The mountain air struck them before they had fully stepped off the path.
It wasn't merely cold—it bit, sharp and unyielding, slipping through collars and sleeves, stiffening fingers into reluctant claws. Mist clung to jagged rock faces, draping the peaks in a gray-white shroud, while the wind carried the clean, harsh scent of stone and pine deep into their lungs.
Aditya shivered, tugging his tunic tighter. This isn't Vyomtara, he thought, where warmth waited behind every door and breakfast arrived on silver platters. Sasi's pack looked almost laughably light, yet his posture remained perfect, spine straight, breath steady. Aryan inhaled slowly, letting the cold sting his cheeks, gauging the wind's pull as though already listening for the mountain's rhythm.
Rishi Vedananda waited at the stone terrace marking the edge of the training courtyard. His staff was grounded, unmoving, and his gaze passed over the three of them once—measured, impartial.
"The first lesson begins with the body," he said, his voice low, carried effortlessly by the wind. "The mind follows. If the body resists, the mind cannot hear."
Aditya groaned quietly. He had expected wind—but not this. His legs felt stiff from the final ascent, the small pack heavier than it had any right to be. He bent to stretch and promptly lost his footing on a slick patch of moss, catching himself on a stone with a sharp breath.
"Great," he muttered. "Two months of this… joy."
Sasi noticed but said nothing. He flexed his fingers, tested his balance, and began the warm-up with precise, deliberate motions. Every movement was measured, each muscle aware of the cold and the uneven ground beneath his boots. Aryan mirrored him nearby, slower, more observant, allowing the wind to guide his stance, letting the mountain speak through subtle shifts in balance.
Rishi tapped his staff lightly against stone.
"Begin with stretching. Feel the weight of your limbs. The wind is not your enemy—it is part of the ground you walk."
Aditya raised his arms and felt the tremor in his shoulders. The air seemed determined to break his rhythm; every breath dragged cold and grit into his lungs. His brothers' movements remained smooth, controlled.
Show-off, Aditya thought, jaw tightening—then forced himself to breathe deeper, letting the rhythm steady him.
Breakfast was plain. Dry bread, rough as the trail dust clinging to their boots, a small handful of nuts, and water drawn straight from a mountain stream—clear, shockingly cold. Aditya chewed with open irritation, the taste a cruel reminder of soft pastries and honeyed tea back home. Sasi ate methodically. Aryan ate slowly, seeming to take in the sharp air along with each bite.
"You eat not for taste," Rishi said. "You eat because the body requires fuel. Learn to respect it, not indulge it."
His gaze moved over Aditya and Sasi, then softened—just slightly—on Aryan.
"The body is a tool. Treat it with attention."
The first exercise followed—Root Chakra focus.
Aditya crouched on the terrace, knees bent, calling up the familiar spark of flame from memory. The wind answered immediately, slapping the tiny sparks aside before they could stabilize. Heat prickled across his palms; frustration followed close behind.
"Do not fight the wind," Rishi instructed. "Root yourself. A steady foundation does not yield so easily."
Aditya's face flushed. He planted his feet, lowered his stance, and closed his eyes. The mountain demanded more than talent. The wind tested patience—and patience was not his strength.
Sparks leapt, faltered, died.
One flicker held for a breath longer.
He glanced sideways. Sasi's flame remained careful and unwavering. Aryan's eyes were closed, his movements barely visible, yet the energy around him lingered—quiet, contained.
"Do not force it," Rishi said. "Energy follows intention, not desire. The mountain offers nothing you do not earn through repetition."
Aditya exhaled sharply. The message was unmistakable: skill meant little without discipline. The mountain exposed weakness without mercy. He clenched his jaw, letting the wind pull at his hair, his tunic, his resolve.
Next came agility drills.
A narrow ledge above the stream became their trial. One mistake would send them sliding onto slick stone below. Aditya's first attempt ended in an undignified tumble, boots skidding across moss. Sasi followed cleanly, every step precise. Aryan paused, studied the wind, then moved—each step aligned with a pattern only he seemed to see.
"You will learn," Rishi said evenly. "Not today. Not tomorrow. But you will. The mountain does not reward haste."
Hours passed in steady rhythm—cold, sweat, failure, small corrections. Every stumble refined balance; every success demanded attention. Lunch was as sparse as breakfast, eaten seated on stone with the wind pressing close. Conversation was limited to quiet observations.
"Footing is unstable here."
"Slow your pivot."
"Don't lift your shoulders."
Even the sun felt distant, pale behind drifting mist. By afternoon, Aditya's arms burned and his calves screamed. Sasi's precision began to dull at the edges. Aryan's calm hid the strain beneath it. Rishi watched without comment, correcting only what truly mattered.
At day's end, they stood atop the terrace, gazing at mountains stretching endlessly ahead. Their packs felt lighter. Their bodies did not.
Each breath drew stone and pine deeper into their lungs.
Rishi finally spoke. "Today, you did more than follow instructions. You felt effort. Remember that weight."
His gaze lingered not on flames or technique, but on focus—on persistence.
Aditya breathed out slowly, sweat drying in the wind. Sasi adjusted his pack strap, nodding once. Aryan leaned back slightly, eyes tracing the ridgelines, already sorting lessons into memory.
No praise. No triumph. No grand meaning attached.
Only the body, the breath, and work completed.
The sun dipped lower, scattering gold across jagged stone. They returned to modest quarters, exhausted but alert. Dinner passed in silence. Sleep came quickly, and tomorrow promised no mercy.
Aditya lay on his thin bedding, hands still warm from practice, staring at the ceiling. Not a test. Not a contest. Just work. His shoulders ached—but beneath it, a quiet satisfaction lingered.
Sasi adjusted his mat, already reviewing errors. Aryan sat quietly nearby, observing both brothers, noting what would change by morning.
Even in absence, Rishi's presence remained—a reminder that mastery was never given.
It was earned.
Day by day.
Breath by breath.
Step by careful step.
And in that first cold mountain night, the truth settled fully: this was not an excursion, nor a chance for glory.
It was routine.
Sustained effort.
And it would demand far more than talent.