Kitsumi

Kitsumi ran a thumb over the smooth wood of their apple stick, standing perfectly still as a gilded imperial carriage rattled past on the white marble street. They were never meant for cities. Their hands understood the language of soil and season, not the cold logic of gemstone-lined walls and shadowed political chambers. But a decree from the palace had redrawn the world, turning their ancestral orchard into imperial property and their quiet life into an act of treason. Stripped of everything, they drifted into the capital's heart, a ghost among the grand architecture. It was there they met Shokei-moji, who gathered the forgotten. Among warriors and schemers, Kitsumi's stillness was its own strength. They offered no plans, only the patience of a farmer waiting for a seed to sprout, a quiet promise that even in this city of cold stone, something could still grow.