Beyond the gorge, the road to Khalingla stretched long and uneven. The cart creaked and groaned with every jolt, and the forest on either side grew denser with each passing mile, the trees leaning so close that their branches knotted together overhead and swallowed the sky. It was the sort of place where you could lose all sense of time, where noon and dusk looked much the same beneath that thick green canopy.
The children, however, were far too excited to care.
They had been sticking their heads out of the cart, scanning the treetops for anything that moved. And then, finally, something did.
A shrill call echoed through the trees—sharp. The children froze, listening. Then came the flutter of wings, and a cloud of birds burst from the branches, their startled cries filling the air.
"Look over there!" Ipsha said, her eyes wide and shining.
What followed were sharp hoots and a troop of black-furred gibbons, swinging from branch to branch on long arms that seemed to stretch the distance between trees into nothing.
The sight of them moving so freely overhead lifted the children's spirits. Aniket and Chandra began hooting back, their voices rising in clumsy, joyful imitation.
Hi'um watched from his seat, a smile spreading across his face—one he didn't bother to hide.
Then, the gibbons vanished behind a wall of leaves as suddenly as they had appeared.
"Where did they go?" Ipsha asked, craning her neck.
Aniket didn't wait. He scrambled across the cart to the opposite window, thrusting his head out as he searched the canopy, scanning the gaps in the leaves above.
"Over there!"
Moments later, the gibbons reappeared, swinging from tree to tree, chasing the strange bull-drawn cart out of what they clearly considered their territory. They followed for a while longer, their hoots growing fainter, before finally turning back.
The cart rolled on.
As time passed, Chandra grew tired and settled beside Hi'um. Aniket and Ipsha remained on their knees, pressed against the window, watching the forest pass with the quiet fascination of children who knew they were somewhere new—somewhere beyond the mountains that had always bound their world.
The road wound between towering trees. Sunlight occasionally slipped through gaps in the canopy, only to vanish again as shadows closed overhead. For a while, only the chirping of distant birds and the steady thud of the bulls' hooves accompanied them.
Then Hi'um broke the silence.
"So," he began, glancing at Chandra, "tell me about back at the valley—your parents. Your father."
"Father?" Chandra replied, surprised by the sudden question. "He's usually at the court or his library. Actually, mostly at the library, reading old books."
Hi'um gave a small nod. "And your mother?"
"Oh, that's good news." Hi'um didn't know who Aunt Yami was, but found it right to pray for her all the same. "May Lord Rudra bless her with a healthy child."
Ipsha and Aniket had quietly drifted over by now, settling in beside them.
"I hope it's a girl," Ipsha whispered. "I don't have another girl to play with," she added, sulking.
"But babies always cry and their noses are always running," Aniket said with slight disgust.
Hi'um chuckled softly and ruffled his hair. "You were like that too."
He turned to Ipsha. "But there are plenty of girls down in the valley. I'm sure some of them would want to play with you?"
"They don't play with me. And the older girls—they always talk about Brother Aabir." She pressed the small doll she had carried from home against herself. "I mean, I like talking about big brother, but I also want to talk about my dolls. Even big brother is always training. And these two don't play with me either."
"I'm a boy, why should I?" Aniket said.
"Easy now," Hi'um gestured for patience.
Chastised, Aniket sat quietly.
Ipsha, her head lowered, began to sniff. A few tears dropped onto the wooden floor.
"Tch tch tch, don't be sad," Hi'um said gently, caressing her head. "Next time you wish to play with dolls, just come to the mountain fortress. This uncle will play dolls with you."
He paused. "In fact, let's get some dolls from Khalingla. Alright?"
"Just one," the young girl replied, her voice groggy from crying.
"You want just one?"
Ipsha nodded without a word.
"Well then, we'll get just one. Is that okay?"
"And one for big brother."
Hi'um looked at her for a moment.
Then he burst into a short laugh.
"Alright, young lady. One doll for you, and one for big brother. Happy now?"
"Hmm," she muffled, wiping her eyes on her arm.
Hi'um leaned back against the carriage, a soft smile on his lips.
"How are children made?" Aniket asked casually.
"Huh?" Hi'um, caught completely off guard, couldn't think of anything.
"I want a younger brother," the boy announced proudly. "So I can train him when he grows up."
Hi'um noticed Ipsha and Chandra both staring at him with equal curiosity.
Hi'um, before speaking, swallowed hard.
"Umm—your parents will explain that better than I can."
Hi'um felt three pairs of eyes boring into him. He cleared his throat, searching desperately for an escape.
