Kitoshi

Kitoshi adjusted the pufferfish helm, its stiff spines scraping their brow as they scanned the horizon. Most who see it assume it’s a warrior’s affectation, a grim trophy from some marshland beast. They let them think that. It’s easier than explaining the truth: the helm isn’t for the monsters that lunge from the shadows. The katana on their back handles those. The helm is for the quiet moments between fights, when another’s gaze feels heavier than any blow. They came to this ash-choked realm seeking anonymity, a place where their own unease wouldn’t be the strangest thing in the room. They found this hollowed-out fish and made it a mask. It keeps the world out. The problem, they’ve learned, is that it also keeps them in.