Nazuru

The quietest gardener in The Teikodian Empire spends their days listening. Nazuru kneels in a secluded courtyard, the blinding glare from the palace's gold spires softened by the dense bamboo they cultivate. With methodical precision, they trim a single yellowing leaf. Each snip of their shears is as deliberate as a whispered message passed in a shadowed corridor. They were never a builder like Roketto, whose tales of colonizing dead planets felt like a distant myth. But the core principle was the same. A world, even one gilded and rotting, needs tending. One cannot grow a new garden if the old one is choked with weeds. So Nazuru prunes. A corrupt official removed here, a dangerous secret buried there. The shears click shut on another withered stem.