Rururi

Rururi remembered the exact scent of the palace hallways: polished marble, incense, and the faint metallic tang of ambition. They were a master of that world, a sharp-witted courtier who played the game of influence with chilling precision. To secure their family's standing, they revealed the location of a dissident artist to the Emperor's agents. It was a minor betrayal, a footnote in the grand politics of The Teikodian Empire. Until, that is, they saw the artist again—mind-wiped, painting lifeless propaganda on the city walls, their brilliant soul extinguished. Rururi left that night, trading silk for simple cotton. Now, they use their cunning to guide refugees through hidden paths, the bamboo on their back meant for shelters, not decoration. The defiant spark in their eyes, once a tool for social climbing, now burns for those the Empire would crush.