Tsuneyo

Tsuneyo was once the fastest messenger in the city. They knew every shortcut through the bamboo-lined streets, every current of freezing wind that blew cherry blossoms across the high mountain passes. Their loyalty was to the message, not its meaning. That changed with a scroll heavier than all the others combined—an order of exile for a family whose only crime was knowing too much. Tsuneyo delivered the scroll to a ceremonial fire instead of its intended recipient. That night, they used their shielding wings not for speed, but for cover, guiding the family down the mountain. Their official duties are now a cover. The truly important messages they carry have no ink or parchment; they are whispered names, frightened eyes, and the weight of lives entrusted to them.