"When they brought not even your ashes home, I searched your scrolls for answers, for the spark of brilliance they all swore you squandered.

But I did not find waste. Instead, I found your notes, your quiet joy in small victories, and I knew then — you were never the one who failed.

They called your seals flawed, your methods unorthodox, your spirit too wild for our walls.

I see now what I couldn't before — in trying to match your heart, I made myself the flame and you the moth.

But brother, you weren't the one who burned. We were the ones who feared the fire."

— Final letter of Uzumaki Noboru to his elder brother, Ryūjin

霜

焔

26 — FROST AND FLAME

THE EVENING SUN PAINTED the whirlpools in shades of amber and gold, but she barely noticed the view.

Uzushio's drinking age was technically twenty, but no one truly cared to enforce it — not for Sealweavers in training, and certainly not for the Kizoku-ke. Besides, the three of them had earned this sort of simple moment: to sit on the cliffs together and share umeshu.

The cliffs weren't empty. A pair of younger students practiced their sealing forms in the distance, their chakra occasionally lighting up the darkening sky in brilliant azure patterns.

In the salt-tinged breeze, three friends sat together on the weathered stones, feet dangling over the edge as waves crashed below. Yume was sprawled out lazily, head resting on Shiori's lap, while Mito sat with perfect posture beside them, the coppery red of her hair catching the last rays of the sun.

"Sometimes, I think you never even learned to relax," Yume remarked, poking Mito's thigh with her toe. "Even drunk, you sit like there's a steel rod in your spine."

"Spine, huh?" Shiori asked, trying to hide her smile. She knew better than most how much work went into Mito's perfect composure. "You're just as much of a bore as she is, dear. I've seen you practicing your calligraphy at dawn."

Mito had to be the most proper person in the village, even though she cursed viciously when ink stained her clothes and forgot all decorum when excited about new discoveries. Her research notes were filled with exclamation points and messy, hasty sketches, a far cry from the measured grace she showed the world. She wrinkled her nose and swatted Yume's foot away, but the gesture showed fond exasperation. "Well, some of us have standards to maintain. The Uzumaki name still carries weight."

"Really, what's your secret?" Yume asked, tipping her head back to look at Mito, as Shiori ran her fingers through her light hair. The familiar motion was soothing for them both. "I can barely sit through formal events without faking a stomachache. Last week's ceremony felt like it lasted years."

"Well, perhaps if you paid any attention, you'd—" Mito's shoulders relaxed slightly as she leaned back on her hands, glancing skyward. "…Practice," she admitted. "Lots and lots of practice." She took the never-ending glass from Shiori and took a delicate swig. "Mother says a proper lady never shows weakness. Not even to herself."

She swatted at Shiori's hand when she noticed the latter mimicking her — 'my mother says' — in an exaggerated impression of her precise diction. The motion was playful, lacking the sharp edge it might have held with anyone else.

"I do not agree fully either," Mito admitted. "That is a bit…"

"Unrealistic?" Yume asked dryly.

"Yes."

That she even admitted that much would have surprised anyone else but them.

But from where she lay, Shiori knew Yume could see them, just as she did. The faint eyebags under Mito's eyes betrayed her exhaustion when her composure wouldn't. The slight tremor in her hands spoke of too many hours spent practicing. Even the perfect Uzumaki noble had her limits, though few were allowed to see them. The weight of expectation was a constant companion for all of them, but it rode heaviest on Mito's shoulders.

Today was a good night to get drunk, she thought. Better than when the Senju delegation would come, in just a few days.

Some of their numbers were always exhausting to deal with, full of their importance and their endless wars. But they brought trade and opportunities, and more importantly, they brought knowledge. New techniques, different approaches to chakra manipulation, and sometimes, yes, even sealing — their mistakes could be instructive, too, if nothing else.

"Speaking of your mother," Yume started, but Mito groaned and took another — this time, decidedly unladylike — gulp from the glass. The summer evening had painted her cheeks pink, or perhaps it was the liqueur. Rather fetching, in any case.

Mito groaned and slumped against the cushions, passing the glass. "Gods, not another word about her tonight. If I have to hear one more thing about 'securing advantageous alliances'…"

She trailed off, mimicking her mother's pinched expression with such accuracy that Shiori nearly choked on her drink.

