Nayori

Nayori fumbled the polished stones, the clatter on their stall's counter as loud as their own heartbeat. They were a merchant in The Teikodian Empire, where the sun's glare off golden spires felt like a constant accusation. Most buyers saw only the azure cap and hip specs, a picture of calm confidence. But a quiet artisan who bought ink from a nearby stall saw the unease that pulled at their mouth. The artisan began stopping by daily, ostensibly to discuss pigments, but their presence was a balm against the city's noise. One sweltering afternoon, when the crowds grew too loud, the artisan simply offered Nayori a piece of fruit. In that small, silent gesture of being truly seen, Nayori found a quiet space in the gilded chaos—a place where they didn't have to pretend.