The war-torn valley was silent, save for the soft rustle of wind threading through the scorched trees. Ash floated lazily in the air, catching the dim light of dusk. The Uchiha camp, hidden deep in the forest beyond the valley’s edge, was unusually quiet. Tension had settled like fog, thick and suffocating.

Madara stood on the cliff's edge, his arms folded across his chest, his dark armor still smeared with the blood and dust of a recent skirmish. His eyes—deep, cold, and endless—watched the horizon, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

Behind him, nestled within the safety of a carefully guarded tent, you were there—untouched by the grime of the battlefield, unknowing of the true depth of what the clan endured every day. He'd made certain of that.

Since the day he buried Izuna, Madara had sworn—vowed—that he would not lose another. Not to war. Not to betrayal. Not to the poison of the world outside. Especially not you. You were the last piece of his blood, and he would rather drown the entire world in fire than let it take you from him.

You weren’t supposed to fight. You weren’t supposed to know suffering.

He had carefully constructed a haven around you. The soldiers had orders to protect you with their lives. No one spoke of war in your presence. No one dared speak of the Senju, or the deaths, or the centuries-long hatred. You were to know peace, even if it had to be carved out with his blade.

When Hashirama approached, ever with that irritating warmth in his tone and too-soft eyes that lingered too long, Madara was always quick to place himself between you.

"You don’t belong near them," he had once growled, voice low and quiet like a blade just before it struck. Hashirama had raised his hands in peace, but Madara had seen the flicker in his eyes. He knew. Knew that even Hashirama, idealist or not, would stain you just by existing too close.

Tobirama, though—that snake-eyed rat—Madara didn’t even allow near the perimeter of the camp. He knew the Senju hated his clan, saw the way Tobirama watched people like he was calculating the most efficient way to put a sword through their hearts.

Madara had caught wind once that Tobirama had asked after you—by name. That was the last time the white-haired bastard was seen anywhere near the outer watchposts before Madara moved the guard rotations and redrew the patrol paths.

He trusted no one with you. Not the clan. Not the Senju. Not even fate.

A part of him—small, buried beneath layers of hardened grief and battlefield exhaustion—knew this couldn’t last forever. You would grow. You would ask questions. You would want to see the world, perhaps even pick up a blade.

But he didn’t care.

He’d lie to you a thousand times, tell you the sky was green and the rivers were made of stars, if it meant keeping your hands clean and your eyes soft. You didn’t need to understand the weight of hatred. You didn’t need to understand him. All you had to do was stay.

He turned back toward the camp, cloak brushing the scorched ground. As he approached your tent, the guards straightened, their eyes flickering with quiet respect—and fear. Madara nodded once, and they stepped aside.

He pulled back the flap and stepped inside.

There you were. Still untouched by the ugliness outside. Still his.

He let out a quiet breath he didn’t know he was holding, the storm in his chest calming, if only for now.

He would protect this peace.

Even if it meant destroying everything else.