Dawn came softly, painting the village in pale gold. Hruaia had not slept.
He sat now beneath the great banyan tree at the eastern edge of the village—the thingpui, the elders called it, the Dreaming Tree. Its roots twisted into the earth like the gnarled fingers of some ancient spirit, and its branches stretched wide enough to cradle the sky. It was here, Pu Thanga had told him, that the veil between worlds grew thin.
A footstep rustled in the grass behind him.
"You are up early."
Lianchhiari's voice was quiet, still rough with sleep. She settled beside him, her shawl pulled tight against the morning chill. In the half-light, she looked younger somehow, the usual sharpness of her gaze softened.
Hruaia traced a finger along one of the tree's knotted roots. "I thought... maybe this place would help me see clearer."
A knowing hum escaped her lips. She reached into the folds of her shawl and produced a small clay cup, steam curling from its rim. "Drink."
The tea was bitter, laced with something earthy that clung to his tongue. As the warmth spread through him, the tree's shadow seemed to deepen, the air thickening with the scent of damp soil and old leaves.
"Tell me of your home," Lianchhiari said suddenly.
Hruaia blinked. "My home?"
"The one you left behind." She studied him, her head tilted slightly. "You speak of it sometimes in your sleep."
He hesitated, then let the memories come.
"The cities... they touch the clouds," he began slowly. "Great towers of glass and steel, lit up like stars even in the darkest night. We carry devices in our pockets—small, flat things—that can show us any place in the world, or speak to someone an ocean away in an instant." His fingers flexed around the cup. "But we forgot so much. The old ways. The stories. The..." His voice caught. "The connection to land like this."
Lianchhiari was silent for a long moment. Then, gently: "Do you miss it?"
The question struck deeper than he expected.
"I miss my family," he whispered. "But the rest..." His thumb brushed against the talisman she had given him, still hanging around his neck. "I think I was lost there. More than I ever was here."
The tree's leaves rustled, though there was no wind.
Lianchhiari reached out, her fingers brushing his wrist—just the lightest touch, but it sent a current through him. "The spirits do not bring us where we do not belong, Hruaia. But they cannot make the choice for us."
Above them, a single leaf detached from the highest branch. It spiraled down, down, coming to rest in Hruaia's open palm.
As his fingers closed around it, the world shifted.
He stands at the cliff's edge again—the same one from which he fell. But now he is not alone.
Before him stretches a path splitting in two. One leads back to the village—to Lianchhiari kneeling by the hearth, to Zaii's boisterous laughter, to Pu Thanga's knowing smile. The other winds into mist, where shadowy figures move—a woman who looks like his mother setting an empty plate at a table, a man with his father's stooped shoulders staring at an old photograph.
Between the paths stands the spirit woman. Her voice is the whisper of leaves underfoot.
"You have walked both roads, child. Now choose the one your soul cannot live without."
Hruaia gasped as the vision released him. The leaf in his hand had turned to ash.
Lianchhiari was watching him, her eyes dark with understanding. "You saw."
He could only nod, his heart pounding.
Slowly, she rose and offered him her hand. "Come. The village wakes. Whatever you choose..." She smiled, just slightly. "Breakfast first."
And for the first time since the battle, Hruaia laughed.