Malakor strode into the village square, arms spread wide. "I will find the greatest thrill ever!" His voice rolled across the cobblestones. A rooster on a fence post tilted its head and let out a confused squawk.
He marched straight into the busiest market and barged through the crowd. A wooden cart of apples tipped over, and red fruit rolled everywhere like marbles. The children didn't scream in fear — they screamed with laughter, chasing the apples down the street.
Malakor blinked at a rooster perched on a fence post. It squawked at him the way a person might say hello. Nobody ran. Nobody called for guards. He had expected trembling. Instead, the world felt suspiciously peaceful.
He wandered into a warm bakery smelling of yeast and caramelized sugar. The baker, a broad man with a floury white beard, slid a honey-glazed bun across the counter. "For you, stranger. You look like you could use something sweet."
Malakor took a bite. Warm sugar dusted his chin. He closed his eyes. It was the best thing he had tasted since the Dark Feasts of the Seventh Age — back when the only food he wanted was ash and blood.
The baker's little girl tugged his sleeve. "Can you help knead the dough?" Malakor looked at his enormous hands, then at the bowl of dough she pushed toward him. He nodded slowly.
Malakor pressed his enormous demon hands into the floury dough. It squished and stretched under his grip. He shaped it into lopsided stars, and the baker's daughter clapped her hands. Everyone in the bakery giggled. He had made something people laughed for instead of ran from.
His fingers were still sticky with flour when he stepped back outside. The afternoon light was golden and thick, like honey poured over the village. Malakor took a slow breath. He had found something today, though he wasn't sure what yet.
Malakor sat on the bakery step and watched the children play tag in the square. Their laughter carried across the cobblestones like music. He quietly pulled a second honey bun from his pocket and took a small bite.
A rooster hopped down from a nearby fence and landed right on Malakor's knee. It pecked at a sugar crumb on his coat. Malakor didn't move. He didn't shoo it away. The bird continued to eat as if this were perfectly normal.
Children ran past the bakery door, their footsteps thumping against the stone. "Tag! You're it!" one of them called. Malakor watched them go. He looked down at the rooster still sitting on his knee and wondered if this was the greatest thrill after all.
The sun dipped lower, painting the village in shades of orange and gold. Malakor stayed on the step. The rooster remained on his knee. Somewhere down the street, a bell tolled for evening, and nobody in the whole village seemed in any hurry at all.