The Senju clan's central chamber was carved deep into a stone ridge overlooking the forest. A solemn place—built not for comfort, but for decisions of war and governance. Flickering torches lined the walls, their flames casting long, warped shadows over carved stone faces of past clan leaders. The air inside was cool, dry, and heavy with judgment.
Itama stood alone in the center, his back straight though his limbs still ached from his recent healing. His brown robe clung to his damp skin, and a faint scar still marked his jawline where a blade had grazed him during the Uchiha ambush. The heat from the torches did little to soothe the chill running down his spine.
Arrayed in a semi-circle around him were the high council elders—seven in total, with Tobirama seated slightly apart but looming nonetheless. Each wore the formal armor of the Senju, draped in white and crimson. Their eyes, sharp and calculating, burned holes into him.
One of the elders, Lady Hoshima, a stern woman with braided silver hair, was the first to speak.
"You vanished from the battlefield during a confirmed Uchiha assault," she said, her voice crisp. "You were believed dead. What evidence can you provide that your story is true, boy?"
Itama's eyes remained steady. "I have no solid proof. Only the truth as I remember it. I was ambushed. I fought, but I was overwhelmed. Then I was found."
"By a rogue," growled Elder Fugaku, an older war veteran with a jagged scar down his throat. "You say he was a Senju. Where is his name? His lineage?"
"I never learned his name," Itama said. "He kept his identity hidden, even from me."
"Too convenient," another elder muttered.
Tobirama finally spoke, cold and measured. "And yet this unknown Senju not only rescued you from the brink of death but taught you healing ninjutsu and deception techniques?"
"Yes."
"How long were you under his care?" Tobirama continued.
"Nearly a year."
A murmur rippled through the chamber. That answer alone drew weight.
Elder Hoshima narrowed her eyes. "And yet you never returned? Not a single message? A signal? Even a flare?"
"I was weak," Itama replied, forcing control into his voice. "I barely survived the first weeks. He kept me hidden, said it wasn't safe. He believed the clan wars would destroy me."
"And what did you believe?" Tobirama asked.
Itama hesitated for the briefest moment. "I believed I owed my life to him. And I wasn't strong enough to defy him… not until recently."
A pause fell over the room, the silence thick with suspicion.
Elder Daiki leaned forward, his eyes narrowed like a hawk's. "You returned alone, unannounced. You were seen first by scouts, not by any patrol you sought out yourself. Why sneak back into your own clan's territory?"
"I didn't know how I would be received," Itama said honestly. "I didn't know if I would be welcomed… or treated as a liability. Or a traitor."
"You think we would turn away one of our own?" Lady Hoshima asked, bristling.
"I think you would do what's best for the clan," Itama replied.
That answer seemed to pierce something deeper.
Tobirama's eyes flicked slightly.
"You've changed," he said quietly. "Even your chakra… it feels different."
Itama didn't answer. But they were right—he had changed. The time in exile, the near-death experience, the training—it had reshaped not just his body but his very presence.
"You said you learned new techniques," Daiki prompted. "Show us."
Itama inhaled slowly, then brought his hands together in a slow, steady seal. His chakra flared subtly—not with force, but with control. A soft green hue enveloped his fingers as he formed a basic healing technique, something he had mastered under the rogue's guidance. The wound on his palm from a sparring session earlier in the day closed quietly.
Then, with a second, even slower motion, he altered the chakra signature—layering it with a subtle earth-nature tone, suppressing the green light so it seemed to fade to nothing. A deception technique, one meant to disguise the application of healing or chakra manipulation altogether. It was nuanced. Delicate. Not something taught in the Senju corps.
Several elders exchanged glances.
"That is not our technique," Hoshima said.
"No," Tobirama murmured. "It's older. Modified."
"Useful," Daiki noted. "Potentially… dangerous."
"And yet he returns offering it freely," Hashirama's voice rang suddenly, as he stepped into the chamber.
The council turned. Hashirama, though not technically part of the council, held such influence that none barred his presence.
"He has returned to us, not as a spy or a threat," Hashirama said, walking to stand beside his brother, "but as a survivor. One who endured what most could not. We should not condemn his absence—we should learn from it."
"You're too quick to trust," Tobirama muttered, folding his arms.
"And you're too quick to suspect," Hashirama replied calmly.
Tobirama's eyes locked on his brother. "That has kept us alive."
"I have no intention of betraying you," Itama said, addressing the council. "But I've seen what the war does to us. The pain, the loss. If you want the old Itama—the reckless boy who rushed into battles and dreamed only of glory—he died on that battlefield."
"And what stands in his place?" Hoshima asked.
Itama straightened. "A shinobi who knows what it means to lose everything. And one who won't let that happen again."
The silence that followed was long.
Finally, Daiki grunted. "We will monitor you, Itama Senju. You will not be assigned missions without oversight. You will report weekly to the intelligence division."
"Accepted," Itama said without hesitation.
"Dismissed," Hoshima said.
Itama bowed low, then turned and walked out. The weight of a dozen eyes pressed into his back as he went, but he did not falter.
Outside, the camp was quieter now, the sun just beginning to pierce the clouds.
Hashirama caught up to him. "You held your own."
"They don't trust me," Itama said.
"Not yet," Hashirama replied. "But they will."
Tobirama watched from the shadows behind the chamber entrance, his arms folded, face unreadable.
He wasn't so sure.