"Anyway—how is old man Tenzing doing nowadays? He still has a nasty temper, doesn't he?"
He turned to Chandra.
"Grandpa Tenzing?" Chandra asked.
Hi'um gave a quick nod, catching Aniket's sharp glare from the corner of his eye.
"He scolds Father all the time. Even for small mistakes."
A short laugh escaped Hi'um. "Some things never change."
"Did he scold you too?" Chandra asked.
"Many times."
"Really?"
"Yes." A smile formed on his lips. "I used to sneak away from training and hide in Father's library while he worked."
Something in his expression shifted. A quiet longing surfaced in his eyes as the memories returned.
Chandra watched him. Hi'um chuckled softly.
"That's just how Tenzing is. Always strict and upright to a fault."
A pause.
"...And yet, the most dependable."
"I sneak away from training too," Aniket announced proudly, still clearly miffed at being ignored. "Whenever Brother Aabir is meditating. But don't tell him. He doesn't know."
"Not a word from me," Hi'um said.
Though knowing Aabir, he was fairly certain that wasn't true.
He lightly leaned back against the carriage, his lips curled up in a bittersweet smile.
The children's chatter continued, but Hi'um's gaze had drifted. The forest outside blurred, and the laughter faded to a distant hum. Something stirred in his chest—a memory, long buried, rising to the surface.
He was eleven, perhaps twelve. Running
***
Shailantara, around two years before the invasion.
The air over the mountains had slowly begun to turn cold. Birds had taken to the skies, moving toward distant lands, while the larger animals descended toward the lower Dihang region, where food could still be found before winter closed in.
A group of men made their way down the mountain slopes, wild gaurs draped across their shoulders, their muscles carved from years of such work.
"Seems like there'll be plenty of meat this winter too," the one in the lead said, a wooden bow slung across his back.
"For you, maybe," the man behind him grumbled. "But us family men? We'll have to come out again—right before the Frost Pact comes down. After that, the bows go silent for months."
"Haha. That's why I told you not to marry." He turned his head with a grin.
"Shh—" The man behind gestured sharply. "Get down."
"What?"
"Someone's behind those bushes." He pointed toward the rustling undergrowth ahead.
The group quietly set their hunt down. The two in front drew their hengdangs—long-hilted swords with slightly curved blades—and advanced slowly toward the bushes. The others held their positions at a distance, bows stretched, arrows nocked.
When they pushed through the brush, all they found was a herd of deer, grazing undisturbed.
"You're in luck," the man said, clapping his companion on the shoulder. "No need to hunt again."
They began to slowly approach the herd, when a deep voice came from behind.
"What are you all doing, stopping here?"
The sound startled the deer, and they bolted, taking great leaps across the clearing.
"Tch—" The man cursed and started after them.
"Stop right there," the voice commanded.
"But Commander—"
"There were young ones with them," the voice said, drawing closer. "Leave them."
It was Tani Tenzing—the grand elder of the Tagin clan—in his late sixties at that time, his build still carrying the weight of a man who had never truly stepped away from the field.
"Now pick that up," he said, gesturing toward the gaur on the ground, "and keep moving."
...
Meanwhile, at the center of the valley, a young boy came running down the castle corridor.
He halted before a wooden door carved with lotuses and swans.
The two guards straightened as he approached.
"Greetings, young prince," they said in unison.
"Greetings." He caught his breath and straightened himself. "Inform Father that I have come to see him."
"Prince," one guard said carefully, "the Lord is currently with the ministers of internal and foreign affairs, Sir Neiba and Elder Imkong."
"Don't worry about that. Just let Father know I'm here."
The boy's voice carried the impatience of youth. He could hear muffled voices drifting from behind the closed doors.
The guard bowed lightly and pushed open the door.
"...There is enough food for this year's winter as well. Thanks to Elder Tenzing's hunts, the young ones' growth won't be halted."
The voices became clearer. Through the half-open door, the young boy could see the middle-aged minister standing near the window.
Hi'um had seen him almost every day—accompanying his father or following old man Tenzing. It was Neiba Taso, the leader of the Taso branch family of the Tagin clan. Hi'um remembered him especially because even though Neiba was a little over forty, with white hairs already threading through his head and beard, he was still unmarried.
Hi'um watched silently as the guard walked toward Neiba.
Neiba glanced past the guard toward the open gate—and noticed the unannounced guest. Catching the younger prince craning his head as he scanned the literary room, a faint warm smile touched Neiba's cold lips.
Soon enough, the guard bowed deeply and returned to his post.
