Distant thunder and silent concern

Time, like water dripping from the eaves, slowly ticked by in the measured yet subdued rhythm of the aristocratic mansion. Uchiha Aoi gradually grew taller, losing some of her five-year-old roundness. Her features gradually took on the delicate features of a young girl, but deep within her dark eyes, a hint of silence and worry belied her age. She became increasingly adept at playing the role of the noble lady, Aoi. Her manners were impeccable, her words and actions were measured and appropriate, and her occasional displays of cleverness were perfectly timed, like a carefully polished, gentle piece of jade.

However, this magnificent prison was not completely isolated from the outside world. News from far away about the conflicts in the ninja world would always sneak in like wind accidentally leaking through the window, carrying the smell of gunpowder and blood, and entering her ears, stirring her heart that was pretending to be calm.

The sources of the news were often fragmentary and vague. Sometimes it was a few casual after-dinner comments from my grandmother when she was entertaining visitors with even a passing connection to the military or intelligence services; sometimes it was gossip heard by servants in charge of purchasing from the marketplace and passed into the mansion as anecdotes; sometimes it was even the hushed whispers of the maids, a mixture of fear and excitement.

"I heard that things are getting uneasy on the northern border again. It seems like two large ninja clans are fighting each other, and many people have died..."

"Yeah, yeah, it seems to be something like 'Senju' and 'Uchiha'? Those ninjas are really scary..."

"Shh! Keep your voice down! Don't let the masters hear us talking about this..."

Every time these words—"battle," "conflict," "Uchiha," "Senju"—pierced her ears like icy needles, Aoi's hand, still wielding a brush as she practiced calligraphy, would pause imperceptibly, leaving a tiny dot of ink on the rice paper; or her fingers, arranging flowers, would tremble slightly, knocking the stems they had just adjusted. She would immediately lower her eyelids and pinch her palms, using the pain to maintain the appropriate blankness befitting her position and the slight fear that came with hearing about bloodshed. She couldn't show any excessive concern, couldn't question, couldn't delve into the matter, and could only let the words pass by like the wind, as if they had nothing to do with her.

But a huge wave had already been set off in her heart.

Every time she heard the name "Uchiha," her heart felt like it was being gripped by an invisible hand, a suffocating pain and worry spreading instantly. Brother... Madara-brother... How is he? Is he on that horrific battlefield? Is he injured? Is he... still alive?

Those fragmentary, often vague and even contradictory reports became her only window into the bloody world beyond, and also the source of her daily torment. Upon hearing of an Uchiha victory in a minor skirmish, she would secretly breathe a sigh of relief in the dead of night, only to be immediately overwhelmed by the fear of even more intense battles to come. Upon hearing of a mission gone awry with heavy casualties, she would remain awake for nights, her mind filled with the terrifying image of Madara covered in blood, surrounded.

She began to pay closer attention to any channels that might reveal information about the outside world. She would visit the library more frequently, pretending to browse geography or history books, hoping to find even a fragment of information about the current situation (usually to no avail). She would listen more attentively to her grandmother's conversations with visitors, trying to piece together bits of useful information from the subtle, witty exchanges.

There was no place to express this worry, no way to express it. She could only bury it deep within her heart, like a burning charcoal fire, searing her internal organs day and night. Sometimes, under the pretext of "appreciating the night view," she would stand alone under the corridor, gazing northward at the night sky toward the Uchiha clan territory, even though she knew there was nothing to see. She would pray silently, to any possible deity, praying for her brother's safety. The small stone from the Uchiha clan territory, which she had hidden better, became her only spiritual sustenance, clutched tightly in her palm on countless nights of worry, until it was warmed by her body heat.

This silent worry became the most turbulent undercurrent beneath her noble lady's calm exterior. She knew that world was far away, powerless to change anything, not even qualified to express concern. She could only wait here, in this safe gilded cage, a heart consumed by the distant flames of war, silently and agonizingly for the next scrap of news to arrive from nowhere. Every whiff of it was like a torture. And she had nowhere to escape.