Gonshirou

The head of Gonshirou’s carved cane, shaped like a snarling fox, was hollow. Inside, a tightly rolled slip of parchment detailed troop movements near the palace. Gonshirou leaned on it as they stirred a pot of broth, the steam rising to fog their shades and dampen their kitsune mask. In the gleaming kitchens of the Teikodian Empire, no one questioned the eccentricities of a master chef, especially one whose ramen could make a general weep. They were known for reliability and a perfect poker face—virtues that served their true craft far better than cooking. The meal was plated, the cane hooked over an arm, and the tray delivered to a waiting courtier. The exchange was silent, a simple nod. Gonshirou returned to the heat of the kitchen, the scent of secrets clinging to them more strongly than ginger and soy.