The next couple of hours were just a boring trudge of one foot in front of the other. As the sun started to set, I had to shade my eyes as I was walking directly towards it. After a short uphill climb, I looked further down the trail only to see the sun shining its last rays onto a collection of stone buildings that looked to be a part of the mountain base.

There was an old stone wall that time had eroded to barely over 5 ft tall in places. It was in the shape of a half-moon that connected into the mountain face, giving the whole village the look of being crafted from the mountain itself. At the center of the village and visible from even this far out was a building I recognized as a Pagoda with 7 levels. It looked ancient but well-kept.

The trail I was currently on led directly to the gates of the walled village. There I could make out two figures, one on either side of the gate. As I closed the distance, the figures by the gate came into focus. Both were dressed plainly, their clothes sturdy and well-worn rather than ceremonial. Each stood their post, though neither gave the impression of being on edge. They simply watched me approach, their expressions unreadable in the dimming light.

When I reached a few paces from the gate, one of them shifted his weight and pushed it open with a steady hand. The hinges gave a low groan that echoed briefly against the stone wall. Neither guard spoke, nor did they move to block my path. Instead, they stepped aside with the same quiet reserve, as if my arrival were expected but unremarkable.

Beyond the gate, the village spread inward with narrow stone lanes that curved gently between low buildings. The place seemed calm, almost ordinary, yet something about the silence of its welcome made me hesitate on the threshold, unsure whether I was intruding or being silently invited in.

The two guards watched me with the patience of stone, and I realized silence might be their preferred greeting. Fine by me. I nodded once, as if acknowledging some unspoken challenge, and stepped through the gate. Narrow lanes twisted between squat stone homes, each capped with roofs of slate that gleamed dully in the fading light. Smoke curled from vents in the walls, carrying the scent of wood and something savory that made my stomach remind me I hadn't eaten since before the yak incident.

No one rushed to greet me. No curious children, no cautious elders peeking from windows. The village wasn't abandoned—it breathed, I could feel that—but it was watching me in the way of mountains and predators, calm and eternal, waiting to see if I would falter first. Deciding if I was prey or predator.

The path I walked led straight toward the pagoda. Up close, it was even more impressive: seven tiers of sweeping roofs that seemed to balance one atop another like stacked blades. Every beam and carving was maintained with reverence, not shine. This wasn't a tourist attraction; it was a living heart.

As I approached the courtyard surrounding the pagoda, a figure appeared in its doors. Not a guard this time, nor a ragged traveler. This man—or maybe he was closer to "presence" than man—wore plain robes the color of ash and moved with a deliberate calm, as though each step were weighed against eternity. His hair was orange with black streaks, and his back straight, and when his eyes found mine, I stopped walking without meaning to.

The robed man stepped out of the pagoda doorway like a shadow cast by the mountain itself. His eyes locked on me immediately — not curious, not welcoming, but sharp, cutting, as though I were a blemish on the courtyard. The robed man's gaze cut through me like a blade. His steps were slow, deliberate, but each one echoed with authority. When he stopped a few paces away, he did not offer a greeting, nor a name. He simply looked me over — the breadth of my shoulders, the pale strangeness of my hair, the faint shimmer of fire I carried inside my mind.

"You look nothing like us. You carry too much of your mother's people — pale skin, foreign tongue, Western arrogance in your posture." He circled me once, slow, deliberate. "And yet you burn with our fire. That makes you dangerous."

I clenched my fists but forced my voice steady. "I didn't ask Rohan to come find me. I didn't ask for this fire either. But it's in me. Denying it won't make it go away."

The man stopped in front of me, inches away, his gaze drilling into mine. "You think you can just claim this blood, that you belong here because the fire inside you roars too loud for your mother's soft world to contain?" His lip curled. "You are not of us. Not yet."

The weight of his disdain pressed down on me harder than the mountain air. My fists clenched reflexively, though I forced myself to keep my voice steady. "I came because Rohan said I had family here. Because my father's blood runs in me."

