The chill of early spring still clung to the Kiranti capital, but the streets buzzed with energy. Bright cloth banners fluttered from wooden poles, and smoke rose in thin spirals from the homes and kitchens.
It was the day of the Festival of Winds a sacred tradition when the people honored the mountain spirits who watched over their lands. The festival was a time for hope, but also a reminder of nature's power and the fragility of life.
Yalamber stood near the bustling village square with Lhakar, his closest friend. Children ran past, laughing and chasing colorful kites that soared against the blue sky.
"Do you think the spirits will hear us this year?" Lhakar asked, his eyes following a kite twisting high above.
Yalamber shrugged, his heart heavy. "We need their help. More than ever."
Around them, villagers prepared offerings bowls of rice, fresh fruit, and small carvings placing them carefully on the stone altar. The scent of burning incense mixed with smoke from cooking fires.
Elder Pahang stepped forward to begin the ceremony. His voice rose in a slow chant, calling on the winds to carry their prayers over the mountains and into the spirit world. Many villagers joined, their voices rising and falling with the rhythm of the chant.
But beneath the music and laughter, tension threaded the crowd like an unseen wind. Warriors checked their weapons quietly, their faces grim. Sentries patrolled the outskirts, eyes scanning the distant tree line where shadows lengthened.
Near the palace gates, General Sangpo spoke with several soldiers, his voice low but sharp. "The Chyarung movements grow bolder. Scouts report more riders near the border each day."
A soldier nodded. "If they cross, we must be ready. The mountain clans do not fight fair."
King Balambha watched from his seat, his fingers tightening on his cane. When the ceremony ended, he called Yalamber aside.
"Today we honor the spirits, but remember our true protection is our unity and strength."
Yalamber looked up at his father, seeing the weight of a kingdom in his tired eyes.
"Will there be war?" he asked quietly.
The king hesitated. "I hope not. But a king must prepare for every possibility."
As dusk fell, torches lit the paths and fires blazed in the square. The festival continued, but the shadows grew longer and deeper.
Yalamber stayed awake late that night, staring out his window toward the dark mountains. Somewhere beyond those peaks, the Chyarung waited.
And the winds carried their silent warning.