By the time Ishaan and Maya descended into the valley, the sun was already falling behind the peaks. Smoke curled from the chimneys of stone houses scattered across the slope. A faint bell tolled from somewhere deep in the village, its sound too heavy, too solemn to be ordinary.
"This is Devkhal," Maya said softly. "We'll find food and shelter here. But keep your satchel close."
Ishaan nodded. The manuscript rested against his chest, hidden beneath his cloak, yet he felt as though every villager could see it glowing through the fabric.
As they entered, silence followed them. Men paused their work, children stopped their games, women carrying water jars lowered their eyes. Ishaan felt the weight of their stares.
Inside a dim tea house, they warmed their hands over clay cups. The innkeeper, a man with lined skin and pale eyes, watched Ishaan too long before speaking.
"You've come far," the man said slowly.
Ishaan hesitated. "Yes. And farther still to go."
The man leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Travelers whisper of a boy carrying something ancient. Something not meant for the open world." His gaze flickered to the satchel. "If that burden is yours, be careful whom you trust."
Ishaan stiffened. Before he could reply, Maya placed her hand gently on his arm. "Enough talk," she said firmly, her eyes narrowing at the innkeeper.
The man raised his hands as if to say he meant no harm. Yet as they left, Ishaan caught the faintest smile at the corner of his lips — not kind, but knowing.
Outside, the air felt heavier. Snow fell in soft sheets, covering the narrow lanes. Ishaan whispered, "They know, Maya. Even here. How is that possible?"
Maya's face was unreadable. "Whispers travel faster than footsteps," she said, repeating the old man's words from the stall days before.
That night, they stayed in a small lodge on the edge of the village. But Ishaan's sleep was broken. He dreamed of the manuscript opening on its own, pages glowing, words shifting into fire. He saw shadows moving at the edge of his vision, and among them, a figure cloaked in black, eyes burning red.
When he woke, his chest was damp with sweat. The manuscript lay untouched, yet he felt it pulsing again, as if it had a heartbeat of its own.
Maya sat awake beside the window, her hand on a small dagger. "They're here," she whispered.
Ishaan's blood froze. "The hunters?"
She nodded. "They've reached Devkhal. They won't wait long."
For a moment, the village outside looked peaceful, covered in moonlight and snow. But Ishaan knew better. Devkhal was no longer safe.
He tightened the straps on his satchel, the weight of the book pressing against him like a silent demand.
This was no longer just a journey. It was survival.