Dawn peeled across the mountains in thin ribbons of pale gold. Prayer flags strung along Kharsa's ridges cracked in the wind as Arya, Mira, and Yeshe stepped onto the narrow trail. The monastery behind them stood scarred but unbroken, its bells still ringing faintly in the morning air.
Arya glanced back once. Brother Tsering stood beneath the gate, staff planted firmly in the stone. He raised a hand in farewell but did not smile. The sight twisted Arya's chest. For all his grumbling, Tsering had looked at him without fear—a rare gift.
"Don't look back too long," Yeshe said as though she could see him. Her cane tapped the path in steady rhythm. "The mountain punishes divided steps."
Arya turned forward again, clutching the strap of his pack. The trail wound along a cliffside, the river far below catching shards of sunlight. His palm burned faintly beneath the bandages, a reminder that he had bound himself to something larger than he could yet imagine.
They walked in silence for the first hour. The path was too narrow for side-by-side chatter, and the cold bit at lips and lungs alike. Once, a mountain goat eyed them from a ledge, its bell clinking softly before it bounded away.
Mira broke the silence first. "Where exactly are we going? You said Changu Narayan, but that's… that's days away, isn't it?"
"Yes," Yeshe answered. "And every day we wait, the herald gains another step. The shrine will teach Arya what I cannot."
"What's there?" Arya asked. His throat was dry.
"Stone older than kings," Yeshe said simply. "And memories carved too deep to be erased. The trident was first raised there. The storm will know its birthplace."
The words gave Arya little comfort. His mind replayed the herald's unfinished face, its voice pressing into his bones. The vow he had spoken still rang in his chest, binding him. He wasn't sure if it was strength or chains.
By midday, the trail reached a rope bridge strung across a gorge. The river foamed below, white water snarling between jagged rocks. The bridge creaked with every gust of wind, planks weathered gray with age. Arya's stomach dropped.
"Single file," Yeshe instructed, testing the rope with her cane. "Breathe with the sway, not against it."
Mira smirked nervously. "Good thing I'm not afraid of heights." She stepped onto the bridge, boards groaning under her weight.
Arya followed, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the back of Mira's cloak instead of the raging river below. Every step made the bridge sigh. The wind pushed against him, and the storm inside his chest stirred in response, agitated by his fear.
"Small," he whispered to himself. "Stay small. Not here, not now."
The mark warmed, as if acknowledging him. He kept walking until his boots hit solid stone on the far side. He exhaled, knees shaking. Mira grinned. "See? Easy."
"Sure," Arya muttered, refusing to look back.
They climbed higher, into a pass where the world opened wide. Peaks thrust up like gods wearing crowns of snow. Valleys below lay filled with mist, shifting like oceans of milk. Arya slowed, awestruck despite himself. For a fleeting moment, the storm in his chest felt less like a burden and more like a pulse that belonged to the mountains themselves.
Then he heard it.
A low horn, distant but strong, rolled across the ridges. It wasn't the call of any shepherd or temple bell. The sound carried weight, pulling at the marrow of his bones. Mira stiffened. "That wasn't wind."
"No," Yeshe said. Her voice was flat. "That was a summons. The herald's leash is not yet cut."
Arya's breath caught. "He's coming?"
"Not yet," Yeshe said. "But his shadow stretches long. Keep walking."
They pressed on, faster now. The trail bent through a line of trees, their branches heavy with frost. Arya's fingers tingled against his bandages. He didn't want to ask, but the words escaped anyway. "What if I can't control it when we face him again?"
"Then you learn again," Yeshe said calmly. "Every mistake is another page. You have many pages left to write."
They stopped at dusk near a ridge, the sun bleeding red across the horizon. Snowflakes drifted lazily in the fading light. Arya knelt by the fire Mira struggled to coax from damp wood. His muscles ached, his mind heavy, but his palm burned bright beneath the bandage as if reminding him it hadn't rested.
Yeshe sat apart, chanting softly, her face tilted toward the wind. Mira huffed as the fire finally caught. "I still don't get why this shrine is different," she muttered. "What's so special about old stones?"
Yeshe's chanting paused. She turned her blind eyes toward the flames. "Because gods listen where they were first spoken to. And Narak fears the echo of his own defeat."
The words sank into Arya like stones into water. For the first time since the vow, he felt a flicker of hope—thin, fragile, but real. If the shrine truly held power against Narak, then maybe this wasn't just a death march through snow. Maybe there was a chance.
Still, as he lay down against the cold earth, listening to the wind whisper through the pines, he knew one thing with certainty: the road ahead would not be easy. The horn's echo lingered in the night air, a reminder that the herald would not wait forever.