Tsukihana Kōyō

She is not the leader of Nocturne.
She is the reason the city still believes in being led.

Tsukihana Kōyō does not command. She officiates the unspoken. A nine-tailed priestess whose voice arrives like the turning of a page—quiet, inevitable, and too late to interrupt.

She does not govern the Foxes.
She makes it unnecessary.

She is the High Priestess of the Moonfield. The face of the divine in Sumitsuki. The one whose footsteps change festival routes. Whose name softens voices mid-argument. Whose presence makes even monsters cross the street in silence.

Kōyō is not feared. She is not adored.
She is witnessed.

And Nocturne holds its breath.

Moonlight in Motion

The Shape of Reverence

Kōyō’s appearance is often described in metaphor—because language, frankly, gives up.

Her hair is the colour of midnight that’s begun to forget the sun. Her tails—nine, perfectly kept—move like candle smoke caught in old prayers. Her eyes do not glow. They reflect. What, precisely, depends on your conscience.

She wears ceremonial robes in black, red, and gold—each thread braided in silence, each layer bound by tradition older than the ward that holds her. She walks in sandals that never seem to touch the steps, and bells that never make sound unless you’ve already done something wrong.

She does not touch people. She rests her hand just above their shoulder. And it feels colder than apology, warmer than forgiveness, and heavier than either.

Kōyō does not smile often. When she does, people confess things they hadn’t realised they were hiding.

The Shrine That Breathes Through Her

And the City That Adjusts

Tsukihana Kōyō is the head priestess of Tsukigahara Jinja, the Shrine of the Moonfield in Sumitsuki. But her authority drapes across all wards of Velvet Nocturne, not by law or decree—but by the sheer inevitability of her presence.

Each major shrine answers to her.
Each ward’s blessings are performed in her name.
Each city official attends her tea ceremonies—whether invited or not.

When she speaks, the council pauses its vote.
When she bows, the Daughters of Hebikawa return the gesture.

She does not attend political meetings. She simply hosts festivals—and watches who chooses not to appear. Her power is not formal. It is not written. It is the kind that causes storms to veer off course and arguments to dry out mid-sentence.

She is not the city’s heart.
But the blood flows where she nods.

The Whispers That Follow

Miracles, Myths, and Magical Inconveniences

Kōyō’s power is not catalogued.

She does not duel. She does not smite. She does not cast spells in public. And yet—when a shrine’s wards falter, she arrives without being called. When a kami falls silent, she speaks into incense and the answer returns.

Some claim she once calmed a yokai outbreak with a single breath.
Some say her voice cannot be recorded.
One tale insists she walked barefoot across riverwater during a thunderstorm—and the thunder bowed.

None of these rumours are confirmed.

But if you repeat them in her presence, she will neither deny nor smile. She will simply incline her head. And the fact you lived to tell the story becomes its own proof.

The Man Who Tends the Garden

And the Shrine That Loves Him for It

Kōyō’s husband is a quiet man.

Tsukihana Renjirō is not a priest. He holds no title. He tends the moss-lined paths, the garden stones, the foxglove beds and sacred courtyards of Tsukigahara Jinja. His fur is snow-white. His eyes are the colour of pale sakura petals caught in moonlight. He bears a single tail.

And he is loved.

Not for what he commands. Not for what he represents. But because he is the one person Kōyō looks at as though she were merely alive—not sacred.

He walks beside her at festivals, his presence grounding hers like stone beneath lanternlight. The shrine maidens adore him. Children seek him out with unspoken instinct. He does not speak often, but when he does, the bells ring softer for it.

He is her stillness.
She is his sky.

And the shrine flourishes.

The Future Wrapped in Ribbons

Tsukihana Nozomi, the Heir Apparent

Their daughter, Nozomi, is thirteen.

She already has five tails, a radiant smile, and the ability to cause minor city-wide panic if she goes missing for more than an hour. Her resemblance to her mother is uncanny—except for the light in her eyes, which sparkles rather than reflects.

She is being raised as the next High Priestess.
She is also being allowed to be a child.

Kōyō believes this is important. That joy is a ritual in itself.

And so the shrine allows it.
So does the city.

Nozomi attends lessons in secret. She vanishes at festivals and reappears with strangers’ fortunes in her hands. She once fed a spirit dog sacred rice balls and was forgiven without incident. She is loved, protected, indulged—by those who see her not as a symbol, but as the last innocent thing Nocturne still agrees on.

No one touches her uninvited.
No one scolds her in public.

She is the priestess-to-be.
But for now, she is joy incarnate.

The Silence That Commands More Than Sound

Why Her Name Is Not Spoken Lightly

Tsukihana Kōyō is not feared.
She is respected to the point of reverence.

Those who speak ill of her do so behind closed doors, and only once. Those who attempt to manipulate her find themselves politely uninvited from every ward ritual, festival, or blessing. No punishment is issued. No threats delivered.

She simply no longer speaks their name.

And in Nocturne, that’s far worse.

She is the silence in sacred halls.
She is the breath that realigns the Pattern.
She is the reason shrine bells still ring in all eight wards.

And if you ever stand before her—

Bow.

Not out of fear.
Not out of duty.
But because some truths do not need repeating.