When he was still a human and a king, not betrayed by his own kin, his mom used to make him hangover soup. Quite often. He wasn't good with his alcohol. No was with his patience.

Devereaux could still recall the feel of the rough linen sheets against his skin in the morning, the world would spin around him as if he were aboard a ship lost in a storm. His head pounded mercilessly, every heartbeat sending a wave of pain crashing through his skull. He would groan, attempting to bury himself deeper into the covers, only to be met with the sunlight piercing through the heavy curtains, searing his vision.

"Up, up, my little king," his mother's soft voice would drift through the haze. She always sounded amused, and far too chipper for the ungodly hour. He would squint, blinking up at her figure silhouetted in the light.

"Mother," he would rasped, his voice raw from the previous night's revelry. "Please... a moment longer." His temples throbbed viciously, and he would clamp his eyes shut, the scent of stale wine lingering on his breath.

But she wasn't one to be swayed so easily.

"Tsk," she would tutte, setting down a tray with a gentle clatter beside him. "You always say that, but there's work to be done, Devereaux. You've a council to attend, and you can't be seen stumbling in like this."

He wanted to argue—some retort about being the king and having every right to delay a mere meeting—but the thought of speaking made his head spin. He would flinch as her cool hands settled against his temples, thumbs pressing gently but firmly, massaging the ache in slow, practised circles.

"Drink this," she murmured softly, a bowl appearing before his bleary eyes, steam curling up from the surface. He would blink blearily, his vision clearing just enough to see the familiar golden broth, flecked with herbs and tiny beads of oil. The sight alone used to make his stomach turn... and rumble in desperate need.

"I can't," he would try to protest, but even as he said it, he found himself reaching out, his mother guiding his hands around the warm bowl. He could still feel the aroma being wrapped around him—garlic, ginger, the earthy undertones of roots and bones boiled down until all that was left was pure, soothing nourishment.

"You can," she would counter gently. "And you will."

She would hold the bowl steady as he took a tentative sip, the liquid sliding down his throat, warm and comforting. It used to settle in his gut like a balm, easing the sharp edges of his nausea and quieting the storm in his head. He would try another sip, then another, his shoulders sagging as the tightness in his chest unravelled.

"That's it, my love," she would murmur, fingers still working their magic at his temples. "See? Not so terrible, hm?"

He would manage a faint grunt, too tired to offer a proper response. But when her fingers brushed over his brow, soothing the furrowed lines of his scowl, he would lean into her touch like a baby, surrendering to the quiet comfort of her presence.

"Why do I always do this?" he used to muse, more to himself than to her. "Why do I let them...?"

"Because you're young," she would reply simply, the pad of her thumb brushing against his hairline. "And your heart is too big for your own good." Her smiles would sooth her more as he watched her, tilting his head back to meet her deep blue eyes. "But you're learning. One day, you'll be the king you were meant to be—if you learn to take better care of yourself."

He scoffed, but it came out weaker than intended, more like a breathless chuckle. He indeed became that king. But he had a big heart.

Sighing the Dark Lord focused on the task at hand. He had his utensils readied. A polished mortar and pestle, its surface glistening like onyx, a sharp obsidian knife, a few empty bowls carved from polished bone, and a small cauldron with runes etched into its base—all arranged with meticulous precision. He lined up a set of measuring spoons, the largest marked with a faint scarlet rune that pulsed faintly, indicating its readiness for use.

He glanced around the room, searching for potential ingredients, mindful of the unique challenges Hell presented. There would be no onions, garlic, or typical roots here. No herbs from the surface world to draw upon. But he was in Hell's kitchen—the very heart of the underworld's culinary prowess. If he knew anything, it was that where there was need, Hell would provide... in its own twisted way.

His gaze settled on a few likely candidates. A jar of Abyssal Root caught his eye—a bulbous, dark purple tuber that seemed to absorb the very light around it. Perfect as a base. Next, he spotted a cluster of Soulshade Leaves in a small wooden box tucked in a corner, their silvery, translucent fronds trembling slightly, as if still breathing. Known for their bitterness and their ability to chase away nausea, they'd be a suitable stand-in for what would normally be bay leaves.

