Sharaka

“That one’s mind is always somewhere else,” another trainee whispered, pointing at Sharaka. They stood in the fortress training yard, meant to be observing how a mentor manipulated the prismatic light off a spinning monolith. Instead, Sharaka was watching a single drop of rain trace a path down their spectacles. They wore the green uniform, they recited the ancient oaths, but they couldn't anchor their spirit. A dry leaf, a keepsake from a forest far from these glowing rocks, was tucked into their hair. It reminded them of a life guided by wind, not by rigid timetables. The pressure to be grounded, to be reliable, felt like a stone in their gut, making their expression perpetually uneasy. A gust of wind stirred the crystalline dust at their feet, and for a moment, they wished they could just dissolve and drift away with it.