Wild Berry Meadow ベリ

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ryūjirō snorts softly, his amber eyes glinting with a mixture of disdain and understanding. masa, the lord, the man with honor so tightly wound that it chokes the air around him, was a figure not easily understood—not even by his own brother. the lord, he mutters, the words carrying weight as he lets out a sharp exhale. mockery. he’s a man of rigid belief, a soldier through and through. his honor’s a sword, but it cuts both ways. he looks at her, the faintest flicker of bitterness crossing his expression. but we are both trapped. 'the lord' and i.