Sezaemon

Always, Sezaemon touches the brim of the ramen hat before stepping outside. It was a gift from their mentor, a joke from a life before the accident. They were a trainee then, learning to channel their inner fire within a fortress of dark rock, watched over by the great magical monoliths spinning in the sky. The goal was control, to shape flame into something precise and beautiful. But one day, the fire refused to be shaped. It surged, hungry and wild, melting the workshop walls and turning arcane texts to ash. Their mentor’s final shout was drowned out by the roar. Sezaemon wears layers now to hide the embers that still cling to them, a constant, scorching reminder. Their shocked expression never faded from that moment, and the silly hat is the cruelest relic of all.