"Now, something for richness," he murmured to himself, scanning the shelves. His eyes landed on a small glass vial filled with a viscous black liquid. Nightveil Essence. He remembered this—extracted from the pitch of a rare obsidian flower that only bloomed once a decade. A few drops would thicken the broth, give it body, and infuse it with an undertone of umami. He pocketed it carefully.

Still, it wasn't enough. He needed something potent, something to counter the Devil Snarl's vicious aftereffects. Devereaux's gaze narrowed as he contemplated. Feverthorn Bark might help... but it wasn't here. He'd have to get it himself.

With a sigh, he turned toward the narrow, arched doorway leading to the back garden.

Outside twisted iron gates, wound around a stretch of terrain that seemed to shift and change under the eye was The Garden of Night—the hell's herb garden. Gnarled trees jutted up from the ground, their branches spiralling like grasping hands. Some bore fruits that shimmered like molten gold, while others dripped with dark, tarry substances. The ground was covered in thick, tangled vines, some bristling with thorns as long as a man's finger, others alive and writhing as if searching for prey.

And nestled in the shadow of one of the larger trees was what Devereaux sought—a patch of Feverthorn. He had planted it himself—about two centuries back. The bark was a deep, smouldering red, its surface cracked like parched earth, emitting a faint, bitter scent that prickled at his senses even from a distance. He drew the knife from his belt and carefully sliced off a strip, rolling it between his fingers to release its sharp, astringent oils. Feverthorn was rare even in Hell, but its properties were unmatched when it came to neutralising the toxins of particularly strong spirits.

Returning to the kitchen, he set his ingredients down and began working. He scraped the Abyssal Root into thin slices, tossing them into the cauldron with a swirl of dark water. Next, he crushed the Soulshade Leaves in the mortar, releasing their pungent scent before adding them in. A few drops of Nightveil Essence followed, and finally, the shavings of Feverthorn. The cauldron hissed and bubbled, a thick steam rising as the fire roared to life beneath it.

He stirred methodically, muttering incantations under his breath to coax the flavours to meld, his brow furrowed in concentration. The aroma that filled the kitchen was unlike any human soup—a heady mixture of darkness and warmth, sharp and earthy, with a faint undertone of something sweet.

The clatter of the spoon against the cauldron must have been what finally did it. Behind him, Pistachu stirred, letting out a long, low groan as he blinked awake. The chef's eyes widened comically when he realised who was standing in front of the hearth.

"D-Dark Lord?" Pistachu stammered, scrambling upright in his chair, nearly knocking over his feet in the process. "What—what are you doing here?" He glanced around, as if expecting someone else to appear and explain the situation. "It's not the Grand Feast Day... it's... I—"

Devereaux glanced over his shoulder, brow arching. "I'm aware of the calendar, Pistachu," he said mildly, his tone almost amused.

The chef's mouth opened and closed, caught between confusion and sheer terror. "But... the fires... the kitchen... why are you—"

"Making a hangover soup," Devereaux replied nonchalantly, turning back to stir the pot. He gave it another careful taste, humming thoughtfully as the flavours deepened.

Pistachu gawked at him, eyes wide as saucers. "A—a hangover soup?" he repeated weakly. He shot a nervous glance at the spotless kitchen, then back at Devereaux. "But... Dark Lord, you never... I mean... it's not..."

"Yes?" Devereaux prompted, casting him a sidelong look, amusement glimmering in his gaze.

The chef flinched, wringing his hands together. "You... you seem... um, I mean, if I may say so, you seem to be in... a good mood? And maybe not hungover?" Pistachu's voice pitched high at the end, as if he were hoping the statement would prove less dangerous if it came out as a question.

Devereaux chuckled softly, a deep, rumbling sound that echoed off the kitchen walls. "Relax. It's not for me. Plus I'm enjoying my time here. It's been a while since I've done this myself."

The kitchen fell silent, save for the gentle bubbling of the soup. Pistachu swallowed hard, trying to compose himself. "Can... can I assist, my lord?" he offered tentatively.

Devereaux shook his head, still stirring. "No need. Go back to your nap if you want. I'm nearly finished."

Pistachu blinked, unsure whether to take the offer or bolt for the door. "Yes, My Lord. I mean—no, My Lord. I—uh..." He glanced around helplessly, then settled for bowing deeply. "As you wish, Dark Lord."

