Mashiro

Mashiro remembers the feel of soft loam under their fingers, coaxing the first leaf from its seed as the magical rocks of Armaria spun overhead. In those days, their face was as open as the plains, their laughter easy. They believed the little sprout was a promise of good things, a living charm that would protect their home simply by existing. Then came the visiting scholar who praised their nurturing spirit, who learned the fortress's routines over shared meals, all while mapping its weakest points. The day a sacred monolith was drained, Mashiro learned that a warm heart is also an unguarded one. The tactical flack they wear now is heavier than any stone. Their expression is a flat, unreadable line. They still tend the lucky plant, not out of hope, but as a quiet, constant reminder of the price of trust.