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It was a memory that flickered in his mind like a dying ember, warm, slightly painful, and laced with the scent of charred cinnamon. He had been a mere dragonet then, his scales still soft and lacking the hardened luster of adulthood, blinking up at his older sisters, Sanderling and Wren, with wide, innocent eyes.
His father, a dragon of immense patience and a surprising aptitude for the culinary arts, had spent the morning preparing a feast of Tteokbokki, chewy, succulent rice cakes that shimmered under the torchlight of their den. They had been paired with nests of fried noodles, crisp and golden, smelling of sesame and ginger. To a young dragon, it was a mountain of luxury. Six Claws had always been particular about his palate; while most preferred the sharp, aggressive bite of spicy peppers, he craved the rich, velvet luxury of a melted cheese topping, something creamy that would coat the palate and soften the blow of the heat.
Sanderling and Wren, however, had seen an opportunity for mischief. With a conspiratorial glint in their eyes and a series of hushed whispers, they had convinced their father to incorporate a pinch of ‘Dragon’s Fire’ cheese, a variety bred from peppers so potent they were often used to clear sinuses in the tundra.
Six Claws remembered the first bite. The initial taste was heavenly, a rich creaminess that promised comfort. Then, the fire arrived. It wasn’t a slow build; it was an explosion. His small lungs had seized, a plume of actual smoke billowing from his nostrils as he frantically looked for water. The sisters had collapsed into fits of melodic laughter, their wings buffeting the air in delight, while Six Claws sat frozen, his mouth feeling as though he had swallowed a molten lava stone from the heart of the volcano. He hadn't finished the meal, of course, but the memory of that betrayal, wrapped in the scent of burnt cheese, remained a cornerstone of his childhood.
The phantom heat of that memory was abruptly cut short by the rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of a knife hitting a wooden board.
Six Claws blinked, the golden light of the present returning to his vision. He realized he had been zoning out, his talons moving on autopilot as he diced a pile of vivid purple carrots for a stir-fry. The vibrant violet of the root vegetables contrasted sharply with the weathered, tan grey-scale of his talons. He paused, the knife hovering mid-air, and let out a long, rattling sigh that seemed to echo in the hollow of his chest.
The war was over. The great conflicts that had torn the tribes asunder, the blood-soaked soil and the screams of the fallen, had finally fallen silent. Peace had settled over the land like a heavy blanket, but for Six Claws, the silence was not entirely peaceful. It was heavy. His bones felt old, aching with a phantom weight that didn't belong to his years. There was a hollow space beneath his ribs, a yearning that he had spent years trying to bury under the mundane tasks of daily survival.
He yearned for his parents and sisters.
It was a grief he had convinced himself was a dormant thing, a stone smoothed by the current of time until it no longer cut. But in the quiet moments, between the slicing of carrots and the stirring of pots, the grief surged back, raw and demanding. He missed the rumble of his father’s voice and the gentle, guiding pressure of his mother’s wing against his shoulder.
A sudden, bright giggle shattered the melancholy.
Ostrich burst into the kitchen, her movements a whirlwind of chaotic energy that sent a few stray peppercorns dancing across the stone floor. She was beaming, her eyes sparkling with pride as she balanced a precarious heap of fresh produce in her forepaws.
“Look! Look what I found in the garden!” she chirped, her voice a sharp contrast to the heavy silence of his thoughts.
She began unloading the treasures onto the counter with haphazard enthusiasm: a single, medium-sized zucchini with a skin like polished emerald; a small, plump eggplant that looked like a bruised jewel; two crisp heads of bok choy; a cluster of earthy, velvet-capped oyster mushrooms; and a solitary, curved chayote.
Six Claws felt a small, genuine smile tug at the corners of his mouth when he spotted the final addition: three fat, bulbous jicama roots, their skins dusted with the rich, dark loam of the earth.
With a practiced grace, he reached out and claimed the jicama. He dipped them into a ceramic dish of salt water, the cool liquid rinsing away the grit of the garden with a soft, splashing sound. His movements shifted from the lethargy of grief to the precision of a master. He gripped the knife, the blade slicing through the thick skin of the jicama with an effortless shlick, peeling the outer layer away to reveal the crisp, snowy-white flesh beneath.
He sliced them into neat, uniform sticks, the scent of fresh earth and sweetness filling the air. With a flicker of his wing, he slid a small snack plate of the chilled sticks toward Ostrich.
“You can munch on these before dinner,” he said, his voice warm, the shadows of the past receding just a little further. He paused, his gaze turning stern but affectionate. “But don’t think this gets you out of your studies. You’ve still got to finish your homework.”