Hiro tilted his head like I was the idiot here. As he delivered his next words, his lollipop moved from one corner of his mouth. “The Dragon’s Heart keeps the body alive.”
I stared at him. “And?”
“We are the Claws that hold your blades. We strike in your name. If the Heart beats for you, it beats for us too. Without her attention, the body weakens and weak Claws drop weapons.”
“Is that some sort of threat to protest? If you do not get fucking cornbread, you will not fight?”
“If she is the Heart, then it is her duty to keep us strong through food.”
“How long did it take you to come up with that argument?”
Hiro shrugged. “A few minutes.”
The war room hummed around us—low voices breaking apart into hallways, boots crossing stone, the hush of doors as Yoichi shepherded my men to rest.
Hiro spoke, “I have another line too. This took me longer to come up with.”
“Oh.” I held out my hands. “Please tell me. It would bring me joy.”
“Through food,” Hiro pulled the lollipop out of his mouth and pointed it at me. “A Heart feeds the body.”
“No. The Heart’s job is to pump blood, not stand in a kitchen.”
“Blood and food are the same in spirit, Brother. Both give life. If the Heart cooks for the body, it binds us together. Brings warmth to cold steel—”
“My chef has won awards. I can have him cook anything for you and have anything you all may desire flown to this island. We could sprinkle fucking edible gold on everything and make sure your chopsticks are decorated with diamonds.”
Hiro and the Claws didn’t stare at me, they glared.
Then, Hiro placed the lollipop back in his mouth. “You think this is trivial?”
“I don’t think this is trivial. I think this is fucking bullshit and the most unimportant thing I have had to hear today—”
“You’ve never fought on an empty stomach with no warmth to return to. You’ve been the Dragon for too long, and before that you were Kenji. And Kenji was well-fed by others, served by others too. . .all his life. . .”
I opened my mouth to cut him down—to tell him I would not barter my Heart like she was a kitchen charm—and then I caughtthe look under his lashes and the deeper meaning in those words.
Damn it.
I let out a long breath and put my view back on the blood trail.
The cleaning staff had arrived and was now working on those stains that had thickened at the edges and turned from jeweled brightness to dark lacquer.
They scattered salt along the edges of the stain. Another used a bamboo ladle dipped it in the bucket and then tipped it. Water spilled from the ladle and traced the marble vein by vein.
Two other maids blotted with folded cotton pads, changing the cloths from white to rose. Another followed with a paste of rice bran and vinegar, working it into the stone with a horsehair brush so gentle it looked like she was coaxing a secret out of it. The paste pulled the red up in slow breaths.
The soundscape cooled me—whisk, pour, press; wring, fold, replace.
Buckets murmured as water sloshed.
I watched the path settle into the marble the way ink settles into paper.
Fed stone wins wars. What about fed men?
I rolled my shoulders and thought about Hiro’s last words just now.
He wasn’t just fighting for stew or fucking macaroni and cheese. It wasn’t even about pride.
