The smoke of burning storehouses drifted across the valley like a living shadow. The Chyarung had retreated for now, but the ground still trembled from the thunder of hooves and the screams of the fallen. The air was thick with the coppery scent of blood, mingled with the smoke of smoldering buildings.
Yalamber stood atop the northern wall, gripping his sword so tightly his knuckles ached. Around him, the Kiranti soldiers were exhausted, their breaths ragged, armor battered, faces streaked with grime and fear.
Captain Tsering approached, his eyes dark with worry. "Prince, this was only the first wave. They will regroup. And they will come again."
Yalamber swallowed hard. "Then we will be ready." The words sounded braver than he felt. His chest burned, not just from exertion, but from the weight of seeing comrades fall. The courtyard below was littered with bodies, men and boys alike, the harsh reality of war carved into their still faces.
King Balambha appeared on the wall beside him, his crimson cloak now dusted with ash and dirt. "You fought well," he said quietly. "But remember strength alone will not save Kiranti. Strategy, patience, and resolve will."
Yalamber nodded, his eyes falling on the body of a young soldier he had seen practicing drills in the yard only weeks ago. A pang of grief struck him, sharper than any sword. "How do I bear this?" he whispered. "How do I lead when the cost is so high?"
Bhavik stepped forward, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "A king's heart is tested not by victories, but by what he carries after them. Today, you saw the edge of death. Tomorrow, you will face it again. You do not face it alone your people, your family, your allies, they all bear it with you."
The wind whistled through the mountains, carrying with it the distant cries of retreating Chyarung warriors. Yet even in their withdrawal, the threat felt far from over. Dorje would return, and next time, he would bring more than just fire and steel.
Yalamber clenched his jaw. The prince inside him the boy who had once worried only about maps and lessons was gone, replaced by something sharper, colder, forged in the fires of blood and loss.
Below, General Sangpo surveyed the courtyard. "We must tend to the wounded, secure the walls, and prepare for their next assault. We cannot afford hesitation."
The prince moved down into the courtyard, helping the soldiers lift the wounded. Every cry, every shiver, every tear reminded him of the stakes. These were not distant threats they were his people, his responsibility.
As night fell, the Chyarung banners disappeared over the ridge, swallowed by darkness. Fires burned in scattered clusters, the light flickering like broken stars across the valley.
Yalamber stood on the wall once more, looking out toward the mountains. His heart ached, heavy with grief, but beneath it simmered a growing fire resolve. Kiranti would survive. He would survive. And when the Chyarung returned, he would not just stand. He would fight.
For honor. For family. For a kingdom that would not bow.
The storm was far from over.