The morning sun rose slowly over the Senju encampment, casting long rays across dew-slicked tents and watchtowers woven from earth and bark. A stillness hung in the air—unnatural, almost sacred. Something important was coming, and the whole camp could feel it. The usually bustling training grounds were quiet, the morning drills halted. Whispers drifted like smoke, carried from one shinobi to the next.
At the heart of it all stood Itama Senju, the once-forgotten flame now burning in full view.
He stood at attention before the central pavilion, his posture stiff but calm, dressed in formal brown and green robes that bore the Senju crest on his shoulders. The rising breeze played at the hem of his cloak, brushing strands of his now longer hair across his cheek.
Before him, the entire clan council had gathered—elders in deep robes and weathered armor, Hashirama towering at the center, Tobirama standing off to the side like a coiled serpent. The air was thick with weight and expectation. And perhaps, quiet resistance.
Hashirama stepped forward. "We are gathered here today," he began, voice clear and resonant, "to name an envoy. One who will carry the weight of our intentions beyond this camp. One who will walk into dangerous lands not with a blade in hand, but with our hopes."
He looked at Itama, his expression proud and firm.
"Itama Senju. You have walked through the valley of death and returned with a vision not of vengeance, but of peace. You've proven your resolve not just through battle, but through compassion, through your words, and through your unwavering dedication to rebuilding bonds."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Some approving, some uncertain.
"Therefore," Hashirama continued, "by the will of the Senju Council and as Head of this Clan, I name you formal envoy to the Uchiha—and to any other clans willing to hear our offer of a future not defined by war."
Gasps echoed from the crowd. A few of the elders turned toward one another in visible discomfort.
Itama's breath caught. Though he had anticipated this—suspected it after long talks with Hashirama—it still hit with the weight of a thousand stones.
He stepped forward, bowing at the waist. "I accept this role with humility and purpose."
Tobirama's eyes narrowed, unreadable.
Elder Nao, a wiry old shinobi with streaks of silver through his beard, stepped forward, tapping his staff against the stone. "This is no small burden. To represent us beyond the border is to carry the flame of our people into uncertain winds. One wrong word, one misplaced gesture—can turn peace into catastrophe. Are you prepared for that, Itama?"
"I am," Itama replied without flinching.
Another elder, Hoshino, a matronly kunoichi with calculating eyes, leaned in. "You've spent time in hiding. Among rogues. Among enemies. Why should we trust that your loyalties are undivided?"
Itama's gaze didn't waver. "Because I chose to return. Not for power. Not for revenge. But because I believed there was still something worth saving here. And I will protect that with my life."
The council remained silent for a moment.
Then Hashirama raised his hand. "It is decided."
From the shadows, Tobirama stepped forward, voice sharp. "Then allow me to speak to the risks plainly."
The crowd hushed.
"If this goes wrong," Tobirama said, his tone ice, "it won't just be your life at stake, Itama. It will be ours. The Uchiha may smile at peace now, but all it takes is one fracture, one spark—and blood will flow again."
Itama looked at him, meeting his brother's hard stare with unflinching steel. "Then I'll make sure there is no spark. I'll be the fire that lights the way, not the one that burns it all down."
Tobirama said nothing, but his eyes narrowed—whether in approval or suspicion, no one could tell.
Hashirama reached into a scroll case and drew out a sealed letter. "This scroll contains the formal terms of a ceasefire. We are not yet at peace, but we are building toward it. This document will be presented first to Madara, then to the Uchiha council, and eventually to the other clans."
He placed it in Itama's hands.
The parchment was warm to the touch, as if infused with the very hopes of their people.
"You leave at dusk," Hashirama added. "With two guards. No armor. No standard. You go not as a warrior, but as a messenger."
---
That Evening
The sun was descending into a molten horizon when Itama stood at the northern trail, dressed in plain but functional attire. Two shinobi flanked him—one a tall kunoichi named Rei with sharp eyes and a long blade, the other a quiet scout named Daiki, who carried a hawk on his shoulder.
As they prepared to depart, Hashirama approached once more.
"You're not just carrying a message," he said quietly. "You're carrying me. Everything I've hoped for."
Itama nodded. "I'll do it justice."
Hashirama placed a hand on his shoulder. "You already have."
From behind them, Tobirama watched, arms crossed. "Don't let your ideals blind you," he called out. "They won't hesitate if things go wrong. Don't you hesitate either."
Itama turned to him. "I won't."
He didn't wait for Tobirama to reply.
The group turned and departed, their silhouettes shrinking into the fading light. The woods ahead were dense, the path unlit. Danger lurked—bandits, stray patrols, rogue shinobi. But none of it compared to the burden on Itama's shoulders.
Every step was heavy, but his stride was sure.
---
Elsewhere, Uchiha Encampment
Madara stood over a table, tracing a map with his finger. Izuna entered quietly, bearing a small scroll with the Senju mark.
"What's this?" Madara asked.
Izuna smirked. "Word is, they're sending someone. Not Hashirama. Someone new."
Madara raised an eyebrow. "Who?"
"Itama Senju."
Madara froze.
"I thought he was dead."
"He's not," Izuna said. "And apparently, he's the envoy."
Madara looked out over the encampment, where fires crackled and shinobi trained beneath the moon.
"This just got interesting."