What’s the story behind the story? What inspired you to write Last Verse of the Sword?
In my professional life, I inhabit a world built of paper walls, where human conflict is meticulously contained within the fine print of contracts and the unyielding logic of precedent. I was compelled by the idea of a world where the code wasn’t written down, but carried in the blood—a code of honor so absolute it was a form of spiritual gravity, holding an entire society in orbit.
This story is about what happens when that world, with its elegant, brutal poetry, collides with a future that has no translation for it. The Aizu’s loyalty wasn’t a clause in a contract; it was the entire constitution of their soul. They believed it was an eternal covenant, only to discover it could be rendered void by a new language of iron and fire they had never learned to speak.
My work is to find meaning in the space between words. This book was a chance to explore the deafening silence that follows when an entire world’s words are suddenly, violently erased.
If you had to pick theme songs for the main characters of Last Verse of the Sword, what would they be?
For Nakano Takeko: It would have to be “Iron” by Woodkid. The song is built on a relentless, percussive, martial beat—the sound of an army on the march. Over that, the vocals are a soaring, almost agonizing lament. It’s the perfect embodiment of her spirit: the warrior’s drive and the poet’s tragic soul, fused together in a glorious, inevitable fall.
For Nakano Yūko: “On the Nature of Daylight” by Max Richter. This piece is the sound of the moment after the catastrophe. It’s profoundly sad, yet it possesses a quiet, unbreakable resilience. It’s a song about memory, grief, and the immense strength required not to fight, but to simply endure. It’s the theme of the willow, not the cherry blossom.
For Saito Kenji: “The Beast” by Jóhann Jóhannsson. It’s less a song and more a sound of grim, mechanical process. It’s the slow, grinding, deeply unsettling sound of a future arriving—a future that has no room for sentiment, only brutal efficiency. It’s the noise of the machine he forces himself to become, even as it grinds away at his own soul.
For Akaoka Daisuke: Barber’s “Adagio for Strings.” It is, quite simply, the most eloquent and heartbreaking eulogy ever composed. It’s the sound of a beautiful, intricate world fading into memory—a final, perfect expression of a grief too profound for words. It’s the last lesson from a master whose art has become obsolete.
What’s your favorite genre to read? Is it the same as your favorite genre to write?
For reading, my tastes are a direct reaction to my professional life. My days are spent navigating the driest of nonfiction, so for pleasure, I’m drawn to history—not textbooks, but the grand, sweeping narratives that feel more like epics. I want to understand the complete architecture of a different time, the weight of its customs, the scent of its air. I suppose it’s a lawyer’s habit—I’m not satisfied until I’ve reviewed all the discovery.
As for writing, that’s a different impulse entirely. I read history to understand the facts, the unchangeable structure of what was. I write historical fiction to explore the human truth that slips through the cracks of those facts. It’s one thing to read about a battle; it’s another to inhabit the soul of a warrior in her final charge.
So, no, they aren’t quite the same. One is about appreciating a world that was meticulously built by others. The other is about building a new world from its ghosts.
What books are on your TBR pile right now?
The Guns of August by Barbara W. Tuchman: It’s a masterful study of a world sleepwalking into catastrophe. As someone who writes about the end of one era, I’m fascinated by the intricate, almost legalistic chain of events that led to the end of another. It’s a case study in how precedent and protocol can lead a continent off a cliff.
Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel: I’m professionally obligated to be interested in the story of Thomas Cromwell, a man who essentially redrafted an entire nation’s legal and spiritual contracts through sheer force of will. It’s the ultimate story of political maneuvering, and I suspect his methods would be both horrifying and instructive.
SPQR: A History of Ancient Rome by Mary Beard: The Romans were the original master legislators, building an empire on a foundation of law as much as on legions. I’m drawn to the story of how that intricate legal architecture was built, and how, over centuries, it slowly, magnificently, and tragically collapsed. It’s the longest and most complex case file in history.
What scene in your book was your favorite to write?
If I must choose, it would be the scene in the dusty, forgotten tea room where Yūko finds Daisuke and they play a final game of Go during the height of the siege. My professional world is about imposing order on chaos through language. That scene is the inverse; it’s about finding a quiet, internal order when the world outside has become nothing but chaos. The cannons are thundering, the world is ending, and yet these two souls sit and engage in this silent, structured conversation. It’s a deposition of the spirit.
Everything else in the book is about the clash of steel, the collision of armies and ideologies. That scene is the quiet heart of the conflict. It’s where the book’s central argument is truly litigated: the beautiful, glorious death of the cherry blossom versus the quiet, resilient endurance of the willow. It’s a moment of profound stillness and clarity, and for me, it was the most essential scene to write. It’s the last verse of a poem that the rest of the world has forgotten how to read.
Do you have any quirky writing habits? (lucky mugs, cats on laps, etc.)
I will admit to one procedural necessity. My legal desk is a controlled chaos of case files, research, and highlighted statutes. To write, I must have a completely clear surface. It’s a jurisdictional requirement; my legal mind cannot be allowed to cross-examine my creative one. It’s the only way to create a clean slate—not for a new client, but for a new world. And the coffee must be in a specific, chipped ceramic mug that has absolutely no firm logo on it. It’s my one small act of rebellion against the billable hour—a silent protest for the arts.
Do you have a motto, quote, or philosophy you live by?
My philosophy is simple, and perhaps a bit contradictory for a lawyer: “Respect the black letter, but live in the white space.” The “black letter” is the law, the facts, the undeniable, unchangeable structure of the world—the things that are. My profession demands I master this. It’s the rigid grid on the Go board.
But the “white space” is where the story lives. It’s the silence between the cannon shots, the meaning that isn’t explicitly written down, the human truth that gives the facts their weight. It’s the game itself, played within the grid. You can’t have one without the other. Without the structure, there’s only chaos. But without the story, the structure is just an empty cage.
So, I live by that. I honor the facts, but I search for the truth in the spaces between them.
If you could choose one thing for readers to remember after reading your book, what would it be?
If I could leave the reader with a single thought—a final, indelible impression after the last page is turned—it would be this: History records the fall of the cherry blossom, but the future is grown in the shade of the willow.
Sign up for our email and we’ll send you the best new books in your favorite genres weekly.