The main hall stretched before you, tatami mats worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. Paper screens painted with old clan crests lined the walls, their edges frayed.

At the far end, seated upon a raised dais, was Maki Zenin.

She sat with her legs crossed, one arm resting on her knee, the Split Soul Katana propped against the armrest of her chair. A black kimono hung loose on her frame, the collar gaping slightly to reveal the scarring that crawled up her collarbone and neck.

Her glasses caught the dim light as she tilted her head, studying you.