Chapter 2

It began with the sound of wings.

Feathers whispering through the night air — black, endless, familiar.

Itachi opened his eyes to darkness so complete it felt alive. The dream had not yet faded. He was standing in the ruins of a temple he did not recognize, yet the scent of myrrh and ash clung to the stones. Above him, the sky bled between twilight and void.

At the center of the ruins, a single candle burned.

Its flame was silver, not gold, and it did not flicker even when the wind sighed.

A child stood there, haloed by that strange light.

His hair was sunlight turned to motion, his eyes molten amber.

Itachi’s heart stuttered — recognition without memory, love without name.

“You’ll find me,” the boy said, his voice carrying the weight of stars. “But when you do, remember: not all light saves.”

The flame shattered.

The world collapsed inward, swallowing him whole.

He woke with the taste of smoke on his tongue.

The chambers of the Obsidian Citadel were steeped in shadow, walls veined with the faint pulse of dark crystal. The air was cold enough to sting his throat, yet the silence felt warm — the familiar hush of a kingdom that had long learned to worship what others feared.

Itachi lay still for a long moment, watching how the black candle by his bedside guttered and righted itself as if breathing. His body felt light, his mind heavy. Dreams had always come to him like storms, but this one had left an after image burned behind his eyes — the child of flame, the promise, the warning.

He sat up slowly, the silk of his robes whispering against the fur coverlets. Outside his window, the night never ended. The Shadow Kingdom lived beneath a half-lit sky, where Tenjin’s sun could not fully rise. The faint line of dawn that marked their horizon was called the Vein of Darkness, a boundary between day and dream.

A knock.

“Itachi-sama?”

He recognized the voice — Karin, one of the court scholars. Quiet, efficient, and as faithful to him as shadow to flame.

“You may enter,” he said.

The door slid open, releasing a soft gust of cold. Karin stepped in, head bowed, her red hair a rare color in this monochrome palace. She carried a scroll pressed against her chest.

“My lord,” she said. “The augurs speak of tremors beneath the Flame Kingdom. They say Tenjin stirs.”

Itachi’s gaze flicked to the obsidian window. “The gods stir every century. That is their nature.”

“Perhaps,” Karin replied, “but the ravens have crossed the border. The high seers say one flew from the Flame’s capital itself.”

The mention made something inside him tighten. He saw, again, the child in the dream — hair like gold fire, eyes full of knowing. He pushed the thought aside, careful to keep his voice calm.

“Inform Lord Fugaku that I will attend council after dawnmark. And prepare the divining basin. I wish to confirm these tremors myself.”

Karin bowed low, but before she could leave, Itachi added softly, “And, Karin — no word of this to the others. Not even to my brother.”

She hesitated only a breath. “As you command.”

When she was gone, Itachi rose. His reflection in the crystal mirror looked unreal — skin pale as snowlight, eyes deep with something unreadable. The mark of the Uchiha bloodline shimmered faintly at his throat: a sigil in the shape of a half-moon cradling flame.

He traced it with his fingertips. “So the cycle begins again,” he murmured.

The corridors of the Citadel were lined with living stone, veins of obsidian pulsing softly as he passed. Statues of the old gods loomed from alcoves — serpents of night, angels with faces cracked by centuries. In the main hall, the great mural of Tenjin stretched from floor to ceiling: half bathed in flame, half consumed by shadow, its divided hands reaching toward each other but never meeting.

He stopped before it. The artistry was flawless, yet he always thought the god’s expression looked lonely.

“You gaze too long again, my son,” said a voice behind him.

Itachi turned. Lord Fugaku, his father, stood tall in ceremonial armor blacker than midnight. The years had not dulled his presence; he looked carved from the same stone as the Citadel itself.

“Father,” Itachi said, bowing slightly. “The tremors—”

“I know,” Fugaku interrupted. “Our spies in the Flame Kingdom confirm strange awakenings among their priests. The prophecy of Tenjin is being whispered again.”

“So the world turns to myths when truth frightens them,” Itachi replied. “Perhaps it is merely coincidence.”

