Suna

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Two days later, they prepared to leave, accompanied by Hokage's entourage. Among them was a silver-haired shinobi, presumably one of Sarutobi's most trusted. Like A, Sarutobi had chosen to keep their numbers small. In the subtle dance of diplomacy and power, each gesture, each decision, was loaded with significance.

With a swift farewell and a final glance at the vibrant village behind him, Ryomaru fell into step with Raikage and their party, the path ahead brimming with uncertainty and new experiences. Alongside them, the silver-haired shinobi who had accompanied them from Konoha remained a silent yet constant presence.

Ryomaru was curious about the shinobi. His curiosity wasn't merely rooted in the shinobi's silence, but in the unyielding sense of calm he emanated. The shinobi seemed to be an enigma, a puzzle begging to be solved. His one visible eye conveyed a sense of discerning wisdom that piqued Ryomaru's interest further.

Seeking a break from the silence, Ryomaru turned towards him, his ice-blue eyes curious. "I didn't catch your name back in Konoha."

"Hatake Kakashi," came the immediate reply, the masked man's voice serene yet distant. Despite his cryptic personality, there was a hint of familiarity in his voice, as if Ryomaru reminded him of someone from his past.

Ryomaru let the name sink in, the syllables chiming in his head. He inclined his head in acknowledgment, "It's nice to meet you, Kakashi-san."

Their journey was a whirlwind, days blurring into nights as they sped across the expansive landscape that separated Fire Country from Wind. The River Country was but a blur of green and blue as they moved with an urgency that left no room for pitstops. Their mission was clear - to deliver Ryomaru safely back to Cloud.

During their journey, Ryomaru found himself engaged in several conversations with Kakashi. He discovered that the older shinobi was as eloquent as he was cryptic. His words, often veiled in layers of implication, sparked Ryomaru's curiosity and provided ample food for thought.

At one point, while the landscape rolled past them in a monotone of greens and blues, Ryomaru asked, "Kakashi-san, what do you think about the student exchange idea?"

Kakashi paused for a moment before answering, his lone visible eye focused on the road ahead. "It's a mature idea for a young shinobi like yourself, Ryomaru. Exposure to different cultures and ways of life can only benefit you and others involved. But it would require a delicate balance of trust between the villages. That could be a challenge."

The young boy nodded, appreciating Kakashi's honest evaluation. He was right. The political dance was far from over, and whether the seeds of their negotiation would bear fruit remained a question only time could answer.

The landscape morphed around them as they raced across the River Country's borderline, giving way to the Wind Country's vast, wind-swept deserts, a stark contrast to the lush foliage of the Fire Country. The trip was uneventful, marked only by the relentless passage of time and the occasional shift in scenery. Their pace was relentless, moving with a speed that belied the distance they covered.

Upon their arrival at the outskirts of the Sand Village, the group was greeted by the imposing silhouette of Kazekage Raasa. His towering figure was clad in traditional Kazekage robes, the sun casting an intimidating shadow behind him. Behind him, a respectful distance away, stood two children, Temari and Kankuro, who bore the same intense gaze as their father, their youthful faces marred by the seriousness of the occasion.

"Raikage-sama, Hokage-sama," Raasa greeted, bowing deeply. His voice was thick with formality, the air around him crackling with an unspoken tension. "Welcome to Sunagakure."

Ryomaru observed the exchange silently, his gaze drifting from the stern-faced Kazekage to his children, then to the seemingly endless expanse of the desert stretching out behind them. His eyes flickered with a mix of curiosity and contemplation, taking in the sight of the unfamiliar village with its sandstone buildings, the wind sweeping across its stark expanses in constant motion.

A returned the Kazekage's greeting with a curt nod, his face stoic, revealing none of his thoughts. "Kazekage-sama."

Sarutobi offered a small smile, easing the tension ever so slightly. "We appreciate your hospitality, Kazekage-sama."

The greetings were brief, the weight of the occasion setting a somber tone. The distance between the shinobi leaders represented more than physical space; it was a testament to the fragile relationships between their villages, a silent echo of their tumultuous history.

Ryomaru took a moment to study Temari and Kankuro. He was about the same age as them, yet their eyes bore the same hardened, resolute look that marked their father's. Their presence here was a reminder of their positions as the children of a Kage, the weight of their responsibilities evident in their stance.

Breaking away from his thoughts, Ryomaru looked at his father, his voice steady, "Raikage-sama, perhaps we should proceed?"

"Of course," A said, meeting his son's gaze briefly. He turned his attention back to Raasa, "Lead the way, Kazekage-sama."

Raasa's gaze turned to his children, his stern features softening ever so slightly. His orders rang out clear and authoritative, echoing slightly in the cool desert air, "Temari, you lead Raikage-sama and his son. Kankuro, Hokage-sama and his advisor are your responsibility. Take them to their accommodations."

As the orders were given, Temari, no older than Ryomaru, stepped forward with a firm nod, her sharp gaze never leaving A and Ryomaru. "Follow me, Raikage-sama, Ryomaru-san," she stated, her voice bearing an impressive degree of confidence for a child her age. Her sea-green eyes shimmered with a mixture of apprehension and determination as she led the way. Kankuro mirrored his sister's actions, leading Sarutobi and Kakashi away in another direction.

Ryomaru found his gaze trailing after Temari as they traversed the sandy pathways, lined with towering sandstone buildings. The village was distinctly foreign, its architecture dictated by the desert's harsh climate, as stark as it was striking.

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