The aroma of hot rice is usually gentle.
In the palace of the Yi Dynasty, its steam rises softly—clean, nearly soundless—like a mountain's breath at the first hint of spring. Bird's-nest soup is served clear. Peking duck is sliced as thin as glass, its skin reflecting lantern light.
Chen was raised among dishes that were judged before they were touched—by the tongue, by the eyes, by politics.
Now, in Medang, the kitchen sounded different.
Fire crackled roughly. Wood snapped. Pots were struck, not coaxed. Water was measured, not indulged.
Sri lived between barracks and dirt courtyards, where salt was valued more than jewelry, and "enough" often meant survival.
Chen's birthday arrived without protocol.
Sri stood before the kitchen door, arms crossed. Her eyes burned—not with calculation, but with resolve.
"Cú zhī, what do you want?" she asked plainly.
Chen smiled faintly. His voice was gentle, well-trained.
"Something that makes me want to come home, Srimadu."
Not an order.
Not a political request.
A plea—one almost unfamiliar even to himself.
Sri nodded once.
"Then a feast," she said firmly.
The tone of a commander who had chosen her battlefield.
Hours later, the wooden table stood silent.
Chen sat upright. His breath stalled. Before him lay a large plate. The rice… did not steam.
Its surface gleamed strangely, hard; the grains clung together like wet pebbles. Beside it, chicken the color of ash, its skin stiff. When the fork touched it, a crack sounded—not crisp, but cautionary. The sort of meal that filled a soldier's stomach after long drills: enough to endure, nothing more.
The soup was clear.
Too clear.
Two unfamiliar leaves and several large chunks of potato floated motionless, like lost objects surrendering to the current.
Chen blinked. Once.
He straightened his shoulders, his aristocratic smile set neatly in place.
Perhaps this was Medang custom, he thought.
Perhaps this was how love was spoken on this land.
Sri stepped forward, chest lifted with pride.
"Barracks technique," she said.
"Resource-efficient. A signature feast for elite soldiers."
Chen nodded politely.
He scooped the rice.
The grains bounced off the spoon, nearly brushing his cheek.
He paused.
Then sipped the soup.
Warm water.
Empty.
So empty that the wooden spoon's handle carried more flavor against his lips.
Chen swallowed slowly. His eyes watered—not with emotion, but with a body's instinctive alarm.
He pinched the chicken.
Krakk.
His jaw tightened. It felt like biting into a shield.
Sri laughed softly, satisfied.
"I improvised," she said, her voice steady.
"In the barracks, we measure flavor for strength. I made the salt stronger—so the body stays ready, not to indulge the tongue."
Chen closed his eyes briefly.
In politics, he was accustomed to poison.
At this table, he faced something far crueler: sincere intent without trial.
That night, Chen—heir of the Yi Dynasty, master negotiator, architect of intrigue—conceded defeat. He set his spoon down carefully. His smile remained intact, his voice smooth as a court decree.
"Perhaps," he said calmly,
"it would be more fitting if this kitchen adjusted to my palate…
while I oversee the execution."
Mei Lin nodded without question.
Han Yue slid his bowl away—agreement without words.
Sri grinned proudly.
"Then it worked," she said.
"My cooking is too valuable for ordinary days."
Chen merely pressed a hand to his chest, drawing a small, nearly inaudible breath.
"One full ceremonial feast," he murmured,
"is enough to teach the limits of human endurance."
From that day on, the kitchen changed hands.
Every morning, Sri witnessed a new sight:
Chen with sleeves rolled up, hair slightly disheveled, standing in the narrow kitchen. His knife moved with precision. Soup stirred slowly. His expression was serious—like arranging formations before battle.
Yet there was something only Chen realized.
Medang's food was simple.
Its ingredients limited.
Its taste sometimes more honest than delicious.
And here, he ate without tasting first.
Without asking who had touched the pot.
Without counting shadows.
He sat.
Sri offered him a bowl of warm rice—slightly hard.
Chen smiled.
He ate.
And felt alive.
One afternoon, after "brick rice" tested his teeth once again, Chen sat on the terrace. The wind carried the sound of crickets. Sri slept in his lap, her breathing even.
Chen took paper and ink.
For the first time, he wrote not as an heir.
Not as a strategist.
But as a man.
In a distant land, I eat rice hard as stone,
yet my heart melts like spring dew.
In a small house filled with cricket-song,
I find a sweetness the Palace never held.
The letter bore a private seal.
In the Yi Dynasty, his mother read it and wept. His father—the Emperor—let his teacup fall.
"Our child," he said softly,
"has finally found his way home."
From that day on, whenever people asked about Medang, the Imperial family only smiled.
Because to them, Medang was not merely an ally.
It was the place where Chen stopped being vigilant—
and began to have a home.