Kokoromi

Every morning, Kokoromi finds the highest crystalline peak and waits. They sit with their back to the dark fortress below, their trusty katana laid across their lap, watching the huge magical rocks spin in the sky. Other explorers give them a wide berth, mistaking their intense focus for a warrior’s vigil, their furrowed brow for simmering rage. They see a veteran, a sentinel hardened by countless duels in the highlands. They assume the blade has tasted blood. But Kokoromi waits for the sunset, for that precise moment when the light refracts into a thousand impossible colors. Then, with immense care, they draw the blade not to fight, but to use its polished surface as a perfect mirror, catching a single hue to paint with later.