Yodogimi

Every morning, Yodogimi traces the same path through the gilded corridors of The Teikodian Empire, their simple apple stick a stark contrast to the polished marble floors. They were once a guardian, not of a treasury, but of a child's laughter in a secluded palace garden. They tended to saplings and stories, their own joy as genuine as the sun that gleamed on the city walls. But in the Empire, innocence is a liability. The child, deemed politically inconvenient, was taken by figures in crimson armor, and Yodogimi’s simple strength was not enough. They were left with only the apple stick they had carved together. These days, the gleam in their eyes is a memory of a light long extinguished, while their mouth remains a flat, silent line—a poker face holding the worst hand imaginable.