“Do you believe in coincidence?”

Itachi’s eyes flicked back to the mural. “No. Only in patterns we haven’t learned to read.”

Fugaku’s mouth curved, not unkindly. “Then read this one, my son. The flames rise again, and shadows will be blamed. When the world hunts darkness, it is we who must know its purpose.”

He placed a heavy hand on Itachi’s shoulder — both pride and warning. “You are my heir. Remember: the balance between light and dark was never meant to be broken. But if it must, let the breaking begin on our terms.”

As his father departed, the torches dimmed. Itachi lingered, eyes tracing the god’s two hands, wondering what might happen if they ever touched.

Later, in the divination chamber, he knelt before the Basin of Midnight — a pool of enchanted water so dark it reflected only truth. He cut his palm lightly with a ceremonial blade and let a drop of blood fall.

Ripples spread. Images formed:

— the Flame Temple glowing red under sunrise,

— a young man with eyes of gold, whispering to fire,

— a raven flying north.

Itachi inhaled sharply. The name came to him unbidden, whispered by something older than thought.

Menma.

He saw flashes: the same boy he’d dreamt of, but older, standing before an altar, defying gods. The vision burned through his mind like sunlight through frost. For a moment, their gazes met across the impossible divide of fate, and the world seemed to tremble between them.

When the water stilled, Itachi found his heart racing. The wound in his palm had already closed — Tenjin’s mark healing faster than mortal flesh should.

A quiet voice echoed inside him, low and resonant, like the rumble beneath mountains.

“Find the flame. Bind it. Or it will consume the world.”

He looked down at the basin. His reflection stared back, eyes now faintly burning with crimson light — the first sign of the curse his bloodline carried. He whispered to it, “And if I am the shadow meant to meet him?”

The reflection smiled — a cruel, knowing curve of his own mouth.

“Then you already have.”

That night, sleep refused him.

He climbed the outer battlements of the Citadel, cloak whipping around him in the wind. Below, the valleys of the Shadow Kingdom stretched endless and dark, their rivers glinting like threads of mercury. Far away, on the horizon, a faint flicker of red light pulsed — the Flame Kingdom’s distant dawn.

He remembered the warmth of that light from his dream. He wondered if somewhere, the boy — Menma — looked back into the same sky, thinking of shadows.

“Fate,” he murmured, “is a cruel weaver.”

From the corner of his vision, a raven perched upon the parapet. Its feathers shimmered with starlight. It cocked its head and spoke, voice human in its clarity.

“The gods have begun their game again, Itachi of the Shadow.”

He did not flinch. “And what are we in this game, bird?”

“Pieces.”

“Pieces can become players.”

The raven’s laughter was soft, almost fond. “Careful, heir of darkness. Defy Tenjin, and even your shadow may burn.”

Before he could reply, the bird took wing, vanishing into the night.

When dawnmark came — though the Shadow Kingdom knew no true dawn — Itachi stood before the council assembled in the Hall of Veins. Nobles, priests, and warriors all waited, torches reflecting in their pale eyes.

He spoke simply. “The Flame Kingdom moves as their prophecies stir. Tenjin whispers again. Whether god or omen, we must act.”

A murmur rippled through the hall. Lord Fugaku watched silently.

“Prepare the Shadow Watchers,” Itachi continued. “We will not strike — not yet. But I would know the truth behind their visions. If light trembles, darkness will answer in kind.”

When the council dispersed, Fugaku approached. “You sound as if you already know whom you will find.”

Itachi’s lips curved faintly. “Perhaps I saw him in a dream.”

“Then pray,” his father said, “that it remains only that.”

But as Itachi looked toward the horizon where the faintest red shimmered, he knew prayer would not be enough. Fate had already tied its first knot. The Vein of Darkness pulsed once, as though the world itself had drawn breath — and in that moment, Menma and Itachi’s hearts beat in perfect rhythm across kingdoms.

The prophecy had awakened.

And Tenjin was watching and waiting to be awaken.

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