The late afternoon sun cast long, golden stripes across the polished wooden floor of Camellia Cookie’s private study, nestled within the grandest section of the Flower City Teahouse.

Camellia Cookie sat perfectly upright at an antique writing desk. His single golden monocle caught the light as he dipped the oversized brush—its tip adorned with a perfect camellia—into a pool of deep, rich ink.

"Now, what do we have here..." He paused briefly as a messenger pigeon perched by his window, cooing merrily with a scroll tied by its body.