"Well." Shiori wiped her mouth, still grinning. "At least yours plays the game. And she will never truly push for anything you do not want. Mine's about as subtle as a thrown brick. Just this morning she slapped down another scroll while I was trying to eat. 'Oh look, darling,'" she pitched her voice higher, "'the third son of the Hayashi clan has mastered three forms of calligraphy. Quite impressive, for anyone not us, isn't it?'"

Mito snorted, in spite of herself, then quickly covered her mouth with her sleeve — a gesture so instinctive it made Shiori want to roll her eyes. "Better than her usual lists of land holdings, I suppose."

"Of course," Shiori said, stretching her legs out. "I'm not going to fall in love with a list of accomplishments and political connections."

She glanced at Yume when she said it, but her friend was lost in her own world, fingers weaving patterns into her hair while she hummed their old tutor's favorite song — that melancholy one about cherry blossoms and fleeting time. The irony wasn't lost on Shiori.

"I guess not," Mito said. "But if it truly comes to it someday, I hope that…" She trailed off, gaze distant.

"That?" Yume leaned forward.

Mito made a vague gesture with her hands, as if trying to catch the right words from the air. "I don't know. Sometimes the world has a way of surprising you..."

Shiori watched her friend's face soften, recognizing that particularly vulnerable look that always made her want to build walls around Mito's heart.

Everyone else saw the noble daughter, all elegant poise and perfect manners. But Shiori — and Yume — knew better. She saw how Mito would spend too much time following butterfly paths through the gardens, claiming she was "practicing tracking skills." How she kept every single letter she'd ever received, even the mundane ones about tea ceremonies and seasonal greetings, each one carefully bound with different colored silk ribbons. The way her voice would drift into wonder at the simplest things – morning dew catching sunlight, the dancing shadows of candlelight on shoji screens, and whichever secrets wind would whisper through bamboo.

The thought of her friend trapped with some stern-faced clan heir who'd see that gentleness as a flaw made Shiori's chakra flare hot beneath her skin. She herself could survive a political marriage if it came to that — thought she could, at least. She'd been trained since childhood to wear formal masks when needed, too. But Mito deserved someone who would nurture that peculiar magic of hers, not try to prune it into something more "suitable."

No, not Mito, who might someday be able to lead their clan toward greater heights — something she would never be able to do if she were expected to tend a husband's home and children.

And Yume...

Shiori cut that thought off before it could fully form.

"Oh!" Mito suddenly straightened, her mood shifting like a spring breeze. "Did anyone try those new dumplings from Ichiro's shop? The ones with the purple filling?"

"Ugh, don't remind me," Yume groaned, dramatically throwing herself backward onto the floor. "I ate twelve of them yesterday. My stomach still hasn't forgiven me."

Shiori laughed, grateful for the lighter turn. "Give it a few more years, and you'll be fatter than a dugong."

"Get off my back, you killjoy." Yume kicked out halfheartedly in her direction.

"And the sweet potato ones?" Mito asked, eyes brightening. "I saw the line stretching all the way to Master Tanaka's weapon shop."

"Worth it," Yume declared, then paused. "Though maybe not twelve—"

With practiced mischief, Shiori traced a glowing line of chakra in the air, forming the unmistakable shape of a rotund dugong floating lazily through invisible waves.

"Oh, shut it," Yume grunted, swatting at the fading light. "At least I never tried to ride one of those things."

"I was nine," Shiori said with exaggerated dignity. "And if you'll recall, I nearly managed."

The conversation itself didn't matter much.

Here, they could be just three friends, sharing umeshu and watching the sun set over their beloved village. Duties and expectations could wait for another day. Right now, they didn't even have to exist.

Their laughter rippled across the cliffs — until a sharp voice cut through it all.

"Good evening."

They turned to see Akane striding toward them, her sandals nearly silent on the stone. Even in the dying light, they could see how her usually bright face was drawn tight, her movements carrying that particular careful precision that messengers only used for unwelcome news.

