Ever since peace was declared with the Simurians, life had become. .more varied. Some people refused to share space with another species, clinging to their routines and old prejudices. Others didn’t care, as long as it didn’t interfere with their own lives. But it did. Even simple jobs—working in stores, tending fields, preparing meals—had shifted, adjusting to a world now shared with beings so different from anyone had expected.

Among the newcomers, one Simurian always drew attention. Tall, broad-shouldered, and impossibly calm, he moved as if the world could wait. Rumors of him had spread faster than wildfire—he had faced Mahoraga and come through unscathed. Sorcerers here classified him as special grade, a title earned with fear and awe. Yet despite that overwhelming presence, he carried himself in near-perfect stillness, a quiet that made his strength all the more noticeable.

Since the two of you had met him only a few times, small tasks had been assigned: introducing the Simurians to the difference between healthy and unhealthy foods, showing them basic ingredients, guiding them through kitchen work. Most of the newcomers fumbled and questioned, touched, tasted, and learned through trial and error. Dabura, however, moved differently.

He stood against the edge of the kitchen counter, shoulders straight but slightly tense, lips pressed into a thin line, eyebrows drawn just enough to betray subtle confusion. His eyes flicked over the ingredients, lingering on them with careful observation, yet he said nothing. Around him, others chopped, stirred, and experimented, voices carrying laughter or muttered questions. He remained still, silent, not from disinterest but from a quiet uncertainty, too embarrassed—or perhaps too proud—to ask for help. Even inaction seemed to set him apart, making his presence feel heavier, more tangible, than anyone else in the room.