Two weeks passed like smoke in the wind.
The man—still nameless, still guarded—could speak now. His voice was coarse, low, the rasp of dry earth meeting thunder. He used words sparingly, his sentences shaped with effort, as if language was a blade he had forgotten how to wield. But Mihir saw it in his eyes: that soldier's spark, keen and waiting. Every blink felt measured. Every silence was the silence of someone watching, planning.
His wounds healed with a strange tenacity. Mihir had seen many bodies before, some clinging to life out of desperation, others letting go with relief. But this man's body fought. Not with fire or frenzy—but with grit. Quiet grit. Bones knitting, muscle returning, skin threading back together like parchment being rewritten.
Still, no names.
He never asked Mihir's. Mihir never pressed for his.
Until that morning.
Sunlight filtered like warm breath through the slats of the hut, painting gold across worn wood and straw. Mihir was boiling water for tea, crushing dried roots beneath his palm, when the man stirred from the bed of wool and reed. He pushed himself upright with a hiss, sweat clinging to his brow.
"Take me to my village," he said, voice cracked and hollow.
Mihir looked up.
"My children," the man added, "they're waiting."
A pause.
"Children?" Mihir repeated.
"Three boys. One girl. Near the border hills. A day's walk. Maybe more."
The room grew still. Mihir felt the tension settle into the air, like breath held too long.
Logically, he should've asked. Who are you? What did you do to end up half-dead in a ravine? Where were your children when you were bleeding into the soil?
But none of that came.
Because in the man's voice—scraped raw and clinging to the words like a lifeline—was something undeniable. Not desperation. Not even love. Just… fear. And it wasn't fear of dying. It was fear of being too late.
So Mihir nodded.
Slow. Like a mountain shifting.
As if destiny had stirred the air and whispered through cracked lips, Go.
That night, Mihir didn't sleep.
He sat cross-legged just outside the hut, a cup of bitter bark tea cooling between his fingers. The stars blinked overhead like old eyes—curious, unbothered. Behind him, the man rested, his breathing deeper now, steadier. Mihir should have felt more nervous. But instead, he felt suspended—like a candle caught between two breaths of wind.
The tea was earthy. Astringent. Grounding.
And then, slowly, the world around him quieted.
Dream.
The sky was black glass. The earth below—cold ash, shimmering faintly, as though it had once burned with suns.
The air stank of ghee smoke and scorched sandalwood.
And in the distance, footsteps. Heavy. Rhythmic. Measured like temple bells in mourning.
From the swirling mist stepped a man Mihir hadn't seen in many moons.
Rishi Agasthya.
But not the hunched elder who had guided him through the Himalayan rains. No. This Agasthya stood tall, wreathed in embers and dusk, his skin a mirror of dusk-stained bronze, his hair a living flame.
His presence bent the dream like gravity.
"Mihir," he said, the name swelling like a wave against Mihir's chest.
"Guru," Mihir breathed, bowing, folding his palms.
"You follow a man who walks with ghosts," the rishi said, his voice a braided thread of thunder and silk. "Do you believe the road will end in peace?"
"I don't know," Mihir replied, honesty spilling like water. "But it feels… right. Like the first step of a path I've always known, just forgotten."
Agasthya's form shimmered—growing clearer and yet less human. A being half flame, half memory. His eyes—those mountain-heavy eyes—pierced through Mihir.
"Then prepare."
His voice deepened.
"His blood carries fire."
A beat.
"And yours… carries storm."
The air cracked. Light split the dream.
Mihir reached forward—to touch, to ask, to stay—
—but the dream shattered into a thousand golden shards.
He woke with a sharp breath, ribs heaving.
The hut was already bright with dawn.
The man stood near the hearth, bare-chested, wrapping a cloth around his healing wounds. His back bore old scars—some thick like tree roots, others fine as calligraphy. Soldier's marks. Some intentional. Some not.
He turned as Mihir stirred, his expression unreadable. Their eyes met.
No questions. No explanations. No thanks.
Just a nod.
Mihir stood, tying his robe tighter around him, slinging a satchel across his back. He could still feel the rishi's words like thunder in his spine.
They stepped out into the morning together.
And the air—
The air tasted like prophecy.
Like rain before lightning. Like smoke before revelation.
Something had begun. And it would not end gently.