The night was long, and Ishaan barely slept. His body trembled from the chase, but his mind refused to rest. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the men in black, their blades flashing in the firelight, their voices demanding the book. And beyond them, he saw the shadow, silent and watchful, whispering his name.
When the first light of dawn broke across the peaks, Ishaan forced himself up. Snow glistened like shards of glass, and the path ahead wound higher into the mountains. His strength felt drained, yet the manuscript against his chest pulsed like a reminder: move forward, no matter the cost.
By midday, his path bent toward the edge of a frozen forest. There, through the mist, a familiar voice called out:
"Ishaan!"
He turned sharply. Maya emerged from the trees, wrapped in a thick woolen cloak. Her breath hung in the cold air, her eyes sharp but filled with concern.
"You're alive," she said, relief breaking through her steady tone.
"You shouldn't be here," Ishaan said, though part of him was grateful to see her.
"I warned you," Maya replied. "The mountains are not kind, and you are not the only one searching. Those men… they'll come again."
Ishaan swallowed hard. "They already have."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then Maya stepped closer. "If you keep moving alone, you'll be dead before you reach Tibet. Let me walk with you. I don't ask why you carry that book. I don't need to know. But I know the paths ahead. And I know the dangers."
Ishaan studied her face. There was no fear in her eyes, only determination. Still, doubt gnawed at him. Could he trust her?
As if sensing his hesitation, Maya added quietly, "Sometimes the mountains send companions. Not every stranger is an enemy."
The words echoed strangely in Ishaan's heart, as though answering the shadow's whisper from the night before. "You must choose who to trust."
He nodded slowly. "Then we leave together. But understand this — if danger comes, I cannot give up the book. Not for anyone."
Maya's expression hardened, but she only said, "Then let's not waste time."
By afternoon, they had left the frozen forest behind. The trail wound upward again, toward sharper cliffs where the air thinned and the wind screamed through narrow passes. Ishaan walked with renewed energy, the weight of solitude eased slightly by Maya's presence.
But as the sun dipped behind the peaks, they reached a ridge that opened onto a vast valley. And there, across the snow, Ishaan saw movement — faint, but undeniable. Dark shapes, slipping through the trees at the valley's edge.
The hunters had not given up.
Maya followed his gaze. Her face tightened. "They know where you're going," she whispered.
Ishaan's grip tightened on the manuscript. He had left the temple. He had left behind Arthan. He had left behind any chance of a normal life. This was his departure — not just from his home, but from everything he had ever been.
Ahead lay only mountains, enemies, and the mysterious pull of Gyanganj.
And somewhere beyond the snow, the name whispered again on the wind:
"Kaalnemi."