The morning mist clung to the forest like a second skin, wrapping around trees and stones in a pale shroud that distorted depth and muffled sound. Birdsong was scarce this deep into the contested borderlands—this was a place where even the animals tread cautiously. The Senju patrol unit had been deployed at dawn, tasked with surveying suspected Uchiha movements along the southern ridge. Tobirama, ever precise and punctual, led the unit with surgical discipline, his piercing red eyes scanning through the fog with unwavering vigilance.
Itama was not officially part of the patrol. He had finished his assigned light mission earlier than expected and had followed the patrol from a distance, masking his presence with techniques the rogue had taught him—methods born of subtle chakra suppression and instinctive movement. He told himself he only meant to observe, to hone his tracking skills, to see how Tobirama led under real conditions.
But there was more to it.
Their last conversation still echoed in his mind—Tobirama's cold pragmatism, his warning against idealism, and the crack of emotion that had briefly surfaced beneath his brother's rigid exterior. Itama didn't want his ideals to blind him to reality. He wanted to understand it. To face it without flinching.
He leapt silently between branches, maintaining distance but never losing sight of the Senju unit. The forest shifted—light growing thinner, the mist darker. Something felt wrong. The rhythm of nature was off. Even Tobirama seemed to notice it; he raised a hand, signaling the unit to halt.
They didn't see it. But Itama did.
Chakra signatures flickered—brief, carefully hidden. Too well hidden for most sensors. But not for someone trained in deception by a rogue who had survived decades in the shadows.
They were being surrounded.
Uchiha.
Itama's heart quickened, but he didn't move immediately. He watched, counted the signatures—seven, maybe eight. Positioned at angles that suggested a kill zone. The Uchiha knew where Tobirama would pass. It was a trap designed not for the whole unit—but for Tobirama alone. The others were bait.
And Tobirama was walking into it.
The moment the trap sprung, it was swift and precise—kunai rained from the trees, shuriken slicing through the fog, all aimed with lethal calculation. Explosive tags detonated in tandem, carving gaps between the Senju squad members and isolating Tobirama in a narrowing circle of fire.
"Formation scatter!" Tobirama barked, spinning mid-air to deflect the first wave of shuriken with his short blade. But the attackers were already upon him. Two from behind, one from the right, another above—each cloaked in Sharingan tomoe and bloodlust.
Itama moved.
He didn't think—he acted. Chakra surged through his limbs as he blurred through the trees, a flicker of motion cutting against the grain of the ambush.
The first Uchiha landed behind Tobirama with a silent killing intent, blade arcing downward toward the back of his neck.
Itama's kunai met steel with a deafening clang.
Tobirama turned, startled—not at the attack, but at the sudden intercession. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second as Itama appeared between him and the attacker, chakra laced through his arms for added force. The enemy staggered backward from the deflection, and Itama didn't hesitate—he struck again, heel slamming into the Uchiha's chest and sending him crashing through a tree trunk.
"Tch—Itama!" Tobirama growled, deflecting another kunai with a quick slash, now repositioning back-to-back with his brother. "What are you—?!"
"Saving you," Itama cut in, breath steady. "Later."
Three more Uchiha emerged from the fog. Their eyes gleamed red, Sharingan spinning. Itama and Tobirama moved as one—decades of Senju training and instinct guiding their synergy despite all that had come between them.
Tobirama darted forward with a water-style jutsu, molding mist into needle-thin spears that launched toward the attackers. Two Uchiha dodged. The third was clipped, but not slowed. He came at Itama with a crackling Chidori variant—raw lightning molded around his palm.
Itama exhaled.
His hands flew through seals—faster than most would expect from a wounded Senju.
"Mokuton: Sōju Heiki no Jutsu." (Wood Release: Binding Weaponry Technique)
Roots burst from the earth beneath him, forming spears and whips that lashed forward. The Chidori Uchiha was forced to dodge, twisting midair. One of the wooden tendrils caught his foot and yanked him downward—into Tobirama's waiting blade.
Blood sprayed, brief and final.
More movement in the mist. One Uchiha lunged at Tobirama with a massive war fan, the momentum threatening to break his guard. Tobirama dropped low to counter, but another attacker moved in from the side—too fast.
Itama intercepted again.
This time he didn't just deflect—he countered with a sweep of wood that morphed into a broad, bark-shielded arm, cracking the enemy's ribs and flinging him into a tree. The wooden construct dissolved into dust as Itama stumbled forward, panting.
They were winning—but barely.
The remaining Uchiha retreated, their Sharingan glinting with frustration. Two lay dead. The rest vanished into smoke, unwilling to suffer further losses.
Silence settled again.
Tobirama turned, eyes sharp, but not hostile. "You shouldn't have been here."
"And you'd be dead if I wasn't," Itama replied, falling to a knee, clutching his side where a glancing blow had opened a deep bruise.
Tobirama stared at him, then crouched down and began inspecting the wound in silence.
"You're reckless," he said.
"I followed my instinct."
"That instinct almost got you killed."
"But it saved you," Itama said, meeting his gaze.
Tobirama looked away first.
"I didn't expect you to use Mokuton," he muttered. "You've grown stronger."
"I had to," Itama said. "The old me wouldn't have survived out there."
Tobirama was quiet, dabbing a salve onto the bruised skin with practiced efficiency. "We'll discuss this later. After we return to camp."
"Tobirama," Itama said, voice soft. "You may not believe in my ideals. But I still believe in you."
Tobirama didn't respond. He just stood and extended a hand. Itama took it, and together, they rose.
The Senju patrol regrouped minutes later, expressions tight, eyes full of questions they didn't voice. Tobirama gave curt orders, and the unit began its return journey.
But the rest of the walk was silent between the two brothers.
No words were spoken.
None were needed.
A wound had been opened between them in earlier days—by doubt, by fear, by difference.
But today, a thread of trust had been stitched back into place—woven through blood, through risk, through the act of one brother choosing the other over safety.
The forest behind them held its breath.
And the mist began to lift.