The mountain winds cut sharp through the narrow valley, carrying the scent of wet pine and smoke from distant shepherd huts. Arya's lungs burned as he stumbled after Mira, boots slipping in the mud of the trail. The storm mark on his palm still throbbed faintly, a reminder of the vow Yeshe had forced upon him only hours earlier.
Yeshe walked ahead with a steady stride, her cane tapping against stone though her eyes were white and unseeing. The blind monk moved as if she could feel every crack in the mountain beneath her feet. Prayer beads clinked faintly with each step, their sound steady even against the howling wind.
"You fight the storm, boy," Yeshe said, her voice calm but firm. "You must learn to guide it, or it will consume you."
Arya clenched his glowing hand tighter. The skin around the mark still felt scorched. "I didn't ask for this."
"Yes," she said, "but the storm did."
He wanted to shout, to demand answers, but the exhaustion of running from Bhaktapur to the monastery pressed down on him like stones. Mira offered him a flask of water, her own breath ragged. "Don't argue with her," she whispered. "She's kept us alive this far."
Arya scowled but drank anyway, the cold water burning down his dry throat.
The trail curved sharply, and suddenly the monastery came into view. Kharsa Monastery clung to the cliffside like a nest of stone and prayer flags. Its roofs sloped like folded hands, bells swaying and tolling faintly in the wind. Dozens of prayer flags fluttered across the slope, colors faded but still bright against the gray storm clouds. The sight should have brought relief, but Arya's chest tightened instead. He felt eyes on him, invisible yet heavy.
Mira slowed, her eyes widening in awe. "It's real," she breathed. "I thought it would be smaller."
Before Arya could take in more, the air shifted. At first, he thought it was the wind changing, but then he heard it—low and rhythmic, like the beat of drums. No, not drums. The pounding of hooves. The sound grew louder, echoing off the valley walls.
"Yeshe," Mira whispered, gripping her staff. "We're being followed."
The monk tilted her head, her blind eyes narrowing. "They have come sooner than I expected." She tapped her cane once against the earth, the sound echoing like a command. "The Rakshasa's hounds."
The forest below erupted. Figures burst from the treeline—hulking, ash-skinned creatures with red eyes that glowed like coals. Their jaws snapped as they bounded up the slope, claws tearing into stone. Drool hissed where it struck the ground, burning the soil. Arya stumbled back. There weren't two or three of them—there were dozens. No, more. A tide of darkness climbing toward them.
His chest seized. "What do we do?"
Yeshe planted her cane firmly in the ground. The wind shifted around her, pulling at her robes though she stood unmoving. "You learn."
Arya's throat closed. He had no weapon. He barely had control of the cursed lightning surging inside him. His legs trembled, but Mira stepped in front of him, staff shaking in her grip. "If he won't, then I will!"
Yeshe's lips curved faintly. "Courage is good. But he cannot run from what is already in his blood."
The storm mark flared in Arya's palm, white-hot. Pain seared his arm, forcing him to cry out. Lightning cracked across the valley sky, a jagged spear of light splitting the clouds. The hounds faltered for half a breath, but then their snarls grew louder, more eager.
Arya raised his hand, not to hide the mark, but because something deep inside screamed at him to release it. His pulse raced with the rhythm of the storm itself. Heat and cold fought in his veins, his body a conduit for something far greater than him.
The first hound lunged, saliva flying, claws outstretched. Arya's palm blazed. A streak of lightning shot from his hand, striking the beast mid-leap. It shrieked, body convulsing before collapsing in smoke. Arya gasped, stumbling back. He had done that. Not the shard. Not by accident. Him.
But the victory was brief. More hounds surged forward, leaping over the fallen. Mira swung her staff wildly, striking one across the snout. It barely flinched, jaws snapping inches from her face. Arya's instincts screamed, and another bolt shot from his hand, this one less controlled. It struck the ground, splitting stone and throwing both hound and Mira aside.
"Mira!" Arya yelled, heart hammering.
She groaned, pulling herself up. "I'm fine. Keep going!"
Yeshe's chant rose behind him, words Arya didn't understand, but their rhythm steadied him. The monk's voice carried through the chaos, weaving into the storm like thread into fabric. "Guide it," she said. "Not too tight, not too loose. Like water in a channel."
Arya's teeth clenched. He lifted his hand again, forcing his breath to match her rhythm. The storm inside him surged, threatening to tear him apart, but he pressed it forward. Lightning struck again, this time hitting two hounds in one arc. Their bodies smoked, their howls echoing down the valley.
The others slowed, circling warily now. Their red eyes glowed in the darkening storm, but they did not retreat. Arya realized then that this was only the beginning.
He lowered his hand, chest heaving. Mira stumbled to his side, her staff cracked, her face pale. "You're getting it," she whispered. "You're… you're actually controlling it."
Arya swallowed hard, staring at his trembling hand. The storm wasn't just in him—it was him. And for the first time, he was terrified not of losing it, but of what would happen if he mastered it completely.