The wind that morning tasted of ash and juniper.
Mihir stood barefoot at the fork of three ancient paths, his travel-worn satchel slung over one shoulder, his saffron robes catching the restless breath of the mountains. Behind him, the snow-hung silence of Tibet; to his left, the winding silk-road back through China's lush interior; to his right, the long road home—Bharat, motherland, origin, end.
His guru, skin leathered by time and wisdom, did not speak right away. He traced a line in the dirt with the tip of his staff, then said quietly:
"A scholar who returns from solitude must choose: will he carry water to others… or drink alone until thirst becomes memory?"
Mihir lowered his head.
"You told me to walk until I heard my own soul."
"And did you?"
"It told me nothing. But I dreamt last night of sandalwood, and blood."
The guru nodded, as if that was answer enough. "Then your silence has ended. Now begin your married life."
Married life.
The words clung oddly to Mihir's ribs. He was born of a Brahmin household where learning was prayer, and books were breath—but there was no caste in the world anymore, not since the great fires that reshaped entire kingdoms. He had no dharma but truth, and no truth but movement.
And now?
Marriage?
"To whom?" Mihir asked.
The old man smiled, a little cruelly. "To the road."
So Mihir walked.
The sky stretched endless and pale, the clouds like fraying silk above mountains carved by time. He passed empty villages, the scent of war long evaporated but etched into the stone. He passed temples half-collapsed, and boys who asked him if he were a monk or a ghost.
And then, near the fifth evening, just as the moon crested over the burned remains of a pine forest—
He saw him.
A man sprawled across the rocks by a shallow river, armor torn like paper, blood soaking through his silk-lined tunic. One arm twisted beneath him, the other grasping a blade snapped at the hilt.
A soldier. But not just any soldier.
Even unconscious, he looked like thunder trapped in human skin—shoulders broad, jaw clenched, body made of a thousand battles. His long black hair tangled in burrs and dried blood, his throat marked with a commander's chain.
Mihir dropped beside him, hands already moving. He checked for breath.
Alive.
Only barely.
His fingers brushed the sigil on the man's belt. A symbol of high rank. Tang Dynasty. Military. And—judging by the decoration on the ruined armor—a commander.
Why here? Why alone?
Mihir had questions. But answers were for later.
He pulled off his satchel, knelt beside the stranger, and began to tear strips of cloth.
The man stirred, barely. His lips moved. One word.
Too soft to hear.
Mihir leaned in.