Snow lashed against their cloaks as the three travelers wound higher into the Himalayas. The monastery's bells were only faint whispers now, fading into the valley below. Arya tugged his hood low, each breath crystallizing in the freezing air. His palm burned faintly beneath its bandages, a steady reminder that the storm went wherever he went.
Mira trudged beside him, her staff doubling as a walking stick. Her lips were blue, but her eyes burned with determination. "We barely made it out of Kharsa," she muttered, voice muffled by her scarf.
"Yes," Arya said, breath ragged. "And next time, it won't just be hounds."
Yeshe led them from the front, her cane tapping the icy path, her blind eyes fixed on nothing and yet on everything. "Fear sharpens," she said. "But too much fear will break the blade. You must decide which it will be."
They walked for hours. The trail clung to cliffs that dropped sheer into the mist below. Wind howled through passes like the voices of restless gods. Arya's legs burned with fatigue, but the storm inside him hummed stronger the higher they climbed, as if the mountains themselves carried echoes of its power.
By midday, the trail widened into a plateau dotted with cairns and shrines, offerings left by villagers on their pilgrimages. Strings of prayer flags fluttered between stone markers, their colors dulled by frost but still vibrant against the snow. Mira paused by one, running her fingers over the carved image of a deity with multiple arms. "Do you think they're watching us?" she asked quietly.
"Yes," Yeshe said. "But watching does not mean helping."
Arya traced the carving with his eyes, feeling a pang of something he couldn't name. Reverence? Longing? He had lived most of his life ignored, overlooked. To be seen—even by gods carved in stone—felt heavier than the pack on his shoulders.
They pressed on until dusk, when the cold became too fierce to ignore. They found shelter in a half-buried stone shrine jutting from the slope. Its roof sagged beneath the snow, but inside the walls were dry, lined with faded murals of gods locked in battle with demons. Arya ran his fingers over one of the murals, the paint chipped but the power still alive in the strokes.
"Do you think any of this is true?" he asked, his voice low.
Mira dropped her pack with a groan. "You mean gods throwing lightning and demons clawing open the sky? If it is, we're in deeper trouble than I thought."
"Yeshe sat near the mural, her face calm. "Truth is not in whether it happened exactly as painted. Truth is in the warning the paint carries. Narak has risen before. And he will rise again."
Arya shivered, and it wasn't from the cold.
That night, as the fire crackled weakly in the shrine, Arya lay awake on the stone floor. The storm inside him was restless, surging against his veins as if it wanted to break free. He pressed his glowing palm against his chest, whispering into the dark. "Stay with me. Not against me."
He wasn't sure if it was madness, but for the first time, the storm seemed to ease at his words.
Mira stirred beside him, pulling her cloak tighter. "Can't sleep?" she murmured.
"Not with thunder in my bones."
She laughed softly, though it was tired. "Better than hunger in your stomach, isn't it?"
Arya smirked faintly, remembering days of stealing dumplings in Bhaktapur. "Maybe. Hunger never tried to kill me from the inside."
"Yeshe's voice drifted from the shadows, quiet but sharp. "Both hunger and storm teach the same lesson: endure, or perish."
Arya sighed and closed his eyes, letting the crackle of fire and the whisper of wind lull him into uneasy rest.
By morning, the storm clouds had thinned. They stepped back into the blinding white of the trail. The path narrowed again, carved into the side of a cliff where avalanches had stripped the rock bare. Arya's boots slipped, his stomach twisting as stones tumbled into the endless drop below.
Mira caught his arm, steadying him. "Don't look down. Look at me."
He did. Her face was pale, windburned, but her eyes were fierce, grounding him better than any rope. He forced his feet forward, step by trembling step, until solid ground returned beneath them.
Hours later, they crested a ridge that revealed the valley of Changu Narayan in the distance. The shrine sat atop a hill ringed by terraces, its spire piercing the clouds like a spear raised toward the heavens. Even from so far, Arya felt the storm inside him stir, thrumming in recognition.
Yeshe's blind eyes lifted, her lips curving faintly. "The shrine waits. The storm knows its home."
Mira let out a low whistle. "Looks peaceful enough from here."
"Yes," Yeshe said. "That is how traps are meant to look."
As they descended toward the valley, the wind shifted, carrying a sound too deep to be any wolf. It rolled through the mountains, a howl that made the snow shiver on the slopes. Arya's hand went instinctively to his bandaged palm.
The storm mark pulsed once, sharp as a warning.
The journey north had only just begun.