Kinono

Kinono was once a person who trusted easily. They served tea in halls of white marble, believing the blinding sunlight that glinted off the city's golden spires was a sign of purity, not a tool to hide the rot. That faith shattered when a trusted official, over a cup Kinono themself had poured, calmly discussed the strategic necessity of sacrificing an entire village. When Kinono objected, they were met not with reason, but with a blade that left a permanent squint in their eye and a deeper wound in their soul. They fled that night, tearing a heavy sabre from a wall rack on their way out. The warm hands that once nurtured bonsai now only know the cold weight of steel. They no longer see smiles; they see teeth.