The scent of damp earth and something vaguely sweet, like overripe plums, roused Veleshka. Her eyes fluttered open, then snapped wide, scanning the unfamiliar space. Sunlight, bright and unrelenting, streamed through a small, square window, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air. A plain wooden ceiling, rough-hewn beams, and walls whitewashed to a creamy pale. Not the bog, not a tent, not the collapsing grove. Her hand shot out, seeking the familiar grip of the bone needle she always kept tucked beneath her sleeve. Her fingers met only the coarse weave of a homespun blanket. Her throat tightened. Where was her blade? Her vial of venoms? Where was Grib? A rhythmic dull chop echoed from what must have been an adjoining room. A deep, resonant hum followed, punctuated by a frustrated groan. It was a sound that prickled the hairs on her neck, a sound she knew intimately, despite its current lack of the usual eldritch undertones. Olekshar. She slid from the bed, her movements fluid and silent, a lifetime of evading threats ingrained in her bones. Her bare feet touched a rough, cold plank floor. She picked up a heavy ceramic mug from a nearby table, hefting it, assessing its blunt force potential. Her gaze darted to the window. No chains. No bars. Just a view of a surprisingly bright green meadow, dotted with the pale-yellow blossoms of bog-lilies. The chopping grew louder, accompanied by a new, grating scrape. Veleshka crept toward the doorway, mug raised, shoulders rigid. She peered around the frame. The tableau in the kitchen almost made her drop her makeshift weapon. Olekshar stood by a rough-hewn counter, his immense frame barely fitting the small kitchen. Gone were the scales, the talons, the swirling vortex in his chest. He wore a ridiculously ill-fitting apron, patterned with cheerful, crimson bog-berries and lime-green leaves. It barely covered his torso. His dark hair, no longer glitched with static energy, fell across his brow as he wrestled with a gnarled marsh-tuber. A heavy iron chopper was in his hand, and he brought it down with entirely too much force, missing the tuber and embedding the edge with a loud *CRACK* into the wooden block. Splinters flew. “Foolish root,” he rumbled, his voice still low, but devoid of the resonant, soul-chilling power it once held. He tugged at the iron, grunting with effort. “It resists. Unlike your other… *vegetation*.” He glanced at a basket overflowing with plump, purple tubers, then back at the stubborn root trapped under the blade. His dark eyes, now merely human in their intensity, narrowed in a silent, savage war against the root. Veleshka lowered the mug, a slow, disbelieving smile spreading across her face. This was it. This was her mundane, boring life. Or, rather, an unnervingly domestic parody of it. “Need a hand with that, my king?” she asked, her voice deliberately light, though a tremor of pure, untamed relief ran beneath it. She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. Olekshar froze, blade still stuck in the wood. He turned slowly, his eyes, once pools of cosmic dread, now merely held an unsettling, unwavering focus on her. A flush, dark and immediate, crept up his neck, contrasting sharply with the absurd apron. He looked like a giant, dangerous child caught playing dress-up. “Veleshka,” he breathed, the sound a low, possessive murmur. “You are… awake.” He pulled the iron free with a final, violent yank. “I was… preparing sustenance. For you. You require it, after… after your exertions.” He gestured vaguely at the mutilated tuber, as if it were a culinary masterpiece. “Right.” Veleshka pushed off the doorframe, walking towards him. The air around him no longer hummed with dark power, no longer felt like a grave. He was just… Olekshar. A very large, very intense man in a silly apron. The brand on her wrist was gone, the skin smooth and healed. The rot, indeed, had truly vanished. “The Abyssal Rot is… gone,” she stated, more to herself than him, testing the words. They felt real. Her lungs drew air deeply, without the usual rasp. Her blood flowed clean, without the metallic tang of decay. She was… healthy. Olekshar’s gaze softened, a rare, startling expression. “It is. You severed it. You cut the connection, little botanist. You saved us both. From *me*.” He reached out, his hand hovering near her cheek, then pulling back, as if afraid to touch. “I remember… everything. The rot, the hunger, the madness… and your will. Your sheer, unyielding