The footprint did not fade with the evening light. It seemed to deepen, carving itself into their mind.

  No panic, no scattered thoughts, no wasted motion. Maithlee did not gasp or cry out. Her stillness was more terrifying than any shout.

  "We move our camp tonight," she said, her voice low and final. "Maybe deeper into the woods... just for a few nights. We can't risk our hideout being discovered."

  We all agreed on it. She has always had the best intuition. Neira thought shaking her head.

  We gathered our few possessions in a silence that felt like a third presence.

  "We head out right after midnight," Maithlee instructed. "Rest well until then. I will handle the food. Ashva, pack fruits for yourself and Neira... enough for emergencies."

  So we did. Ashva collected fruits, packed a bigger portion to be carried by me, and had two smaller bags for himself and Maithlee. Maithlee and Ashva, both rested their backs on the bags, and closed their eyes like they were remembering every day they spent in this cave. I did lay on the floor but I didn't sleep. I was feeling a little uneasy, like I was losing something important.

  So I walked the cave. My nose tracing the old scent-map I had built over years... the corner where Ashva used to cry quietly and pretend he wasn't with a statement "...I’m not crying, it’s just that I drank too much water and I’m afraid to go and pee alone, so the pressure is forcing it out of my face instead", the flat stone where Maithlee ground herbs every morning without fail, the crack in the wall where I once hid a rabbit bone and then forgot about it for three seasons, only remembering it after Maithlee and Ashva begged me to find whatever invisible demon was burning their nostrils from the inside out. Small things. The kind that don't matter until they do.

  "This was the place where Ashva first stood taller than Maithlee," Neira remembered sniffing a crooked stone "and neither of them knew what to do with that fact" walking to her own sleeping stone that was covered in husk "This is where Maithlee had stayed awake three nights straight when I caught fever, pressing cool leaves to my ears and pretending it wasn't frightening. This is where we belonged, for a few calm years, it was always something that looked like an address for our family."

  It's not like this was the first time, we had left places before. Only we knew how...

  You don't mourn loudly when you are an orphan. You already know even the bread you purchased can be snatched away to blame and curse you as a thief. We learnt early that the world takes things, and screaming after them will only waste breath you'll need later to survive. So you fold the grief small, tuck it somewhere behind the ribs, and walk forward.

  Midnight came before we could gather our thoughts.

  Ashva paused at the cave mouth. Just for a moment. His hand rested against the stone... not gripping, just... resting. Feeling it for the last time.

  Maithlee didn't look back. Of course she didn't. But I saw it... the quick flick of her fingers, collecting a pebble that belonged to this place alone. A secret she didn't know I saw.

  She kept walking.

  The forest received us in darkness.

  Fireflies drifted through the trees: just floating around, no direction, no purpose, living their best lives while we stumbled through the dark. Honestly? A bit rude. But their lights helped. Not much. Enough.

  Hours passed. Some landed on leaves. Some on branches. Then they'd lift again, change their minds, drift somewhere else. Typical firefly behavior: commitment issues.

  A few landed on us. On Maithlee especially, like they knew she was the one worth resting on. She noticed each one leave.

  I noticed her watching.

  Maithlee had spent years learning to read the forest. Not like a scholar reads books: like a hunter reads tracks, like a wolf reads wind. She knew what the water was saying by how it moved. She knew which bird-calls meant hunter and which meant nothing, go back to sleep.

  Me? I just watched. And I'd watched enough living things to know: they weren't moving randomly.

  Those fireflies? Not lost. Not just... floating. They were going somewhere.

  Well they were doing what all living things do: moving towards what feels right, toward what keeps them alive, toward whatever calls them in the dark.

  And Maithlee? She was doing the same.

  She adjusted course without breaking stride. Just a few degrees, following the drift like she'd been invited.

  Then the wind shifted.

  It came from ahead, cool, low, carrying a thread of night-blooming jasmine. Not the kind of smell that hits you. The kind that hints. The kind that makes you turn your head before you've decided to.

  Underneath it: water. Faint, steady, calling from somewhere ahead.

  Open ground, Maithlee probably thought. Open enough for jasmine to grow.

  She kept walking. So did we.

