The Last Dragon of the East

Chapter 1

1

G ēge! Please tell me what you see!”

The young woman peers up at me, her dark eyes wide and expectant as I carefully count the bronze coins she has paid. The money is all there and accounted for, but there’s no harm in double-checking my math. Being shorted out of a week’s worth of food once has taught me the value of diligence for the remainder of my lifetime.

Once satisfied with my tally, I tie the small purse of coins to the inside of my outer robe. “Very well, mèimei ,” I say with an easy smile. “Raise your right hand, just so.”

She follows my instructions eagerly as she draws in a deep, excited breath. Her hands are those of a laborer: calloused palms and thick knuckles. She likely spends her days toiling in the neighboring rice fields. Her hands and nails are clean, however, scrubbed pink and practically raw to be rid of any dirt and grime.

She has a simple appearance. Her dull brown dress is cut from cheap, rough fabric. Her long black hair is pulled back into a simple braid that runs the length of her spine, cinched off with a short black ribbon. I can detect the faintest trace of floral perfume upon her hair, though the fragrance isn’t very strong. It’s clear that she has put a lot of effort into looking her best despite her circumstances—and likely spent well beyond her means for such a privilege—but I blame her not.

I, too, would want to look my absolute best, were I meeting my Fated One today.

I can see her red thread as clear as the blue skies above. The shimmering magic loops around her little finger and then trails off toward the center of the city. There’s a good amount of tension, no slack to be found, which informs me that the person on the other end must be close.

“Are you ready?” I ask her.

She nods quickly, her excitement palpable.

With my hand tucked just below her wrist, we start off on our merry way.

Her thread cuts straight through the marketplace by the harbor. The narrow streets of Jiaoshan are congested pipes, clogged with merchants and customers alike. Vendors eagerly peddle their wares while workmen treat themselves to well-deserved meals made up of spiced meats, steamed buns, and dumpling soups.

The air is chilly—winter’s first frost covering the rooftops—though the cold does little to dissuade people from going about their business. There are vibrant dyes freshly imported from the western kingdoms, exotic spices from overseas, and beautiful bejeweled hairpins and rare silks from the trade routes farther up north.

There is nothing from the South. Trade with our Southern brethren has dried up since the emperor’s declaration of war nearly a year ago.

The city of Jiaoshan—so I have been told—was once nothing more than a few straw huts built around the circumference of a large lake. The more people who gathered to call it home, the more they took from the water. Decades went by, the lake shrinking a few inches every year as the population grew. People raised their homes closer to the water’s edge, chasing after it, until the lake dried up and all that was left was the sprawling city built upon its muddy basin.

It’s just as well. I loathe swimming.

The hustle and bustle of the marketplace fills my ears, but as we venture through, the whispers and curious stares follow without fail. Even the scantily clad courtesans of the local pleasure house lean out from their windows to cast their judgment.

“Isn’t that him?” a woman comments, staring at me with barely veiled contempt. “The Thread-Seeker?”

“Who?”

“He looks a mere drifter.”

“Why’s he still here? Shouldn’t he be with the other conscripts?”

“Probably weaseled his way out of it.”

“Coward.”

“Is he swindling that poor girl?”

“No, no—it’s him, I’m sure of it. Sai was the one who helped my cousin find his husband not two moons ago!”

I ignore the comments and focus on the task—literally—at hand.

Because while it’s true that I can see my client’s thread, I can also see the ones belonging to everyone else. Vibrant red lines leading left, right, and center. They crisscross and tangle, weaving near and far. Some lie slack upon the ground, while others wrap over houses or get stuck in trees. Others are taut like clotheslines, or the snapped reins of a mule-drawn wagon. The threads of fate constantly shift throughout the day and night, much like a tangled pit of vipers, moving wherever the two souls on either end see fit.

Most days, I’m able to ignore it all. It’s an ever-present, confusing web of magic that I have learned to see past over the years; same as one would with a large, faceless crowd. The threads are intangible, easily passed through, so I’m never at risk of tripping over them. Having a gentle hold on her hand helps me focus; it is much like the hand of a compass, pointing me in the right direction.

