Natasha

The biting wind smelled of rain and hot metal. Natasha adjusted their specs, fingers gripping the worn leather harness as their dragon mount banked sharply between two landmasses. Below, Sora was a blur of motion, a vengeful comet aimed at a fleeing shadow. Most scholars would be in a quiet library, not chasing a prodigy's vendetta across the skies of The Fluorescent Isles. But Natasha had made a promise. They had seen the raw data of Sora’s past—the betrayal, the pain—and offered not pity, but context. "History needs a witness," they had said, their own voice betraying no emotion. Sora, in turn, had offered them the horizon. So Natasha flies, their face a mask of scholarly calm, the bright yellow bandana a single, defiant concession to the wild hope of their mission.