Kitoko

Kitoko slid a single claw along a fissure in the great spinning rock, ignoring the famous sunset that bled across The Crystal Highlands of Armaria. Their partner, Buhachirou, sighed from a few paces away. “It is a font of pure energy. Ozawa said so.” But Kitoko’s thirst was not for energy. It was for the flaw, the lie they could feel humming just beneath the crystal’s perfect surface. Everyone else saw power and beauty; Kitoko saw a lock. Their hand drifted to the hilt of their katana, the worn leather a familiar comfort against the strange, cold magic of the monolith. “Beautiful things can still be cages,” they murmured, a faint side smile playing on their lips. This one was just bigger than most.