Kokonattsu

Every morning, Kokonattsu dons the ancient helmet and traces the lines of their war paint with a hand that wants to tremble. The duty it represents feels colder than the winter air drifting off the great lake. They can hear the clash of practice swords from the training grounds below, a sound that always tightens their chest. Then, a gentle knock. It is always Ren, holding two steaming cups of tea. Ren never speaks of the paint or the heirloom armor. Instead, they talk of the migrating birds or a misplaced sparring staff, their quiet voice a counterpoint to the warrior's din outside. By the time the tea is gone, Kokonattsu's hand is steady. The helmet still feels heavy, but no longer unbearable.