The girl’s thread begins to vibrate, an overwhelming warmth radiating off the thin strand. She gulps, breaking into a light sweat despite the cold winter morn.

I continue to guide her through the market, climbing the base of the hill leading toward the Pearl District. The old wooden shanties that line the streets of the market slowly melt into bigger, grander homes, complete with tall cream walls, pointed roofs, and magnificent water gardens that have started to freeze over with the turn of the season.

We receive more stares from those around us, but they’re not so much curious as they are disgruntled by our presence. Aristocratic women whisper behind their custom-made silk fans, pinching their painted faces at us as we carry on.

“Are you sure we’re in the right place, gēge ?” the woman asks me when we approach an estate with a massive circular moon gate, its red wooden doors firmly shut. The design of a fearsome dragon has been etched around the circumference, gilded in gold leaf; its snarling teeth and sharp claws on display to scare off bad luck and spirits with cruel intentions.

I glance down at her hand again. Her red thread is taut and vibrating from the tension of her and her Fated One’s proximity. It begins to glow, a bright and rich crimson hue, sparkling like distant starlight. I’m the only one who can see the magic at work. The girl stares at me, none the wiser.

I nod encouragingly. “This is it, mèimei . Your Fated One is just beyond those walls.”

She takes a step back, shaking her head in abject horror. “That’s the councilman’s house! There has to be some kind of mistake.”

“Your red thread of fate is never wrong,” I tell her. “You are destined to be with whoever is on the other side of that gate.”

“But look at me. I don’t belong here.” Her bottom lip trembles, her thin brows knitting together into a steep frown. She tugs at the end of her braid, fraying her ribbon between her fingers. “What if they take one look at me and laugh? They’ll know the second they lay eyes on me that I have no dowry to give. This was a mistake. I never should have come. This whole thing’s been such a foolish endeavor.”

I place my hands on her shoulders and hold her gaze, calm and steady. “I know you’re afraid, but believe me when I say your Fated One will love you with all their heart. It matters not what you look like, nor how wealthy you are. True love will never fail you, but you must be brave enough to accept it in the first place.”

I give her the lightest of nudges toward the gate, taking a step back to watch it all unfold with the gathering crowd.

She reaches shakily for the iron door knocker and bangs it against the wood—once, twice. The silence that follows is thick and heavy. Not even the wind whistles past, afraid of shattering the suspense sizzling in the air.

At long last, the door creaks open on its hinges. A man steps out, dressed in deep purple robes and a heavy golden chain bearing the seal of the city council. He blinks down at the young woman, his brief confusion almost immediately washed away by curiosity. There’s warmth in his eyes, a kind smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Between them, their thread sings. It glows with the brilliance of nine suns, their connection pure and true. Nobody else can see this blinding display, but they don’t have to. The way they look at each other in wonderment and awe is more than enough to understand what’s going on here.

It’s a beautiful miracle, unmatched in all things worldly or otherwise. Happiness is a contagious affliction, but I do my best not to look down at the thread wrapped around my own finger. I’m never pleased at what I see, and there’s no need to ruin my good mood.

I slip away into the crowd. My job here is done.

As exhausted as I may be after my morning spent matchmaking, there’s still much to be done around the teahouse.

By sì shí , the hour of the snake, I’ve wiped down all the tables and given the kneeling pillows a good fluff, ready to welcome the day’s first thirsty customers.

By noon, the hour of the horse, I’ve fixed the broken window shutters facing the street to better let in light, hoping the welcoming ambience will draw patrons into my family’s humble business. No one has stepped in yet, but I haven’t given up yet.

By shēn shí , the hour of the monkey, the sun is beginning to hang low in the sky. My optimism wavers, but I must take into account the dinner rush. The local farmers and fishermen will be passing through soon, done with their day’s work. Surely I can convince a few stragglers to come in for a lovely pot of tea and a plate of sweet almond cookies.

