Sezuru

Sezuru scraped the last of the jam from the sparring circle’s white marble, their cheeks burning hot. Their rival, a warrior of perfect form and zero patience, scoffed from across the training ground. The years Sezuru spent bound by duty to Giri in the silent marshes taught a different kind of strength—the patience of stone, the sudden force of a bog-burst. It was a power The Teikodian Empire couldn't measure in its polished duels. Each spar was the same: sharp, precise steel against immovable, swamp-honed resilience. Their rival fought to prove discipline was everything; Sezuru fought because that’s what came after breakfast. After each draw, their rival would depart with a clipped insult, but Sezuru noticed they always left an extra water flask behind.