The boy's cloak didn't rustle when he moved. That was the first thing Arya noticed: he had the stillness of someone trained to mean what he did not say. He stopped at the ring of worn floor where generations had stood and lifted his palms.
"Let the record show," he said in a clear voice, "that Lhakpa of the Trident Guard witnessed the storm-bearer at Changu's under-sanctum, hand upon the latch, with Keeper Gita and Mother Yeshe as elders of place and oath."
Mira's eyes narrowed. "Let the record also show that if you step closer, I break your nose."
He didn't flinch. "I will not step closer." His gaze flicked to Arya's bandaged hand. For all his calm, envy flickered there and was gone. "The King likes doors that open inward. He does not like holes."
"Then teach him the difference," Aama Gita called down, dry. "And teach him where to stand when not invited."
The lamp burned steady yellow again. The slit in the pillar hummed like a tuning string between notes. Arya's palm ached—not with pain, but with the strain of holding still while something immense adjusted to the shape of his promises.
"Talk if you need to," Mira said under her breath. "Or don't. I'm good at silence too."
Arya tried to smile. "You are not."
"Rude," she whispered, but her mouth twitched.
Yeshe's cane tapped once, slow. "Ask," she said.
Arya didn't know who she meant until he realized there was a question the chamber itself was waiting for. "Why me?" he said aloud—to the slit, to the humming. "There must be other… bearers. Better ones."
The humming shifted, as if a large animal had turned its head. The pressure returned—the river-rock voice that was not words and still explained everything.
Because you listened when you were hungry.
He thought of Bhaktapur's alleys, of stolen dumplings, of the day he had put the shard in the pedestal because curiosity and hunger had always outrun his fear. He swallowed. "That's not noble."
It is honest, the door-voice said.
Mira leaned her shoulder lightly into his. "Honesty is rarer than noble," she murmured.
The slit warmed again, and with it, a second sensation—a pull at the band around Arya's wrist, where no band lay. The leash. The promises he had set were taut as rope between a post and a wary animal, and now the post wanted to root deeper.
"Keeper," Arya said, jaw tight. "What price does this hinge demand?"
Aama Gita's answer floated down, calm as tea steam. "Witnesses. Boundaries. And a little blood."
Mira stiffened. "Whose?"
"His," Gita said without apology. "The temple does not ask others to pay a man's vow."
"Good," Mira said. "Because it can't have mine."
Yeshe's blind face softened a fraction—pride, or gratitude. "A small cut," she said. "Enough to mark the pact. Not enough to hollow him."
Lhakpa—spy or not—inclined his head. "In the capital, they would take more."
"They do," Yeshe said quietly.
Arya's stomach turned. The storm in his chest shivered against the leash. He thought of the priest's charms clicking and Sagar's trident brightening when it touched the net, of how every hand reaching for him wanted something different and called it safety. He wasn't innocent, either. He wanted a world where Mira didn't bleed for him, where doors obeyed because he asked nicely.
He took a breath and held out his left hand. "Tell me where."
Aama Gita descended two steps, enough to be near and still keep the threshold line between priest and hinge. She produced a blade the size of a thumbnail, dull with age but honed with purpose. "Across the vow lines," she said softly.
Arya unwound the bandage. The storm mark in his palm pulsed like a quiet star, pale through skin. He pressed the mark to the slit again and lifted the blade with his right hand. The metal shook in his grip.
Mira's fingers closed around his wrist. "Hey," she said. Just that. The word steadied him.
He drew the blade across the place where vow met skin—once, twice, three times, the way he had spoken them: No storm that harms those I stand beside. No storm on a plea. No storm for pride. Each cut was shallow, more a scratch than a wound, but blood came quick and bright, and the stone drank it. Not greedily. Like soil and rain.
Heat flared through the grooves. The slit warmed under his palm to the edge of pain and then stopped—obedient, restrained. The humming deepened until Arya felt it in his teeth.
Witnessed, the old script traced itself along the pillar's base in quick, fading strokes. Boundaries accepted. Hand acknowledged.
Lhakpa exhaled. "You did it," he said, awe slipping through his training.
"A latch is not a lock," Yeshe said. "And doors open both ways."
From above, the priest's voice floated down, frustration sharpening his vowels. "Enough delay. Bring the boy up."
"No," Aama Gita said, without raising her tone.
Boots scuffed. A charm chimed—the sound of someone about to use a rule as a cudgel. "Keeper, you defy a writ."
"I honor a hinge older than your King," she said. "And I do not let men with fast hands touch well-heads."
Sagar's voice followed, a low warning. "You will not draw on the sanctum."
"I will do what the writ demands," the priest snapped.
The lamp flame shivered again. Arya's skin prickled. "He's going to—"
"—force a sealing here," Yeshe finished, anger threading through her calm. "Clumsy. Dangerous. Effective enough to satisfy a report."
"Will that hurt Arya?" Mira asked.
"Yes," Yeshe said.
"Then we go up," Mira said, turning toward the stair.
Arya didn't move. The storm inside him flexed against its leash like a tethered horse hearing thunder. The hinge hummed at his palm, as if waiting for the next sentence of a prayer.
He spoke to the stone because he didn't know who else would listen. "If I open you a finger and nobody else pulls, can you hold?"
The humming tilted—considering.
If the hand is steady.
He looked at Mira. "Five heartbeats," he said. "Hold them at the door."
Mira's grin flashed, fierce and fast. "Make them count."
Lhakpa took a breath like a diver about to do the stupid brave thing. "For the record," he said, voice wry, "this is where I allegedly tried to stop you."
"Yes," Yeshe said. "Allegedly."
Arya pressed his palm harder. The slit warmed, opened the width of a fingernail. Cold air breathed out, carrying a low, distant roar—the ocean under the fog again, closer.
The chamber lights did not dim. The lamp burned gold. The leash pulled tight and stayed, a held note. Arya counted with his heart.
One. Two. Three.
On four, the stair shook with the priest's charm and the Guards' boots and Mira's staff killing a rhythm against trident shafts. On five, a voice moved through the hairline opening—a voice that sounded like his bell, and Yeshe's calm, and Aama Gita's exasperated kindness sprawled into winter.
Child of storm. Bring your hand back whole.
"I intend to," Arya said, breathless.
He lifted his palm. The slit sighed and closed to a seam of light.
Above, the charm broke with a sound like a bead curtain torn down in anger. The soldiers' formation stuttered. Mira's laugh—bright, ridiculous—spilled down the stair.
Arya bandaged his palm with trembling fingers and turned toward the steps.
"Witness," Lhakpa said softly. It wasn't a report anymore. It was a promise.
They climbed toward trouble.