The monastery gates shuddered under the weight of claws and snarls. Outside, the hounds prowled along the cliff path, their red eyes gleaming like embers in the dark. Each impact against the wood rattled the iron staples until dust trickled from the beams.
From inside, Kharsa Monastery looked less like a holy sanctuary and more like an old beast bracing against the hunt. Monks hurried across the courtyard, robes snapping in the wind. They fed juniper branches into braziers, their smoke rising sharp and bitter. Bells chimed unevenly, warning the valley as much as they warned each other.
Arya pressed his back to a pillar, chest heaving. His palm still glowed faintly beneath his sleeve, as though the storm inside him refused to rest. Every nerve in his arm felt raw. He had killed hounds—shadows that bled smoke instead of blood. But instead of triumph, only dread filled him.
Mira crouched beside him, one hand gripping his shoulder until her knuckles whitened. "You held them off," she said firmly, as though saying it would make him believe it. "Without you, they would've torn us apart."
Arya shook his head. "It wasn't control. It just… happened. If I miss, if I lose it—"
"Then you learn," she cut in, eyes hard. "That's what Yeshe keeps saying, right?"
The blind monk was already in the center of the yard, calm as if the siege was a test she had expected. "The storm answers will with shape," Yeshe said, her pale eyes fixed on nothing. "You have the spark, boy, but not yet the hand to guide it."
The elder of the monastery approached, his bald head gleaming with sweat though the air was cold. Lines cut deep into his face like old riverbeds. "Sister Yeshe," he said, bowing slightly. "You were warned not to bring the storm-bearer here."
"Yes, Brother Tsering, I was warned," Yeshe replied evenly. "Warnings are walls, and doors exist to be passed through."
His gaze shifted to Arya, not angry but heavy. "Do you know what follows you, boy?"
Arya swallowed. His voice cracked when he answered. "The Rakshasa."
"Not only him," Tsering said grimly. "When Narak stirs, balance breaks. Demons hunger, men covet, and even gods stir in their sleep. To carry the storm mark is to be hunted by all."
The gate boomed again. Splinters leapt from the wood. A few monks faltered in their chants, but Tsering's sharp gesture steadied them. "Even men will turn against you," he said. "Power draws envy as easily as it draws fear."
Arya's chest tightened. He thought of Captain Sagar's name whispered in the city. He thought of the red eye that had watched him on the rooftops. "So what am I supposed to do? Keep running forever?"
"Yeshe" raised her cane and struck the ground. The sound rang like a bell. "No. You choose. Either you lift your hand of your own will and bind yourself to the storm, or you refuse—and it will hunt you through every street and shrine until you are hollow."
Mira stepped closer to Arya, eyes fierce. "Then he chooses here. With us."
The elder Tsering frowned. "Do not push him, girl. Choice must be his. Else the oath will break before the ink dries."
Arya's palms slicked with sweat. His breath came too fast, shallow. "And if I say yes? What then?"
"Then you live," Yeshe said softly. "At least long enough to make the yes matter."
The doorframe cracked under a new blow, this one different—heavier, deliberate. The air shifted, colder than mountain wind. Arya felt it in his bones. It wasn't the hounds this time. Something else was coming.
Tsering's expression hardened. "The herald."
Yeshe faced Arya again, her blind eyes steady. "The oath cannot wait. Place your hand on the altar. Let the storm know you accept it—not as accident, not as curse, but as vow."
Arya's knees buckled. He didn't move until Mira touched his hand. Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "Do it, Arya. Because if you don't, we're all dead."
He staggered to the altar in the yard, a slab of stone carved with shallow grooves shaped like a trident. Charcoal smudges blackened its edges from old rites long forgotten. He hovered his hand above it, trembling. The mark in his palm pulsed brighter, almost eager.
"Yes," Yeshe murmured. "Now."
Arya pressed his palm against the cold stone. The grooves lit up instantly, lines of white fire racing outward like veins awakening. Energy surged into his arm, searing up his shoulder, wrapping his chest in a cage of thunder. His teeth clenched until he thought they might crack.
He heard the storm's voice again, deep and heavy, like the weight of clouds pressing down on the earth: Will you bear this and be bound? Will you fight until shadow falls, or will you break?
Arya gasped, sweat stinging his eyes. He thought of running, of hiding, of stealing food in alleys where no one looked at him twice. He thought of Mira standing in front of him with her cracked staff, defiant. He thought of Yeshe, blind yet seeing him clearer than anyone ever had.
"Yes!" he shouted, the word ripped from his chest. "I'll bear it!"
The altar flared. Symbols burned into his veins, lightning freezing in his blood. The gate groaned one final time—and splintered.
The hounds surged through. And behind them, a shadow taller than a man stepped into the yard.