They were entirely too big for the thirteen-year-old, the sleeves hanging past his fingertips, but they were warm, soft, and smelled of laundry soap instead of despair.
"Come to the kitchen when you're dressed," Ji'an ordered, turning her back to give him privacy. "I'm making dinner."
When Xuan timidly pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the Drunken Peak's kitchen, the sight that greeted him nearly brought him to his knees.
The hearth fire was roaring, casting a warm, golden glow over the meticulously scrubbed stone and wood.
Standing at the massive iron stove was Ji'an, expertly tossing a heavy wok with one hand while stirring a simmering clay pot with the other.
The aroma filling the room was so profoundly, agonizingly delicious that Xuan's malnourished stomach let out a loud, painful rumble.
