The Thirteenth Commandment

The smell of stew filled the air, a mix of spiced broth and slow-cooked meat. The campfire crackled, casting flickering light over the small gathering.

Malachai sat stiffly, staring down at the bowl in front of him. The spoon in his hand felt foreign—an unfamiliar weight. He glanced at Riven and Greya, both casually eating, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

How hard could it be?

He scooped up some stew and raised the spoon to his mouth—only for it to tilt too soon, sending broth and chunks of meat splattering onto his lap.

Greya let out a loud laugh. "Oh, that's rich. You're hopeless."

Malachai frowned, grabbing another spoonful—this time, he missed his mouth entirely.

Riven had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

Greya wiped a tear from her eye. "Okay, okay, seriously, how've you been living? You can't even do this much?"

Malachai scowled, gripping the spoon tighter. "I never had to use one before."

Greya raised an eyebrow. "Never had to use a spoon before? What, were you raised by wild beasts or somethin'?"

Before she could press further, Malachai cut her off. "Are all Hunters this weak? That man couldn't even handle a rusted dagger."

Riven leaned back, resting his bowl on his knee. "Hah. That wound? It probably healed right after I stabbed him."

Malachai's expression didn't change.

Riven continued, waving his spoon. "See, the angels divide their blessings among them. The lowest ranks only get scraps of power. The ones that just showed up? Bottom of the barrel.They probably got the bare minimum of their share."

Before he could ramble further, Greya bonked him on the head. "Don't talk so much while you eat."

Riven grumbled, rubbing the spot where she hit him.

Greya turned to Malachai. "Listen, you shouldn't underestimate them. The higher ranks? Even a hundred humans wouldn't be able to take one down."

Malachai stirred his stew absently, uninterested. "If they were truly blessed by the angels, they wouldn't have fallen so easily."

He had barely used any divine essence—just a sliver, a whisper of what he once had—and yet the so-called 'blessed' had died instantly.

Either the angels had given them far less power than they believed—

Or… it wasn't an angel that blessed them.

His grip on the spoon tightened.

He shook the thought away. Not my concern. Human matters do not concern me.

"Oi, if you're gonna sit there looking all broody, at least eat," Riven said, lifting his spoon and holding it toward Malachai's mouth.

Malachai turned to glare at him.

Riven grinned. "C'mon, you're hungry, right?"

Greya chuckled. "Might as well let him feed you, since you clearly don't know how to use that thing."

Malachai ignored them, focusing on his bowl as he properly scooped up another bite.

Still, Riven held up the spoon expectantly.

Malachai pretended not to see it.

Greya and Riven burst into laughter.

The fire crackled. The stew smelled rich and warm. And for a moment, just a moment, Malachai almost felt at ease.