"I remember—no, I don't—tell me where they are!" the metal voice sobs as glass and lacquer rattle. "Moonedge, focus on my hand. Look at me." I press my palm to the blade's tang. My seal burns under my skin like a small, steady coal. "Where—where is the light?" the tsukumogami whispers. The sound is tinny and raw. A shard of lacquer has bitten into its guard. "Not light. Breathing. Names. Start with one name." I touch its wrist. My wards slide over the old steel and gather in thin silver threads. "Names..." Moonedge tries to laugh. The laugh splits into a hiss. "They were many. They were—" "Stop," I say. My voice is low and calm. "Listen to me. Tell me one name. Hold on to that. Breathe." "You'll take them away," Moonedge says. The blade trembles. "I won't take anything away that belongs to you," I answer. "I will hold what wants to fall so you can decide." "Decide." The word comes out like a rusty bell. "Decide to end...to end them." "Not tonight." I layer waxed cords and knot seals into the lacquered shreds. My fingers work without thinking. The Judgment seal at my palm flares, cold and precise. The blade flinches at the touch and then clenches around my wrist like a child clutching a blanket. "Your hand," an attendant mutters. "It matters less what my hand is doing and more what it's holding," I say. I don