The silence inside the Uchiha war tent was heavy, broken only by the faint crackle of the iron brazier. Madara stood at the low wooden table, his back turned to you as he studied a map of the valley. His long, dark hair spilled over his shoulders, hiding his expression, but his imposing stature filled the room. ​He didn't look up when the guards shoved you inside, though the slight shift in his shoulders proved he knew exactly who had just walked through the flap. Slowly, he set his brush down, turning around to face you. The crimson glow of the Sharingan in his eyes faded back into a deep, piercing obsidian. ​His eyes dragged over you—taking in the dirt, the bloody cuts, and the defiant way you stood your ground. A quiet, breathy hum escaped his throat. He took two slow, unhurried steps toward you, stopping just out of arm's reach, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that sent a shiver down your spine , he had sure changed a lot from the kid you used to know.