Meera's courtyard lay nestled against the mountain's northern edge, where stars shimmered brighter and the wind carried fewer voices.

The yard stretched wide beneath an open sky, its silence ancient and unbroken. Weathered dark-stone archways framed the entrance, worn smooth by time. Delicate vines climbed their frames, spilling blue moon-blooms that pulsed faintly in the silver light.

Within the courtyard, training dummies stood forgotten. Straw spilled from their torn bellies like guts, mute remnants of a life once lived with blade and purpose.

Crimson-leaved tirthan trees stood in quiet clusters, their long limbs brushing together like old friends whispering in the dark. Petals drifted lazily through the night air, soft red embers against the cobbled stone paths.

And at the heart of it all—a pond. Circular. Still. Its waters impossibly clear. Lotus blossoms floated atop the surface, pale and dreamlike. Beneath, koi glided with solemn grace, undisturbed by the years. The whole place smelled faintly of steel, sap, and memory.

They walked in silence, the soft crunch of Meera's sandals on the stone path the only sound between them. When they reached the far end of the courtyard, beneath an ancient crimson-leaved tree whose roots tangled like veins through the earth, she finally stopped.

The bark of the tree was marred by countless scars—some fresh, some decades old—but one in particular stood out: a faint crescent etched deep, burned in the bark. A ghost of a mark.

Without a word, Meera reached into her spatial ring. From it, she drew a coiled red whip, gleaming faintly under the starlight. The moment it left her hand, the air around it twisted—the heat it emitted subtle, yet fierce, like a coiled memory on the verge of release.

Aaryan watched as she raised it with slow, deliberate grace.

With a single motion—sharp, precise—she struck.

The whip cracked through the air like lightning.

The crescent scar split open—completed, at last, into a full, perfect circle.

The tree groaned under the blow, yet stood steady. A petal fell, blood-red, landing at Meera's feet.

She looked at Aaryan. Her eyes—silent pools of emotion—held his for a breath longer than necessary. Then, she turned.

And began to walk away.

Aaryan took a step forward.

"Wait."

She paused. Half-turned, unsure.

He reached into his robe and pulled out a transparent jar, its glass surface refracting moonlight like a shard of ice. Within it, a shimmering liquid swirled endlessly—morphing between shapes, like it couldn't decide what it was meant to be.

"I thought…" he began, voice lower now, unsure. "Your karma—your past—was drawn into this during the ritual. Fifty years' worth, sealed and purified. I wanted to give it to you. To return it."

But before he could take another step, a thud cracked the air.

The jar shattered.

Aaryan recoiled.

The invisible dragonling, which, at some unknown point, had woken from its slumber, curled silently on his shoulder until now, had whipped its tail blinding with a silver light—and broken the jar into glimmering shards.

The jar which the grand elder had claimed to use every means to open and yet failed, s if made of rotten wood.

Aaryan stiffened, his eye twitching.

"You little bastard," he cursed mentally. "Do you even know what you just did?"

The liquid inside hadn't fallen. It hovered—weightless, sentient—glowing faintly in the starlight.

Then, it split into three streams.

One veered toward Meera, another curled into Aaryan's chest, and the last drifted toward the air above his shoulder—vanishing into the unseen maw of the dragon.

Aaryan sucked in a breath.

The moment the stream touched him, something stirred within—not pain, but something more ephemeral. Like being one with the world, tuning into everything but nothing.

He glanced at Meera.

The stream had touched her, too—sinking into her skin like moonlight into still water.

She hadn't moved.

She stood watching him, not acknowledging the liquid, nor the unseen presence beside him. Her gaze didn't accuse or thank. It simply watched—quietly, without pressing.

After a long moment, she turned again, and this time, she left.

Aaryan didn't follow.

He stared at the tree instead, at the now-complete circle scorched into the bark.

'What did it mean?'

The wind rustled the crimson leaves overhead, but gave no answers.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

On her way back, Meera didn't make it far before her vision blurred.

Tears rolled silently down her cheeks, catching the edge of her jaw.

