Of Blood and Fire

Chapter 1 - Sora

This chapter has been edited and finalized.

It wasn't that Sora was a mean, hardened street girl; it was more that so far she hadn't led the best of lives. She'd spent the vast majority of her sixteen years as homeless, so sure, she could be ruthless when it boiled down to eat or starve. Sure, she could be a little aggressive when she defended her sleeping spot for the night.

Maybe she'd expected those tendencies to fade when she managed to find a job in the kitchens of the palace, no less, without having to fight for every scrap of food she had the luck to come by. The work guaranteed her three square meals a day and two half-hour breaks, one during the morning and one during the afternoon. She had the luxury of sleeping in till nine, even though her work officially started at eight, because the royal family preferred to loiter at meals and all the chefs were too busy cleaning their spaces to bring the dirty dishes to the sinks. The palace even provided her a small room, and her own furniture – well, a bed, a nightstand, a dresser, and a table with two chairs – and she got several coins every hour.

But had Sora gotten nicer?

No. She had not.

What Sora had noticed, however, was that her ribs were not so prominent, and her skin didn't appear to hang so loosely off her bones. Her face had filled out nicely, and maybe if she'd gotten a little more protein earlier on in her childhood, she'd have had more success. The people she scrubbed dishes with always commented on it: "Why are you here, girl? You'd make real money, you know. Modeling."

"I'm not one for fame," Sora replied tartly, narrowing her eyes with effort as she applied more pressure on the plate. The royals had eaten cinnamon rolls with their pancakes and fruit, and the filling had clung to the china. Even the special-formula dish soap wasn't making much of a dent in it.

The woman – Marisol, Sora remembered – glanced at her. "You're crazy," she muttered. "What kind of girl doesn't want fame?"

This kind of girl, Sora thought, but kept her mouth shut. After Day One, she'd realized that there was an informal but merciless hierarchy among the palace employees, and the beginners were always at rock-bottom; with Marisol's unfair antagonism toward her, she was expecting to stay there for a while.

One of the kinder women gazed at Sora and whispered, "It's okay. Marisol's given everyone a hard time once or twice."

"Does three months straight count as once or twice?" Sora grumbled dryly.

She blinked. "Oh." And she got very quiet after that.

Sora felt the urge to apologize but squashed it down. Showing remorse in front of Marisol was off-limits, especially when the woman was watching her every move like a vengeful hawk. She wasn't fond of anyone she worked with; according to the one girl she liked, the kitchen staff were much nicer than the dish washers.

Probably because they don't pick bits of soggy bread from their fingernails every night, Sora thought. When she first applied for a job here – or, really, when the strange man she'd met had applied for her – the staff had tested her at all the stations. Apparently she was so incompetent at everything, they decided to clump her in with all the other useless people. She'd hated the kitchens at once – everything was so complex, and there so many specific instructions she'd be able to read only with massive effort – but she'd take even that over her bottom-of-the-ladder spot in the Dungeon.