Mikyou

On the morning of the trade summit in Waterfall City, Mikyou painted their face. They used their carved cane's polished head as a mirror, drawing two stark white lines beneath their azure visor. The pigment felt rough, a familiar grit against the city's humid air. From the doorway of their room, their companion Yaban-hito watched in silence. The buyers down at the grand plaza would see a peculiar merchant in a clean shirt and tie. They would not understand the paint. It was not a threat for them, but a promise to themself—a promise made in the wildlands after a deal soured and words failed. It was a reminder that every negotiation, even one over river tariffs, has a breaking point.