The mountains no longer felt quiet. Every gust of wind carried a sound Arya couldn't ignore—a faint pulse of words in his bones, whispers that weren't quite sound but weren't silence either. Since leaving Kharsa, he had walked as though trailed by echoes.
The rope bridge had been behind them for hours, but Arya's legs still trembled with its memory. Every swaying step had felt like it would pitch him into the abyss, yet what frightened him more was the storm's voice rising stronger with each heartbeat.
By late morning, they stopped along a narrow ridge where prayer flags snapped violently in the wind. The colors, once bright, were faded by frost and years of sun. Arya crouched near the edge, chest heaving, palms pressed hard against his knees. His breath steamed into the cold air in short, uneven bursts.
Mira slid beside him and shoved a strip of dried meat into his hand. "Eat before you drop dead."
Arya shook his head. "I'm fine."
"You look like a goat about to topple off a ledge," Mira muttered, frowning. She leaned her staff against the rock and studied him more closely. "You're hearing something again, aren't you?"
Arya hesitated. If he admitted it, it would make it more real. But Yeshe answered for him before he spoke.
The blind monk stood a few paces away, her face tilted to the wind, her cane planted firm in the earth. "He hears it," she said. "The storm's whispers. Every bearer does once they swear the vow. It is not gift, not curse. It is tether."
Arya's throat tightened. "It won't stop. Since dawn, it's been louder."
"What does it say?" Mira asked carefully.
He swallowed. "Not words exactly. Just… feelings. Warnings. Like someone pressing against me from the inside."
Yeshe tapped her cane once, the sound sharp against the stone. "Good. Then you are not deaf. The wind has no need for the deaf."
Arya stared at her in disbelief. "Good? I feel like I'm losing my mind."
"Better to lose your peace than your life," Yeshe replied evenly. "The storm does not whisper lies. It does not care for your comfort, only your survival. Learn to listen, even when you hate it."
They pressed on. By afternoon, storm clouds began to crawl over the peaks. The light dimmed, the air colder. Arya pulled his hood tighter but the voice only grew clearer. South. Faster. They follow.
His foot slipped on a patch of ice. Mira caught his arm, eyes wide. "What now?"
Arya blinked hard. "Something's behind us. Close."
Yeshe didn't flinch. She tapped her cane once more, this time against the frozen earth. "Good. You are beginning to listen."
The trail grew steeper. They passed cairns stacked by travelers—stones balanced in uneven piles, offerings for safe passage. Arya trailed his fingers across one as they went by. The stones were icy cold, but the storm's mark in his palm burned hotter. The whispers thickened, crowding his thoughts.
By the time the sun dipped low, painting the ridges in red, Arya was staggering. His chest felt squeezed by invisible hands. Every breath burned. He leaned on Mira more than he cared to admit.
Finally, Yeshe stopped at a rocky outcrop. She raised her blind face to the wind and stood silent. The air itself seemed to hold its breath. Then, cutting through the howl of the gale, came a sound unlike wind or thunder.
A howl. Low, long, and heavy.
Arya froze. It wasn't the same guttural snarl of the hounds they had fought. This sound rolled through the valley like a horn blown by something enormous. The storm inside him flared, his mark burning white-hot.
"They're coming," Arya whispered.
Yeshe's expression did not change. "Tonight, we do not sleep."
Mira tightened her grip on her staff. Her voice was sharp with fear but steady. "If that's the plan, then we need firewood, a wall, and a miracle."
Arya rubbed his burning palm against his chest, heart hammering. The whispers inside him were no longer faint. They were words, clear as bells: Teeth. Red eyes. Run if you want, but they will always follow.
He staggered, dizzy. The prayer flags snapped wildly overhead, their threads fraying in the storm. For the first time, Arya wasn't sure if the whispers were guiding him or mocking him.