Naruto: Rise of the Fallen Princess

The wind had been crueler in the Land of Wind.

Before reaching the forests of Fire, Hinata and her companions had crossed the shifting sands of Kaze no Kuni — a land of harsh sun, endless dunes, and survival shaped by scarcity. Life did not flow there. It clung.

They traveled from oasis to oasis, where settlements clustered like stubborn flowers in a desert of stone. Water was precious. Every drop was rationed, every trade measured in weight, effort, and subtle negotiation. It was a place where trust came slow and prices came high.

Hinata learned quickly that the people of the desert did not waste words. Haggling was an art form — a form of combat, really — and when a merchant walked away from a bad deal, the losing party was often left with a small gift: the shell of a desert snail, dried and light as bone. It was called the caracol of loss — a reminder that the desert does not reward the soft.

Emi had been the first to receive one, after misjudging the price of steel-wire thread for Ayaka's traps. He stared at the spiral shell in his hand, then glanced sideways at Ayaka.

"So… is this supposed to be a joke?" he muttered.

"No," Ayaka replied flatly, arms crossed. "It means you lost. But they're letting you keep your pride. Be grateful."

Souta had laughed until the merchant offered him one the very next morning.

Masaru, naturally, never received one. His tongue was sharper than any blade, and his smile more dangerous than a drawn sword. He spoke like a man who had once sold air to a nobleman and made him thank him for it.

Kenshiro had taken to the desert with quiet dignity. He watched, he listened, and he learned. At one oasis, he taught local children a game of spinning chalk stones in circles to determine the wind's direction. They called him Old Windfather for it.

As for Hinata, she moved with respectful grace. She wore the veil when necessary, removed her sandals at the threshold of desert shrines, and always asked for the names of the well-keepers before drinking. She gave when others hesitated — a water skin to a wandering herbalist, a strip of clean bandage to a child with a snakebite scar.

"Too generous," Masaru had warned one evening. "You'll earn yourself a snake's gratitude and a scorpion's envy."

Hinata had only smiled, her hand gently stroking Mitsue as the white serpent coiled comfortably across her shoulders. "Perhaps. I've found that a snake is a great companion when treated gently... and maybe a scorpion can be the same."

The desert had not changed her. But it revealed more of her light.

They had arrived at the border of Sunagakure beneath the wavering heat of midmorning, their cloaks stained with sand and their eyes squinting against the light. The village, carved into the cliffs and shielded by vast walls of stone and reinforced mesh, had welcomed them with a formality as dry as the air itself. The Kazekage's emissaries had guided them through its wind-swept courtyards and shaded corridors, but beneath the customs and political etiquette, Hinata had felt the tremors of tension and pride — and something quietly hopeful. Her time there had been brief, but not meaningless.

<<<< o >>>>

During that same leg of her journey, one of Hinata's spiritual projections — cloaked in ceremonial robes and carrying the dignity of Yumegakure no Kai — had been permitted by the Daimyō of the Land of Earth to travel through the desolate outer reaches of his territory. These were lands forgotten by maps, where roads were little more than memory and power meant silence rather than law.

This projection, though intangible most of the time, was accompanied by three armed soldiers — not of the noble guard, but rough men of practical cruelty, used to ruling by fear in places too far to report back. They carried what little she had asked to bring: scrolls, offerings, medicinal supplies, all prepared by her true self before she sent the clone forth. The clone could not eat, could not rest, but she could act — briefly, and when needed — with the appearance of full presence.

One soldier laughed at her robes. Another made a game of kicking dust into the food stalls of villagers they passed. The youngest, barely older than a boy, kept his eyes down and said little.

The poverty was staggering. Villages barely clung to life. Wells were nearly dry, children gaunt and wide-eyed. No official visited these places. No healer came. The Silver Priestess, however, did.

