Otonako

The fishers who work the lower pools of Waterfall City claim the sabre on Otonako’s back has never been drawn in their lifetime. They see the Grail Cloak, how it repels the constant mist, and assume a life of untouchable nobility. But then Otonako themself comes down the rock stairs, grinning as they trade stories with a net-mender for the price of a fresh river trout. They lean the ancient blade against a market stall, its weight forgotten as they laugh, a sound that echoes over the rushing water. That blade has seen empires fall. Otonako simply prefers to see the sun rise over the city, feeling the spray on their face, a joy more precious than any victory.