Chains of Silk and Steel - Ch. 03

Chapter Three

Sayuri

Steam curled in thick ribbons through the kitchen, the scent of roasted meats and fresh herbs heavy in the air. Copper pots clanged against the stone hearth while the shuffle of feet and murmur of voices formed a steady hum of activity. The heat was relentless, pressing against Sayuri's skin as she scrubbed the remnants of last night's feast from a wooden basin. The water had long since turned cloudy, her fingers wrinkled and raw from hours steeped in the scalding temperature.

Sayuri hadn't been marched off to war with the others. Whether by design or oversight, she'd been placed among the palace servants instead--a quiet dismissal, as though she was too insignificant for anything beyond scrubbing floors and peeling vegetables.

It had been months since she arrived in the inner court, yet she still felt like an outsider. The other servants had come from respectable families--daughters of craftsmen and officials, women who had earned their place through loyalty or lineage. She, on the other hand, had been brought here on the whim of a nobleman, her past a question left unanswered.

If the others had known what she'd done--who she was--they wouldn't have let her so much as touch the palace stores, let alone work in the kitchens. But no one asked. No one dared. It was enough that Lord Dorei had willed her here. That alone had branded her an object of curiosity, a persistent topic of gossip that followed the daily routines.

Sayuri rinsed the basin and set it aside just as a stack of bowls clattered beside her. Water splashed against her sleeve, soaking through the muted gray fabric of her uniform and flecking her cheek. The apron was already damp from hours of work, the coarse linen a far cry from the silks and brocades worn beyond the kitchen doors. Still, it was leagues above the ragged kosode she'd worn in prison, where warmth itself had been a luxury.

She exhaled, glancing up to find Mei standing over her, arms crossed, a smirk curving her lips.

"You missed a spot," Mei said, her tone dripping with false sweetness.

Mei was young--Makoto's age, perhaps--with the soft, rounded face of someone who had never gone hungry. Her plump form was draped in the same gray uniform as the rest, but she carried herself as though it were embroidered with gold. Her dark hair was plaited down her back, the front cropped blunt across her forehead--just like Makoto's had been. Sayuri hated it. But appearance aside, the girl was nothing like her sister.

Sayuri wiped her face on her shoulder and turned back to her work. "Then perhaps you should wash them yourself."

A few nearby attendants stifled their laughter, quickly returning to their tasks when Mei's glare snapped to them.

"I don't expect a stray to understand," Mei hissed. "But those of us who belong here have standards to maintain."

Sayuri clenched her jaw but refused to take the bait. It was always like this. From the moment she arrived, Mei had made it her mission to remind her she didn't belong.

"Enough," the head cook barked, her hands planted on her hips. "Mei, get back to work. Sayuri, you're to prepare a tea tray for Scholar Hidemasa. Take it to the reception hall."

Mei stepped back with an exaggerated sigh, her eyes glinting. Sayuri dried her hands on her apron, biting down the retort burning on her tongue. She turned to the long wooden counter, where porcelain cups and lacquered trays had already been set out. Wealth dripped from every surface--the gold-inlaid dishes, the polished silver teapots, the silk napkins folded into pretty shapes.

She reached for a tray, carefully arranging cups in a neat row before moving on to the refreshments. A plate of rice cakes, dusted with fine sugar and pressed into delicate flower designs, sat beside an assortment of sweet bean pastries, their glossy surfaces catching the light. Sayuri picked one up, the texture soft beneath her fingertips.

Her stomach twisted--not with hunger. Her finger brushed over the dough, and for a moment, she could almost feel her sister's hands kneading beside her in their tiny kitchen, flour streaking her wrists. Their meals had never been extravagant, but they'd made the best of what little they had. Simple broths, rice with pickled vegetables, sweet buns when luck allowed. She could still see Makoto sitting cross-legged on the floor, humming softly as she rolled out dumpling wrappers, the fire's warmth painting her cheeks in flickering gold.

