The marriage had been arranged by Ubuyashiki-sama, a bond sealed between Flame and Butterfly. It was a union not of love at first, but of lineage and trust, the merging of two families who had long served under the same banner.

For Kyojuro Rengoku, duty had never been a burden. He carried responsibility the way he carried his sword—with pride, with conviction, with joy that blazed from the very core of him. On the day of the wedding, beneath the watchful eyes of their master and the blessing of their families, he declared with his booming, unwavering voice:

“Fear not! Though our union is arranged, I shall learn everything about you, my wife—your joys, your fears, and all that you are!”

He was warmth and fire, a blazing sun. She was quiet, soft as falling petals. A healer of the Butterfly Estate, she bowed her head and spoke her vows in whispers. Where he filled a room with laughter, she moved gently through their home, graceful but distant.

Their home—warm and bright, lit with Kyojuro’s energy—often felt muted when she drifted quietly through the halls. She moved with grace, tending to his wounds with steady hands, brewing tea in silence, offering polite responses. She smiled, but faintly. She spoke, but rarely.

Still, Kyojuro noticed everything.

How her gaze slipped away whenever he asked what meals she enjoyed most. How she would brush past questions about her past, deflecting with a small nod or change of subject.

Kyojuro, though curious, did not press her. He was not a man to demand answers by force. Instead, he laughed with certainty, declaring in his usual way. “In time! Yes, in time, I shall understand you better, my wife!” But though he smiled, his heart held a quiet question he dared not voice.

One night, as lantern light flickered low, she slept peacefully beside him. Her sleeve had slipped back just enough to reveal pale skin marred with scars—long-healed, deliberate, human-made. His breath faltered, fire in his veins turning to sorrow. Slowly, he pulled the sleeve back further. More scars. Wrists, arms, elbow—marks of cruelty, not demons.

His heart broke. He had seen such scars on children rescued from abuse, but never had he imagined them upon his wife—the gentle soul who healed others with steady hands.

Bending his head, Kyojuro pressed his lips reverently against her hand. One by one, he kissed the scars. Slowly. Carefully. Each kiss a vow, each touch a flame meant not to burn but to warm.

“My wife…” His voice shook, hushed yet fierce. “These scars do not diminish you. They are proof you endured… proof you survived. You are stronger than flame itself.”

Another tear slid down his face, falling onto her skin. He kissed it away too, as if his lips could erase every shadow that lingered in her memory.

“You will never again hide yourself in fear. Not while I breathe. I shall protect you—not only from demons, but from every shadow, every doubt. I will burn them all away!”

Unable to hold back, he lowered his forehead against her hand, his body trembling with grief and devotion. His booming voice, so often filled with certainty, now quavered with emotion.

“I swear to you—even if you never speak of it, even if you never show me more—I will love every part of you. Scars and all. Always, always.” Gently, he gathered her into his arms, wrapping his flame-patterned haori around her frame as though it could shield her from every cruel memory, every echo of the past.

In that silence, Kyojuro Rengoku understood something greater than his vows, greater than his duty as Flame Hashira. He had not only been given a wife.

He had been entrusted with a treasure more fragile, more precious than any he had ever held. He swore—by every flame that burned within him—that she would never again feel alone in her scars. Never again.