She listened. She sang softly. She told of a dream-world where sorrow lightened and breath came freely — not a promise of salvation, but a place that existed if only in moments of peace. She offered bandages and salves through the hands of her escorts, guided the weak to shade, and gave quiet prayers that lingered like silver mist.

The soldiers grumbled. Then I watched. Then began to carry things without being asked.

In one village, the eldest struck a merchant in anger. Hinata intervened. Her form solidified for only a moment — just long enough to take the merchant's hand and place within it a folded slip of silver-dusted paper. Then she returned to stillness.

The merchant wept.

From that day on, the eldest soldier kept to the back.

The second stopped teasing the children. The third began to speak with her directly, even offering her shade with a travel cloak she could not truly feel.

By the end, the priestess had passed through eight villages. And in each, something remained. People looked at the sky a little longer. They whispered to the wind. They lit candles at night.

At the final village, the youngest soldier — face sunburned, hands cracked — removed his helmet and bowed low.

"You weren't sent to help them," he said. "But you did. And us, too. I won't forget."

The priestess raised a hand in blessing. Then, fading with the light of the day, she vanished. Only footprints and a silver ribbon remained.

Later, rumors spread across the Land of Earth. Of a veiled woman who passed through the poorest roads. Of ghost prayers, silent kindness, and sleeping children who smiled in their dreams.

Soon after, strange dreams began to ripple across the borderlands of the Land of Earth. In villages where the priestess had walked, children whispered of a vast white world seen behind their closed eyes — a place of gentle wind and soft silence, with a silver tree at its center that shimmered like starlight.

Adults dreamed too. Of calm fields, warm light, and the sense that their burdens had lifted — if only for a while. No one could explain it, but all agreed: it began the night the priestess left.

And slowly, in forgotten corners of the nation, hope began to bloom like hidden flowers after the rain.

<<<< o >>>>

From a high balcony deep within the Kazekage's tower, Kankurō watched as the diplomatic entourage from the Land of Iron departed the inner court. His mind lingered not on their discipline or armor, but on the one figure whose presence had stilled the air itself — Hinata Gin.

She had arrived a day earlier, escorted respectfully through the canyon gates of Sunagakure and placed in guest quarters normally reserved for visiting nobles. There had been no delay, no incident. Only an unspoken ripple through the shinobi ranks, as if something more than political weight had crossed their threshold.

The next morning, Kankurō himself had been assigned to escort her to the Daimyō's compound just beyond the northern watch. It wasn't usual for the Kazekage's own brother to serve as guide, but nothing about this visit had been usual.

When they arrived, the daimyo of the Land of Wind was already in attendance — seated beneath a crimson canopy, flanked by his advisors. Beside him stood a samurai of the Land of Iron, one who had clearly arrived ahead of Hinata to announce her intentions. Kankurō noted that with a frown. Either they had means of messaging that evaded detection, or this priestess walked paths others didn't see.

The meeting was not long, but it was... different. She spoke to the daimyo not with deference, but with grace. She praised the resilience of the desert people, their creativity under duress, their sharp minds in trade. She even made a comment about learning to appreciate the desert snails— those small snail shells given as signs of loss in a bad deal — a joke that made the daimyo himself laugh aloud.

Later, when asked whether she had truly passed through the Land of Earth, she admitted it with a nod. Her smile held no offense, but her words carried weight.

"I think I prefer the Wind," she said. "I was allowed to see its essence. What I saw on the Earth... felt arranged."

Kankurō had felt the weight behind that phrasing. So had the daimyo. But the moment passed with more smiles than tension.

The meeting ended on friendly terms. As they walked back through the shaded stone corridors of the daimyo's hall, Kankurō found himself lost in thought — until Hinata's voice, calm and clear, cut gently through his reverie.

"Kankurō-sama," she said, glancing up at him with unreadable warmth, "Would you and your siblings do me the honor of joining me for tea before I depart? I would very much enjoy the chance to speak a little more."

He blinked, caught off guard.

Then he smiled. "Yeah... I think we'd like that."