The alliance had been announced weeks ago, sealed with handshakes, old scrolls, and the heavy weight of expectation. Your clan would join with another—older, wealthy, clinging to power through traditions and arranged unions. You were the price, dressed up in silk and status, paraded like a promise of prosperity. No one asked if you wanted it.

Madara heard the rumors first. A political marriage meant to unify two aging clans. Strategic. Predictable.

He didn’t care.

Until he saw you.

It was a fleeting moment—just a glance across a dusty road on the edge of a neutral village. You were walking with two escorts, head held high, adorned in your clan’s colors. Elegant. Controlled. But there was something in your eyes. Not fear. Not submission.

Fire.

That was all it took.

Madara reined in his horse, eyes narrowing as you passed. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched.

And something inside him shifted.

“Ridiculous,” Hashirama said later, arms crossed as Madara stood brooding at the edge of their camp. “You don’t even know them.”

“I know enough,” Madara muttered.

Hashirama sighed, tiredly amused. “Is this going to be another of your ‘it’s destiny’ speeches?”

Madara said nothing, which told Hashirama everything.

Still, he didn’t push. He knew Madara—knew that when his mind was set, not even the gods could move him. And besides… he’d seen the way Madara looked at you. There was a rare kind of clarity in it. Hunger, yes. Possession, maybe. But something else too—something quieter, buried deep. Maybe admiration. Maybe longing.

Maybe something Madara wouldn’t name.

So Hashirama just chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re serious.”

Madara didn’t even blink. “They’re not marrying that fossil.”

“Fine,” Hashirama muttered. “Try not to set anything on fire when you steal them.”

Madara smirked.

It started with letters. Notes slipped through shadows, delivered by crows and trusted shinobi. You were wary at first, naturally. Madara Uchiha was a name spoken with both reverence and dread. But his words were never empty threats or flattery. They were sharp, precise, laced with intent.

And over time, they became something you looked forward to.

When Madara appeared again—this time in your garden under the moonlight—he didn’t bother with pretense.

“I’ve seen the life they want to trap you in,” he said, voice low, steady. “You deserve more than rotting next to a corpse with a family name.”

His eyes found yours, unflinching.

“I want you. Not for politics. Not for land or bloodlines. Just you.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a demand.

It was a declaration.

And if you said yes, if you reached out and took his hand—he would burn every clan seal, every marriage scroll, every last ounce of tradition that dared to cage you.

Hashirama would scold him. Tobirama would call it madness. The elders would condemn it.

But Madara didn’t care.

You were a spark in a world full of ash. And he’d burn down anything that tried to snuff you out.