My first day of training started before dawn.
Elder Hana woke me by throwing open the shutters and letting the cold morning air flood into my room. I'd been dreaming about my mother—she was brushing my hair, the way she used to, humming a song I didn't recognize—and the sudden brightness made me blink and sputter.
"Up," Hana said. "The seal waits for no one."
I stumbled out of bed and followed her to the dojo. The floor was cold against my bare feet. Scrolls were spread out on the mats, along with brushes, ink stones, and stacks of practice paper.
"Fuinjutsu is the art of binding," Hana said, settling onto a cushion. "We bind demons. We bind elements. We bind the laws of nature themselves. But before you can bind anything else, you must learn to bind yourself."
She placed a blank scroll in front of me and handed me a brush.
"Draw a circle."
I drew a circle. It was lopsided.
"Again."
I drew another circle. Better, but not perfect.
"Again."
We drew circles for three hours. By the end, my hand was cramped, my eyes were blurry, and I had drawn over a thousand circles. Some were round. Most were not.
"The circle is the foundation of all seals," Hana said, examining my best attempt. "It represents eternity. Completion. The cycle of life and death. If you cannot draw a circle, you cannot draw a seal. And if you cannot draw a seal, you are not an Uzumaki."
"I am an Uzumaki," I said. "My mother was Akari Uzumaki."
"Your mother was the greatest seal master of her generation. You have much to live up to." She handed me a fresh scroll. "Again."
I drew another circle.
At noon, my father took over.
He didn't say much during training. He never did. He just stood across from me in the dojo, his body relaxed but ready, and waited for me to make the first move.
"Come at me," he said.
I threw a punch. He caught it and twisted my arm behind my back.
"Again."
I tried a kick. He swept my legs out from under me.
"Again."
I threw a shuriken—badly, because I'd only practiced throwing them a few times before. It bounced off the wall and landed at my feet.
"Again."
By the end of the afternoon, I was covered in bruises and too tired to stand. My father knelt beside me and examined my Sharingan, which had been active for most of the session.
"One tomoe in each eye," he said. "Normal for a first awakening. But the color is different. There's gold in them. I've never seen that before."
"Is it bad?"
"Not bad. Just... different." He stood up. "Rest. Tomorrow we start again."
I lay on the floor of the dojo and stared at the ceiling. My body ached. My eyes burned. And I still had to spend the evening with Kushina, who would probably cry and throw up on me and demand to be held.
I missed my mother so much it felt like a physical wound.
The evenings were the only good part of the day.
Kushina was a difficult baby. She cried all the time—when she was hungry, when she was tired, when she was bored, when she was held by anyone other than me. The nursemaids were at their wits' end. They tried everything: different bottles, different blankets, different songs. Nothing worked.
But when I held her, she stopped crying.
I didn't understand why. Maybe she recognized my chakra. Maybe she could smell our mother on me. Maybe she just knew, on some instinctive level, that I was safe.
I would sit in the rocking chair by the window, Kushina in my arms, and watch the sunset paint the sea orange and pink. She would stare up at me with those blue eyes, and I would tell her stories.
"One day," I said, "we're going to leave this island. We're going to see the world. There are mountains so tall they touch the clouds, and forests so deep that the sun never reaches the ground. There are cities made of stone and cities made of paper and cities that float on the water like boats."
Kushina gurgled.
"And I'm going to protect you," I said. "From everything. From everyone. I don't care how strong they are. I don't care how many of them come. I'll keep you safe."
She reached up and grabbed my finger. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
"That's a promise," I said.
I meant it.