The Guardian gods-Chapter 750

The little princess snapped her fingers and pointed at her brother, "Spice boy isn’t supposed to be speaking," she declared, sticking her tongue out at him and pulling an exaggerated face. "Your input isn’t helpful."

Osita paid neither of them any mind.

He had turned fully back to the barbecue now, lifting the lid and carefully turning the meat. His expression grew intense, brows drawn together as though he were not cooking but crafting a masterpiece worthy of legend. He adjusted the fire, brushed on more sauce, and nodded to himself, utterly absorbed.

Nwadike noticed immediately.

With their father distracted, a mischievous grin crept across his face. He raised a hand casually and flicked his fingers.

A tiny ball of crackling lightning leapt from his hand and struck his sister.

She yelped.

Her curls frizzed instantly, standing on end as a sharp tingling sensation ran through her body. She shook where she stood, eyes wide, before glaring at him. Nwadike’s grin widened, clearly proud of his handiwork.

The little princess pouted, reaching up to touch her ruined hair. Then her expression shifted.

Slowly, deliberately, she turned toward their father.

A grin spread across her face, one Nwadike recognized far too well.

In the sweetest, most innocent tone she could muster, she said, "Papa... big brother is being mean to me."

Osita, still focused on the meat, responded without even looking up. "Hey," he said firmly, flipping a piece with precision, "stop being mean to your little sister."

The girl immediately turned back to Nwadike with a triumphant grin, sticking her tongue out once more.

Nwadike sighed, shaking his head, though a smile tugged at his lips. "One day," he muttered, "that trick is going to stop working."

She laughed, unfazed, while the scent of perfectly cooked meat filled the air and Osita continued his work completely unaware that justice, once again, had been expertly manipulated at his expense

The girl beamed at that, already eyeing the next piece of meat as the dog returned to hover nearby, tail wagging in hopeful anticipation.

Nwadike glanced toward his father, wiping his hands on a cloth as he spoke. "Old man, there aren’t any more combinations left with the spices we have. You’ll have to pick one for tomorrow, something special for Mom."

Osita paused.

The crackle of the fire filled the brief silence as he straightened, eyes narrowing thoughtfully at the rows of spices laid out before him. He folded his arms, staring at them as though they were pieces on a battlefield.

"Hmm," he hummed. "Which combination do you think is best? Your mother loves her meat, but this..." He reached out, pinching a bit of spice between his fingers, letting it fall slowly. "This needs to be a once-in-a-lifetime taste. Something she’s never had before. Something that’ll leave her wanting more after the hunt tomorrow."

Nwadike stepped closer, his tone shifting from teasing to serious. "If it’s Mom, then bold is better but not overwhelming. She likes strength that sneaks up on her."

He gestured toward a blend already mixed. "That one. Smoked peppers for depth, a touch of sweetness to balance the heat, and the bitter spice at the end to linger. It won’t hit all at once. It’ll unfold."

Osita studied him, eyes flicking from the spices back to his son. Slowly, a smile tugged at his lips. "You’ve been paying attention."

Nwadike shrugged. "You cook, I watch. Mom eats, I listen."

A low chuckle escaped Osita as he reached for the suggested blend. "Then we’ll trust your judgment." He inhaled the aroma, eyes softening. "If this works... she won’t forget it."

From the side, the little princess piped up, hands on her hips and hair still half-frizzed. "If Mom cries because it’s too good, I want credit."

Osita laughed outright this time. "You’ll get credit for not eating it all before sunrise." She gasped in mock offense as the fire crackled on.

Another arrow flew.

Thud.

"Still too wide," the young woman muttered, already reaching for another arrow. She adjusted her stance, shoulders squaring. "If I miss like that tomorrow, I’ll only slow Mom down."

One of the twins skidded to a stop nearby, hands on his knees. "Zainab, you didn’t miss," he protested. "You hit it dead center!"

"Center isn’t enough," she replied without looking back. "One shot. One kill. No suffering."

The other twin grinned. "She’s scary when she talks like that."

