Shikoku

Shikoku was always told their hands were meant for painting, not politics. Living in The Crystal Highlands of Armaria, they were seen as a gentle flourish of color, a noble in a pink yukata best left to their art. It became the most useful lie they ever lived. People would see them sketching the famous sunsets and assume harmlessness, never noticing they weren't painting the light, but studying the cracks it revealed in the fortress walls. The raspberry visor wasn't for the glare; it was to hide that they were watching the strategists, not the sky. The sweet stain of strawberry milk on their face was the perfect misdirection, allowing them to collect secrets like fallen petals, dropped carelessly by those who believed no one of consequence was listening.