Sayuri swallowed against the tightness in her throat and slipped two pastries into the folds of her sleeve, careful not to disturb the balance of the tray. They would not be missed--not when hundreds more were replenished daily by dozens of hands. She reached for the teapot, the floral scent of steeped jasmine unfurling into the air as she set it beside the cups. As she worked, voices drifted from the other end of the kitchen.

"Did you hear?" a young girl murmured, excitement threading through her lowered voice--just quiet enough to make the others lean in. "Lord Dorei has returned!"

Sayuri's fingers hesitated on the teapot's handle.

A woman with a spotted chin let out a breathy sigh. "Finally. You'd think he was off conquering an entire kingdom with how long he's been away."

Laughter rippled through the group.

"He probably was. They say no one wields a sword like him," the first girl said.

"I'd rather see him wield something else," one of the women with unruly curls giggled, drawing out playful shrieks and frantic shushes.

"Shame we never get to see him up close," another lamented. "I hear the women in court fight for his attention like starving dogs."

"With a face like that? Who wouldn't?"

Sayuri rolled her eyes and lifted the tray into her hands. She'd heard it all before. It was every servant girl's dream to catch a nobleman's attention, to snare a soldier's gaze before they were cast aside as old maids. Foolish fantasies, all of them.

While the other girls fawned over Lord Dorei, Sayuri's thoughts drifted elsewhere. The nobleman who held her interest had nothing to do with desire or status. Only unfinished business.

She wove through the kitchens, careful not to jostle the porcelain stacked atop the tray. Slipping past a group of servants huddled near the hearth, their laughter muffled beneath the crackling fire, she ducked under a low-hanging bundle of drying herbs strung from the rafters.

The moment she stepped beyond the kitchen's threshold, the world changed.

The halls stretched wide, their polished stone floors reflecting the soft glow of lanterns mounted along curved wooden beams. Distant music floated through the corridors--soft strings and lilting flutes--the sound of court life carrying on, untouched by the labor concealed behind closed doors.

Sayuri adjusted her grip on the tray and quickened her pace. She should have turned left toward the main corridor where the reception hall lay beyond the painted screens. Instead, she veered right.

The path was quieter here, away from the perfumed air and polished décor, winding toward the outer corridors--toward a world to which she no longer belonged. She stepped into the shaded alcove, where a secondary entrance led to the barracks.

Outside the door, a floppy-haired guard lounged against the wooden railing, one boot propped on the step, the other planted firmly on the ground--Hiro.

He had the sturdy build of a man who enjoyed his meals as much as his work, though tonight, his usual uniform was absent, replaced by loose trousers and a plain tunic that stretched too tightly at his stomach.

"Ah, my favorite kitchen thief," he said, his eyes twinkling. "What did you bring me this time? Don't tell me it's another one of those dry biscuits."

Sayuri frowned. "I caught you off duty?"

Hiro stretched his arms above his head, yawning heavily. "Not on shift for another few hours."

She arched a brow, noting how he nervously glanced down the hall. He lingered near the entrance rather than heading toward the barracks where the off-duty guards spent their free time. "Then what are you doing out here?"

He scratched his jaw, his grin easy--but a fraction too quick. "Enjoying the air. Do I need a reason?"

Sayuri studied him a moment longer, then shrugged. Everyone had their secrets. Who was she to pry?

She balanced the tray on the railing and slipped the pastries from her sleeve. "I believe these are your favorite."

Hiro plucked one from her hand, sniffing it dramatically before popping it into his mouth. "Mmm," he hummed, chewing with exaggerated appreciation.

She leaned against the wall, watching him eat. "Any news?"

Hiro wiped a few stray crumbs from his chin. "And here I thought you came to enjoy my company."

She waited, and he let out a sigh.