"The Lord has asked for you," the guard relayed as he stepped out.
The young boy stepped inside. His gaze swept the room. Sir Neiba stood by the window, while Elder Imkong sat beside the king, his hands resting on his knees. Both ministers watched him in silence.
"Greetings, Sir Neiba," he greeted, bowing deeply, before turning to the old man sitting nearby. "Greetings, Elder."
"Greetings, Prince Hi'um," the two men replied with a slight bow.
"Come here, Son."
Chogyal Dorje sat at the same table where Hi'um had seen his father reading almost daily. He gestured for the ministers to continue, but his eyes remained on his son.
"That was all I had to convey," Neiba said, stepping back.
Dorje acknowledged him with a slight nod, then turned to the boy. A smile tugged at his lips.
"What brought you to my study? Did old man Tenzing scold you again?"
He reached out, and Hi'um stepped into his arms, settling onto his lap with the ease of long habit.
"No, he didn't even come today. We only had statesmanship lesson today."
"Is that so?" Dorje asked, a hint of fatherly pride in his voice. "Is Grandminister Mahidhara teaching well?"
"He is, but I like history lessons more," the boy replied, his lips pressed into a flat smile.
"Oh, Sir Ritasar is indeed a fine scholar in both history and literature that even I sometimes...,"
"Ahem."
Both the father and son looked towards the old man.
"It seems you will be occupied, my lord," the old man finally spoke. "I shall come at a later time. I only wished to discuss about the matter from court."
"I would now take leave too, lord," Neiba said.
After hearing the two men speak, Hi'um turned to his father again, concluding that the matter was of no urgency.
"Can you sing me a poem? Last time you said that you will but didn't."
"Hmm," Seeing, the young boy impatiently rocking in his lap, Chogyal Dorje spoke with a slight nod.
"About Kamarupa—I've given it considerable thought. It shouldn't be delayed. I will write to their king, and I wish for you, Elder Imkong, to carry the letter as my emissary."
"As you wish, my lord."
"Also—any word from Brother Sharva?"
"None so far. Though I have written to the Shu ruler, upon Sir Shailesh's request. As you know, he currently stands in place of the Borbaruah leader—and his younger brother."
"Very well." Dorje's voice carried a note of concern. "I pray he returns safely—with news of those who left before him."
"I cannot speak for the others," Neiba said, his tone warm with friendship, "but Sharva Borbaruah will return. He has no equal in archery, and only a handful can match him with a sword."
Both men nodded in quiet agreement.
A moment of silence stretched between them.
Then Dorje turned to Imkong, as if a thought had just surfaced. "While you are in Kamarupa, look into those two. Didn't they come through his recommendation?"
"I will."
"I shall assist Elder Imkong as well," Neiba offered.
Dorje nodded in approval.
"Then I shall take my leave," the old man said, rising and bowing.
Neiba followed, bowing to the king before turning to the door.
"Now poem! Poem, poem, poem!" Hi'um chanted, bouncing in his father's lap.
"Yes, yes." Dorje chuckled, then took a deep breath, his gaze turning distant as he gathered his thoughts.
Just as the two ministers reached the threshold, his voice called them back.
"Elder Imkong, Sir Neiba—stay a little longer. I recently came across this prose while sifting through some old, almost tattered scriptures. I thought you might appreciate it."
The two men paused, exchanged a glance, and turned back.
"Sing it already," Hi'um said, pouting.
"Yes, yes, little one. Always in a hurry, like some squirrel," Dorje chuckled, pinching his son's cheeks lightly.
As the two ministers finally returned to their seats, Dorje took a deep breath.
He began:
"As winter approached its end,
the final war for survival began.
They rose with the sun, chasing the night,
Yet in its glow, blurred wrong and right—
***
No—won't—I—"
Some distant voices struck at Hi'um's ears.
Hi'um blinked. The forest was back. The cart was back. The children were back.
Aniket was shouting.
"I will tell brother Aabir," Ipsha teased.
"Now, now, settle down," Hi'um said, his voice still carrying the weight of the memory.
The two children sat down, pouting.
After a moment, Hi'um glanced toward Chandra, who had been watching him quietly.
"Well, that aside," he said, leaning back slightly and gesturing for the children to come closer, "do you wish to hear about how your mother and father got married?"
Chandra looked surprised. He took a moment to answer.
"Yes," he said, and nodded.
Hi'um smiled, settling more comfortably against the cart.
"Come here," he said, his voice warm. "Sit properly. It's a long story."
The children shuffled closer, their earlier squabbles forgotten.
Hi'um took a breath, and began.