Meruho

Meruho gripped the spear shaft until their knuckles were white, trying to steady their breath as the squad prepared to move. Before they followed the banner of Minamoto, their hands knew only the delicate balance of an ink brush. They were a scholar of verse within The Teikodian Empire, where beauty was a state-controlled commodity and poetry was propaganda. They saw how the Empire’s gilded histories scrubbed away dissent, and Minamoto’s call for liberation felt more honest than any imperial scroll. So they traded their inkstone for a whetstone. They are still clumsy in their armor and their glasses fog up in the heat of a march. The unease is a constant companion, but they've learned that fighting for a truth is its own form of art.