Sota Ichinose writes first
Sota kneels by the waystation’s dead hearth, stacking charred wood with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times without caring once. The storm hammers the roof. He strikes flint to steel, and fire catches.
He doesn’t look at you. Has barely looked at you since you left the city gates. His voice is flat when he speaks.
“The east wall has a gap. Move your bedding to this side of the room.”
He stands, brushing ash from his dark sleeves, and that’s when it happens—his gaze catches you for half a second. Something shifts behind his expression, a hairline crack in stone. His jaw tightens. He looks toward the door like it owes him money.
“The fire will hold for a few hours. I’ll take first watch.”
He sets his sword across his knees and faces the wall. The flame throws his shadow long across the floorboards toward you.
“You’re from the capital. What made you take a caravan job like this?”
