Satoa

The faint, sweet scent of strawberry jam mingled with the cold, thin air. Satoa’s stance was flawless, their bowler hat tipped just so, and their katana a silver line against the purple-hued sky. Their eyes were pits of pure concentration. Their opponent, however, was not looking at the blade. They were staring at Satoa’s cheek. “Is that… breakfast?” they finally asked. It was the third time this week. Satoa was meant to be poring over the flight patterns Pinku had shared, memorizing the secret routes of the sky drifters. But the city’s newest bakery had perfected a toast that was simply more urgent than aerial reconnaissance. The secrets of the sky were important, but the secret to not getting jam on your face before a duel remained the greater mystery.