Snow fell in silence, covering the scars of the avalanche. Ishaan trudged through the white emptiness, his breath shallow, his body trembling from exhaustion. The manuscript pressed against his chest like a second heartbeat. Each step echoed a single truth: he was being hunted.
By dusk, he found the outline of a ruined watchtower clinging to the edge of the ridge. Its walls were broken, its stones blackened by time. But it offered shelter from the cutting wind. Ishaan lit a small fire, its glow flickering against the walls. For a moment, warmth returned. For a moment, he felt alone.
Then he heard it — the crunch of footsteps outside.
Ishaan froze. The fire crackled softly, but the night beyond was silent. Slowly, he reached for a fallen branch sharpened at one end. The manuscript remained tied to his chest.
The footsteps came closer. Shadows stretched across the broken doorway. Then a voice, low and mocking:
"So the boy carries it after all."
Three men stepped into the tower, cloaked in black, their faces hidden by scarves. Their eyes glinted like knives in the firelight. Each carried a weapon — curved blades, jagged like teeth.
Ishaan's pulse hammered. "Who are you?"
The tallest of them laughed. "Names are useless. But you may call us the seekers of truth… or of power." He tilted his head. "The book you carry belongs to us."
Ishaan gripped the branch tighter. "It doesn't belong to anyone."
The man's eyes darkened. "You're wrong. It belonged to those before you, and it will belong to those after you. You are nothing but a messenger."
One of the men lunged forward. Ishaan swung the branch, sparks flying as wood struck steel. Pain jolted through his arms. The men closed in, surrounding him.
Then the firelight flickered strangely. For an instant, Ishaan thought he saw another figure standing in the corner — tall, cloaked in shadow, watching silently. The others didn't react, as if they couldn't see.
The shadow spoke, its voice like wind through stone:
"Run, Ishaan. Not every battle is yours to fight."
The men lunged again, but Ishaan shoved one aside and broke through the circle. He sprinted into the snow, the storm biting his face. Behind him, the hunters shouted, their footsteps pounding.
The ruined tower vanished into the night. The chase stretched across the frozen ridge. Ishaan's lungs burned, but the whisper of the shadow clung to his ears:
"You are not alone. But soon, you must choose who to trust."
Finally, Ishaan stumbled into a narrow pass. Rocks closed around him, forming a gate-like arch. He pressed himself against the stone, gasping for breath. Behind him, the hunters' voices faded, though he knew they hadn't given up.
In the silence that followed, the wind shifted. Once again, the faint toll of a bell echoed across the mountains. And this time, with it came a clearer whisper — a single name carried by the storm:
"Kaalnemi."
Ishaan shivered, not from the cold but from the weight of that name. Whoever — or whatever — Kaalnemi was, he was no longer a rumor. He was the force waiting at the gates of Ishaan's journey.