The eastern ridge rested in a silence that felt fundamentally different from the rest of the mountain.
Up here, where the smooth edge of the stone terrace projected into the open sky, the high-altitude air was crisp, carrying the sharp scent of pine and the subtle, lingering sweetness of pink petals drifting down from the wide branches overhead. The clanging iron from the lower training grounds and the distant shouts of the disciples faded long before reaching the path, leaving only the soft, continuous rustle of the wind.
Shaurya's boots came to a stop against the stone.
His hands remained buried casually in the pockets of his dark coat, his breathing slowing to match the rhythm of the ridge. He didn't speak immediately. He didn't take a step forward, nor did he break the stillness with his usual theatrical confidence.
Ahead of him, standing beneath the shade of the cherry blossom tree, was a figure that held him completely rooted in place.
