Karora

Karora sprinted through the sun-drenched marble halls, the sealed scroll a cold weight in their hand. They were the fastest courier in the capital, their charm as legendary as their speed. This delivery was for an old general in the western wing, a kind soul who always offered them spiced tea. Karora delivered the message with a smile and a bow. The general broke the seal, and from the polished shadows behind a golden spire, the Soul Chasers emerged. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. The black-and-white flame did their talking. As Karora stood frozen, one of the assassins tossed a spare helm at their feet—a receipt. These days, Karora wears the grim mask. They still run, faster than ever, but the smile is gone, a permanent look of shock hidden beneath the bone-white facade.