We settled by the fire. I—great Zenhald, master of lightning and breaker of armies—stood over the butchered boar carcass with a completely helpless expression. In my past life, food was served to me on golden trays. In this one… well, apples don’t need roasting.

  “So… how do you cook this?” I muttered, poking a piece of meat with a stick. “I don’t recall ever standing at a stove even once in my life.”

  Elvindor, perched elegantly on a fallen tree, burst into bright laughter. “For starters, Zenhald, add at least some salt. Otherwise it’ll taste like wet bark.”

  “Salt… right.” I frowned. “But I don’t have any.”

  I focused, gathering mana in my palm. The air trembled, and a moment later a small pile of white crystals appeared in my hand. True alchemy for a chunk of pork—Mira would strangle me for that kind of waste.

  “So how much do I sprinkle, Elvindor?”

  “You have to feel it,” the elf answered vaguely, closing his eyes.

  “What?!” I started to boil. “Can you be more specific? A kilogram? A gram? A pinch?”

  Elvindor shrugged lazily. “Cooking is art, not mathematics. You do it by feel.”

  “Then you sprinkle it by your ‘feel’!” I thrust the salt toward him.

  Reluctantly, the elf stood up and—like a grand master—began seasoning the meat. Riza sat nearby, and I could practically hear her drooling. Her gaze was glued to the fat hissing over the fire.

  “Have patience, Riza,” I instructed her, even though an entire marching band was already parading in my own stomach. “Good food takes time.”

  Two hours passed. The aroma (if you could call it that) filled the clearing. Finally, I decided it was done. I cut off a piece first and put it in my mouth.

  My face twisted instantly.

  The meat was tough as an old boot sole, nearly raw inside, burned outside, and it reeked of smoke so strongly my eyes watered.

  “Yeah…” I spat it out. “This is impossible to eat. It stinks. It’s tough… I’m out. I surrender.”

  I set the knife aside, feeling utterly defeated by a pig.

  And then Elvindor looked at me with his most lecturing expression.

  “See, Riza?” he began gently. “Zenhald killed this boar, took its life, and now he’s just throwing the food away because it’s ‘not tasty.’ That is the highest disrespect to nature.”

  “What do you mean?!” I jumped up. “How was I supposed to know it would turn out this disgusting? I’m not a cook—I… I just wanted to eat!”

  Elvindor only smiled mysteriously. He calmly took the piece I’d rejected and started chewing. Judging by his face, it wasn’t very good for him either, but he didn’t show it.

  Riza didn’t even wait for permission—she pounced on the meat. Apparently, after years of hunger, “tough boar” was food of the gods. She ate for two, purring happily and ignoring the smell.

  I blinked my eyes open, and the first thing I sensed was a sweet, heady aroma. On the grass—right in front of Riza and Elvindor—lay a real feast: piles of dusky blueberries, glossy blackcurrants, and big raspberries. And in the center, on a wide leaf, a honeycomb glowed gold, dripping with juice.

  “What?!” I sprang up, feeling yesterday’s hunger claw into my stomach all over again. “All this without me? When did you even—where did you get it?”

  Riza turned, cheeks smeared with berry juice, beaming. “Elvindor found the bushes while you were snoring! And I got the honey myself. For you, Zen.”

  She straightened proudly. “The bees tried to chase me away, but I remembered I’m not allowed to break their home. I just made a dome of water around myself. They kept hitting it, and I carefully took a little piece of the comb. See? I didn’t burn them!”

  I didn’t waste time on praise—my jaws were busy. The honey was sharp and fragrant, and the berries practically exploded with sweetness. After yesterday’s burnt pork, this was nectar of the gods.

  We finished breakfast and got moving. We hadn’t gone twenty meters when the forest shuddered with a deep, gut-level growl. From behind ancient pines, he emerged—an enormous brown bear. Its bulk looked like a mountain of muscle and fur, and its small eyes watched us closely. Looks like the smell of yesterday’s boar had called every predator in the area.

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  “Quiet,” Elvindor whispered, stopping Riza with a gesture. “This is the master of these woods. Bears are very strong—kings of the forest. But watch his gait, Riza. He’s fed. Right now we’re not food to him—just strange guests. If we don’t provoke him, he won’t attack.”

  The bear snorted again, washing us in the smell of wild animal, then lazily turned toward the raspberry thicket.

  Later, when the forest grew lighter, a wolf pack crossed our path. They weren’t running—they moved in an even formation, a gray ribbon slipping through the bushes.

  “And these are wolves,” Elvindor continued his endless lesson. “They always stay together—as a pack. See, Riza? In the forest, they are guardians of balance. Without them, the deer you saw yesterday would eat all the grass and young shoots. The forest wouldn’t have time to grow back. Wolves keep the herd from becoming too large. That’s equilibrium.”

  The wolves passed by, baring teeth and glancing at us with yellow eyes, but they didn’t even slow down. I felt Elvindor’s aura wrap around us, making us “invisible” to their aggression.

  When we sat for another rest by a fallen trunk, Elvindor finally spoke about what worried me most.

  About humans.