I spend the remainder of my afternoon flipping through the teahouse’s ledger, quietly lamenting the low figures. The coin I earned today should cover the teahouse’s losses, but that leaves little room in the budget for food. Perhaps if I have a little less to eat and fill up on water, I can ensure that A-Ma gets enough to fill her stomach. I’m still young and strong. A missed meal here and there won’t hurt me.

Just as I finish balancing the books, I hear my mother break into a coughing fit. The stairs creak beneath her weight as she descends, one step at a time, clinging to the rickety railing for stability. She’s been asleep all day, as per her doctor’s instruction.

“A-Ma, what are you doing out of bed?” I ask, hurrying over to usher her back upstairs. “You’re supposed to be resting. The doctor said—”

She waves me off, hacking into her elbow. “That doctor is a quack, Sai. An absolute quack! What harm is there in stretching my legs from time to time?”

I sigh, swallowing down the frustration burning in my chest. “Come, come. Let’s get you tucked in. Doctor Qi said not to put stress on your joints.”

My mother groans in irritation, but allows me to guide her back to her room.

We live on the top floor of the teahouse. It was supposed to be used for storage, but since Father’s passing all those years ago and Mother falling ill, money has been exceedingly tight. The few months following the funeral were particularly hard. More often than not, I found myself fretting over my choice between paying the rent and buying my mother’s medicine. Our previous landlord didn’t take kindly to my choosing the latter.

I’m thankful A-Ba left us the teahouse, at least, despite its disastrously red ledger. I know not how my mother would fare out on the streets, now that the nights are freezing. It’s drafty and uncomfortably cramped up here, but I’m grateful we have a roof over our heads nonetheless.

My mother’s pallet takes up the majority of the space, covered in all the blankets and pillows I have managed to collect from our more generous neighbors. We are surrounded on all sides by tall cabinets, jars of dried tea leaves stored away in each one of their drawers ahead of the slow trade season. The roads around the city become treacherous with winter storms, and merchants are far less willing to brave the weather. One of the first lessons my father taught me when I was a young boy was to stock up for the frigid months ahead.

Sometimes I wish A-Ba had been as good at squirreling away coin as he was with his beloved teas.

A-Ma settles in, but she does so with a pout. She was born in the Year of the Ox, so it makes sense that she’s as stubborn as a bull. “I’m feeling better,” she insists, then immediately coughs into her elbow. It sounds dry and excruciating, nails screeching across jagged bricks. “How did it go today?”

“It went well. We found him in the Pearl District. A councilman.”

“Ah, good for her. I pray they have a happy and prosperous marriage.”

I shrug off my outer robe, moving to drape it over my mother’s tiny lap for warmth. She has been getting thinner and thinner, shivering at all hours of the day.

“I finally have enough to buy that new medicine from Doctor Qi,” I explain. “He says his colleagues in the Southern Kingdom believe it to be one of the best remedies out there.”

“He says, he says,” my mother mutters bitterly. “Coins down the well, I tell you. You should be saving this money to fund your own search.”

I sigh. “We’ve been over this. I’m not leaving you here.”

“You should be married by now! With a house full of children.” My mother grasps my forearm and gives the meat of it a squeeze. “Who wouldn’t want someone as handsome and as strong as you for a husband?”

It’s only natural for a mother to sing her son’s praises. As I roll my eyes, I happen upon my reflection in the small upright mirror on the corner table. It’s true that I’m almost five and twenty, though I don’t look a day over nine and ten. Doctor Qi tells me my growth must be stunted. A-Ma has stood by her claim of my excellent genetics. I, however, prefer to think that I’m one of the Gods’ chosen favorites, blessed with dashing good looks and a winning personality.

I mostly take after my father. Wide shoulders and strong arms, but slender legs. My dark brown hair looks almost black most days, but standing beneath the sun reveals its richer reddish hues. I’m admittedly a bit soft around the middle, about which I’m mildly self-conscious. Growing up in a teahouse has meant easy access to sweet treats at all hours of the day. A-Ba was a fiend when it came to sneaking me an extra almond cookie or two—or five—while A-Ma was busy tending to guests. She would later scold us, the crumbs at the corners of our lips confessing to our crimes. It was a wonder we didn’t lose the teahouse to debtors, the way we ate into our profits.

