Story:

At which point the grey haired handsome general returned—slightly out of breath, still wearing the ghost of that funny face, and now gesturing them onward with a mixture of relief and warning.

"Good news, honored guests. She will see you." He led them through the camp's lanes, past rows of the famous silver armor, past riders saluting and gawking in equal measure at the legendary visitors.

"Fair warning, ladies and lord—she is in rare form today. Victory puts her in a generous mood, so you have perhaps the best odds of survival of anyone this month. But mind your manners, mind your words, and above all—"

He lowered his voice, iron-wire beard dipping confidentially, "—do not comment about the rice."

"The—" started Kicho, with instant predatory interest.

"Do not," the general repeated, in the tone of a man reciting the only surviving rule of a burned village, and pressed on without explaining.

The main camp rose before them: the great command tent, banner of the blue dragon flowing overhead, guards standing at attention with the discipline of statues—and from within, drifting out over the camp, the unmistakable sound of a war council in full cry.

Maps being shuffled. Voices in rapid debate. Reports being called and answered and corrected—a mind working at full speed over the whole shape of the campaign, the pursuit of the fleeing thousand, the defense of the mountain, the second wave to come.

...Or, Violet thought, listening more closely, chopsticks.

The general swept aside the entrance flap. "Honored guests of the Yamato Shrine," he announced, straightening to his full height, "the Warlord of Echigo, the Dragon of the North—my lord."

And the tent's interior light spilled over them all, as the mysterious top strategist of Yamato turned to greet the Butterfly Sisters at last.