"I asked around, but there's not much to go on," he admitted. "The bastard's got friends in high places. Doesn't come around here often, and when he does, he keeps his business quiet. I'll keep my ears open, but..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Might be better to forget the guy."

Sayuri sniffed, lifting the tea tray. "Just keep looking. Persistence is what keeps people alive."

"Or gets them killed," Hiro said lightly, though concern was laced beneath the friendliness.

She turned before he could press further. "I need to get this to the reception hall. Enjoy your... air."

Hiro leaned against the railing. "What about our next game?" he called after her.

She glanced over her shoulder. "If you win one, maybe I'll consider another."

He chuckled, his laughter trailing after her as she slipped away down the corridor.

Hiro was the only one who had treated her with kindness since she arrived. The kitchen staff whispered. The maids watched her with cautious eyes. Even the guards regarded her with vague suspicion as though waiting to uncover whatever secret had earned her a place among them.

But Hiro was different. He treated her the same as he did everyone else--with an easy grin and a teasing remark.

Over time, he'd become the only one she trusted. He never asked for anything beyond the stolen sweets she smuggled to him--and only then because she'd offered first. She needed some way to repay him.

Sayuri hadn't meant to form any sort of companionship. The first night had been an accident. She couldn't sleep, her mind restless with thoughts she couldn't shake, so she'd wandered. That was when she saw him--hunched over a wooden board across from another guard, the black and white Go pieces gleaming beneath the lantern's glow. She'd lingered in the shadows, watching the game unfold in silence.

Hiro had noticed her, of course. He was a guard--it was his job to notice. But instead of chasing her off or questioning her presence, he had simply gestured toward the board when his opponent left.

It had been a long time since she'd played.

Her father had taught her back when she was still small enough to sit on his lap, his calloused fingers guiding her hand as she placed the stones. He'd spoken of patience, of seeing the game unfold long before the final move. "A good strategist does not play the board. She plays her opponent."

It was one of the only lessons he'd ever given her. And one of the few memories of him she could look back on without bitterness.

She'd sat across from Hiro that night, hesitant at first, unwilling to let the past dictate her present. But as the game unfolded, piece by piece, the familiarity had calmed her. She played carefully, and when she'd won, Hiro grinned and set a rematch for the following week.

And so it became their ritual. She would find her way to the barracks on nights when sleep eluded her, and he would be waiting, the board already set out for their next game.

Sayuri moved briskly through the corridor, though her mind still lingered on Hiro's words. She followed the most direct path toward the reception hall without thinking--only when the low hum of voices and the sharp clang of metal against metal reached her ears did she realize where she was.

The training grounds.

Her steps faltered. Fingers tightening around the tray, she hesitated, debating whether to turn back. But before she could decide, the gathered crowd caught her eye.

Servants clustered near the courtyard's edges, their chores momentarily forgotten or abandoned as they peeked between stone pillars. Some were younger girls, eyes wide, giggling behind their sleeves. Others were noblewomen, fluttering their fans just enough to veil coy smiles. Even a few palace guards lingered at the sidelines, arms crossed, watching with grudging respect.

And at the center of it all, commanding every gaze without effort, was Dorei.

Sayuri hadn't seen him since that morning in the prison courtyard--since the moment he'd claimed her fate with a flick of his wrist and a pouch of coin. Yet here he was, bare-chested beneath the midday sun, his body a study in lethal grace.

His blade moved in swift, fluid arcs, catching the light as he struck against his opponent's sword. Each movement was controlled, precise--calculated in a way that made it clear this was not mere training. It was instinct. The kind sharpened over years of battle, honed on real flesh and bone.

Sweat glistened on the carved lines of his torso, muscles flexing and releasing with every shift. Dark ink coiled over his shoulder and along his ribs, blurred beneath his quick movements. Sayuri's gaze snagged on it--its design impossible to decipher from this distance, but the sight of it stirred something unexpected.