  “You know, Riza,” he began, staring somewhere through the trees, “humans are the strangest—and most terrible—predators in this world.”

  “Why?” Riza froze, a twig clenched in her hand.

  “Because humans can kill for fun. Look: in this forest there are a hundred deer and ten wolves. Nature knows this place can feed at most a hundred and forty deer—otherwise there won’t be food left for hares. But when a human comes… he breaks that order.”

  I listened without interrupting.

  “First, the human kills the wolves because he fears them. Then he starts hunting deer. But he doesn’t kill one when he’s hungry. He kills dozens—ahead of time. To sell meat. To boast about antlers. A couple of humans can empty this entire forest in a single season. And then they’ll cut down the trees to build houses they won’t even live in.”

  Elvindor sighed, and his voice softened. “But it’s not that simple. You can’t blame humans just for being what they are. In their greed lies their strength too. They build great cities, invent technologies, discover new lands—what takes elves thousands of years, humans do in decades. They’re like a forest fire: they destroy everything in their path, but from the ashes something completely new grows.”

  “We’re almost there,” I cut through the pause. “Past that tree line should be the first village.”

  I stood, brushing off my pants. The elf’s words left a bitter aftertaste—stronger than blueberries. I knew Riza would soon see humans—not like me, but a real crowd of them. And I desperately wanted to believe Elvindor’s lessons about “balance” would keep her from burning them all the moment they met.

  I got up, shaking pine needles off my pants, and was about to step onto the road when Elvindor suddenly stopped.

  “Wait.” He gave Riza a pointed look. “Her wings. They need to be hidden.”

  I smacked my forehead. Right—after these days I’d gotten used to her appearance. In human lands, a demonic look wasn’t just a reason for sideways stares—it was a straight path to an Inquisition bonfire.

  Without a word, Elvindor took off his long, richly embroidered traveling cloak and draped it over the girl’s shoulders. It was huge on her, but it fully hid both her wings and her tail.

  “Alright, Riza—listen carefully,” I said, crouching in front of her and adjusting the hood. “No matter what, don’t show your wings. Humans are afraid of demons. If they understand who you are, we’ll have big problems.”

  She nodded obediently and wrapped herself tighter in the cloth.

  We went on and soon reached the edge of a village. A typical backwater: a couple dozen crooked houses, the smell of manure and hay. The biggest building in the center clearly served as both an inn and a gathering place.

  A young guy in a greasy apron met us at the entrance. “Oh, travelers! You don’t often see such… colorful guests around here.” He looked us over.

  “Where can we eat and sleep in real beds?” I asked, trying to sound like an ordinary spoiled child from a noble family.

  He pointed at the big door. “Come in. We’ll feed you inside.”

  We entered. It was dim, smelling of sour beer and fried onions. Riza acted strangely—she wasn’t just looking around, she was staring into every man’s face at the tables, as if trying to scan their souls. I nudged her lightly with my elbow so she wouldn’t draw attention.

  The grim innkeeper came up to us. “Only potatoes with meat, water, and ale. Taking it or not?”

  “Two portions of potatoes with meat, two waters, and a mug of ale,” I ordered. “Elvindor, you?”

  “Just potatoes and water,” the elf replied.

  While we waited, Riza looked around and asked quietly, “Zen, is this that place? The ‘tavern’?”

  “Something like that. A place where you can eat for money and sleep without building a stone hut.”

  “Money?” She frowned. “What is that?”

  I sighed, realizing another lesson was coming. “Look. It’s a way to pay for work. Say one person grows apples and another person wants to eat them. The first won’t give them away for free—he spent effort. So the second brings, for example, honey. They trade. But carrying barrels of honey around is inconvenient. So people invented coins—symbols that mean you’ve done something useful for others. With coins, you can trade for any goods.”

  Riza nodded thoughtfully. “So to get money, you have to do something other people need?”

  I nodded. “Exactly.”

  The food arrived. Riza attacked the potatoes like a real beast. It was obvious she’d never tasted anything as good as a hot human dinner. I started eating too, relieved that this time the meat wasn’t tough.

  At the end, they brought the mug of ale. I just reached for it, already imagining a sip, when Elvindor smacked my fingers.

  “Children can’t drink,” he said flatly.

  “Hey!” I protested. “Do you even know—”

  I didn’t finish. In one motion, Elvindor grabbed the mug and drained it to the bottom. He exhaled with satisfaction; a faint flush appeared on his cheeks.

  “Wow, Elvindor…” I shook my head. “Your whole reputation as a wise grand master just collapsed into that empty mug.”

  “It’s my weakness,” he said philosophically, wiping foam from his lips.

  “What’s ale?” Riza asked, looking at the empty cup.

  “It’s a kind of poison,” I said. “If you drink a little, your head spins and you forget your past problems for a while. If you drink too much… it gets very bad.”

  “Then why drink poison?” She looked at Elvindor like he was insane.

  The elf straightened and delivered pure “truth.” “Any poison can be medicine, and any medicine can be poison. It all depends on the dose.”

  I laughed, leaning back in my chair. “Yeah—there’s definitely a great philosopher hiding in you somewhere. Come on. We need sleep. Tomorrow’s a long road.”