I have told you already. We are fasting, for strength of the spirit. To be better in battle, as the skies wish. As they have taught us. Impurity is correuption. If we are pure, we are not brittle. We do not break.

( Her gaze lands on the bowl of soup, neither greedy, nor disdainful — almost drained, as if she has seen this a thousands before her, constantly at war.

There are rows and rows of men who pass, inevitably. When it is the turn of one who seems both able and reduced of his strength, she offers out the bowl. It is received in trembling, grateful hand — the man scuttling away as if a rat.

She returns to her work, to her sword, to its polish. )

You are tempting me with food. It is unkind. ( It mocks her faith, she need not say. )