The stair trembled with the rhythm of boots. Shouts cracked above—priests' orders tangled with the deeper calls of the Guard. Mira spun her staff once and set her back to Arya's, the lamplight throwing their shadows huge against the chamber walls.
"Yeshe," she said through clenched teeth. "How long before they storm down here?"
"Not long," the monk answered calmly, cane resting against her shoulder. "But long enough if you use the time well."
The seam in the pillar still glowed faintly, a hairline of light as if the stone hadn't decided whether to close or open. Arya pressed his palm harder against it. The storm inside him surged in response, eager to pour through, to make the decision for him.
Break them, the whispers hissed. Lightning does not wait for permission.
But the leash held. The vows he had set bound the storm, tugging it back when it lunged too far. His hand shook with the effort of keeping it in check.
Boots pounded closer. A soldier appeared at the mouth of the stairwell—trident leveled, eyes wary in the flickering light. He froze for a moment at the sight of the glowing seam, then barked an order. More men crowded behind him.
Mira didn't hesitate. She swung. Her staff cracked against the first Guard's trident, sparks flying as bronze rang against wood. She shoved him back into his comrades, jamming the stair with their bodies. "Not one more step," she growled.
"Arya!" she called over her shoulder. "Whatever you're doing, do it faster."
"I don't know what I'm doing!" Arya snapped, sweat beading on his brow. His palm burned with light, but the seam refused to widen further. It pulsed under his hand like a heartbeat, waiting for something more.
Yeshe's voice cut through the chaos. "It asks for choice."
"What choice?" Arya demanded.
"The same it always asks," she said. "Leash or chain. Mercy or fear."
The priest's voice floated down from above, mocking. "Do not listen to riddles, boy! The storm is a blade—blades are for killing. Use it as it was meant, and you may yet live."
The storm surged at those words, thrilled by the promise of violence. Arya gritted his teeth. "No storm that answers fear," he whispered to himself. "Only will."
The seam glowed brighter, widening a fraction. Cold air spilled into the chamber, thick with the smell of iron and rain.
The Guard shoved forward again, pushing Mira back step by step. Lhakpa darted to her side, trident raised clumsily but with courage. "For the record," he muttered, "I was never here." He jabbed, catching one soldier in the gut hard enough to send him reeling.
"Good record," Mira grunted.
Arya's vision blurred. The storm was howling now, demanding release. He could feel it crawling up his arm, sparking across his shoulders, eager to burst free and scorch everything in sight. He wanted to let it. Gods, he wanted to.
Yeshe's cane struck stone, sharp as thunder. "Hold it, Arya!"
He screamed, forcing the storm back down, forcing himself to remember the vows. No storm that harms those I stand beside. No storm on a plea. No storm for pride. No storm that answers fear.
The seam flared wide enough for him to glimpse what lay beyond. Not a room. Not a hall. A vastness, black and endless, stars burning like embers caught in a tide. Something stirred within it—something too big to see, only felt, like the weight of a mountain shifting in its sleep.
It saw him.
Arya's knees buckled. His hand nearly tore away, but he forced it to stay. The storm inside him went silent, cowed by the greater presence beyond the door.
A voice moved through the crack, soft as breath, cold as stone. Little bearer. Will you serve me, or bind me?
Arya's throat worked. "I don't even know what you are."
I am what waits, the voice said. I am what the oath once chained. But oaths fray. Choose.
The stair exploded with noise—Mira shouting, Guards pressing, steel and wood clashing. The seam pulsed under Arya's palm, hungry for an answer.
He thought of Bhaktapur, of hunger and alleys, of Mira's bleeding shoulder, of Sagar's trident glowing when it touched his nets, of Yeshe's unyielding calm. He thought of the leash he had set, fragile but his.
"I won't serve chains," Arya whispered. "Not yours. Not theirs. Not anyone's."
The seam blazed white, a flash that threw every shadow in the chamber into sharp relief. The Guards at the stair shrieked, blinded, stumbling back. Mira staggered but held her ground.
The light faded. The seam was gone. Only cold stone remained beneath Arya's palm.
He sagged, drained, but alive. The storm inside him was quiet, subdued, as if stunned by what had just happened.
From above, the priest's furious cry echoed. "You fool! You've doomed us all!"
Yeshe exhaled slowly, cane steady in her grip. "No," she said. "He's only begun."