"They're free," Chisen said.
The old woman's gaze shifted from the tools back to Chisen's face. She looked at him for a long time, then slowly opened the door, inch by inch, as though its hinges had rusted after years of disuse.
"Come in." Her voice was hoarse, as though she had not spoken to anyone in a long time.
Chisen did not go inside. He stood in the doorway, bent down to pick up the cloth bundle, and took out a sickle. It was small enough to hold in one hand, its blade curved just right, its edge gleaming blue-white in the thin winter light.
"This is a sickle. Master Tetsui forged it. The steel came from a Land of Lightning Jonin's sword, and he quenched it three times. Feel it." He offered her the sickle, handle first, with the blade facing himself.
The old woman reached out and touched the handle. The wood had been polished smooth, without a single splinter; it neither slipped nor dug into her hand. She turned the sickle over to examine the blade and lightly brushed her thumb across its edge. She used no force, but it still left a hair-fine cut on her thumb, and a bead of blood seeped out.
Looking at the blood on her thumb, the old woman suddenly smiled. It was not a happy smile. It was a strange sort of smile, like crying without tears.
"The sickle my husband used to use felt just like this," she said. "It burned with the house when the people from the Land of Lightning set it on fire."
Chisen said nothing.
The old woman handed the sickle back to him.
"What's your name?"
"Chisen."
Her fingers trembled slightly. She had heard that name. Everyone on the Western Frontier had heard