As Hattori fell his horse reared up. It only took a small pull on the reins for the horse to turn, its hooves coming down in Hattori’s chest with a satisfying crack.
“I’m not angry,” Miyamoto said, cradling the cup of warm tea in both hands.
Ben sat across from him, his eyes still red from crying, but Shoko had seen to it that the boy had been washed and dressed properly as soon as he’d returned home. Between them on the tatami lay the Miyamoto katana. The blade looked particularly sharp, a phenomenon he’d often noticed when looking at a blade that had made a fresh kill. Even though the blood has been wiped away, the mark of death was impossible...
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