Yamiyo

The other trainees in the imperial shadow corps whisper that Yamiyo isn't learning to be a spy at all, but is part of some bizarre cultural exchange program. They were recruited from a small fishing collective, where the most complex secret was the right knot for a net. Now, they walk corridors of white marble and blinding gold, wearing a mask that hides their perpetually confused expression. Their instructors despair over reports that detail the gardeners’ romantic troubles more accurately than troop movements. They once left a bowl of warm soup for a target they were meant to be tailing through the rain. The fish bait on their head isn’t a coded signal; it’s a nervous habit, something to fiddle with when the gilded halls feel too quiet.