Shiaya

Shiaya smeared the last stripe of crimson berry juice across their cheek, humming a tune they’d learned from Itan-sha. Down below, a frog merchant saw the grimacing war paint and the intense focus in Shiaya’s eyes and scrambled up the rock stairs of Waterfall City, shouting about a heretic performing a blood rite. The rumor cascaded through the plaza faster than the falls themselves. By midday, the city guard, armed to the teeth, kicked down Shiaya's door. They found Shiaya not amidst a dark ritual, but surrounded by dozens of guiding lanterns and jars of violently bubbling jam. “Festival jam!” Shiaya announced with a wide grin, offering a sticky spoon. “It’s a secret recipe. Forbiddenly sour!”