made the packed clay feel like sand.
"Water, Alicia."
"Y-Yes, Master!"
She ran to the well.
I waited for her. One minute. Two minutes.
She returned carrying a wooden bucket full of water. The bucket was large, likely weighing over ten kilograms. Her small frame struggled to balance the load. Water sloshed over the rim, soaking her trousers.
Why did she bring it full? Why not just half?
Ah, I knew why.
She thought she had to work herself to the bone. She thought physical suffering was proof of loyalty.
"Alicia, that's too hea—"
Thud!
Her foot caught on a root.
The bucket overturned. Water drenched her. She pitched forward, collapsing onto the rocky soil.
I let out a long sigh and tossed my hoe aside.
I wasn't angry about the spilled water. I was just exhausted by this cycle of self-punishment.
I walked over to her. Her knees were scraped raw. Fresh blood mingled with the mud.
She didn't wince. Instead, she immediately tried to scramble up, overwhelmed with sheer panic.
"Forgive me! Forgive me, Master! I'm stupid, I'm clumsy..."
Her voice bordered on hysterical. She wasn't afraid of the wound. She was terrified I would see her as defective goods.
I offered my hand. "Take my hand."
"No! I'm dirty... Master, don't touch me..." She scrambled backward, dragging her bleeding knees. Rejecting my help.
A sudden heat flared in my chest.
Rejection.
The one thing the sensitive Pisces and the efficiency-driven Rooster despised the most. I was trying to help her, and she looked at me as if I were about to strike her.
"Be quiet," I growled.
I ignored her protests. I grabbed her arm, hauled her to her feet by force, and scooped her up into my arms, carrying her into the house.
She was as stiff as a corpse in my grip, trembling violently.
I set her down on a kitchen chair.
I fetched the first-aid kit. A red potion and some bandages.
I knelt in front of her, cleaning her wound with a damp cloth.
"Sshhh..." she hissed, stifling the sting. Finally, a human reaction.
"Why did you bring it full?" I asked coldly, pouring the potion over the scrape. The wound slowly knitted shut.
"I... I wanted to be fast... I wanted to be useful..."
"You are useful if you are healthy. You are a burden if you are sick."
My words were sharp. Too sharp. I knew they stung, but I didn't know any other language that could pierce through the wall of her fear.
I wrapped her knee with a bandage. Neat. Precise.
"Done. Rest."
I stood up, left the roll of bandages on the table, and walked back out to the yard.
I needed a cigarette.
I needed air.
Taking care of a broken human drained my energy far faster than slaughtering hundreds of monsters.