Shaian

"The rain doesn't bother them," the old fisher grumbled to a newcomer, nodding towards the stall. "They say the best ingredients only show themselves when the sky weeps." In the middle of the main plaza in Waterfall City, as the drizzle slicked the pale stone, Shaian was stirring a pot. Their bucket hat kept the worst of the water off their face, but they didn't seem to notice the chill. While others hurried under awnings, Shaian's gaze was fixed on the rock stairs connecting the lower and upper city. A tiny, silver-leafed herb had sprouted in a crack, nourished by the constant spray. They walked over, plucked a single leaf, and dropped it into the broth without breaking rhythm. The scent that rose was not of soup, but of mountain air after a storm.