My mother shakes her head. “You have been blessed with this wonderful gift by the Gods! Are you not curious at all about your Fated One?”

I glance down at my mother’s hand. Her red thread is no more. Instead, a closed black loop is wrapped around her little finger. The day my father passed, all I could do was watch in horror as the thread connecting my parents—two halves of a whole—disintegrated before my very eyes, their connection broken only in death.

It’s not a pleasant thing to dwell on, the death of one’s parents. But there are days that I think it cruel that they did not go together. While A-Ba passed on and his thread fell from around his finger, A-Ma’s turned black. These are a common sight when I am out and about. A mere glimpse is enough to make me hurt for others.

My mother has not been the same since my father passed on ten years ago. Her light has dimmed. She doesn’t laugh as hard as she used to, doesn’t smile as wide as I remember. Of course, I have to wonder if her grief is exacerbating her failing health.

All the more reason to see Doctor Qi as soon as possible.

“You could have found them three times over by now,” my mother continues. “You must seek out your other half before it’s too late.”

“Too late?” I echo her words, amused. “I’m still young; there’s no need for such dramatics.”

“What if they decide to settle and marry the wrong person? A tragedy for the ages, I tell you. Take the money you’ve earned today to fund your trek. There’s only one present, Sai. Follow your own thread and find them before your bones grow too weary for such a journey.”

I shake my head and laugh. “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Who will take care of you if I’m gone?”

“Your Auntie Ying.”

“I’ve been led to believe that Auntie Ying hates you.”

“She does, but she’s still obligated to help out her sister-in-law—”

A-Ma breaks into a sudden coughing fit, hacking and wheezing hard enough to rattle her bones. I’m quick to grab her a cup of water from the pitcher I’ve set just off to the side of her pallet, holding it to her lips so that she can take a long, careful drink.

I rub small circles against her back just as she did for me when I was a child, quietly troubled at how frail my mother has become. It feels like just yesterday she had all the energy in the world, nagging me about the teahouse as I giggled with glee. I might have been four or five then, though the memory is hazy. Now it’s my turn to do the nagging— drink more water, stay in bed, take your medicine .

“Get some rest. I’ll be downstairs preparing congee.”

“Will you add some ginger and soy sauce? I can’t taste it otherwise.”

I kiss the back of my mother’s hand and layer several blankets on top of her. “I’ll do just that. I even splurged at the market and grabbed us some eggs.”

My mother huffs, her lips thin and her eyes watery. “You’re too sweet, my boy. Always taking care of others. When will you let someone take care of you?”

I shrug easily in lieu of an answer.

I head downstairs to tidy up in our small kitchen nook, then prepare my mother’s dinner with the utmost diligence. One part rice to ten parts water. In go a dash of salt, a bit of diced ginger, some finely chopped green onions—exactly how A-Ma used to make rice porridge for me when I was sick as a child. I would spring for a bit of chicken to place on top, but meat has become increasingly difficult to come by since the emperor’s decree. Rationing for the army, now that we’re deep into wartime.

As I scoop the porridge into a big bowl for my mother and a smaller one for myself, I cannot help but glance down at my hand. The truth of the matter is, I am curious. But I have my own reasons for not setting out after my Fated One. I’ve thought of doing so many times before, yet I can’t seem to find the courage. It’s hypocritical of me, I know. A-Ma’s failing health just happens to be a convenient excuse to stay home.

Threads of fate are red, unbreakable, and linked to the other half of a person’s soul—destroyed only in death.

But my thread is a dull gray and fraying before my very eyes. It’s been in this state for as long as I can remember, lacking the warmth and crimson shimmer of magic that I see with so many others. I have never seen anything else like it before, nor do I know what it means.

Frankly, I’m too afraid to find out.