"Every trail begins with a lie. The second step is always truth." - Shinobi Proverb
The trail to Durama wound through blackened hills, where the soil still remembered the First Scarring. Ken walked ahead of the caravan, restless as always, his hand never far from the hilt of his blade. Behind him, Kabe kept his pace steady, eyes sharp on the ridges. The supplies they escorted rattled in wooden carts, guarded by fellow shinobi and a handful of soldiers.
Durama rose ahead like a scar carved into the earth. Its square walls, black as obsidian, caught the dull light of the morning sun. Unlike the round walls of Evalia or Harama, Durama's walls had no grace. They were a fortress first, a home second. Each stone had been dragged across mountains, etched with the ashes of villages burned in the old wars. To see it was to remember what Tilbara had once lost.
Ken let out a low whistle. "Doesn't look like much of a home."
Kabe shot him a look. "It's not meant to. Durama isn't for comfort—it's for survival."
As they approached the gates, horns sounded. The great iron doors opened, and Prince Qinglua himself rode out with a small retinue. Even in armor, he carried a regal calm, his eyes holding both kindness and the weight of countless decisions.
"Welcome, shinobi of Harama," Qinglua greeted, his voice strong enough to reach the whole company. His gaze lingered on Ken and Kabe for a moment, as if measuring them. "Your supplies are timely. Durama has been stretched thin."
Inside the fortress, the air was heavy with tension. Markets were quiet, soldiers marched in rigid lines, and children clung to their mothers as if sensing what was coming. The fortress bore strength, but it also carried fragility—every face carried fear hidden just beneath discipline.
That night, a council gathered in Durama's stone hall. Qinglua stood at its center, flanked by generals and advisors. Maps stretched across the table, marked with red stones for enemy sightings.
"They've tested our borders three times this month," Qinglua said gravely. "Outsider scouts. And worse… hybrids. They are probing for weakness."
One general slammed his fist on the table. "Then let us strike first! Burn their nests before they gather strength."
Another shook his head. "To strike first is to break the Compact. The people will lose faith if Tilbara is the aggressor."
Ken shifted uneasily, the debate like a storm above his head. Kabe, however, leaned forward, watching, learning. He saw what Ken did not—the cracks forming not just in the fortress, but in the council itself.
The meeting ended unresolved. Peace versus survival. Ideals versus necessity.
That night, while others slept, Ken climbed the battlements. He stared at the northern horizon, where the sea lay hidden behind mist. His hand brushed the stone wall, cold and rough.
And then—movement.
Shadows in the dark, flickering just beyond torchlight. Too many to be a patrol. Too quick to be merchants. The silence broke with a low growl, carried on the wind.
Ken's breath caught. "Kabe," he whispered to himself, already running. "It's starting."
The alarm bells of Durama rang out like iron striking iron. Soldiers poured to the walls, torches flaring against the night. Ken sprinted along the ramparts, shouting, "Kabe! On the north wall!"
Kabe was already there, bow slung across his back, kunai ready in his hands. His eyes narrowed as the shadows resolved into shapes—outsiders, twisted men and beasts both, crawling from the mist. Some carried crude weapons of black steel. Others were hunched, their bodies warped, jaws too wide, eyes glowing faintly.
"They're not here to test us," Kabe said coldly. "They're here to bleed us."
The first wave hit the walls with a crash. Ladders slammed against stone, claws scraped, arrows hissed through the dark. Ken leapt into the fray, blade flashing, cutting down a creature before it reached the top. Beside him, Kabe struck with precision, every throw sinking into vital joints.
From below, a soldier screamed as one of the hybrids dragged him over the wall. Another fell to an outsider spear. The fortress shook with the weight of its first real siege in years.
Prince Qinglua stood at the gate, his sword raised high, his voice cutting through chaos: "Hold the line! Durama does not fall tonight!" His presence steadied the soldiers, but even he could see how thin the defenses truly were.
A sickly-sweet stench rose as one of the hybrids collapsed, its body unraveling into ash. Ken staggered back, clutching his stomach. "They… they're not alive. Not fully."
Kabe pulled him back to his feet. "Then cut them down twice if you have to."
For hours the fight raged, the fortress walls dripping with blood and ash. But slowly, the attackers retreated into the mist, leaving only broken ladders and the moans of the wounded behind.
As dawn bled into the sky, the survivors gathered in silence.
Ken wiped his blade clean, his hands shaking despite his grin. "We won, didn't we?"
Kabe's jaw tightened. He looked out beyond the walls, where the mist still lingered like a living thing. "No. This was only a message. The real attack hasn't even begun."
Prince Qinglua joined them, his armor dented, blood streaking his cheek. He placed a hand on each brother's shoulder. His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of the whole island.
"Remember this night," he said. "Durama has shown us the truth: peace is fragile. And it will break again."