The snow outside the shrine was red by morning. Patches of ash and claw marks littered the ground, the remnants of the hounds dissolving slowly into smoke. The silence felt too heavy, as though the mountains themselves were holding their breath.
Arya knelt on the stones, his arms wrapped around himself. His body still ached from the storm, every muscle sore as if torn apart from the inside. His palm had dimmed, but faint wisps of light still pulsed beneath the bandage. Each beat of it reminded him of the chains he had conjured, of the way the general had fought until the very end.
Mira sat on the shrine's steps, pressing a strip of cloth against her shoulder. Blood seeped through the bandage, staining the white snow. She hissed in pain but tied it tighter with stubborn hands. "We can't keep doing this," she muttered. "Every night they find us. Every fight costs more than we have."
"They will keep finding us," Yeshe said calmly. She stood at the edge of the ruined wall, listening to the wind. Her blind face was turned to the horizon. "Until you reach Changu, the oath will burn like a beacon. And predators never miss light."
Mira grimaced. "That's comforting."
Arya forced himself upright. He took a step toward Mira, guilt twisting in his chest when he saw the dark stain spreading across her sleeve. "I should have stopped it sooner," he whispered. "If I hadn't hesitated—"
"You'd be dead," Mira interrupted sharply. "And I'd be alone. Don't you dare start blaming yourself for me."
Arya looked away. The whispers stirred faintly, low and steady now. Blood. Always blood.
Yeshe tapped her cane once. "Every gift has its cost. The storm does not strike for free. Already you feel it."
Arya swallowed hard. "What cost?"
"Yours," Yeshe said. "Or theirs."
Mira gave a bitter laugh. "Great. So either he burns himself out or we all get eaten alive. Wonderful options."
But Arya wasn't laughing. He stared at his trembling hands, remembering the searing pain when the chains wrapped around the general, the way his vision had blurred. It hadn't felt like victory—it had felt like the storm was testing him, weighing him.
"What if I can't control it by the time we reach Changu?" he asked quietly. "What if I lose it, and—" His voice cracked. He couldn't bring himself to finish the thought.
"Then the storm will take what it wants," Yeshe said simply. "That is the truth of all oaths. Power demands a price. The question is only whose blood it will be—yours, or those who stand beside you."
Her words hit harder than claws. Arya's gaze flicked to Mira. She was tightening her bandage with a wince, jaw set, refusing to show weakness. But he saw the red soaking through the cloth.
The storm pulsed in his hand. Blood. Always blood.
Arya clenched his fists, shaking his head. "No. I won't let it be hers."
Mira raised an eyebrow at him, even through her pain. "You don't get to decide that, storm-boy. None of us do."
The words cut deep, but Arya didn't argue. He sank onto the step beside her, his chest heavy.
For a long while, none of them spoke. The wind howled through the broken walls, tugging at the frayed edges of prayer flags. The murals inside the shrine looked older in the daylight, their cracked faces watching silently.
Finally, Mira broke the silence. "So we just keep going? Fighting, bleeding, hoping we don't die before this shrine of yours?"
"Yes," Yeshe said. "That is the path."
Mira exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "Remind me again why I didn't just stay in Bhaktapur?"
Arya almost smiled, but it faded quickly. His mind replayed the vision of Mira slammed against the wall, her staff clattering from her hands, the blood on her arm. It wasn't just her strength that scared him—it was how much he had come to rely on it.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the last strip of dried meat from his pouch. Wordlessly, he offered it to her.
Mira blinked, then smirked faintly. "Finally learning to share?"
"Don't get used to it," Arya muttered, though his voice lacked heat.
She accepted the food, biting into it with a wince. The silence that followed was easier, less sharp than before.
But Arya's chest remained heavy. He could feel the storm simmering inside, quiet for now but never gone. Its hunger lingered, whispering of chains and blood. He wondered if Yeshe was right—if the storm would eventually demand more than he could give.
And if it did, who would pay the price?