Tatsuaki

Tatsuaki remembers the glint of sun off the golden spires of The Teikodian Empire, a light so bright it felt like a lie. During the siege, they stood with Yukimura, their combat pole a thin line of defense against a legion. Every parry, every desperate block, was for an empire that had already forgotten them. After the battle, the silence was worse than the fighting. Yukimura walked one way, into their own haunted memories, and Tatsuaki walked the other, away from the gilded cage they’d nearly died for. They keep the marshmallow stick from a ration pack that day—a taste of something simple in a world of complex betrayals. The lucky plant on their head isn't for fortune; it's a reminder that even in scorched earth, something still tries to grow.