By the time dawn broke clear, the ruined shrine was behind them. Smoke still curled faintly from the stones where lightning had struck, and the snow bore stains of blood and ash. Arya did not look back. The storm inside him was restless, pulling him forward with every step.
The path wound southward along a ridge, the land sloping down into a broad valley. From there, faint but unmistakable against the horizon, rose the spire of Changu Narayan. Even at this distance, the shrine looked otherworldly, a finger of stone and gold stabbing the sky. The sight sent a shiver through Arya's chest. His palm burned as though the mark itself recognized the place.
Mira trudged beside him, staff balanced across her shoulders. Her bandaged arm looked stiff, but she hid the pain with the same stubbornness that had carried her through every fight. She caught Arya staring and raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"Nothing," Arya muttered quickly, turning away. But the guilt still pressed heavy. Every drop of her blood felt like a weight on his shoulders.
Yeshe moved steadily ahead, guided by her cane, her blindfolded face tilted slightly toward the shrine. "The storm pulls you now," she said, though Arya hadn't spoken. "The closer you come, the louder it will call."
"It already feels like shouting," Arya admitted. "Like it's dragging me forward."
"Yes," Yeshe said simply. "The shrine waits. The oath waits. And so do those who would break you before you reach it."
Her words proved true within hours. As they descended toward the valley, Arya began to notice shapes in the treeline. Dark figures flickered between pines, vanishing whenever he looked too closely. Once, he swore he saw red eyes glinting before they blinked out.
"They're following again," he whispered.
Mira tightened her grip on her staff. "Let them. I'm getting good at breaking skulls."
But Arya wasn't comforted. The whispers in his skull weren't warnings this time. They were commands, insistent, pounding. Faster. South. The gate waits.
By midday they reached a cluster of houses clinging to the hillside. Smoke curled from chimneys, and bells chimed faintly from a small temple at the village's edge. The smell of juniper hung in the air, sharp and familiar. Villagers eyed them warily as they passed, some bowing quickly, others retreating indoors.
One old man spat into the snow and muttered a prayer. Arya flinched. Did they already sense the storm burning inside him?
Mira noticed. She muttered under her breath, "They look at you like you're a ghost."
Arya clenched his fists, wishing he could hide the glow of his palm. "Maybe I am."
They moved quickly, not stopping to rest. The valley spread wide before them, fields of terraced earth now barren with winter. Beyond it, the shrine loomed larger, its silhouette framed by mountains and sky. Each step closer made Arya's mark blaze hotter until it shone faintly even through his sleeve.
By evening, the whispers thundered inside his head. The gate waits. The chains tremble. The force of it staggered him, driving him to his knees. He clutched his hand against his chest, gasping.
Mira was at his side in an instant. "Arya!" She caught him before he collapsed fully, her grip steady.
"I… I can't stop it," he groaned. The light from his palm spilled through the bandage, illuminating the snow.
Yeshe turned her face toward him, her voice calm despite the urgency. "Do not stop it. Endurance is not silence. Let it speak, but do not let it rule."
Arya gritted his teeth, trying to breathe through the fire in his chest. He closed his eyes and focused on Mira's hand gripping his arm, grounding him, real and solid. Slowly, the storm's roar ebbed to a whisper again.
When he opened his eyes, the shrine was closer, its spire gleaming with the last light of sunset.
"We're nearly there," Mira said softly.
Arya nodded, though fear twisted in his gut. The closer they drew, the heavier the storm felt, as though the shrine itself was dragging it out of him. What would happen when they finally stood before it?
The wind shifted, carrying a low sound from the forest below. Arya froze. It wasn't hounds this time. It was a horn. Long, low, and full of promise. The red-eyed figure he had glimpsed days ago rose in his mind unbidden—the one who had watched from the rafters in Bhaktapur.
He shuddered. The storm whispered again, sharper than ever. They gather. The chains tremble. The gate waits.
Mira squeezed his shoulder. "Whatever's waiting for us at Changu… we'll face it. Together."
Arya wanted to believe her. But as the shrine loomed higher, he knew the storm was only beginning.