Steel Wrapped in Silk
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 1: The Wakizashi
The spring rain had finally stopped when Shabazu Taichi entered the sword-maker’s shop.
He was two days from home, his hakama still dusty from the road, and the loosened handle of his wakizashi had been irritating him for the last ten miles. Not a crisis—the blade itself was sound—but enough of a problem that he couldn’t arrive home with a weapon in obvious disrepair. His father would notice. His father always noticed.
The shop front was modest but immaculately maintained. Through the open shoji screens, he could see the workshop beyond—a forge glowing softly in the dim interior, tools arranged with the precision that marked a master craftsman. The sign above the door read simply: Mitsui—Blades and Fittings.
Taichi had been recommended to this shop by another traveler. “The old man knows his work,” the merchant had said. “And his prices are fair.”
He stepped inside, announced himself with a brief clearing of his throat.
A girl emerged from the back room.
She was young—sixteen, perhaps seventeen—wearing a simple indigo work kimono with her sleeves tied back for practicality. Her hair was pulled into a neat bun, and there was a smudge of what looked like polishing compound on her left cheek. She bowed immediately, correctly, with the practiced grace of someone accustomed to samurai customers.
“Welcome, honored sir. How may we serve you?”
Her voice was educated. The formal speech pattern perfect. Not the rough dialect of a craftsman’s daughter, but something more refined.
Taichi found himself studying her face as she straightened. She wasn’t beautiful in the conventional sense—her features were too strong, her gaze too direct—but there was something compelling about her. An intelligence in her eyes. A competence in the way she carried herself.
“The handle of my wakizashi has worked loose,” he said, unbuckling the short sword from his obi. “I need it repaired before I continue home.”
“Of course.” She took the weapon from him without hesitation, her hands sure and respectful. No fear, no nervousness—just professional assessment.
She turned the wakizashi over, examining the loosened wrapping with a practiced eye. Her fingers traced the ray skin beneath, testing the integrity of the binding.
“The samegawa is still good,” she said, half to herself. “The ito just needs rewrapping. The menuki—” she indicated the small metal ornaments beneath the silk wrapping “—may need repositioning.”
Taichi blinked. Most merchants’ daughters wouldn’t know the technical terms. Hell, most samurai barely knew them.
“You know blade construction,” he said.
She glanced up, and for a moment he saw something flicker across her face—pleasure at being recognized for her knowledge, perhaps, or wariness that she’d overstepped.
“My father has taught me the trade, sir. I keep his accounts and assist with customers when he’s at the forge.”
“Your father is the master here?”
“Mitsui Takatoshi, yes.” She gestured toward the back room where the forge glowed. “He’s working on a commission, but I can take your blade to him, and he can give you an estimate for the repair.”
“How long would it take?”
She examined the handle again, her fingers deft and knowing. “A day, perhaps two. The wrapping must be done carefully to ensure proper balance. We wouldn’t want to return a weapon that feels wrong in your hand.”
The way she said it—we wouldn’t want—suggested a pride in the work. Not just her father’s craft, but hers too.
“And the cost?”
“That would depend on whether you want the original ito replaced or if new silk is acceptable. The pattern could be matched, but new silk would last longer.” She met his eyes directly. “My father doesn’t cheat samurai customers, sir. His reputation is built on honest work.”
There was a subtle defiance in that statement. A reminder that despite their class difference, her father’s skill commanded respect.
Taichi found himself smiling slightly. “I can see that. New silk would be fine. I trust your father’s judgment—and yours.”
The compliment seemed to catch her off guard. A faint color rose in her cheeks.
“I’ll take it to him now,” she said, bowing again. “May I know your name, sir? For the work order.”
“Shabazu Taichi.”
She didn’t react to the name, though it carried some weight in this region. His father was a retainer to a minor branch of the Tokugawa, and the Shabazu family had been samurai for six generations.
“Please wait, Shabazu-sama. I’ll return shortly.”
She disappeared into the back room, carrying his wakizashi with the same care she might handle a child. Through the screens, he could hear her speaking to her father in low tones—explaining the repair, describing the problem with technical precision that impressed him even from a distance.
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