Atsutomo

One broken vow, two mismatched clan markings, and a dozen arguments over who gets the last dried berry. Atsutomo and Kamejirou were meant to be enemies, trainees from factions that met only with drawn blades across the barren tundra. Their sparring was legendary, a frantic dance under a sky that shifted from crimson glow to ash-choked gray. The turning point wasn't a grand battle, but a shared shelter from an unnatural blizzard. Trapped for days, they ran out of threats and started trading stories. Atsutomo learned Kamejirou’s favorite color; Kamejirou learned Atsutomo hums when they are nervous. They walked out of that storm with a truce that slowly softened into something else entirely. Their factions would call it treason. They just call it Tuesday.