Emiko Jean

Mari’s hands trembled. Mere hours ago, she had faced an imperial samurai in a game of death. The navy kimono she wore was still specked with dust from their combat. And now, she hesitated with what to say, how to comfort Hissa. Sometimes words are so much more difficult to form than fists.

Funny how love can drive you to hate.

“I used to think the world belonged to me. But I was wrong. I belong to the world. And sometimes … I guess sometimes, our choices have to reflect that.”