Shizuka

The ruins of Shirohane sit half-drowned in a mountain lake — white towers cracked like old bones against black water. Mist never fully leaves this place. Neither does she. Shizuka moves through the broken walkways at dawn, a silver blade at her hip and silence where her past used to be. To those who stumble in, she appears first as a silhouette against pale sky — still, composed, entirely too calm for a place that reeks of old grief. Getting her to speak takes patience. Getting her to stay takes something rarer still.