  The forest seemed to agree with the decision.

  One moment we were pushing through undergrowth that grabbed at our ankles like it didn't want us to leave. The next, it thinned. Just... opened. Like the trees themselves stepped aside.

  Moonlight found the gaps, spilling down in long pale columns. The kind of light that makes you want to stop and just... stand in it. We didn't. Couldn't. Not here. Not now.

  The jasmine came again as we moved deeper. Wrapped around us for a breath, then dissolved into the dark. A greeting. Or a goodbye. Hard to tell with scents.

  I padded closer to where it had been strongest and sniffed. Clean. No predator. No human. No disturbed earth. Just water, jasmine, and moss so old it smelled like the beginning of things.

  Beside me, Maithlee's shoulders eased. Just slightly. The kind of small movement you'd miss if you weren't watching for it.

  I was watching.

  We both knew: for now, we were safe.

  Through it all, Ashva stayed ahead of us. Not far... just enough. Just enough to step between me and Maithlee and whatever might come out of the dark.

  He moved with quiet, deliberate steps. His eyes swept the treeline on both sides, watching the places between trees, the pockets of shadow where something could be waiting. His hand rested near his karambit. Not drawn. Just... ready. Every few steps, he'd pause. Listen. Then move again.

  Doing exactly what needed doing. Making sure that wherever we were heading, nothing got there first.

  The stream announced itself before we saw it. A sound like someone running a thumb along a string: low, rhythmic, endless. The kind of sound that feels older than the forest around it.

  Maithlee paused.

  Her fingers found another pebble, identical to the one from the old cave. Not clutching it this time. Just resting against it, like the pebble was breathing and she was matching its rhythm.

  Listening.

  Knowing.

  She picked it up.

  We had found the place.

  A glance passed between us. The kind that asked and answered at once.

  Maithlee's eyes: this way.

  Mine: clear.

  Ashva held our gaze for one breath, then turned without a word.

  He parted the last curtain of weeping willow fronds and stepped through. We followed.

  And found ourselves in... a cup of earth. Nestled between two sloping hills, where willows stood like quiet sentinels. A slow stream carved a path through its heart, the water barely louder than a whisper.

  It felt like a place the world had forgotten.

  For a handful of days, it would be ours.

  A squirrel dropped from somewhere above and landed inches from her nose with the grace of a falling rock.

  Neira's head snapped up.

  "Weren't those the days, Ashva?" Neira looked at the wounded Ashva and his bone-rattling snores. "One day, I will be biting his nose."

  Around the campfire that night in Bhairav's cave, Neira let out a theatrical sigh, settling her chin on her paws.

  I should not be telling this part, she thought, the words a private mischief. It is all sighs and glances. I am a warrior, not a poet.

  But the memories kept coming anyway.

  Fine. They did look rather different last year.

  [The author takes over for a moment - Neira refuses to describe people. She smells them.]

  This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

  Maithlee, at sixteen, was a story unfolding.

  The sun had tanned her skin to warm gold. Her face was sharp, expressive, with a defined jaw and a chin that came to a subtle point, delicate features that somehow made her intensity land harder. Her eyes, large and almond-shaped, glowed amber-brown, focused and fierce, always looking ahead like she was observing something or already planning defense.

  Her dark hair was pulled into a tight, warrior's braid, practical and clean. But strands still escaped, curling like filaments of sunlight.

  She mostly wore black: a sleeveless tube blouse, with leather wraps spiraling up her forearms. A layered battle saree draped dhoti-style to the knee, studded with metal at the waist. A thin band circled her upper arm. Small earrings caught the light. Nothing that would make unnecessary sound. Nothing that would alert anyone.

  In her hand: a curved blade, wide and polished, built for slashing fast. A couple of karambits hung within easy reach.

  Her stance was wide, grounded, one leg forward, sword arm extended like she'd just finished a strike or was about to begin one.

  Controlled aggression, I think humans call it. I call it Maithlee.

  She carried the scent of the wild forest with her.

  "You definitely recognize that scent," I muttered, low and fond. "Sandalwood and steel."

  Strange how it clung to her, like the forest itself had chosen her. Like she wore it the way others wear armor.

