Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There is a city.

It sits at the farthest edge of Fire Country, hugging the coastline like an afterthought. It possesses no grandeur, no defining trait to set it apart from the hundreds of other nameless settlements scattered across the land.

To call it a city at all is a linguistic generosity—one born more from habit than any genuine qualification. A haphazard cluster of run-down houses, patched together with the barest semblance of planning, sprawls across uneven terrain. Crooked alleys and dirt paths twist between buildings that lean too far into one another, as if whispering secrets only the wind can hear.

Anyone who ventured into this place expecting adventure would leave sorely disappointed. One could wander its streets from dawn to dusk, searching for something of note, only to emerge at the other end empty-handed and shaking their head.

There was no baker boasting of the softest, warmest loaves in all the land.

No painter eager to capture a nobleman’s likeness in hurried brushstrokes, hoping for a handful of coins in return.

Only the people. Fishermen and their families, sun-worn and weary, too preoccupied with the daily struggle of survival to care for luxuries such as art, beauty, or even idle chatter. Their days were spent wrestling the sea for a meager bounty, their nights mending nets under dim candlelight.

The city, if one dared to call it that, remained untouched by the world beyond.

Many who lived there preferred it that way.

Beyond its borders, war raged eternal.

For as long as anyone could remember—four generations, perhaps more, though few here were literate enough to keep records—conflict had defined the land. The chaos of distant battlefields, the clash of steel and the whispers of treachery, never quite reached their isolated shore. And so, they remained disconnected, existing in the spaces left untouched by history.

It suited them.

It suited the occasional shinobi wanderer as well.

It was always shinobi who stumbled upon this place, for no proper roads led here, no trade routes cut through its borders. They arrived sporadically, draped in mystery, eyes sharp with stories they would never tell.

Some had black eyes that bled red when angered. Others carried wild, spiky hair and gazes calculating as a predator’s. There were those with shock-white locks and teeth sharpened to points, grinning like wolves sniffing at an unfamiliar den.

They always left.

There was nothing for them here.

As strange as this city’s mere existence was, it held no secrets, no hidden treasures. It was a place forgotten, a place ignored. Most shinobi stayed for a night, perhaps two, before vanishing like ghosts into the wilderness once more.

But before they left, there was always one stop to make.

At the heart of the city stood the only establishment capable of offering any form of amusement to weary travelers—outsiders and residents alike.

A building adorned with painted flowers, their bright colors faded beneath the weight of time and salt air. A red gate, once vibrant, now chipped and peeling. Above it, a weathered sign proclaimed its name in proud, bold lettering:

The Comfort House.

And as such places were known to do, The Comfort House occasionally produced new citizens—little lives born of brief encounters, their origins never in question, yet never spoken of aloud.

The townspeople did not ask. They did not need to.

And so, with great reluctance, this most unremarkable city found itself known for something rather remarkable indeed.

The people fought against the name, resisted it with every fiber of their being, but it was no use. What had once been nameless, had now procured an identity. Whispered in hushed tones across taverns and trading posts. It spread, carried by merchants and sailors, until it became an undeniable truth.

The City of Bastards.

Ask the villagers, and they would weave elaborate, spiraling tales of how the city swarmed with them. Hundreds, they would insist. Demons, every last one of them! Best stay far, far away.

Ask the head of The Comfort House , and she would scoff. No more than four dozen, she would say, dismissive. Harmless little things, though they look half-feral. Pay them no mind. Then, with a honeyed smile, she would lean forward. Are you sure I can’t interest you in a room?

Ironic, how her words—so sweet, so inviting—ensured the cycle continued, birthing more of the very children she so openly despised.

In the end, the numbers didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter how many there were, or how inconvenient the world found their existence.

The only thing that mattered was this:

They all remembered.