Malvoria inhaled deeply, trying to shake off whatever that moment was.
She turned her attention to the food stall ahead—a simple wooden setup with a large iron griddle sizzling behind it, sending the rich scent of roasting meat and spices into the air. The stall belonged to an elder demon woman, a figure as familiar to Malvoria as the scent of the food she was cooking.
She had been coming here for years.
Since she was a teenager.
Since the days when she would run from the castle, ditch her guards, and vanish into the village streets just to breathe in something that wasn't responsibility and duty.
And the woman—Mira—had never treated her like a queen.
Never once bowed, never once fussed over her title.
She had simply handed Malvoria food, sometimes with a scolding, sometimes with a joke, and always with the kind of warmth that was impossible to find within the rigid walls of her palace.
