Ichigorou

Ichigorou remembered the smear of jam on their partner's cheek, crimson and sweet like the morning sun hitting the golden spires of The Teikodian Empire. It was a stolen moment in the trainee barracks, a quiet rebellion against a life measured only by the ring of steel. Every day was a relentless push to surpass the legend of Katana, a name whispered with reverence by every instructor. The pressure was a weight that threatened to grind them into another nameless warrior. But in that small kitchen, there was no rivalry, only the shared warmth of tea and the simple taste of toast. Their partner, who couldn't tell a hilt from a pommel, would trace the calluses on Ichigorou's hands and ask about their day, not their rank. The drive to win is still there, sharp as ever, but it's no longer for an Emperor's praise. It's for the promise of more mornings just like that one.