Nanaanjueri

Every morning, before the mists fully rise from the falls, Nanaanjueri prepares a single bento box. It's for a boat-builder down in the fishing districts of Waterfall City, whose laughter is louder than the rushing water. They apply the same precision to slicing radish as they once did to sharpening a blade. The gold markings on their face are a relic of a life sworn to a different kind of service, a code of honor they never abandoned, only repurposed. But the builder’s easy smile disarms their stoic discipline every time, leaving them flustered. The lucky plant on their head was a gift from them, a silly, hopeful thing that feels more valuable than any gilded armor. The box is an unspoken promise, a daily testament that the most honorable battles are not always fought with steel, but with quiet, devoted care.