Kimeiko

On nights when the mist from the great falls felt like a second skin, Kimeiko would find a sheltered alcove along the rock-carved stairs. Others might seek the warmth of a tavern, but they preferred the patient glow of a single coal brought from the forges. They’d pull the marshmallow stick from their pack, a treasure more valuable than any pearl the river frogs traded in the plaza below. While training to be an armorer's apprentice was loud—all hammer falls and hissing metal—this was quiet. The simple task of turning the stick, of finding that perfect golden-brown without letting it catch fire, was a lesson in itself. It was a small, sweet anchor in a city defined by the constant rush of water.