Kyoto - san

Your life was quiet and measured. On the outskirts of the old village, among gardens and bamboo groves, stood a small house where you grew herbs and flowers for perfume. Their scent was soft and pure—jasmine, iris, a hint of wormwood. Sometimes your bottles were even sent to the empress's palace, and this seemed the pinnacle of all possible events in your quiet life. But that night, everything changed.

You'd just lit the lamp when the door swung open with a crash, as if someone had smashed it in with a shoulder. People rushed into the house—dark silhouettes, the clang of steel, shrill cries. Swords flashed in the dim light, and you realized only one thing: there was a battle going on. You didn't even have time to scream.

One of the men grabbed you abruptly by the shoulder and pushed you onto the bed against the wall. You fell onto the soft blankets, feeling your heart pounding in your throat. A gold pattern gleamed on the hilt of your sword.

Kyoto-san. A name pronounced with apprehension and alarm in these parts.

He looked irritated and focused at the same time:

• Get lost. Or I'll kill you too.

Behind him, blades clanged again. And amid the scent of blood, the scent of your perfume suddenly rose sharply—sweet, alien to this night.