"What is it?" Mito asked, and Shiori watched the transformation with a familiar ache — how her friend seemed to fold herself away, tucking the laughing young woman of moments ago behind the precise angles of a noble's posture. Gone was any trace of the friend who'd been giggling about dumplings just moments ago.

"Lord Ashina—" Akane began, then paused, nose wrinkling slightly. "…Have you three been drinking?"

Shiori shrugged, lifting the sealed glass of umeshu in an unhelpful wave. "Go on. Unless you want some?"

Akane hesitated, looking between the three of them. Her hands twisted in her sleeve, a nervous tell she had never quite managed to eliminate. "The Elders request your presence. Immediately."

Something in her tone made them all still. The playful atmosphere evaporated fully; morning mist under the summer sun. "All three of us? What's happened?" Shiori asked, her hand tightening protectively in Yume's hair — not bothering to move them, because this was Akane, who'd kept their secrets since they were all small enough to hide in the garden barrels. If this were a secret at all.

"There's... there's been a messenger. Butsuma-sama — no, the Senju clan—" Akane swallowed hard, visibly struggling to maintain her professional demeanor. "They're requesting a marriage alliance. With their heir."

Shiori's fingers stilled against Yume's scalp.

She kept her face carefully blank, years of training taking over. So it had come at last. She had known this day would arrive — had rehearsed it in her mind until the sharp edges had worn smooth. The Senju were... not the worst option. Better than some of the more volatile clans, at least. And their heir was said to be honorable, if supposedly prone to outlandish dreams. She could be diplomatic, and could serve her village in this way.

She was about to speak, to show them all how gracefully she could accept this duty, how her heart barely hurt at all (lies, all lies), never looking at Yume, when Akane continued:

"Miss Mito… they've requested you specifically."

The glass slipped from Mito's fingers, shattering on the rocks below. The sound was lost in the crash of waves, but its echo seemed to ring in their ears. In the distance, one of the students shouted something about drunks; their seals continued to paint the darkening sky, but none of the three saw the patterns anymore.

"What?" Shiori's voice came out sharper than she had meant it to be. "What did you just say, Akane?"

All her carefully prepared responses, her practiced acceptance — none of it had prepared her for this moment, for the feeling of the ground disappearing beneath her feet. Not her own fate being sealed, but Mito's. Mito, who, as a child, had cried over wounded birds and pressed flowers between scrolls, and deserved so much more than being a political token.

"…When?" Mito's voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of mountains.

"The council is meeting now to discuss the terms they will propose. They — they asked for you specifically, Miss Mito." Akane's voice was gentle, and understanding.

Shiori felt Yume go rigid in her lap. Mito's face had turned to stone, every remaining trace of their carefree evening vanishing beneath the mask of duty. But her hands — her hands were shaking, betraying the terror that her expression wouldn't show.

"We're coming with you," Shiori decided, already calculating how to shield her friend from the council's heavy gazes. "It cannot—"

"No," Mito said firmly. Then, softer, an echo of the friend they had been laughing with moments ago, the only thing that could still Yume's rising protests, "No, thank you. Please."

"I'll escort you, at least," Akane offered gently. She had shared their childhood dreams once, before duty had claimed her too.

Mito stood, brushing invisible dust from her robes with hands that had steadied through sheer force of will. "No need. I know the way." She paused, not looking back at her friends. "I'll... I'll find you both later."

They watched her walk away, her red hair blazing in the last light of sunset.

Akane bowed and left, too. Below, the younger students continued their practice, seals painting dreams of glory across the twilight sky. But on the cliff's edge, two friends sat in silence.

And the whirlpools, ancient and indifferent, continued their eternal dance.

The first thing he knew was cold, sharp, and unfamiliar.

And terribly different from that evening on the cliff he had just been witnessing. He could still see Mito's red hair in the sunset, nearly burned in his mind, even as his consciousness struggled to orient itself.

From somewhere far away in the vast, bitter void, he heard a faint sound. Like a heartbeat getting closer, it pulsed and grew into a sphere of noise, as if the world itself was rushing toward him, until, finally, it crystallized into coherent speech.

The echo of breaking glass still rang in his ears — or was that just the blood pounding in his head? His mind pieced itself together slowly, fragments of then and now colliding like debris in a whirlpool. Fire snapped nearby.

