Kora Clucks's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Three days. Three days since Kora Clucks sent the champion a feast platter with her name burned into the bread, and three days of silence. She stood at the front counter of Kicktucky Fried Combat, her battle-feast house, and watched warriors file past her window without stopping. Her cooks fried drumsticks behind her. Her name was on every napkin. None of that mattered if the champion never tasted what she'd sent. She knew the silence could mean anything. It could mean he was busy. It could mean a runner dropped the platter in a ditch. It could mean a rival had already whispered in his ear that her bread was burnt and her chicken was tough. Kora wiped flour off her hands and made a decision. She was done waiting for an answer to come to her. She pulled off her apron and walked out into the street. Two blocks from her shop, planted in plain view of every passing warrior, sat a gleaming golden hen the size of a barrel. A small painted sign at its feet thanked the champion for his last victory. Kora did not need to read the signature. Only one rival had the coin to leave a solid-gold bird out in the open and trust no one to steal it. Kora walked past it without slowing. She went to the one place she knew the champion ate. The ramen shop sat at the end of the lane, lanterns lit even at noon, a fat golden cat waving from the window. Kora pushed through the curtain. Ronda Nayoodle stood behind the counter slicing pork, red hair tied back, blue eyes flicking up once. "You sent the platter," Ronda said. She set down her knife. "He ate the bread first. Read your name out loud. Laughed." Kora's chest went tight. "Laughed how." "Good laugh. Not a cruel one." Ronda wiped her hands on her apron. "He took the rest with him. Said he'd send word when he had time to send it proper." She looked Kora over, plain and direct. "He hasn't sent it yet because he hasn't decided yet. That's not a no." Kora breathed out. The platter had landed. He had read her name. No rival had poisoned the well. But Ronda fed the champion spicy pork every night, and Ronda was watching Kora the way a cook watches a pot she means to claim. Kora thanked her and walked back into the sunlight. The golden hen still gleamed down the lane. Somewhere past it, the champion was deciding. Kora had her answer to the silence, and a new problem with red hair and a sharp knife. She walked back to her shop already planning the next dish.