He was nothing like the noblemen who preened in polished armor, playing at war while others bled in their place. There was no vanity in the way he wielded his sword, no wasted motion. Just raw, brutal efficiency. It was... beautiful. And she hated that she'd noticed.

A sharp breath beside her broke her focus.

"He moves like a god," one of the noblewomen whispered, her fan fluttering rapidly near her chin.

Sayuri's eyes flicked past her, scanning the rest of the gathered spectators. Bodies pressed close to the railing, faces tilted, lips parted in silent admiration. Some murmured appreciatively whenever Dorei landed a particularly tricky blow; others simply stared, entranced.

She scoffed inwardly. No doubt the man was pleasing to the eye--but beauty fades. If there was nothing beneath it, what was the point?

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She wasn't some starry-eyed girl hoping for a wandering glance or a noblewoman dreaming of the night he might grace her bed. She was nothing to him. And he was nothing to her.

With that thought, she shifted her weight, preparing to leave--when another clang of metal rang out, followed by a low, satisfied murmur around the courtyard.

Dorei had disarmed his opponent. The other man hit the ground, his weapon clattering on the stone beside him. Without a hint of struggle, without even a break in his breathing--he had won.

Of course, he had.

Dorei sheathed his sword, sweat glistening on his chest as he extended a hand to the fallen challenger. The man hesitated briefly before accepting the offer, letting Dorei pull him to his feet.

There were cheers, whoops of admiration, but Dorei paid them no mind. He simply inclined his head in a small, respectful bow. His opponent returned the gesture before stepping back to retrieve his weapon.

Sayuri frowned. That was not what she had expected.

Men like him--men who reveled in power, who held the world in their hands--did not offer courtesies when they could drink in the awe around them, parading their strength like peacocks.

She lingered a beat too long, her gaze still locked on him, searching for the smirk she knew should follow--the telltale gloating.

But it never came.

Sayuri tore her eyes from him and moved away from the crowd. She should have been in the reception hall by now. The tea's warmth had surely faded, and if she didn't get there soon...

She made to turn into the gardens when a flicker of movement at the edge of her vision gave her pause.

Beyond the training grounds, past the colonnade leading toward the guard's barracks, a lone figure slipped down a side passage. The grey uniform marked her as one of the kitchen attendants--a short girl with dark hair cut into blunt bangs.

Mei.

A male voice rose above the crowd's noise from the courtyard behind Sayuri. "Lord Dorei has business to attend to. Ladies, perhaps you'd be more comfortable elsewhere." For the servants, the dismissal was sharper, "Enough lingering. Get back to your duties."

There were a few half-hearted protests before footsteps shuffled away, the crowd beginning to thin. But Sayuri hadn't moved. Her brow furrowed.

Surely Mei hadn't been among them--pressed to the railings, craning for a glimpse of Dorei. Sayuri would have noticed her.

So then... what was she doing out here?

Keeping her steps light, Sayuri edged closer, peering around the corner. Mei moved with purpose--quick but careful--as though she didn't want to be seen.

Sayuri shook her head. It was none of her business.

She started to turn back--then froze. Mei's steps had slowed. As if sensing she was being watched, she glanced over her shoulder. Their eyes met.

Mei's lips parted in a silent gasp, her round face shifting from pale shock to something uncomfortably close to guilt. Her gaze flicked from Sayuri to the corridor ahead as though weighing whether to run.

Then, just as quickly, the fear vanished.

Mei's expression twisted, her brows scrunching, her mouth pulling into a tight, furious line. She whirled toward Sayuri, straw sandals slapping against stone as she stomped down the corridor.

"What do you think you're doing?" she hissed, eyes flicking past Sayuri to the emptying courtyard. "Neglecting your duties to spy on Lord Dorei?"

Sayuri barely had time to react before Mei was upon her, fire flashing in her brown eyes.

