Yahiro

Yahiro remembers the precise weight of the brush in their hand, the first time they were tasked with painting a victory mural for The Teikodian Empire. The gold leaf felt cold, the crimson ink too loud. Everyone praised their steady hand, a testament to a lineage of patient scholars, never seeing the tremor deep in Yahiro’s bones. These days, they carry a katana instead of a brush, but the feeling remains. They study tales of Giri the Swamp Sentinel, an isolationist who found clarity in the mud, far from the capital’s blinding sunlight. Yahiro constantly polishes their spectacles, trying to see a path that honors that simple strength while serving a complex, gilded court. Every order they receive feels like another layer of paint, covering something they can no longer recognize.