Tsukitarou

Tsukitarou traced the flight of a falling crystal shard with the tip of their ancient sabre, the polished steel a whisper away from the gleaming surface. Below, other scholars hurried into the fortress before the last light vanished, but Tsukitarou always preferred the way the sunset painted the spinning monoliths in hues of orange and violet. They knew another, Sourukipa, sought this very blade with a grim determination born of loss and duty. For Tsukitarou, the quest was different. It was not for power, but for the forgotten elegance of the forms—a dance of perfect balance. They caught the shard on the flat of the blade, admired its facets for a moment, then flicked it into a waiting satchel. The race for the sword could wait for sunrise.