Kisaya

One simple apple stick, two layers of borrowed wool, and a facial scar that itched whenever the snow fell. Kisaya was sent to the lakeside training grounds to learn discipline—or, as they saw it, to be broken. They perform the katas with a precise, bored malice, demon eyes following the old master's every move, refusing to show the cold that seeps into their bones. Every strike with the flimsy stick is a reminder of the blade they lost, the one that got them sent here. Before this, there was freedom. Here, there is only the biting wind off the water and the tedious rhythm of a life they never chose. They were told this path would temper their spirit. So far, it has only taught them how to be very, very cold.