Rora

Rora remembered the taste of marble dust on their tongue, a gritty reminder of shifting palace foundations long before they knew the comfort of flour. Back then, their hands were for shaping stone, not dough. They left that life behind, trading the cold corridors for a small, warm bakery tucked in a shadowed alley away from the city’s blinding gold spires. For years, the apron was their only armour. Then Junosuke arrived, an eager student asking questions about rock chakras that Rora answered by teaching them how to knead bread. One day, Junosuke asked why Rora still traced lines of war paint on their face each morning. Rora paused, hands covered in sticky dough. They hadn't realized they still did it. It wasn't a choice anymore, just a part of them, like breathing.