The council tent brimmed with an uneasy quiet, thick with unspoken judgments. Elders gathered around the central table—veterans of war, commanders of squads, and clan advisors weathered by decades of bloodshed. Scrolls and inkpots lined the table, but none had been touched since sunrise. Outside, a ring of guards kept watch as if preparing for an enemy to breach the camp—not from beyond, but from within.
Itama stood at the far end, posture straight, expression calm despite the tension knotted in his chest. His armor was clean, his hair tied back, but no amount of preparation could erase the piercing stares of those who questioned his loyalty.
He could feel it in their eyes—the accusations. Some didn't even try to hide their contempt.
"You've endangered our clan with your reckless behavior," growled Elder Hoshiki, his scarred brow furrowed as he leaned over the table. "Interfering with a high-level mission, sparing Uchiha combatants, speaking with Madara himself—what part of your actions speaks of a Senju loyal to his own blood?"
"I acted to prevent the very thing you claim to fear—war," Itama replied steadily. "Had that assassination attempt succeeded, we would be fighting already."
"Your intentions aren't in question, boy," muttered another elder, her voice brittle as dry bark. "But intentions mean little when consequences ripple far beyond one man's judgment."
Tobirama stood in the shadows to the side, arms folded tightly, his face unreadable. He had said his piece earlier—he hadn't needed to repeat it. Though he had not demanded exile, his message had been clear: Itama's growing influence threatened the fragile unity within the Senju ranks.
Hashirama had yet to speak.
He sat at the head of the table, elbows resting gently on the worn surface, his hands folded beneath his chin. For much of the deliberation, he had listened without interruption, his gaze bouncing between the elders and Itama, observing like a man looking at fault lines beneath a crumbling wall.
When silence fell again, all eyes turned to him.
Hashirama slowly rose, his height casting a long shadow across the table. The fire at the center crackled faintly, the only sound in the stillness.
"I remember a boy," he began, his voice quiet but carrying strength. "Smaller than the others. Quieter. But when it counted, louder than all of us combined."
His gaze met Itama's. "A boy who once stood in front of his older brothers with a stick, swearing he'd protect us. No matter what."
The room was still.
"I thought we lost that boy," Hashirama continued, eyes glinting. "But he lived. And when he returned, he was no longer a boy—but a man who carried the weight of silence, exile, and survival. Not for glory. Not for vengeance. But because he still believed in us."
Some elders shifted uncomfortably.
"You call his actions reckless," Hashirama said. "I call them courageous. You call his talks with the Uchiha dangerous. I call them necessary. He did what few among us dared to try—he listened."
A murmur ran through the room.
Tobirama narrowed his eyes slightly but said nothing.
"Do you want to know why I trust Itama?" Hashirama continued, stepping around the table to stand beside his younger brother. "Because he's not swayed by power. Or pride. Or politics. He chose a path others scorned because he believed it was right. And he's proven—again and again—that he's willing to walk it alone."
He turned to face the council again, voice rising.
"If we cannot trust the shinobi who risks everything to preserve our chance at peace, then what do we trust? Hatred? Revenge? Old blood debts? That is the path that brought us to ruin before. And I won't see us follow it again."
A beat of silence passed, and Hashirama placed a firm hand on Itama's shoulder.
"Let me be clear: I will not accept Itama's resignation. He remains envoy. He remains commander. And he remains a Senju."
A few elders looked away in frustration. Others stared at the fire, pensive. But none challenged him.
After a long moment, Hashirama turned and motioned toward the exit.
"This council is adjourned."
Slowly, reluctantly, the elders filed out. Some offered nods of respect to Hashirama as they passed. Most avoided looking at Itama at all.
Tobirama was the last to move. He remained still, arms crossed, until the room was nearly empty.
"You still believe he can lead us forward?" he asked, voice quieter than before.
"I do," Hashirama said.
Tobirama met Itama's gaze briefly—something sharp in his eyes. Then he walked out without another word.
Outside, the afternoon light had shifted, casting long shadows through the tall trees around the council tent. The camp was quieter than usual, hushed as if even the wind was listening for what would happen next.
Itama let out a slow breath. "You didn't have to do that."
"I did," Hashirama said, smiling faintly. "Because I believe in the same thing you do."
"Peace?"
"Peace," Hashirama said. "And you."
They walked together out into the light, the flame of trust between them burning a little brighter than before.
The path ahead remained uncertain—tensions still simmered, and war had not yet released its grip on the world. But at least now, Itama knew he wouldn't have to walk it alone. And that—more than titles, more than commands—was the foundation of something new.
Something worth fighting for.