Then I looked at him with true anger in my eyes, "He said if I didn't come, then you would come for me and mine. To kill me or die trying."

The man's eyes narrowed, but I saw the flicker there — not surprise, but satisfaction, like I'd spoken the truth he'd been waiting to hear.

"So, Rohan told you," He said at last, his voice quiet but edged like a knife. "Good. Then you understand this was never a choice. The fire cannot be allowed to wander wild in foreign lands, mingling with soft blood. It would shame us. It would endanger us. So yes…" His gaze burned into mine, unflinching. "…if you had refused, we would have come. And if you had resisted, you would already be ash on the wind."

I gave a feral grin, "Or you would be short many of your clan members. How many would I have to kill before you realized I was not worth the cost?"

That earned the faintest twist of his mouth — not approval, not kindness, but something harder. A grudging acknowledgment that I hadn't folded under his threat. For a moment, the courtyard went utterly still. Even the smoke from the incense braziers seemed to pause, caught between rising and falling.

Then the man gave a low, humorless chuckle. "So the cub bares its fangs." He leaned closer, his eyes glinting with something predatory. "Good. I would rather test an arrogant beast than a whimpering cub."

His tone hardened again, every syllable a strike. "But do not mistake your fire for strength. Rage is wild. It burns brightest before it dies. Tomorrow, we will see if you are a flame that endures… or only a spark that vanishes in the wind."

He turned sharply, addressing the shadows without looking at them. "Give him a place to rest. No honors, no offerings. If he survives the Trial of Breath, he may earn such things. If he fails…" He finally glanced back at me, the faintest curl at the corner of his lip. "…then at least his fire will warm the mountain for one more night."

Rohan stepped from the shadows and made a follow me gesture. I cast one last look toward the pagoda. The man was already walking back into its shadows, his presence swallowing the courtyard whole. But in that brief flicker before the doors closed, I could swear when he turned to give me one last glance, I saw something in his eyes — not hatred, not contempt. Something sharper. Calculation.

They hadn't brought me here to welcome me home. They'd brought me here to break me… or forge me.

And either way, tomorrow was going to decide which.

Rohan led me from the courtyard without a word. After a quiet walk, he stopped at a squat building near the edge of the village. Its door was plain wood, worn smooth by years of mountain winds. He pushed the door open, gestured for me to enter, and closed it behind himself after following me inside.

Inside, the room was small — a low bed rolled against the wall, a table with an empty bowl, and nothing else. No lanterns, no candles. Just the faint glow of the rising moon filtering through a single slit of a window.

I dropped onto the bed with a grunt. Rohan remained standing, his back to the door, arms folded. The silence stretched until I finally snapped.

"You could've warned me," I said.

His head tilted slightly, but he didn't turn. "I did warn you. I told you they would not welcome you."

"That's not what I mean." My fists clenched. "You told me they'd come for me if I didn't. That's not the same as telling me they'd look me in the eye and call me a mistake."

"Their opinion of you is the least of your worries." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "The Trial of Breath is not a ceremony. It is not a theater. It is the mountain itself. You will climb higher than you think you can breathe. You will carry weight until your bones feel like sand. And when your lungs fail, when your vision goes black… that is when the fire inside you will either awaken fully, or consume you. There is no middle."

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry.

Rohan studied me for a long moment, his jaw tight. "They expect you to fail. Some of them hope you do. It would be easier."

"Easier?" I spat. "For who?"

"For them. For me. For you." His eyes narrowed. "Failure is clean. Death leaves no questions. Survival…" He shook his head. "Survival makes you dangerous. To them, and to yourself."

For a moment, we just stared at each other in the dim room, the weight of his words pressing between us. Finally, I leaned back on the bed, forcing my voice steady.

"Then I guess tomorrow we find out if I'm a mistake… or something worse."