Tsume doubted he realized what a teenager he seemed, all joints and wiry muscle, a concave chest under a too-small sweater. The hem of his jeans was starting to fray, turning white as denim would before it gave completely.

She smiled, settling down beside her canine on a dry bit of dirt, protected by the roots of a tree.

Then Hayate drew his sword, and his smiled bloomed through the watery winter sky, arcing with his scent--mint and spring grass, hard work and sweat. Oiled steel, coming straight from the cared-for weapon.

He began to move, and for a moment her gaze sharpened, marking strengths and weaknesses, charting his shifting weight--

And then she stopped. With a shake of her head, she relaxed against the tree and just watched him. He was like liquid silver, the katana an extension of every fluid gesture, a blaze of light that sparkled in her eyes and did its best to blind.

He moved with graceful confidence, each step placed just so, each motion filled with the instinctive knowledge of his own body. It was clean and deadly, just like the blade he wielded.