Night over Sunagakure

***

      The fiery orb of the sun had long sunk beyond the horizon, and gentle twilight flooded the valley. The wind was dry and cold; it carried no scents but sand, for it was born in the dominion of the Desert. It sighed sharply and silently in the looming gloom, and its breath, lethal and desolate, was laden with the dust of crumbled rocks. There, on the frontier between two worlds, sand met stone and tough grass — and retreated. Under the canopy of trees, marred by numerous cracks and fissures, the shadows deepened, and the moon could not illuminate their mighty roots. The darkness was silent: only occasionally the wind stirred the giant branches, causing the trees to groan as if in pain.       Yet in the fallen night, something stirred, something defied it. Matte armor did not reflect light but the movements, swift and thus alien to this petrified world, betrayed the presence of men.       They fled from the desert, leaving barely any traces in the sand. There were three of them in cloth wraps that concealed their faces and protected their heads from the sun. That was typical of dwellers of those lands. Their precise movements identified them as shinobi, and the protectors on their foreheads marked their allegiance to Sunagakure, the Village Hidden in the Sand.       “Sunagakure relies on us,” whispered a tall man, turning to his companions. They nodded briefly and followed him. The forest swallowed them, and the valley paused in anxious anticipation.       “Do you remember why we are here?” came the low, insinuating voice again. Without waiting for a reply, the man raised his hand, signaling the group to halt. He turned to his companions — who, unblinking, caught every one of his movements with eyes that gleamed in the darkness — and placed his hands on their shoulders. Then, abruptly, even fiercely, he nodded his head forward, pointing to something that awaited them in the black depths of the forest.       “We must do this at any cost.”       The young shinobi flinched, and this did not escape the notice of their commander.       “We will not leave our village to be torn apart by this demon,” he said gravely.       “Lord Sabura…”       Their voices rang with an unmistakable, almost feverish excitement. Commander Sabura nodded tensely. Tadao and Takeshi, twins, were his favored pupils. The concealment techniques of this team were the best in their village: few could cross the borders of the Fire Country unnoticed. Commander Sabura had taught them everything he knew, and most importantly, he had passed on to them his will and convictions.       “Sunagakure will be free,” whispered one of the twins. “Without Konoha and without the demon-Kazekage dancing to its tune.”       “Gaara is mad,” echoed his brother. “Feared and hated… Time will not change this, for there are things that cannot be forgiven.”       Sabura leaned forward and pressed their foreheads to his. “The Hidden Leaf knows this well,” he said softly. “But they won’t kill a mad dog until it bites their hand. We must start this war.” Each of them was prepared for what would come next.       “Sabura-san, three o’clock!” The shinobi dropped to the ground, immediately taking a defensive position. “Someone is approaching. I sense their chakra.”       Takeshi pressed his fingers to his temples.       “Five hundred meters… four hundred fifty… four hundred.”       He looked at his sensei, waiting for the command to apply the concealing technique. But Sabura only clenched the kunai tighter in his strong hand.       “Three hundred meters. Commander, why are there so many? Why does Konoha need such a patrol at the border with the Wind Country?” Tadeo felt his heartbeat quicken treacherously. “Their chakra… There’s something wrong with it… They can’t be living people… I only sense one, but the others…” “Puppets?” his brother interrupted. “Summoned creatures?”       Commander Sabura remained silent, peering into the darkness. It was unwise to engage in battle so far from their goal unless the shinobi managed to send a warning to Konoha. But every technique falls apart after its owner’s death. Whoever he was and whoever he summoned, tonight the shinobi patrolling the peaceful border was unlucky — he was alone against three. There would be no one to deliver his message, no one to rescue him. By morning, he would be just the first casualty of a great war…       “Breath of the Phantom Technique.”       The silhouettes of the three shinobi began to blur. With each passing moment, they became more transparent, soon vanishing completely.       Meanwhile, the darkness thickened. A dense ring of smoky shadows encircled the glade where the Sand warriors had stood moments before. The trees there were not so dense, and through their branches, the moon shed its light. Its gentle glow did not reach the ground. The gloom continued to swell, billowing and viscous. It could be likened to smoke, but smoke was never so black.       “Tadao, Takeshi,” Sabura called out in vain. His allies, concealed by his technique, were supposed to remain visible to him, yet his vision was veiled by darkness. “An illusion?”       “Disperse,” he commanded into the darkness. It did not recede, and Sabura decided to feel his way out of the black cloud. “There must be an end somewhere,” he pondered tensely. Like his vision, his sensory techniques failed him: in the curtain of smoke and strange chakra, he was utterly blind.       Several meters after he managed to see the silhouettes of nearby trees. The moon flickered between their crowns, reflecting in the commander’s eyes, on the blade of his dagger, on the protector bearing the symbol of the Sand Village… And then the night’s silence was torn by a scream.       The darkness ahead swiftly took shape. Sabura heard the cry as it wrapped around two figures—and suddenly snapped shut on them like a trap, crushing bone and flesh. Sabura dashed towards where the smoke was thickest. The twins' hands reached out to him, oozing blood that appeared black.       Sabura threw his dagger. A seal tied to the handle exploded ten meters ahead. In the light of the explosion, he saw the darkness swirl around the dagger, like a cluster of snakes disturbed by the heat.       “Fire Style: Fire Spiral!”       Sabura conjured a ring of flame, as if for protection, but immediately dived out of it, back into the darkness. The black smoke surrounded the circle, then shot up in a column at its center, swallowing the flames. The ravenous maw of the shadow trap snapped shut in the air.       At the same time Sabura caught a glimpse of a silhouette flitting between the trunks. He silently drew his katana and in one leap caught up with the shinobi who had killed his pupils. He invested all his strength in a strike meant to cleave the stranger from shoulder to groin, but his blade met only emptiness and smoke.       When Sabura sensed chakra behind him, it was too late. Had he turned a moment sooner, his opponent would have lost his head. But the enemy merely sighed as the blade passed through the dense smoke where his neck had been.       Sabura collapsed to his knees. A viscous warmth spread down from a wound inflicted by a shadowy dagger. “Damn you,” he exhaled faintly. His vision dimmed, and his eyes helplessly rolled back.       “Damn you!”       Before him stood the face of the Kazekage. Sabura read mockery in his empty turquoise gaze.       With his last effort, Commander Yoshimura forced himself to form seals. He broke into a painful cough. Blood touched his fingers, making them sticky.       “Yoshimura Clan Technique: Fire Rain.”       The sky brightened instantly. The unknown shinobi sat by a tree, desperately clutching a wound on his throat. A protector gleamed coldly on their shoulder. Blood traced the grooves in it, outlining the symbol of Konohagakure. It was indistinguishable now who had spilled it. The swarm of dark phantoms around him shrank, recoiling from the sudden light.       Sabura managed to see the sky flare up and catch fire. Flames were everywhere: he heard the crackling of trees and a cry filled with pain. His breath hissed from his lungs. Sabura wanted to rise — his mission was not yet over — but he felt something pierce his back just below the ribs. Grey eyes widened with pain. They reflected the fire.       “No…”       His own clothing began to smolder.       Sabura felt no more daggers.