"I’m standing right here," the First Princess said flatly, drawing again.

The twins burst into laughter and immediately took off running before the arrow was released.

"Hey! You’ll knock over the targets again!" she called after them.

"Not our fault if your arrows are slow!" one twin shouted.

"They’re not slow," she snapped, releasing the string.

The arrow sliced through the air and struck the target cleanly, dead center this time.

The twins froze.

"...Okay," the other one said quietly. "They’re fast."

She exhaled, finally allowing herself a small, satisfied smile. "Good. That’s how it should be."

The twins exchanged looks before one of them nudged the other. "She’s definitely Mom’s daughter."

"Yeah," the other agreed. "Just less yelling."

From across the space, Osita didn’t look up from the barbecue. "If either of you get shot, I’m not explaining it to your mother."

"See?" one twin whispered. "She gets it from both sides."

The First Princess rolled her shoulders, reaching for another arrow. "If you’re done talking, run somewhere else."

The twins didn’t need to be told twice.

They were already gone.

Night fell swiftly over the capital, yet darkness found no dominion there.

The city of Osita burst into life as though dawn itself had returned. Street lamps lined the roads in glowing rows, their warm light spilling over stone and paved floors alike, so bright that one might have mistaken the hour for day. Shadows danced along the walls as people flooded the streets, laughter ringing freely from every corner.

Excitement hummed in the air.

Families, merchants, elders, and children alike moved through the capital with eager steps, each person carrying a bowl, simple, unadorned, and all of the same size. It was a curious sight to any outsider, a quiet uniformity born not of law, but of tradition. No one wanted more than another on this night. No one could.

Tonight was special.

Once each season, on the eve of the great hunt, the people of the Osita Kingdom were given a rare opportunity to taste a meal prepared by the Queen herself. Not ordered, not overseen, but cooked with her own hands.

It was a tradition older than memory, passed down through generations, a reminder that before crowns and thrones, a queen was first a servant to her people.

And Queen Amina honored it without fail.

Anticipation shone on every face. Stories were shared as people waited, tales of past hunts, of flavors remembered long after the bowls had been emptied. Some spoke with longing, others with quiet acceptance, knowing that not all would be fortunate enough to taste the meal this year.

That understanding was part of the night as well.

At the Queen’s own request, those who had been lucky enough to receive a serving the previous year were gently urged to step aside, to give space for those who had never known the honor. No guard enforced it. No name was recorded.

Yet most obeyed.

Because in Osita, tradition was not carried by decree but by trust.

And so the city waited, bowls in hand, hearts full, knowing that whether or not they tasted the Queen’s cooking, they were already part of something far greater than a meal.

Many in the capital swallowed hard as they looked toward the palace, thin trails of smoke rising into the night sky. Every so often, the wind shifted, carrying with it the rich scent of cooked meat and spices. The aroma drifted through the streets, teasing empty stomachs and tightening grips around waiting bowls.

Within the royal kitchen, the atmosphere began to shift. The frantic pace softened as the final stages of preparation approached. Queen Amina stood with her companions, women of noble birth and trusted friends, hands resting briefly on the counters they had labored over for hours.

"One last stir," Amina said warmly, watching the maids take over with practiced ease. "Mind the heat. Let it rest before serving."

"Yes, Your Majesty," the maids replied in unison.

One by one, Amina and the other ladies stepped away from their stations. Though they had cooked like commoners, they were still women of royalty, and appearances unfortunately still mattered. They glanced at their hands, their sleeves, the faint clinging scent of spice and smoke.

It would not do to appear before the people smelling of pepper, garlic and oil.

Reluctantly but knowingly, they prepared to leave the kitchen. Baths awaited them, fresh garments, scented oils, rituals of refinement that had little to do with who they were and everything to do with what the world expected them to be.

Yet the irony lingered.

For when the time came, it would be these same women, clean, adorned, and composed who would step into the streets and personally distribute the food. They would kneel, smile, and serve with their own hands, spices or no spices.