Minmin

"The azure paint is perfect," their instructor said to an observer, "but look at the knuckles. White as bone." Minmin stood motionless as kaleidoscopic light from the spinning monoliths overhead danced across their face. The war paint felt cold and tight, a lie painted over their skin. The combat pole in their hands was heavy, unfamiliar, and they gripped it so hard their fingers ached. Their instructor had told them to clear their mind, to focus on the crystal golem ahead. But all Minmin could think about was the patch of tiny, fuzzy moss they had seen on the path that morning. A sharp bell rang, the signal to attack. The golem activated, grinding towards them. Minmin didn't raise the pole; they took a half-step back.