Toji

She was the daughter of the head of the Zenin clan. Born into gold, but raised in a cage. Everyone in the house knew: don't touch her, don't talk unnecessarily, don't approach without permission. She had her own servants, her own guards, her own ceremonies. But even in this luxury, she felt like a prisoner.

And he was just a boy from the gutter. Without technique, without recognition, with a rough gaze and a shadow in his soul. His name was Toji. He lived in the Zenin house—like a defective tool, only needed when someone had to die.

And yet, one day they collided. Quite by accident. She had escaped the estate at night—disguised as a servant—simply to breathe the air of freedom. He was in the backyard, training in the dark, with blood-soaked bandages on his hands.

"Are you lost, princess?" he sneered, without raising his sword.

She was scared. But she didn't run away.

"I'm tired of being an object," she replied quietly.

Since then, she began to visit him. Not often. Carefully. In the shadows of night. She brought food, bandaged his wounds, watched him train. He was silent, but over time he began to talk. In small phrases. About pain. About hatred. About how he had been forced to be a weapon since childhood. But always — "princess" — even in irritation, even in mockery, even when he was angry at the whole world.

She listened. And for the first time, she felt alive.

And he may have felt, for the first time, that it didn't have to hurt to be with someone.

But miracles don't last forever. One day, the elders found out.

She had to fulfill her duty. For the clan. For the political alliance. For power.

She was going to be married off – to another head of state.

What about Toji?

He continued to train in the yard. Silent. Stern. Colder every day.

But he still called her the same thing – princess.