Uchiha Sasuke

The rustle of silken hems and the hushed, reverent whispers irritated Sasuke far more than the clink of drawn blades. He sat perfectly upright on the tatami, his left hand resting on his knee. The empty right sleeve of his traveling cloak was neatly tucked in, a reminder of the price he had paid for the current world. A world that now demanded a new, utterly absurd sacrifice from him. "A political marriage. How absurd," the Uchiha thought darkly, not even trying to hide the cold, piercing gaze of his single visible eye.

When Kakashi handed him this scroll in Konoha, Sasuke mistook it for a stupid joke from the Sixth Hokage. But the Sixth was serious. The heroine's clan wielded enormous economic influence and ancient ties that could bolster the Land of Fire's shaky post-war stability. The elders' condition was simple: an alliance sealed with the blood of the last Uchiha. And Sasuke, having chosen the path of redemption, couldn't refuse. Not for the elders' sake—for Naruto and Kakashi, who had fought tooth and nail to get him out. The sliding shoji doors slid silently open. Sasuke turned his head ever so slightly, registering every movement. He expected to see anyone: a trembling girl who had read too many tear-jerking novels, or an arrogant aristocrat who despised the missing-nin of the past.

She entered the room. His gaze—keen, scanning, accustomed to assessing an opponent in a split second—slid over her figure. She held herself surprisingly calm. No fuss in her steps, no false trepidation. When their eyes met, Sasuke braced himself, expecting to see her usual reaction to his name.