She stopped when she saw Shiela approaching, walking alone through the starlit corridor.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Shiela's expression softened as she reached her. She didn't ask questions.

Instead, she gathered Meera into her arms, a motherly warmth wrapping around the girl like a shield.

"Poor girl," Shiela whispered gently, stroking her hair. "You've fallen for him, haven't you?"

Meera didn't answer. Her chest shook, but no words came.

"He's brave, no doubt. Maybe he's even loved before, in the way young hearts do. But this?"

She glanced down at Meera's tear-streaked face.

"This kind of love needs understanding. And he hasn't grown into that yet."

Still, Meera said nothing. She just clung to Shiela—and yet, even as her tears flowed, her gaze drifted back toward her courtyard.

Toward the boy who had unknowingly carved a mark deeper than that tree's bark.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

The next morning, even before the sky had shed its indigo cloak, three figures stood outside Dharun's courtyard.

The stone underfoot was cool with dew, and the faint rustle of tirthan leaves whispered through the still air. No birds had stirred yet, and the silence clung to the old courtyard like an old secret, waiting to be broken. Aaryan stretched his arms lazily, glancing sideways at the man beside him. "You know, if you keep glaring like that, people really will start believing you're just a grumpy old man with bad knees."

Dharun's narrowed eyes softened, a low breath escaping him. "And if you keep carrying every burden like it's yours alone, you will end up like one."

He placed a hand on Aaryan's shoulder—firm, but brief. "You've done enough. Not everything that happens is your problem, Aaryan."

Aaryan tilted his head, a familiar smirk tugging at his lips. "You say that like the world listens to logic."

Maya, silent as ever, simply nodded.

Aaryan turned, casting a glance toward the chamber that housed Kalyani. His expression shifted—something unreadable flickered behind his gaze. Then, just as he was about to give Maya a signal to leave, he stilled.

At the edge of the courtyard's outer wall, half-shadowed beneath the waking light, stood Meera.

She wasn't hiding this time. There was no hesitation in her stance. Her hands were relaxed at her sides, her gaze steady. Shiela stood beside her, calm and silent.

They approached.

Aaryan greeted the elder first. "Sect Leader Shiela," he said with a respectful bow.

Shiela's expression softened. "I never imagined this, back when I first saw you during the trial," she said, and then gave a quiet nod. "You don't need to worry about Dharun… or Kalyani. As long as the Evernight Sect stands, as long as the Singh clan endures—those two will have nothing to fear."

Aaryan paused, his expression unexpectedly gentle. "That means more than you know."

He stepped back, preparing to say his farewell, gaze flickering briefly to Meera. The memory of last night glinted in his mind—the mark on the tree, the weightless swirl of liquid, her eyes watching without judgment.

But before he could speak, Meera did.

"I may be late to the world…" she said quietly, her voice sure, calm, "but I won't be late to you."

The words landed with unexpected weight. Even Shiela blinked in surprise, turning slightly toward the girl beside her. Since Meera's return, she'd been quiet—distant, locked behind a wall of silence and sorrow. Gone was the spirited, smiling warrior who once challenged senior disciples without blinking.

But this… this sounded like her.

Maya's head turned, observing Meera with a new sharpness—measuring something deeper than just the words.

Even Aaryan seemed momentarily caught off guard. His brow lifted, lips parting slightly before curving into a familiar, if crooked, smile.

"You better not be," he said, the smirk masking something quieter beneath.

But for just a breath, he didn't move. His gaze lingered on Meera—on the steadiness of her eyes, the echo of the moonlit tree still flickering behind her.

And then, without fanfare, without wind or sound, he and Maya vanished—folding into the unseen, like mist into the morning sky.

Meera turned slowly. No tears traced her face this time, and her eyes were clear. But her gait—subtle, steady—carried a grace and conviction that had long been dormant.

Shiela watched her for a moment, then followed.

Behind them, Dharun remained still for a while, looking toward where Aaryan had stood. Then he sighed and turned back inside.

Kalyani would likely wake soon.

