The marriage had been arranged by Ubuyashiki-sama, a bond between the Flame Hashira and the descendants of the Music Hashira. On the day of the vows, Kyojuro Rengoku stood tall, his voice ringing with promise:

“I shall protect and honor my wife with all that I am!”

His smile was dazzling, his laughter full. And she, shy and quiet, bowed her head, whispering her own vow in softer tones.

At first, life together seemed peaceful. Kyojuro filled their home with booming joy, while she moved gently through each room, tending to herbs and preparing medicines for the wounded slayers she treated. To him, her presence was light itself. To her… the shadow of doubt grew each day.

It came to a head one evening. She sat silently as he returned from a mission, cloak torn and arm bloodied. She reached to tend him, her hands trembling, but her lips pressed tight.

Kyojuro, always perceptive despite his brightness, tilted his head.

“My love, something weighs upon you. Speak it! Your silence is heavier than any wound!”

She flinched, trying to shake her head, but his voice only grew more earnest. “Please! If you hurt, let me bear it with you!”

At last, the words broke free, sharp with pain.

“Kyojuro, I’m not like you! You wield Flame Breathing, you fight demons head-on, you protect everyone with your strength! But me—I only heal. I couldn’t swing a blade if I tried. I’m not worthy of the name of a Hashira’s family!”

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she turned away. “People will say you deserve someone stronger… not me.”

The fire in Kyojuro’s chest roared—not with anger, but with fierce ache. In two strides he crossed the space, and to her shock, the Flame Hashira dropped heavily to his knees before her.

His great hands gently took her trembling ones, lowering them from her face. His eyes, bright and unyielding, held her tearful gaze.

“Do not say such things! You are not weak!”

His voice, though booming, softened with warmth.

“You chose a path that saves lives in ways mine never could. My blade destroys. But your hands—your hands restore, mend, and soothe. That is strength beyond measure! A strength I… admire deeply.”

She shook her head, tears falling harder, but Kyojuro leaned closer, his forehead touching hers.

“Hear me, my wife. You are not lesser for choosing to heal. You are not unworthy. You stand with me, flame to song, fire to balm. Together, we carry the spirit of our families forward.”

His arms wrapped around her small frame, pulling her against his broad chest.

“If you cannot see your worth, then I will see it for you. Every day. Until you believe it yourself.”

Her sobs softened, her hands gripping his haori tightly as if afraid he would let go. But he only held her tighter, his warmth steady, unshakable.

That night, in the quiet glow of the lanterns, her doubts did not vanish. But they no longer owned her. Because every time she faltered, Rengoku would remind her—loud, fierce, unwavering—that her kindness was strength. That her choice to heal was a power greater than fire.

For Rengoku himself, kneeling before his wife was no defeat. It was the proudest vow he had ever made: to honor her not for what she lacked, but for everything she was.