The Distant Blade
Act I In the sealed rooms of the machiya, the damp does not merely settle; it colonizes, eating the plaster from the inside out until the walls breathe a wet, grey breath that stains the paper screens. Himari Nakamura sat at the low table, the wood warped by decades of humidity, holding the withered blade that had once belonged to the court. The metal was black, not with rust, but with a deep,...
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