The alley was quiet again, but Arya's heart refused to calm. His palms were sweaty, his breath uneven, and the glowing trident mark still throbbed beneath his sleeve.
Tara stood motionless, listening to the morning breeze as if it carried whispers only she could hear. The fading golden seals on the ground glimmered like dying fireflies before vanishing entirely. She lowered her staff and turned toward Arya.
"We can't stay here," she said simply, voice steady as stone.
Arya took a wary step back. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
Tara's sightless gaze shifted toward him, and for a moment, Arya swore she could see straight through him. "If you stay," she replied softly, "the next Rakshasa won't come alone."
Arya's protest died in his throat. He wanted to argue, to run, to pretend this wasn't happening—but the memory of those red eyes, the claws, and the searing pain of the mark on his palm made it impossible.
Before he could answer, a laugh echoed through the alley.
It was dry and raspy, like brittle leaves crushed underfoot, yet oddly warm, almost amused.
"Well," said a voice from the shadows, "it seems Rudra's storm has finally decided to wake up… and it's hiding in a frightened thief."
From the mouth of the alley, an old man appeared. His back was slightly hunched, his gray hair wild and tangled like unkempt prayer flags, and a crooked wooden staff clattered softly against the cobblestones as he walked. Charms of bone and beads dangled from it, jingling faintly with each step. His robe was patched in places, a blend of faded saffron and deep blue, but his eyes—sharp and glinting like molten gold—betrayed a man far more dangerous than he appeared.
Arya instinctively moved behind Tara. "Who the hell is this guy?" he whispered.
The old man grinned, revealing a few missing teeth. "Baba Kedar," he announced with mock pride, tapping his staff on the ground. "Hermit, wanderer, occasional drunk, and… once upon a time… servant of Rudra himself."
Tara stiffened slightly, bowing her head with respect. "The prophecy said you vanished," she said quietly.
"Vanished?!" Baba Kedar cackled, smacking his thigh. "I just walked away from a job I hated. Paperwork, divine messages, balancing the cosmic storm ledger—it's exhausting work for someone who prefers drinking and fishing."
Arya blinked, not sure if the man was joking. "So you're… what? Another monk?"
Kedar leaned heavily on his staff and shuffled closer, his sharp eyes narrowing on Arya. "No, boy. I'm the poor fool who helped Rudra seal Narak a thousand years ago." He jabbed a gnarled finger at Arya's chest. "And now it's you who has to fix our mess before every Rakshasa this side of eternity crawls out of hell."
Arya swallowed hard, shaking his head. "No. No, this isn't my problem. I didn't ask for this, I don't even—"
A deafening crack split the air as lightning struck a nearby rooftop, shattering tiles and sending smoke curling into the sky. Arya's glowing mark pulsed violently in response.
Kedar's grin widened. "Oh yes, it's yours, whether you like it or not. That storm doesn't choose lightly."
Tara spoke softly, her tone carrying calm authority. "The Rakshasa King stirs. The gates of Narak are weakening. Without the heir, we cannot seal it again."
Kedar nodded, spinning his staff idly. "And without me, this brat's going to end up demon food before sunset. You'll need training… guidance…" He squinted at Arya. "…and a miracle."
Arya clenched his fists, trembling with frustration. "I don't even know what this 'heir' thing means! I'm not a hero. I'm not a monk. I'm nothing."
Kedar's laughter died, replaced by a strange stillness in his eyes. For a moment, the joking facade faded, and Arya saw something else—someone who had seen gods fall and demons rise.
"You're wrong," Kedar said quietly. "You're not nothing. You're a storm that hasn't learned how to break yet."
Lightning flashed again above the city, silent but blinding. Tara's glowing eyes reflected it as she said, "We must leave Bhaktapur. The hunters are growing stronger."
Kedar sighed, adjusting the charms on his staff. "Fine. I'll come along, but only because I don't want to see another city burned to ash. And because," he added with a mischievous grin, "I've always wanted to see how badly Rudra's heir screws up his first divine battle."
Arya threw his hands up. "Fantastic. So it's blind monks, crazy sages, and me running from demons now?"
"Running?" Kedar scoffed, tapping Arya's glowing hand with his staff. "No, boy. Storms don't run. They swallow everything in their path."
In the distance, a low roar echoed, faint but unmistakable. Tara's grip on her staff tightened. Kedar glanced at the darkening horizon.
"The Rakshasa know you're here," the old sage said grimly. "And they won't stop until they drag you back to Narak… or tear you apart trying."
Arya's throat went dry. For the first time, the weight of it all sank in. The relic, the mark, the storm inside him—it wasn't just a bad dream. It was war, and it had already begun.