Moonlit Bread for the Former Hero
Head maid Jichel was lost in profound doubt beneath the moonlight as the former hero nibbled on bread. It was a different kind of puzzlement from the resolve she'd shared with Gellion. "The Duke requesting roasted red salmon...?" After two days' journey to the capital, the family head Rosel had returned and made his first special request: roasted red salmon. Marinated in tomato sauce, pre-seared, then baked in a wood-fired oven—this fish dish was common enough in the river-rich valleys of the Elond Kingdom, yet its double-cooking method made it a rarity. It required a proper oven, after all. Yet the lord had never before singled out salmon as a special dish. They'd served it a few times when no requests were made, but he'd never seemed particularly fond of it. Months had passed without it gracing the table since. And now, fresh from buying a slave convicted of treason in the capital, this was his very first order. "Is it for the slave...?" But no—the finished dish was headed straight for the lord's study. Not for the slave, then. And yes, after trips, he often handled backlog approvals in the study, eating there too. "Hmm... and he asked for the radish sliced thin, tossed with a bit of red pepper powder and sesame oil." Moreover, he'd requested this side dish today, saying he'd tried it in the capital and found it quite the delicacy. "Maybe it tasted better with company." And so, as the head maid in charge of special meals, she prepared the roasted red salmon and the dish the lord had dubbed "muche," true to her acclaimed culinary skill. Knock knock. She loaded the tray and headed straight to the study, rapping gently. —Come in. As if expecting her, the lord permitted entry. She placed the tray on the desk before Rosel, who sat reviewing piled-up documents. "Your requested roasted red salmon and muche, my lord." "Thank you, Jichel." "Yes, sir. I'll collect the dishes after you finish." "No need—I'll bring them down myself. These two legs are still good." "Hee-hee. Very well." Jichel bowed gracefully with a refined smile and left the study. She rather enjoyed the lord's occasional quips. Descending to the first floor, she checked on the maids and servants tending the mansion and gardens, then pulled out her pocket watch. Twenty minutes had passed. The lord treated meals more as a means to stave off hunger than a pleasure, so he'd likely finished by now and returned the dishes. As head maid, she always inspected the utensils post-meal to gauge his tastes—not just on special request days. She hurried to the kitchen. Hmm, cleaned his plate nicely. As expected, the dishes were there. Two plates, scraped clean save for traces of sauce. Hee-hee, just as I thought—suited his palate. Jichel stifled a proud chuckle, soaked the dishes in the washbasin, and left the kitchen. ** The crisp autumn night air filled the room. To avoid prying eyes from outside, no candles were lit—Esil's room glowed solely by moonlight. Fortunately, it was a full moon; the roasted red salmon on the table stood out vividly. "It's cooled, but still edible. Eat up—we've got to return the plates." Like some sacrificial rite, Esil stared at her favorite dish without lifting her fork. Rosel prodded her, using the plates as excuse. It wasn't just an excuse, though. To fool Jichel's eyes, he'd transferred it to wooden plates he never used; they had to be back in the kitchen before dawn. Every morning, Jichel sent servants to count the utensils, checking for thieves. One missing wooden plate, and she'd turn the mansion upside down. "That side in the small bowl? Tried it by chance in the capital—quite the treat. Should help restore your vanished appetite a bit." Rosel had just lied. No—from the moment he entered this mansion, it had all been lies. Lies solely for her sake. He hadn't eaten salmon in the capital, nor seen any muche. Truth be told, muche didn't exist. Or rather, no dish of thinly sliced radish like that. But he knew: Esil—no, Hero Emilia—had always made "special orders" like this at any inn with radishes. And that she adored roasted red salmon. So he'd asked Jichel. He'd wanted to give her piping-hot fresh roast, steam rising, but requesting a special midnight meal was absurd. Light snacks, maybe. "...." Esil stared blankly at the dish. Rosel spoke again. Time was short. In about an hour, the guards would patrol here. Normally they skipped this wing, but preventing slave escapes was their duty too—they'd check her door. He had to sate her hunger first. "Aren't you hungry? You must not have eaten properly." "...
I've forgotten what hunger feels like..." After a long wait, those were her first full words. But Rosel felt no joy—only an indescribable sorrow stabbing his heart. The agony of her forgetting hunger from abuse choked him. He stifled a sharp breath into a faint sigh to hide it. But that soft exhale made anxious Esil gnaw her nails again. "...
Forgetting hunger doesn't mean you skip eating. Eat before it hardens. At least it'll taste better than your nails." Click click click. At Rosel's words, Esil lowered her hand from her nails. Anxiety kept pulling it up, but she fought it. Rosel waited silently, hoping she'd resolve herself. It didn't take long, thankfully. "...
What do I have to do?" "What? Eat it." "...." Gathering courage, Esil looked up at Rosel. Moonlight softly lit his face—compassionate, yet she clearly saw the ugly nobility lurking beneath. Nobles always wore masks to hide their true faces. He was no exception. ...
Not what he'd meant. "Before eating... what do I have to do for you?" Esil had learned bone-deep: no favors came free. From Biela, Daltan, Gleon, all nobles. So she asked—what a slave must do for this tempting dish. Rosel furrowed his brow, leaning back. "...
