Kurima

Every morning, Kurima would tap the ash from their pipe before passing through the grand gates, the palace’s gold spires so bright they hurt the eyes. Their job was simple: carry the message, ignore the contents. For years, they walked the sun-drenched marble corridors, a charming smile for the guards and a sealed scroll for a noble. But today’s destination was different. The path led down, away from the light, toward the cold metallic scent that drifted up from the dungeons and laboratories. The scroll in their hand felt heavier than usual, its crimson seal pulsing with a faint warmth. They stopped. For the first time in their career, Kurima did not move. They just stood there, watching their own distorted reflection in the polished floor, the pipe smoke mingling with the chill in the air.