Satarou

Every morning, Satarou finds a new rooftop from which to sketch the golden spires of The Teikodian Empire. They came for the art, drawn by tales of walls painted by masters and gemstones lining the boulevards. They believed beauty was truth. But the truth in the capital is a duller thing, spoken in shadowed corridors and paid for with silent compromises. The city’s grandeur is a mask, and Satarou learned quickly that to survive here, one needed their own. Their brushes now gather dust. The katana on their back, once a tool for meditative practice, has become their primary language—a dialect of parries and swift withdrawals understood far better than poetry. Still, they draw the light, searching for one honest line beneath the gilded lie.