The road narrowed into a hush of cypress trees, their trunks charred like forgotten incense sticks, their branches heavy with fog and old longing. Leaves whispered above like curious spectators. The air pressed against their skin—not cold, but thick with something unsaid.
Zhang walked beside Mihir, silent as a blade tucked into silk. But Mihir could feel it—the faltering steps, the brief catches in breath, the small betrayals of a body too proud to collapse.
He slowed until their arms brushed again and again, each contact like the thrum of a distant drumbeat.
There was an edge to it, a warning, but Mihir only smiled as if he'd caught a secret falling from a god's mouth.
"I'm Mihir. Son of the Brahmin sage Mahakarma, disciple of Rishi Agasthya. And apparently, your unwanted escort." His lips curved.
Zhang grunted—half-laugh, half-defensive growl.
They emerged onto a hilltop where the land yawned open into tiered fields below, glistening like jade plates laid for a banquet.
But-
A crack rang through the hush—a groan, deep and splintering. Birds fled like ghosts loosed from their cages.
Mihir turned first. The tree—massive, ancient, and half-rotted—was falling. Right at them.
Zhang's eyes widened.
And Mihir moved.
Not with panic. Not with fear.
But with the pure, precise calm of a man who had walked fire barefoot.
He seized Zhang's shoulder and shoved—hard. The soldier toppled down the slope with a grunt. Mihir followed a beat after, the crash of the tree behind them thunderous, final, swallowing the spot they'd just sat in.
Dust. Bark. Silence.
Zhang blinked up at him, chest heaving. Mihir straddled over him, knees on either side, one hand braced to the ground, the other gripping his collar.
Their faces were inches apart.
Zhang's breath hitched. Mihir's lips were parted, not from effort—but from the nearness.
No words.
Just the weight of what didn't happen.
And what almost did.