A Steady Grip
The quiet air carried the dry scent of woven rush. I stood rooted, my stance firm upon the pale tatami. Slowly, tension gathered in my hands. My fingers closed tighter around the bound hilts of the twin blades resting at my waist. A solid click echoed as my grip settled firmly against the guards. I took a deliberate breath behind my dark shades. Everything around me remained composed, exactly as it should be.