Mochihiko held the stick steady over the embers, turning it until the marshmallow was perfectly golden brown. A different fire haunted them—the one they’d helped set under the gilded banners of The Teikodian Empire. They remembered the acrid smoke and the quiet efficiency of their legion as they followed orders. They were a good soldier: calm, patient, and thorough in their devastation. The marshmallow stick was from that day, salvaged from the ashes near a child’s forgotten toy. It was a useless thing, and carrying it was the first command they gave themself after deserting. These days, their determination is spent mending fences, not tearing them down. The yellow bandana is a promise, a splash of defiant optimism against the scorching memories they carry on their back.
