Chapter 3

The omen came at twilight.

For three days and nights, the heavens above Tenrai were torn between two suns. One burned gold, steadfast and bright—the other blackened, eclipsed yet pulsing with strange life. At the hour when their light touched, every flame across the realm flared blue. In the temples of Hikarui, candles wept molten silver; in the catacombs of the Shadow Kingdom, the eternal braziers hissed and went dark.

The people whispered that Tenjin had opened His eyes.

In the Flame Kingdom, the council was called before dawn.

Golden banners fluttered along the hall of mirrors, their reflections bending as though heat itself had come alive. Menma stood at the dais beside his father, the High King, who sat rigid beneath the bronze effigy of the Sun God.

Priests crowded below, their faces drawn with awe and terror. One of them—a trembling novice—read from a cracked scroll that had not been opened in a century.

“When twin suns share the sky,

and fire weds shadow’s cry,

the breath of gods shall rise anew—

the world unmade, the chosen two.”

The words seemed to burn the air as he spoke. Renga, the high priest, bowed his head, voice low and reverent.

“Your Majesty, the Prophecy of Tenjin has awakened. The gods mark the heirs of flame and shadow.”

The court erupted in whispers. Ministers and nobles traded glances; some made the sign of the spiral, others spat salt onto the floor for luck.

Menma’s jaw tightened. “Prophecies wake every generation,” he said, his tone steady though his pulse thundered. “And every generation mistakes its own for the last.”

Renga lifted his eyes. “This is no common omen, Prince. The blue fire and the darkened sun—signs of divine convergence. The heirs have been chosen.”

The king turned to his son. “Menma. You dreamt of this before it came to pass, did you not?”

The hall fell silent. Menma felt the weight of every gaze press into his back. He could still see the faces from his dream—two children divided by light and dark, reaching for each other across the void.

“I dreamed,” he said quietly, “but dreams are no proof of fate.”

“Dreams,” Renga murmured, “are how gods remember the future.”

The king’s expression darkened. “If Tenjin has chosen His vessels, then we must ensure the flame triumphs. Prepare the priests. Let every province pray. If shadow stirs, it shall find no purchase here.”

Menma bowed, hiding his unease. As the council dismissed, he lingered by the window, staring at the horizon where dawn should have broken. Instead, the sky burned half gold, half violet-black, as though the world could not decide which side it belonged to.

Brother… wherever you are, do not look at the sky tonight, he thought. Do not listen if it calls your name.

Across the border, beneath a sky where stars flickered like dying embers, the Shadow Kingdom held its own counsel.

The great hall of Onikage was carved from obsidian, lit only by the pale green glow of witchfire. Lord Fugaku sat upon the throne of bone and stone, flanked by his eldest son, Itachi, whose calm masked the tremor running beneath his skin.

Before them stood Orochimaru—the kingdom’s most gifted seer and most dangerous liar. His voice slithered like smoke.

“The heavens speak, my lord. The curse of Tenjin has begun to unravel. Flame seeks shadow, and shadow hungers for flame.”

He lifted a blackened scroll and unfurled it. The script shimmered faintly, alive with forbidden sigils.

“When flame forgets the gods,

and shadow guards the sin,

their hearts shall bind the sky—

and Tenjin shall awaken within.”

The courtiers shifted uneasily. Some muttered that it was blasphemy; others whispered that it was destiny.

Fugaku’s eyes narrowed. “You claim the gods choose mortal vessels.”

“They always have,” Orochimaru replied. “But this time, their choice will devour the world.”

He turned, and his yellow gaze lingered on Itachi. “You felt it too, didn’t you, young prince? The dream.”

The hall seemed to still. Itachi’s hand curled at his side.

“I saw light and shadow,” he said carefully. “But dreams are smoke. They mean nothing.”

Orochimaru smiled, slow and knowing. “Nothing… or everything. The bloodlines of Uzumaki and Uchiha have always been conduits. It is written in your marrow. The heirs will meet—and when they do, Tenjin will wake.”

Fugaku slammed a fist against the armrest. “If such fate exists, then we will cut it from the root. Prepare the shadows. The Flame Kingdom must not realize what we know.”

Later that night, Itachi walked alone through the gardens of the citadel. Moonlight lay in thin sheets across the ponds, and for a moment the water reflected not one moon, but two—one bright, one eclipsed.

He knelt by the water’s edge, touched his reflection, and saw another face beside his own: a boy of sunlight, laughing, radiant. A boy he’d seen only once as a child, across the river that marked the border between kingdoms.

He whispered the name he’d tried to forget.

“...Naruto.”

The ripples swallowed the image. The water went still.

In the Flame Kingdom, Menma sat in the royal library long after the candles had guttered. Scrolls lay scattered across the table—ancient hymns, prophecies, fragments of Tenjin’s scripture. He traced the lines with a shaking finger.

“Flame and shadow, born of one breath,

their meeting the world’s undoing,

their parting the gods’ rebirth.”

He shut the scroll and pressed his hands to his eyes. No. It cannot be him. It cannot.

Behind him, Renga entered quietly. “You search for loopholes in the divine.”

“I search for mercy,” Menma said hoarsely. “If Tenjin intends to use my brother, then He will find I have none to spare.”

Renga’s expression was unreadable. “Defying fate is like striking fire with bare hands—you may hold it for a moment, but it will burn you all the same.”

Menma rose, meeting his gaze. “Then let it burn.”

Far away, lightning forked across the twilight sky that both kingdoms shared. For the first time in a thousand years, thunder spoke in Tenjin’s voice.

“The flame shall wander.

The shadow shall seek.

In their union, I awaken.

In their sorrow, I am complete.”

The words rolled across mountains and seas. Animals fled. Rivers boiled. The twin suns drew closer.

And in their separate palaces, Menma Uzumaki and Itachi Uchiha woke from the same dream, breathless and afraid.

Each whispered the same thought into the silence:

It can’t be them.

But deep within the heavens, the gods smiled—for destiny never asks permission.

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