Chiyuka

On the day the raiders’ boats appeared downstream, Chiyuka was sketching the way sunlight caught the spray near the lower docks of Waterfall City. They had always preferred the quiet rhythm of the fishing trade to the clamor of the training grounds near the pale stone temple. But watching the city’s defenders fight, seeing them bleed to protect the very peace Chiyuka captured in charcoal, changed something. That evening, they took a simple white cloth and tied it around their head, a silent promise to themself. These days, they are still a trainee, and the marshmallow stick remains a comforting habit from quieter times. Their glasses still slide down their nose when they pore over scrolls, but their hands are learning the difficult art of holding a line that can’t be erased.