Minika

The Keeper of Sunken Histories, they call Minika at the plaza now. Before the scar, they were just another scholar, poring over texts in the pale stone temple of Waterfall City. They only looked up for one person—a fisher from the lower docks whose laughter was louder than the falls. That person taught Minika the language of the river: the meaning of a ripple, the stories told by the frogs. The storm that took their partner also gave Minika the jagged line across their face. They remember the roar of the water, a hand slipping from their grasp, and then nothing. These days, they meditate alongside Sensei, not to forget, but to better see the visions that flicker in the water's reflection. The shades hide eyes that no longer read ink, but the ghosts of memory that flow forever downstream.