The storm passed, but its echo clung to the monastery like smoke after fire. The gates were reinforced with beams of pine, roped tight against the cracks the hounds had left behind. Monks moved like water through the yard, quiet and efficient—mending timbers, binding wounds, chanting soft prayers that hovered in the air like a second wall.
Arya sat on the temple steps with a bowl of broth cradled in his hands. Steam curled into the cold air, carrying the scent of bone and juniper. His body shook from exhaustion, but it wasn't only his muscles. The mark on his palm pulsed faintly, like a coal refusing to die.
Mira slumped beside him, blowing across her own bowl. "If this is monastery food," she muttered, "I could get used to hiding out in holy places."
"You won't," Brother Tsering said as he passed them a piece of bread. "But we like you exactly as you are." His tone was flat, but Arya caught the faintest tug of humor at his mouth.
Yeshe leaned against a pillar, her blindfold freshly wound, her posture still and strong despite the toll the night had taken. "Eat," she said, cane resting across her knees. "Strength will be needed again soon."
Mira groaned. "Can't we have one day of peace? Just one?"
"No," Yeshe said. "Not while the herald still lingers."
Arya swallowed hard. He had felt it—the unfinished face, the voice that had tried to move his bones. Even now, the memory of its presence made his chest tighten. "Why me?" he whispered. "Why does it keep calling me storm-bearer like I was… chosen?"
Yeshe tilted her head as if listening to voices only she could hear. "Because the storm answered you. Once it speaks, you cannot silence it. Narak knows this."
Before Arya could respond, the bells along the monastery wall rang once—sharp, deliberate. The courtyard froze. Monks set down tools and weapons alike, all eyes turning toward the gates.
A line of figures emerged from the mountain trail. Not beasts this time, but men. Twelve soldiers in white-cloaked armor, runes glimmering faintly along their breastplates. At their center strode a tall man wrapped in a dark cloak, his helm removed to reveal a calm, handsome face carved from stone. In his hands, he carried a trident—not glowing, not wild, but steady, etched with golden runes that pulsed like a heartbeat.
He stopped just beyond the broken gate and spoke in a voice that carried like a temple bell. "Mother Yeshe. I am Captain Sagar of His Majesty's Trident Guard. I request parley."
The monks on the wall shifted uneasily, staffs at the ready. Yeshe rose with unhurried grace, stepping forward until her cane tapped the stones between them. "Parley asked is parley given. Speak, Captain."
Sagar's eyes found Arya instantly, as if the boy had stepped forward without moving. His gaze held no malice, but no softness either. "The crown thanks you for safeguarding what belongs to it. We have come to escort the storm-bearer to the capital, where he may be taught to master his gift without endangering the realm."
Mira snorted, gripping her staff. "He isn't a goat that wandered off from the royal stables."
Sagar's eyes flicked toward her, then back to Arya. "No. He is an unregistered oath, carrying a mark meant to be sealed by the King's priests. Do you know the danger you place yourselves in by harboring him here?"
"Yes," Yeshe said simply. "And still, we choose it."
The captain's trident struck the ground once. The golden runes along its shaft brightened. "The law is clear, Mother. The boy must come with me. If he resists, I will be forced to return with writs that will not spare your monastery."
Brother Tsering spat into the dirt. "Paper burns faster than wood."
Sagar's lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. "And yet paper commands armies."
Arya stood slowly, heart hammering. "I'm not going with you."
The captain studied him in silence, then inclined his head. "I expected as much. Children always mistake refusal for strength. But strength is in bending before you break."
"Funny," Arya said, surprising himself with the steadiness of his voice. "That's what the herald tried to tell me too."
Something flickered in Sagar's eyes—recognition, perhaps even respect. "Then you already know: this is not finished. The storm makes its own enemies. You will see me again."
He turned sharply, cloak swirling. The twelve soldiers moved as one, retreating down the path until they vanished into the pines.
Silence held in the courtyard until the bells gave one last uneasy chime. Mira let out a breath she'd been holding. "Well. That went well."
Arya's knees nearly gave out beneath him. "Who… who was he really?"
"An arm of the King," Yeshe said. "But worse, a hand willing to shake with demons if it keeps his grip strong."
Brother Tsering leaned heavily on his staff. "He'll return. And next time, he won't ask."
Yeshe nodded. "Then we must leave before dawn. South, to Changu Narayan. Only there will the boy learn enough to face what follows."
Arya touched his palm, feeling the faint glow beneath his skin. The storm stirred at the name of the shrine, restless, eager, afraid. He had taken an oath, but he knew now—it was only the beginning.