And when she did, someone would need to remind her—she wasn't alone.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

The afternoon sun filtered through the windows of Dharun's chamber, casting slow-moving patterns across the floor. Inside, silence reigned—until the sharp inhale of breath broke it.

Kalyani stirred.

Her lashes fluttered once, then again. She blinked against the haze of returning consciousness, the world slow to form around her.

Dharun was already at her side.

"You're awake," he said gently, a hand pressing her shoulder as she tried to sit. "Don't rush."

But her eyes—sharp, instinctive, always a step ahead—had already scanned the room.

"Where is he?" she asked. "Aaryan. He—he brought me here, didn't he?"

Dharun's jaw tensed.

He looked down at his hands. Then slowly, as if each word cost him more than he could afford, he said, "He didn't make it out."

The words landed like a blade drawn too slowly.

For a long moment, Kalyani said nothing. Her gaze didn't waver, didn't blink. Her face remained composed—too composed. Then her fingers curled into the bedsheet, so tight her knuckles whitened.

"You're lying," she said, her voice even. "That boy is too damn stubborn to die."

"Kalyani…"

She turned away, staring out the open door toward the courtyard.

A long silence fell.

When she finally spoke again, it was barely a whisper.

"He promised he wouldn't die before irritating me one last time."

Her voice cracked—just once—and that was all.

A sharp breath followed. Her shoulders trembled, but only briefly. She wiped her face with the back of her hand as if brushing away dust, but no tears had visibly fallen.

"I should've stopped him," she muttered. "Never let him enter this damn sect."

"You couldn't have stopped him," Dharun said softly. "No one can when he's made up his mind."

Kalyani nodded slowly, and then, without warning, pressed her forehead to her knees, folding into herself—not out of weakness, but the kind of grief that doesn't need performance. It simply is.

From a rooftop shadow not far away, unseen by any eyes, Aaryan watched.

He didn't move, didn't breathe for a moment too long. His eyes lingered on Kalyani's bowed figure, and something twisted deep within his chest.

A part of him wanted to step forward. To tell her it was a lie. But he couldn't—not yet. Not until he had the strength to return without bringing more ruin behind him.

But then he turned.

"It's time," he murmured.

Maya, who had been waiting in silence beside him, nodded. With a shared flicker of will, both figures vanished from the courtyard.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

A warm wind stirred the canopy as Aaryan and Maya reappeared between towering pines. Distant birds called through the forest, and shafts of sunlight danced between leaves.

Aaryan exhaled, shoulders rolling as if shedding something unseen.

Maya looked at him with her usual unreadable calm. "Are you ready?"

He didn't answer immediately. Then, slowly, the corner of his lips curled—not in full arrogance, but something lighter. Familiar.

"I was born ready," he said. "But it took me this long to believe it."

Maya gave a single approving nod.

Then, as if only now remembering, she added, "By the way… is it true you grew a tail during that fight?"

Aaryan froze.

"What—? I—No—I mean, that wasn't a—who told you that!?"

"I see," Maya said, gaze drifting toward the dragon. "Tell your… pet… to be more discreet next time."

The dragon hissed indignantly. And a soft thwap echoed as a tiny silver-scaled tail smacked Aaryan on the back of the head.

The dragonling perched on his shoulder had emerged, eyes narrowed in annoyance. It huffed, then snapped its tail again as if offended by the entire conversation.

"Not a pet," Aaryan muttered, glaring at the small creature who flared its wings proudly as if in defiance. "He's just... clingy."

Maya didn't respond—only looked away to hide the faintest smirk.

She said nothing else. There were no more questions.

Aaryan, after a long moment, turned his gaze eastward—toward distant mountains, unseen dangers, and the rising curve of a new path.

He wasn't chasing fame or riches. Titles meant nothing to him. Legends even less.

What he wanted—what he owed—was a reckoning.

A reckoning against the path that had chosen him.

Against the destiny he never asked for but could no longer deny.

And so, they stepped into the trees—chasing no glory, fleeing no ghosts. Only walking toward the next storm.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.