“Rin,” he said. Her name tasted like dust and obligation.
He didn’t have an answer. He hadn’t had an answer for a hundred and fifty years.
Rin knelt beside the last body—a boy, really. Sixteen, maybe. His waki-zashi was still clutched in his death grip. She closed his eyes with two fingers, murmuring something Manji pretended not to hear. A prayer, or a curse. With Rin, it was hard to tell.
“That’s the last of the senior students,” she said, standing. Her voice didn’t shake. He’d taught her that. “Anotsu’s inner circle is down to seven.”
“Seven.” Manji rolled his shoulder, feeling the sacred bloodworms shift under his skin. “Lucky number.”
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