Kagehiro

Kagehiro is never truly dry. The cool, constant trickle of water from their face is a fact of life at The Dojo, managed with oiled cloths and careful posture when handling ink. They are the most reliable messenger, their routes timed to the half-second, their focus absolute. This diligence is a debt. Years ago, on a frozen mountain pass, an ice shelf gave way during a delivery. Heishirou pulled them from the freezing torrent, but their partner was lost to the current. Kagehiro has been weeping ever since, the water a permanent mark of the life they feel they stole. Heishirou never mentions that day, but they often leave a dry towel by Kagehiro's mat before a long journey—a small kindness that feels heavier than any stone.