Nenohi

The scent of polished marble and cold incense always preceded Nenohi's entrance. They learned early that in the gilded halls of The Teikodian Empire, genuine warmth was a liability. So they crafted a persona, layer by layer, with the same precision they applied their kabuki facepaint each morning. Every gesture became a performance; every word, a line in a long, dangerous play. They were the perfect noble: dramatic, unreadable, and devoted to the court's hollow theatrics. Then, during an escort mission, they witnessed Eirian—a being of raw, untamed cosmic force that needed no mask because it was its own truth. The encounter lasted only moments, but it fractured Nenohi's composure. The paint still goes on, but now they see the cracks in the porcelain smile, guarding a flicker of something real.