The ridge dropped into a valley where the path widened into an old trade road. Stones paved the ground, many cracked or missing, but enough remained to suggest this route once carried caravans, merchants, and the promises of kingdoms. Now it carried only the crunch of their boots and the creak of the Guards' gear.
Prayer walls lined the roadside—low stacks of slate carved with mantras. Most were broken, toppled by weather or neglect. Arya brushed one with his fingertips as he passed. The stone was cold, its inscription half-erased. A vow carved once, now forgotten.
Ketu spat into the dust. "Smells like ledgers."
Mira arched a brow. "That's very specific."
"Yes," Ketu said, his lip curling. "Roads remember every step. They keep accounts. Someone's been balancing numbers here—and not honestly."
As if summoned, the air grew heavy. Arya felt it pressing against his chest, not like fog, not like silence, but like expectation. The storm stirred, uneasy.
Voices rose from the broken prayer walls. Not whispers this time, but names. Clear, sharp, one after another. Children's names. Traders' names. Names of goats and donkeys, even the names of fields. Each syllable rang with the weight of being counted.
"Yeshe," Arya whispered. "They're… they're calling lists."
The nun tapped her cane, face turned toward the walls. "Roads of debt keep books. When men forget who paid, the stones do not. These names were borrowed. Now the road demands them back."
The Guards shifted uneasily. Even Sagar's stern mask cracked for a moment.
Then the road answered itself.
Figures rose from the stones—tall, thin, all chalk and dust. Their faces were blank tablets, their limbs written with names carved deep. Each name glowed faintly as though inked by fire. They moved with the scrape of slate against slate.
Ketu swore under his breath. "Collectors."
One stepped forward. Its chest bore twenty names—men, women, children. Its voice scratched like stone dragged on stone. "Return what you borrowed."
Mira lifted her staff, fire sparking at its tip. "We didn't borrow anything."
The stone-being tilted its head. "Then pay in place of those who did. Names must balance."
Arya felt his stomach knot. He knew what the thing wanted: not coins, not goods, but lives to replace the names carved into its body.
Sagar's trident slammed into the stones. "This road is under my charge," he growled. "If names are owed, they'll answer to me."
The collector paused, as though considering. Then it stretched out a slate-hand toward Arya. "Storm-bearer. New name. Easy to balance."
Arya's pulse spiked. His palm burned with vow-scars. He felt the storm rising, begging to strike—but he clenched it back. The shrine of whispers had taught him: destruction wasn't always victory.
He dropped to his knees, pressed both palms to the road. The cold bit hard. The names echoed under his skin.
No fear. No pride. No harm to mine. No village as price.
The vows flared, drawing a circle around him. But this time, he didn't set it alone. He pulled in Mira's hum, Ketu's crooked laughter, Yeshe's calm patience, even Sagar's stern steadiness. Each companion was a thread in the circle.
"I won't give you names," Arya said, voice trembling. "But I'll remind you of their weight."
The road quivered. The collectors leaned closer. Arya inhaled sharply, then exhaled—and spoke the names he remembered. The boy from the festival. The farmer who carried barley. The aunties with their lamps. The flute child. Even his own mother's name, lost to him for years but still burning in his chest.
Each name he spoke spun into the circle, not as payment but as remembrance. The storm under his ribs throbbed, but instead of lightning, it offered memory.
The collectors shuddered. Names carved into their stone limbs flickered. Some glowed brighter. Some cracked and fell like flakes. Their faceless heads tilted, as though listening for the first time in centuries.
One whispered, voice softer now. "We… were real?"
"Yes," Arya said fiercely. "You were. And you don't need new names to prove it."
Silence stretched. Then, slowly, one by one, the collectors lowered their arms. Their bodies softened into dust. The names glowed once more, then sank into the road, etched back into stone instead of flesh.
The pressure lifted. The valley air cleared. The path looked like a road again, not a ledger.
Arya sagged forward, sweat cold on his brow. His breaths came fast, ragged.
Mira crouched beside him, eyes wide. "You—did you just pay a debt with… memory?"
Arya managed a weak smile. "Not pay. Balance."
Ketu whistled low. "Boy, you're too clever. Roads hate clever."
"Yes," Yeshe said softly. "But people love remembrance."
Sagar planted his trident into the stones, his face unreadable. "The road is satisfied—for now. But debts have long memories. Don't forget that."
Arya nodded, though he already knew. His ribs still hummed with the weight of every name he'd spoken. It was heavy, but it was human.
They continued east. Yet as the valley narrowed again into cliffs, Arya's skin prickled. A shape waited in the shadows ahead. Cloaked, patient, a faint red glow where an eye should be.
The watcher. Again.
And this time, Arya thought he saw the faintest curl of a smile.