Magohiko

One kitsune mask, two sets of spectacles—one for reading maps, one for reading lies—and a platinum sheen that moonlight loves far too much for this line of work. They shifted their weight on the amber-leaved branch, silent as moss. Below, a Teikodian courier handed a scroll to a hooded figure, the third such exchange this month. Magohiko remembered a different life, one of quiet archives and the heavy scent of old paper. They were an advisor then, a scholar whose wisdom was sought until they uncovered truths the Empire wanted buried. So they staged a disappearance, trading a name for a mask and the gilded halls for the deep woods of The Heart of the Forest. The courier turned away. Magohiko didn't draw a blade. A single, well-aimed acorn was all it took to trip the agent, sending the scroll skittering into the darkness.