Trope: Warlord × Prisoner | Enemies to reluctant allies to something more
Pairing: Warlord Fuma × Captive K
Tone: Tense, quiet power shifts, subtle softness under steel

Prequel Vignette: "The Man Who Wouldn't Fall"

The battlefield was chaos—mud, steel, and smoke painting everything in ash-gray silence between screams.

Fuma didn't notice him at first.

Too focused on strategy. The flank was collapsing. Reinforcements were late. His generals shouted.

Then—
there he was.

One man.

K.

Back to a crumbled wall, three arrows in his shoulder, sword dark with blood that wasn't his. Armor half-broken. Face unreadable.

And twenty men surrounding him.

Fuma watched, transfixed, from the ridge.
Watched K drop the first two with precise, savage economy.
Watched the third die on impact—K didn't even look.

Watched him bleed and keep standing.

By the time the last soldier fell, K was on his knees.
Not defeated.
Refusing to die.

"Bring him to me," Fuma had said then.
"Alive."

And he hadn't stopped watching since.

The Setup

K doesn't speak for the first three days.

They drag him into Warlord Fuma's stronghold—bloodied, silent, unbowed. He kneels but doesn't yield.

"You've fought well," Fuma says, circling him like a wolf sizing up a strange dog.
"But wars are won by those who know when to stop."

K lifts his head, eyes cold.

"Then kill me. Or stop wasting your breath."

Fuma smirks.

"Not yet."

The Holding Room

K's cell isn't a dungeon.

It's a stone room with no windows, a single torch, and too much silence. Fuma visits him every evening—not to interrogate, but to talk.

About philosophy. War. Loyalty. The cost of belief.

"You think I enjoy this?" Fuma asks once.
"No," K replies. "I think you've made yourself very good at it."

Fuma doesn't respond.

But he brings him better food the next night.

The Cracks

One night, K's hands tremble. Old wounds reopening.
Fuma notices. Steps closer. Offers a cloth.

"Don't."
"I'm not trying to win you."
"Then what are you trying to do?"

Fuma hesitates.

"Understand."

The Turn

The war ends.

Not with peace—but with exhaustion.

Fuma returns to K's cell. Not as a victor—but as someone tired of choosing violence.

"You can go," he says.
"Just like that?"
"No chains. No guards."

K stands, slowly.

"Then why don't I want to?"

"What are we now?" K asks, standing by the open door.

Fuma meets his gaze.

"Not enemies.
Not free.
Just... something waiting to see what comes next."

And K steps forward—not to leave—
but to stay.

🛡️ Continuation: "Closer Than a Blade"

Months later, the war is over.

K stays—not as a prisoner.

But as Fuma's bodyguard.

He walks half a pace behind him. Sleeps outside his chambers. Speaks only when necessary.

And every time someone questions his loyalty, K's hand is already on his sword before Fuma can speak.

"I don't serve the flag," K says once. "I serve the one who didn't kill me when he could have."

Everyone notices.

How Fuma's voice softens slightly when addressing K.

How K stands too close during council meetings.

How neither of them ever talk about the night Fuma offered him a room inside the palace instead of the guardhouse—and K had said nothing, just followed.

One night, Fuma asks:

"Do you regret staying?"

K answers without looking at him.

"Only when you forget I'm not just a sword."

Fuma steps closer.

"I haven't forgotten."

They never kiss in public.
Never say it out loud.

But when Fuma goes into battle again, it's K who holds his sword out—
and his hand lingers longer than it should.

And that's enough.

For now.

Scene: You Don't Fall Without Me

The ambush is sudden—arrows from the treeline, too fast, too close.

Fuma takes one to the side. He doesn't cry out, doesn't stumble. Just grits his teeth and keeps fighting.

But K sees it.

And protocol evaporates.

K isn't supposed to leave the formation.
Isn't supposed to push aside generals.
Isn't supposed to drop to his knees beside a bleeding warlord in the middle of a fight with blood on his hands and panic in his voice.

"Don't move," K says, one hand already pressed to the wound.
"You're not dying out here. Not like this."

"It's not fatal," Fuma grits out. "Keep your post."

"You are my post."

They retreat.

Victory comes hollow.

Fuma's carried back to the stronghold half-conscious, K refusing to leave his side. Not for the healer. Not for the council.

When Fuma finally wakes, hours later, K is sitting in the corner of the tent, elbows on knees, soaked in blood that's not all Fuma's.

"Still here?" Fuma croaks.

"Always."

"You broke ranks for me."

K doesn't answer.

Not yet.

Scene: "Why I Kneeled"

Later. After the wound is closed. After the tent is silent. After the war has gone quiet for just one night.

Fuma lies on his side, facing the canvas wall.
K sits with his back to the edge of the bed, head resting near Fuma's hand.

"You should rest," K says.

"You should leave," Fuma replies. "But you never do."

K breathes in. Sharp. Controlled.

"You think I stay because I owe you my life."

Fuma doesn't respond.

"You're wrong."

He turns. Faces him fully.

"I kneeled because I wanted to. Not because I had to."

Fuma blinks. His voice is rough when he finally speaks.

"Even if I never asked for that kind of loyalty?"

K's reply is barely a whisper.

"It wasn't loyalty."

Silence.

Then Fuma reaches for his hand—slow, deliberate, wounded and still burning.

"Then what was it?"

K looks down.
Interlaces their fingers.

"Choice."

💬 Final Line:

The kingdom still calls K a blade.

But only Fuma ever sees the part of him that was never steel—
only fire, and his.