Mokoto

The scent of lacquered wood and something like warm honey drifted from Mokoto’s corner of The Dojo, a stark contrast to the grounds' usual smell of steel and sweat. The other trainees saw a smith in overalls who made nesting dolls and carried a 'Love Wand'—a curiosity, not a combatant. They were often dismissed with a fond chuckle. That changed the day Washi observed the final sparring trials. A champion, caught in a sorcerer’s despair-hex, was about to concede. Mokoto simply stepped forward, their gleeful eyes focused. They tapped their wand to the largest doll on their head, which clicked open, and then another, and another, releasing not smaller figures, but waves of pure, unshakeable joy that shattered the hex. The magic was so potent it felt like the world itself had taken a happy breath. Washi gave a single, slow nod. The smirk Mokoto wears these days is earned.