Miyoe

Miyoe’s rice hat, woven from simple river reeds, is the most valuable thing they own. It buys them anonymity among the boatwrights and fishers working in the spray at the bottom of the falls. They were once a noble of the upper city, their days spent in the pale stone temple that straddles the rushing water. But one night, they overheard a whispered plan that should have remained secret. They fled down the great rock stairs with nothing but their fine feather cape, a relic of their past life they can’t bear to discard. Now, they mend nets and watch faces, their own always shadowed by the hat’s brim. The unease is constant—every new arrival could be a hunter. The cape remains hidden, a secret weight beneath a borrowed cloak.