What do you have to do?" Here it comes, Esil thought, nodding miserably. Nobles were vicious. He'd tempt her with food, hoping she'd spread her legs. Her hands clenched on her thighs, fear turning them to fists. If nails remained, her palms would bleed. Rosel gazed pityingly and murmured, "Eat it. Just... eat. That's all I want." "...." "Jichel's touch is superb. Probably the best in our territory—no exaggeration." "...
What happens after I eat?" Even at Rosel's banter, Esil couldn't lift the fork. Instead, she asked about after. Fear of the unknown after eating terrified her. That luscious salmon felt like a landmine—not mere food, but one she'd never escape once stepped on. The moment she ate, her master would demand corruption. An absurd "price" to tame her. Yes, all nobles were like that. Giving flesh to take bone—and sucking out the marrow too. "What happens...?" Rosel echoed her fearful question softly. Now he understood. She'd been conditioned by brutal terror. "...
You'll get full." Casually, he let his lips quirk down, as if it were obvious. "Didn't hear? You'll get full." "...." "Two months without proper food—your stomach's shrunk. One plate will fill you right up. That's it." "...." At Rosel's curt words, Esil's crescent-moon brows lifted slightly in silence. ...
Mocking her? In the palace, he'd seemed gravely serious. Even casual words held sincerity; he wasted no breath. Yet this deadpan joke felt off. "What, hoping for status or freedom or something grand?" "N-no, sir..." "Then eat." "...." Rosel urged a bit sharply. His pocket watch showed forty minutes. Guards in twenty. No more delays—he resorted to his final ploy. Anxiety paralyzes the human mind. Rosel leaned forward, picking up the fork before her. Esil startled violently, but he opened his palm soothingly. "Calm down. No intent to harm you with this." She already bore wounds no one else could. He'd never tolerate anyone hurting her more—not with a fork, a hundred times over. "...." Esil eyed the fork fearfully. But contrary to dread, it speared the roasted salmon. A scored piece lifted neatly. "Smelling this and not eating? Gotta check if Jichel's skill soured." With that, Rosel popped it in his mouth. Chew chew—the sound echoed starkly in the quiet room. "Mm, delicious. Jichel's the best, as expected." Poke. Another piece, head nodding in feigned delight. Three bites left. Persuasion worked—Esil's hands rested on the table, mouth parting in a sigh. To heighten her impatience, Rosel broke noble etiquette with childish slurps. Slurp slurp slurp. The savory sounds tantalized. Truth be told, Rosel hated fish. Steamed or sashimi repulsed him; only as roast could he pretend enjoyment. Salmon's texture is still off. Gulp. He exaggerated the swallow, reached for another—but tick, the fork scraped empty wood. He looked up: Esil clutched the salmon bowl protectively. Her emerald eyes trembled lost, pale. ** "Hm-hm-hmm~" Apprentice knight Madlen strolled the mansion halls, humming tunelessly. Not yet in the regulars despite Lord Rosel's encouragement, he honed his skills day and night for enlistment. Night patrol funded training—days drilling, nights napping on duty. No fatigue showed on his somewhat reckless young face. Late hour, all asleep. He crept on toe-tips, reaching the second floor. Patrols centered on the first—Rosel Territory was peaceful. No assassins ever; main foes were thieves eyeing tools and food. Still, he took it seriously: three catches proved his worth. Wonder if anything fun tonight~ Twirling his keyring on a finger, Madlen sharpened his senses. Keen senses were a knight's basics. Under the odd pretext of training them, he scanned for gossip. Hmm, quiet tonight. Patrol perks weren't just pay. Servants and maids bunked on the second floor—mixed company, endless chatter. Perfect for scandals. Madlen loved rumors, meddled wide, thrived on gossip. Servants' "trysts" were prime meat. Three thieves caught? Five couples busted too—achievements aplenty. Tryst-makers always struck late. He'd spied one pair flaunting in the stables once—thrillingly close. That's why he loved nights. Tonight, same hunt, but senses caught nothing. Aw, tsk. Daily catches would spoil the fun. Tongue-clicking regret, he climbed to the third floor—the lord's. Trysts here meant insult atop crime; dull zone. Usually, just skim the lord's bedroom, gloss others. But new guest tonight: west-end room. Treasonous hero slave. Five hundred gold price tag. Had to check for escape notions. And Hero Emilia's "beauty rivaled her martial prowess." Unforgettable at a glance. Madlen, never glimpsed her, brimmed with anticipation. Great—tomorrow, dazzle the maids with Esil tales. Already giggling at the thought. They'd swarm for details on the hero's looks. At Esil's door, Madlen slotted the key and flung it open. Well-oiled hinges silent in the night. Peering in, he froze. "Uh..." Esil should sleep—but she was awake. Hoped to memorize her sleeping features; instead, she huddled against the wall on the floor, staring back. Like he'd been caught peeping. Yet her eyes glistened wet. Cheeks puffed, chewing something. "Wh-what're you doing up this hour?" Tears streaming, chewing away. She looked unwell. First slave night must've rattled her. "What's that you're eating? Show it." Hand on sword-hilt, ready to draw, Madlen demanded. Esil gulped her mouthful with effort, timidly showing her handful. "...
Bread... I'm eating..." The tasteless fermented loaf from dinner ration, clutched in her small hand.