Tatsuna

Tatsuna did not consider the sharpened spikes of their helm or the stark lines of war paint on their face to be their most vital equipment. The true anchor was the wooly mantle draped over their shoulders, a parting gift from their family. It smelled of high-mountain pine and woodsmoke, a world away from the constant spray of the great falls where they now trained. Every day, they practiced silent steps on the city’s slick stone stairs, learning to become a shadow amid the roaring water. The paint was a mask for this new life. But when the drills were done, their fingers would trace the rough weave of the mantle. It was a quiet promise to remain the person they were before the training began—not just another weapon for the city.