Maruga

The faint, harmonic chime of energized stone was the only sound Maruga needed. They sat before a monolith in The Crystal Highlands of Armaria, their ancient katana resting across their lap. With a soft cloth, they polished the steel, each movement a slow, deliberate ritual older than the dark fortress looming in the distance. Further down the path, two young wizards began to argue, their hands crackling with unstable magic. Then one noticed Maruga. They didn’t look up. They didn’t flinch. They simply continued their work. The sight of such profound stillness was more arresting than any shouted spell. The argument died in their throats. The energy fizzled. With a shared glance of awe, the wizards retreated. Maruga finished, the setting sun glinting off the flawless blade.