The vision lingered in Hruaia's mind long after the woman's form had dissolved into the dusk. He stood frozen at the forest's edge, the evening air cool against his skin, the sounds of the wounded village a distant murmur behind him.
Stay—or return.
The words coiled around his thoughts, tightening with each breath.
Lianchhiari's hand was still on his arm, warm and steady. She said nothing, giving him space to gather himself. The silence between them stretched, filled only by the rustle of leaves and the distant call of a night bird.
Finally, Hruaia exhaled, his shoulders sagging. "Did you see her?"
Lianchhiari's gaze was knowing. "No. But I felt her presence. The spirits walk close tonight."
He turned to face her fully. The fading light softened the sharpness of her features, but her eyes were as deep and unreadable as ever. "She said I have to choose," he murmured. "Between staying here… or going back."
A flicker of something—pain? understanding?—passed over Lianchhiari's face before she schooled her expression. "I see."
That was all. No urging, no judgment. Just quiet acknowledgment.
Hruaia scrubbed a hand over his face. His skin was rough with dirt and dried sweat. "I don't know what to do."
She studied him for a long moment, then gestured toward a fallen log at the forest's edge. "Sit."
He obeyed, the weight of the day pressing down on him as he lowered himself onto the rough bark. Lianchhiari settled beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. The warmth of her was a comfort.
For a time, neither spoke. The night deepened around them, the stars emerging one by one. Somewhere in the trees, an owl called.
"It's not just about me," Hruaia said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. "If I stay—what happens to the people I left behind? My family. My friends." He swallowed. "And if I go…" He glanced toward the village, where the glow of fires illuminated the shapes of those he had fought beside. Those he had come to care for.
Lianchhiari followed his gaze. "You would be leaving us," she finished softly.
He nodded, his throat tight.
She was silent for a long moment, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the wood between them. "When I was a girl," she said at last, "my grandmother told me that every choice is a kind of sacrifice. To walk one path means leaving another behind." She turned to him, her dark eyes reflecting the starlight. "But she also said that the spirits do not guide us to places we do not belong."
Hruaia let the words settle over him. The idea that he might belong here, in this time so far from his own, should have felt impossible. And yet…
He thought of the way Zaii had clasped his shoulder after the battle, the rough affection in his voice. The way the village children had begun to trail after him, their curiosity overcoming their shyness. The way Lianchhiari looked at him now—like he was someone worth keeping.
And then he thought of home. Of his mother's laughter, his father's steady presence. The life he had built, now centuries in the future.
A gust of wind stirred the trees, sending a shower of leaves spiraling to the ground. One landed in Lianchhiari's lap, its edges tinged with the first hints of gold. She picked it up, turning it between her fingers.
"You don't have to decide tonight," she said quietly.
Hruaia let out a slow breath. She was right. The choice loomed large, but it could wait—for a little while, at least.
"Thank you," he murmured.
She nodded, then rose gracefully to her feet. "Come. The others will be waiting."
He stood, his body protesting the movement, and followed her back toward the village. The fires burned brighter now, pushing back the darkness.
For tonight, that was enough.