Wachika

Wachika was never good at pretending. In The Teikodian Empire, this was a critical flaw. They grew up amidst golden spires and calculated smiles, taught that emotion was a currency to be spent wisely. Yet, a restless thirst gnawed at them, a feeling of profound isolation that echoed tales of the solitary Eirian. They saw the courtiers’ masks and learned to wear one too, a blank poker face that hid the growing emptiness inside. One day, a cartographer showed them a map of lands untouched by the Emperor's influence. That night, Wachika packed a single bag and walked away from the city's blinding light. The impassive expression remains, a relic of their gilded cage, but the thirst now guides them toward a horizon that promises something real.