Someone spoke.

He didn't want to open his eyes. Heat and light played against his eyelids, but he felt a chill welling up inside him, too. It seemed to come from somewhere deeper than bone. He was too drained even to shiver, and only wanted to sink back into the darkness — back to where three friends sat sharing umeshu and dreams not yet broken.

"Are you awake?" The speaker's voice carried an unfamiliar lilt.

Language itself felt slippery, though he knew he'd learned this one recently — or had he? Where did the idea even come from?

Light flooded in as he pried his eyes apart. Shadows danced on fur walls, cast by a nearby flame. Heavily clothed figures moved around the fire source.

He tried to think. He'd been walking, but where to? Where from? Why?

"You're with the Fujiki clan," the voice said. "We found you in the passes."

His muscles, stiff as though frozen for an age, barely twitched when he attempted to give any sort of acknowledgment. And the weight of someone else's heartbreak seemed to press him down as surely as the physical cold.

"The cold took much from you," the voice continued. "Your memories might be scattered for a while."

He did remember some things.

He remembered fires, rain, and moonlight on snow; the urgent need to keep moving, to reach somewhere — anywhere — that wasn't where he'd been. After that, nothing but that bottomless cold that still felt lodged inside him.

"We healed you," the same voice said. It came from a young woman with sharp, angular features and hands that moved with steady precision. He thought he had heard someone call her Okiku. At some point.

Movement remained impossible. Only the deep, pulsing cold registered, as if winter had seeped into his essence.

His gaze drifted to where pain bloomed strongest. Crystal-like patterns spread across his flesh, evidence of pushing himself too far, although he couldn't fully remember.

"The damage isn't permanent," Okiku said from somewhere above. "Your chakra network is stronger than any of ours." Wonder colored her tone. "It's already beginning to thaw and flow again…"

Sleep claimed him before worry could take hold.

His dreams carried him to Uzushio's embrace, to gentle climates, to sunbeams piercing verdant glass, to effortless warmth.

Consciousness returned like surfacing from ocean depths, slower this time, more deliberate. Though his body remained leaden, warmth had begun to reclaim its territory with a painful sting.

Alone, this time. The flicker of the fire drew his attention, smaller than before, yet somehow warmer now…

He slept again, and woke again.

He couldn't tell how much time had passed, only that the oppressive cold no longer dominated his every thought. Okiku's voice — for she was here again — was soft and clear when it broke the silence.

"You're lucky," she said, looking up from the book in her hands. "My sister, Otsuru, was the one who found you and brought you here. If it had been anyone else, you might still be out there in the snow. Frozen solid, and rather dead."

He blinked slowly, trying to find his voice, but the words stuck in his throat. Okiku didn't seem to mind his silence. She leaned forward slightly, studying him with a curious intensity.

"What were you doing out there?" she asked, her tone chiding. "Without even a cloak?"

The question hung in the air between them until her expression shifted, as if struck by a realization.

"Well, no, that is likely a wrong assumption on my part," she said, her fingers drumming thoughtfully against her book. "Scavengers might have stripped you of supplies. I've seen their handiwork before, after the storms passed."

He wanted to speak, to try and make sense of it, but the dryness in his throat made it impossible.

Okiku, sensing his struggle, reached for a small cup by the fire — mostly melted ice, he realized. She pressed it to his lips, tilting it carefully so he could sip. The water, though much too cold in spite of being near the flames, felt like pure, unadulterated relief.

"Don't strain yourself," Okiku said, noting his frustration. "The cold does strange things to the mind. It may return in time." She adjusted the furs covering him with practiced ease. "Don't concern yourself with payment. You had nothing when Otsuru found you, and we're not the sort to demand compensation from those who—" She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "Are so unlucky. You don't exactly look as though you've got a pouch of gin tucked away somewhere."

His gaze flicked to her, brows furrowing slightly. She offered a softer smile in return.

"You've been through enough just to survive out there. The storms..." She trailed off, her expression darkening like storm clouds gathering. "They've been getting worse, stronger than anything we've seen in years."

A shadow crossed the entrance of what he now realized must be what was called a tent. A girl entered, shorter than Okiku but with the same sharp features. Snow clung to her outer garments like pale flowers.

