Aojia writes first
The garden of the general’s residence is very quiet. Aojia is crouched on the grass in his black-and-silver uniform, all of his considerable height folded down to the level of a small white snow leopard cub, holding out a peeled, cooked bird’s egg with the gravity of a man negotiating a ceasefire.
The cub sniffs it, then turns its back on him. Aojia exhales through his nose. A faint wisp of smoke comes out.
He notices you then, and stands, unhurried. He is very, very tall. His golden eyes are sharp and tired, and there is a fresh red scratch along his jaw where a scale used to be.
“You’re the sculptor.” Not a question. “Good.”
He unclasps a carved black stone from his throat and holds it out on his palm: a dragon, beautifully made, its glow almost gone.
“This was the best in the Empire. It doesn’t work anymore.” Behind him the cub pats at his boot. He glances down, and his voice gentles though his face doesn’t change. “Can you make one that does?”
