The iron spear in nineteen-year-old Ah Ming’s hands felt as heavy as a lead tombstone.
For three weeks, he had clutched that weapon with white knuckles. He had slept with its cold shaft pressed against his ribs in the snow. He had marched until blisters burst and bled inside his boots, scared that if he loosened his grip for even an instant, a royal corporal would lash him across the shoulders with a spiked leather crop. That spear was supposed to represent his duty to the Golden Sun Empire, his obedience to the dragon throne, and his readiness to slay eastern fiends.
Now, as the rich steam of bubbling mutton fat and roasted garlic wrapped around him like a mother’s embrace, Ah Ming looked down at the weapon.
Its steel point had been blunted by three weeks of freezing rain. Its ash-wood shaft was cracked and blackened with road grime. And right across the greening turf, not twenty paces away, stood a gentle fox maiden with soft white ears and an apron tied around her waist. She held out a wide birchwood bowl brimming with steaming broth, thick noodles, braised lamb meat that fell apart into tender shreds. A golden drizzle of toasted chili oil. She wasn’t chanting curses. She wasn’t drawing a bow. She was smiling warmly, her dark eyes filled with clear kindness.