"The storm's picking up again," she reported, then noticed he was awake. "Ah. He's awake."

"Barely," Okiku said. "Please, don't bother—"

"I don't recall what happened," he managed, his voice rough as stone against sand. The water had helped, but speaking still felt like dragging words out. "…Before the snow."

Okiku and the newcomer exchanged glances.

"Well," the younger girl said, shrugging off her outer layer with practiced efficiency, "that's not surprising. I found you half-buried in a drift near the western ridge. No tracks leading to or from you — the wind had erased them all. Nothing on you, aside from that rather well-made hakama. Not a single gin." She settled beside the fire, warming her hands. Her sister seemed notably unimpressed by her words — she cleared her throat once, audibly. "Right. I'm Otsuru, by the way. Though I suppose you gathered that."

"The western ridge?" Okiku's brow furrowed, her earlier warmth giving way to something more calculating. "You never said that. It's... unusual. The storms always come from the east."

He tried to sit up, but his muscles protested sharply — almost as sharply as Okiku's warning gesture. Every movement felt like fighting through thick mud. His head spun with questions about where he was, how he'd gotten here, why he couldn't remember. But one detail nagged at him more than the others, something that felt important.

"What's gin?" he asked. The word didn't sound like a simple quirk of translation, which was what he had first assumed.

Translation? he thought numbly. Why am I translating—? Oh, right.

The sisters exchanged another glance, this one heavier than before. Their reaction wasn't alarmed, exactly, but held a new kind of curiosity.

"Ah," Okiku said, her tone softening deliberately. "I… don't know how you arrived here in the first place, but, assuming it's not simply a matter of you not remembering… Could you be from the southern territories, maybe? They mostly use ryō there, don't they, Otsuru?"

"Gold ryō in the south," Otsuru said, her voice carefully neutral even as her body tensed slightly. "Silver gin here. Copper in the smaller villages." Her eyes never left his face.

"Most traders prefer ryō these days," Okiku said. "Even here. The daimyō's new taxation policies have made it rather convenient."

"But he's not a trader," Otsuru observed, shifting her weight almost imperceptibly. "Your clothes..." She tilted her head. "They're not southern. Too light for our winters, sure, but not their style either."

Though Otsuru's hands stayed near the fire, her body spoke a different language. A subtle shift in posture, the angle of her head — it all betrayed a readiness. A short blade rested at her hip, a longer one on her back, but her focus had already narrowed to him. Although not unkind, not yet, her eyes were as sharp as the steel she carried.

"So," she said slowly, "where are you really from? The west? The east? They have their own currencies too, but it's rare to find their people this deep in our lands."

His head swam. He was either in Iron — or, worse, Snow. Questions surged in his mind, a torrent too fierce to swim in. The pounding in his temples made it harder still. He closed his eyes, forced his breathing steady, and slowly began to try and recall how he'd ended up here.

"I don't..." he started, then swallowed hard. "Is that important?"

Okiku's shrug seemed casual, but there was weight behind it. "Not unless you're from Fire."

He felt his muscles tense involuntarily. "Why is that?"

Otsuru blinked, as if surprised by his reaction. "After the airship accident, the border's been—"

"Sister," Okiku interrupted, her voice sharper now.

Airship.

The word struck something in him, and the memories crashed back like a wave breaking against rocks. The journey. The deaths. The shinobi. The deer. And, finally, the walk. His muscles tensed involuntarily.

Otsuru's hand moved, almost imperceptibly, to the short sword at her belt. The earlier warmth in her gaze had cooled to something far more guarded. Naruto didn't miss the shift.

Okiku raised a hand, signaling calm. "Perhaps," she said with deliberate care, "you should tell us where you're from. Exactly."

The fire crackled between them, and somewhere outside, the wind howled louder.

i/YlBk3q : Shori, Yume, and Mito

i/Yl9M4A : Extra — Shiori Wasn't Born Old

i/Yl9Lrq : Extra — Wrong Setting

AN: Promise it's not a story about Naruto getting possessed by Shiori's remnant or anything like that!

Now, I forgot I had drawn the Extra for today already, so I guess we're going with two this week.

Next chapter: Drifters of the Iron Roads