"You think gaining favor once means you get to do as you please?" she sneered. Her round cheeks burned with her fury, and her gaze slipped to the tray in Sayuri's hands. "You haven't even delivered the tea yet. You should be punished for your laziness."

Sayuri stiffened, breath catching. Not just from the words but the venom. The need in them.

It wasn't the usual barbed remarks, the passive-aggressive jabs Mei had been lobbing at her since she arrived. This was something raw. Unrestrained. Almost desperate. As if Mei needed her to be the guilty one. Needed her to be worse--because it was easier than facing whatever else was wrong.

Sayuri parted her lips, an instinctive protest rising--but Mei's hand shot out before she could speak. Her fist struck the tray, knocking it from Sayuri's grasp.

Porcelain shattered against stone, shards bouncing and spinning like scattered bones. Tea splashed up Sayuri's skirt, the scent of jasmine rising.

A soft noise sounded behind her--the measured fall of footsteps against stone. Sayuri didn't turn. Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out everything but the broken pieces at her feet.

Mei huffed, lifting her chin in a poor imitation of dignity. "Pathetic. Clean up your mess, stray," she snapped, throwing her a glare before stalking off down the corridor.

Silence followed.

Wind slithered through the open archway, lifting a strand of hair across Sayuri's cheek. She let out a slow breath, willing the tightness in her chest to ease.

This was bad.

Not simply because of the porcelain's cost, nor even the undelivered tea--but because she'd lingered too long with Hiro, jeopardizing everything she'd worked for, risking him. Punishment for neglecting duties would be harsh. But punishment for meeting secretly with a guard would be far worse--for both of them.

Sayuri knelt, gathering the shattered pieces with stiff fingers. She needed to hurry. Mei was gone, but the damage was done. By now, the kitchens would be whispering, trading rumors, twisting truths. She'd have to answer questions she couldn't afford to have asked.

It wasn't the first time life had beaten her into the dirt. It most certainly wouldn't be the last. But if they took the kitchens from her, they took her means of finding Sata. And if they punished Hiro... She would never forgive herself.

The shards clinked together as she collected them, the sound sharp and brittle against the quiet. When she dropped them onto the tray, they knocked against the wood with a hollow clack.

She barely noticed the faint rustle of fabric beside her--too focused on the mess before her.

Another shard joined the pile atop the tray.

Not by her hand.

A scent rose around her--faintly spiced, tinged with something deeper, like smoldering cedar left too long in the sun.

Crimson and gold flashed to her left, embroidered silk pooling in the dust beside her. Another shard disappeared before she could reach for it. A hand moved alongside hers. Not Mei's. Not a servant's.

The last porcelain piece tumbled from her grasp, skittering across the wood. Her jaw tightened as she scooped up the tray, thoughts tangling in a frantic blur. She had to fix this somehow--had to explain, had to protect Hiro, had to guard her mission, had to--

Fingers caught her chin--soft, yet firm--tilting her face toward the warm sun.

Her breath hitched. Slowly--finally--she lifted her gaze.

Golden-brown eyes met hers.

Dorei was crouched beside her, fingers resting gently against her skin. Her pulse stuttered. His touch was nothing like it had been that night on the cliffs. Then, he had been a force--yanking her back, holding her against him, pressing into her with the weight of his will. Now, he was patient. Calm. Studying her.

Damn him.

Her breath came too fast. She couldn't deal with this--couldn't deal with him. This noble stepping into her mess like it had anything to do with him. Why couldn't he leave her be?

But... it wasn't arrogance in his eyes. Not really. Not even pity. It was something steadier. Deeper. Like he was seeing her--really seeing her. The way Makoto had.

She had to get out of here.

The urge to run struck before she even understood it. His gaze was too much. He was too much. The way he had stolen her fate once before... And now--he was stealing her breath.

She jerked back. His fingers slipped from her skin without resistance, but she didn't dare look at him as she rose to her feet.

Then she fled, leaving the tray, the porcelain--and him--behind.