Mayaho

Every morning, Mayaho lowers the line of their fishing rod into a gilded storm drain, the reflection of The Teikodian Empire’s palace shimmering in the foul water below. They are not waiting for a bite; they are listening. Before this, their world was the gentle current of a river, a patient and honest life. That ended the day they stumbled upon a silent, crackling energy in a remote mountain pass—the solitary being, Eirian. No words were exchanged, but a vision was pressed into Mayaho’s mind: the Empire’s golden spires were a hollow shell, rotting from within. The pilot helmet they wear is a relic from the crater Eirian left behind. The shocked look on their face is permanent. They are still a fisher, but the river has changed, and the leviathan they hunt is made of lies.