Kyoujirou

The haori is thin, dyed a simple sky blue, and bears a single, clumsily mended tear near the collar. It is the loudest thing Kyoujirou has ever owned. Before this, their world was shades of night—the silent black wraps of a shadow warrior, the muted gray of stone corridors. They were a whisper, a blade, a contract fulfilled without a sound. That life ended when a betrayal left them scarred and broken at the bottom of the thundering falls, where the city sprawls out from the riverbanks. A fisher pulled them from the water, saw the person beneath the weapon, and offered them a choice. They chose the haori. These days, they walk the stone stairs openly, their face known. They still have the instincts of a shadow, but wear the color of the open sky as a promise: they will not disappear again.