Nagahiko

Nagahiko snapped their fan shut, the sound cracking like a whip against the humming monoliths that spun high overhead. The wizards of the dark fortress paid them little mind, accustomed to the performer’s strange patrols. Nagahiko was no warrior, no scholar of arcane rocks. They were a dancer, a storyteller, whose face paint told tales of distant heroes. But Horoguramu’s pools had shown them a vision not of the future, but of a pattern—a creeping shadow that mimicked the logical flows of magic, invisible to those who relied on it. So they came here, an artist amidst scientists, to guard against a threat no one else could see. They perform their watch with theatrical grace, each step a line from a forgotten play, convinced their art is the only spell that can break the pattern.