will to live. To make me live.” Before Veleshka could answer, a loud rap sounded on the cabin door. Olekshar stiffened, his eyes flashing with an echo of their old menace. “Who dares disturb your rest?” he growled, the chopper once again gripped in his hand. “It’s just me, you overgrown marsh-louse!” a familiar voice called out. “The neighbor from across the ditch! And I brought a guest!” Veleshka moved past Olekshar, pulling open the door. The village tailor's apprentice stood there, looking surprisingly clean and well-fed, a wide, sheepish grin on his face. Beside him, a young woman, frail but with clear, bright eyes, peered shyly around his arm. Her skin, once ashen, now had a faint, healthy blush. It was Anya. “Veleshka!” the youth exclaimed, his grin widening. “You truly did it! Anya, this is the woman who saved your life. Our Veleshka.” Anya stepped forward, bowing her head. “Thank you, healer. I… I feel truly well. Like a shadow has lifted.” Veleshka felt a warmth bloom in her chest, softer and purer than any she’d ever known. “It was nothing, Anya. Just good botany.” She shot a pointed look at Olekshar, who still clutched his iron wedge, eyeing the youth with open suspicion. “My… assistant here, he’s still learning the subtleties of marsh-tuber preparation.” The visitor laughed, a buoyant sound. “I see he’s traded his crown for an apron! A good look for him, honestly. He looks… less likely to spontaneously combust.” He clapped Olekshar on the shoulder, a gesture that earned him a low, rumbling growl from the former demon king. “Anyway, I just wanted to bring Anya to thank you. We’ll be heading to the far marshes, away from… well, away from *all this*.” He gestured broadly at the cabin and, by extension, Olekshar. “Good luck to both of you,” Veleshka said, smoothing her skirt. “And Anya, remember to boil your water. And if you see any crimson bog-berries, they make excellent dyes.” “I will!” Anya chirped, her eyes shining. They exchanged a wave, and the youth, with a final, wary glance at Olekshar, led his sister away down a sun-dappled path. The marsh-mink, Grib, suddenly uncurled from the sunbeam by the fireplace, stretching languidly, its six legs extending, a soft chittering sound escaping its maw before it settled back into a slumber. Veleshka closed the door, turning back to Olekshar. He had set the blade on the counter, but his dark gaze never left her. “The boy… he sought to flee with your gratitude.” “He’s my friend, Olekshar. He helped.” She walked over to the counter, picking up a perfectly ripe marsh-tuber. “And you’re going to help me farm these.” Olekshar’s dark eyes lit up, a strange, feral satisfaction in their depths. “Farm? For you, Veleshka, I would cultivate the very stars.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, possessive rumble. “This cabin, this land… it is all yours. I acquired it. The entire village of Kryvoda. Every mud-hut, every twisted willow, every inch of sinking mire. So you may be a tuber farmer in peace. A *mundane* farmer.” Veleshka stared at him, a slow, dawning comprehension spreading across her face. He hadn't just gotten her a cabin. He'd bought the whole damn village. For her. Because it was *her* dream. Her utterly boring, mundane dream. A black crow, its feathers shimmering like oil slicks, landed on the window ledge, its head cocked, observing them with a beady, intelligent eye. It let out a single, rough *caw*. Olekshar’s body tensed, a low, ominous growl building in his chest. His eyes, fixed on the bird, narrowed to dangerous slits. “It looks at you with… insolence,” he muttered, his voice laced with venom. “I shall rip its feathers from its foul body and scatter them to the winds. No creature shall gaze upon you with such… familiarity.” Veleshka sighed, the sound a mix of exasperation and something akin to fond, resigned acceptance. He was still Olekshar. The Gloam King, stripped of his curse, but not his stifling, absolute devotion. He would always be a storm in a floral apron, ready to wage war on a curious crow. Her relentless ward. She reached up, took hold of the ridiculous apron strings, and tugged him down, pulling his head towards hers. His eyes, wide with surprise, met hers just before her lips found his. It was a kiss of triumph, of exasperated affection, and of absolute, ruthless acceptance. “Just farm the tubers, my lord,” she whispered against his mouth, a sharp, quiet smile touching her lips. “Just farm the tubers.”

Tuber Farming for the Wicked