Hotori

Hotori remembered the smell of river mud and crushed nightshade—the scent of their ascension. Everyone assumed their fury was born from failing to save their sibling, Mahoba, from a wasting sickness. They saw a brawler playing at hedge magic, recklessly brewing cures near the amber-leaved clearings where the river ran fastest. They watched Hotori consume the final, volatile potion and buckle as raw power surged through them, a desperate last act of a grieving sibling. They saw the witch’s hat as a sad tribute. They were wrong. Mahoba was never sick. The potion was not a cure, but a cage. The ritual was a transfer, planned by Mahoba to shed a power that was consuming them. Hotori willingly became the vessel; their furious glare is the strain of containment, and the smirk is for the secret only the two of them share.