With that, he backed away slowly, eyes never leaving the pot as if it might explode any second. Devereaux merely smirked, watching the timid chef retreat before turning back to his work.

"A good mood, hm?" he murmured to himself, shaking his head. "Perhaps I am."

***

The broth finally began to bubble—the special hangover soup for Ada Romersai was ready. With a final swirl of the ladle, Devereaux lifted the cauldron off the fire, the thick broth inside shimmering darkly under the kitchen's dim light. He carefully poured the rich, steaming soup into a large, deep bowl made of polished onyx, the rim etched with delicate silver runes that flared softly in response to the heat. The aroma curled up in tendrils, filling the space with a warm, heady scent that was both soothing and subtly invigorating.

He set the bowl in the centre of a blackened iron tray, the kind used for royal meals or, in Hell's case, important rituals. A simple arrangement—a single bowl, a gleaming silver spoon, and a folded dark crimson napkin edged with delicate embroidery.

Next to it, he placed a single Crest flower, its dark purple leaves spreading out like a starburst, the black veins etched within giving it an otherworldly glow. The flower was native to the Land of Shadows, known for its resilience in the harsh, cold terrain. It symbolises strength through adversity—a fitting reminder, he thought, for the recipient of this humble meal. And for the Dark it resembled Ada. It was a subtle touch, but one he felt was necessary.

For a moment, Devereaux stared down at the arrangement. With a soft exhale, he adjusted the placement slightly, ensuring it was just right. A touch of sentimentality, perhaps, but he allowed himself that.

Straightening, Devereaux glanced over at Pistachu, still frozen mid-bow, his eyes wide and uncertain, like a timid fawn caught in a predator's gaze. The Dark Lord tilted his head, studying the chef's rigid posture with a mix of confusion and faint exasperation.

He never really understood their fear. Sure, he was known to be a menace. But he was never unreasonable. He was strict, yes. Unforgiving at times. But he was no tyrant. He ruled with a firm hand, but never without fair reason. Still, the reputation of the Lord of Death was a powerful thing. It bred reverence... and often, fear.

"Pistachu," he called softly.

"Y-yes, Dark Lord?" Pistachu squeaked, voice barely above a whisper.

Devereaux tapped a finger against his chin thoughtfully. He could use Pistachu as the delivery devil to bring the soup to Ada—but then he wouldn't be able to ensure she actually drank it. Besides, it would be impossible for this timid devil to deal with a human, let alone someone like her.

"Nah, nevermind." he dismissed him with a swath of his hand. His eyes shifted thoughtfully. He could call a maid to take the tray—one of the more seasoned ones, perhaps, who wouldn't stumble over her own feet in his presence. But as the thought crossed his mind, he found himself dismissing it just as quickly. This wasn't a task to delegate. Not this time.

No, he wanted to see Ada. To bring the soup himself.

He needed to see her. He needed to see her reaction, to gauge her expression, to witness her stubbornness crumble—if even for a moment—in the face of something so simple, yet so familiar. This was a gesture that transcended their usual exchanges, that spoke of care and remembrance—though she couldn't remember an ounce of it yet. It pained him. But the only cure to his pains was her.

Decision made, Devereaux lifted the tray with steady hands. Pistachu's eyes widened as he straightened, clearly at a loss for words.

"My lord... I—are you... sure?" the chef ventured hesitantly.

"Quite," Devereaux replied calmly, his gaze never leaving the soup. "I made it, after all. Seems only right I deliver it."

The chef opened his mouth to respond, thought better of it, and simply bowed deeper. "As you wish, Dark Lord."

With a final nod, Devereaux turned and made his way out of the kitchen, the tray balanced effortlessly in his hands. The corridors of the castle were silent, shadows dancing along the stone walls as he moved with purpose. His steps were measured, unhurried, yet there was an unspoken urgency in the way his eyes flickered with a deep, thoughtful light.

It had been too long since he'd seen her truly smile—a smile untainted by bitterness, anger, or pain. Maybe this wouldn't bring that smile back, but it was a start.

"Hangover soup," he murmured to himself, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Who would have thought..."

His thoughts drifted briefly to his mother, to the warm mornings and the scent of simmering broth filling their modest kitchen. If Ada could have even a fraction of that comfort—if this small, inconsequential act could help ease even a part of her burden—then it would be worth it.