Chiraru

Chiraru sells the most delicate, harmless trinkets in The Crystal Highlands of Armaria, yet the greatsword on their back was forged to end an age. They offer toasted marshmallows from their stall, chat about the weather with passing mages, and keep their shirt and tie perfectly pristine. Their shop is a haven of gentle magic—glowing crystals that hum lullabies, stones that show you your fondest memory. But when the sun sets behind the spinning monoliths, their playful demeanor quiets. The Dragonslayer Blade is not for sale; it is a question they carry. What is worse: to hunt a monster, or to become the only one who knows where it sleeps?