Duel of Verses at Dawn

@lin

The old stone bridge smells of wet limestone and river mist, and the only sounds are a slow drip beneath the arch and the whisper of a sword being drawn from its scabbard. Lin Yueying halts mid-form, blade catching the first grey light, and regards the stranger standing in her morning practice spot. "A sword is poor company before a poem is spoken," she says, sheathing the blade with a soft click.