Rinmaru

The fishers say a shared current can carry two boats that once rowed against each other. For Rinmaru, that current was red. First, there was the glint of their ancient sabre against Shiozuki's blade, high on the stone steps where the spray never settled. The war paint on Rinmaru’s face was a promise of violence, their expression as impassive as river stone. Then, a truce born of exhaustion in a pale temple half-swallowed by the rapids, where they guarded each other's backs against a common foe. Now, years later, the paint is gone. Rinmaru watches Shiozuki argue over fishing nets in the main plaza, a hand resting not on their hilt, but on the ridiculous golden cat cap they favor. The water still rushes, but the boats drift in the same direction.