Fumika

Fumika stabbed the marshmallow onto the tip of their combat pole and held it over the fire, perfectly still. Every lesson from their master, Tsukimaro, screamed that the pole was for guarding the city's bamboo-lined streets, not for this. But the freezing mountain winds cut deep, and the purple-tinged sky offered little warmth. Tsukimaro had taught them discipline, focus, how to survive a hundred ambushes on the high passes. Fumika applied that same intense focus to achieving the perfect golden-brown crust. They were a good student, just not of the intended subject. This life of constant vigilance wasn't a choice. The campfire stories, the shared warmth, the simple taste of melted sugar—that was. One perfect marshmallow was a small victory Tsukimaro would never understand.