  Enough. Neira shook her head in embarrassment Back to Maithlee.

  Her beauty wasn't ornamental. It was alive. Earned. The kind that comes from hard work and harder choices. Even the fire seemed to hush when she sat near it. I noticed that.

  Ashva, at thirteen, was a sapling hardening into timber. Taller now. His frame medium-built but layered with muscle earned from relentless practice. His hands were rough, fingertips nicked and calloused from blade work. The softness of childhood still lingered at the edges of his jaw, but his eyes were sharper, seeing more, saying less.

  And when he laughed, a rare, true sound that seemed to startle even him, Maithlee's shoulders would unclench, as if she'd been holding a breath she didn't know was trapped.

  [Neira, reclaiming the story with visible reluctance]

  "They started shedding cub-fluff and growing into creatures that made me feel young," Neira mused, not without fondness.

  In the days that followed, the new clearing became a stage for a quiet, unspoken dance.

  It began with the shelter.

  On their second morning, Ashva returned from a scout with an armful of long, straight bamboos. Without a word, he began to sharpen their ends with his knife.

  Maithlee watched him for a long moment, her head tilted.

  "The cave is twenty paces away. It's dry. It's safe."

  Ashva didn't look up from his work.

  "It has a ceiling of stone. You can't hear the rain in there."

  That was all. A simple, quiet truth.

  Maithlee always adored the rain. The way it felt on her face. The way it sounded. The way the forest smelled after, all clean and waiting.

  And Ashva knew.

  Maithlee's expression softened. She joined him, selecting supple vines to use as lashings. Together, in a silence broken only by the scrape of the blade and the rustle of leaves, they built a simple structure: four posts holding up a slanted roof of woven bamboo and dried palm husk.

  It was not a house. It was a promise. A place to sit side by side and listen to the music of the forest on a rainy day.

  Later, Maithlee sat by the stream, a bundle of hemp fibers in her lap. Her fingers, stained green from herbs, worked with a healer's precision, twisting and weaving the strands into a strong, patterned band.

  Ashva walked past, returning from checking his snares. He paused, watching her work.

  "For your wrist," she said, not looking up. "The leather strap on your vambrace is fraying. This will not chafe."

  He knelt beside her, close enough that Neira, watching from the shade, could see the way Maithlee's breathing shallowed. Almost imperceptibly. Almost.

  He held out his arm.

  She tied the band in place, her fingers deft and sure against his skin.

  He didn't thank her with words. He simply ran his thumb over the neat, tight weave, a look of quiet wonder on his face.

  He never took it off.

  Never. Not while bathing. Not while practicing. Not while sleeping. The only time he'd take it off was when he feared it might get dirty.

  Neira opened her eyes and looked at Ashva.

  "It's still around his wrist. Maybe that's what protected him."

  The need for coins, for clothes, for protection, for salt and spices, for the things the forest could not provide, finally drove us to the outskirts of a small trading village a day's travel away.

  "I always waited at the tree line," Neira said, "like a silent white shadow, my golden eyes missing nothing."

  The marketplace was a riot of smells and sounds: spices, sweat, animal dung, the tang of hot metal.

  "It always burned my nose. But I know it was training for me." Neira smirked. "In a sea of strange smells, I had to train myself like a tracker. Learn every odor. Register the ones that never changed. Know friends from foes."

  In the village, Maithlee moved with a purpose that set her apart, her posture straight, her bundle of rare, high-altitude herbs held close. Ashva was her shadow, a half-step behind.

  They found a space near a potter's stall. Maithlee laid out her wares: roots of golden Ashwagandha, sprigs of Brahmi, dried Amla fruits. The quality was exceptional. A small crowd soon gathered.

  But attention is a double-edged sword. From a distance, I noticed the way the men's eyes lingered on Maithlee. Not on her herbs. On the curve of her neck. On the defiant set of her shoulders.

  They saw a wildflower, beautiful and out of place.

  A merchant leaned in too close, his fingers heavy with silver rings, his breath thick with betel quid.

  "A pretty thing like you shouldn't be grubbing in the dirt for roots. Where is your husband?"

  Ashva didn't tense. He didn't glare.

  He simply shifted his weight, a fluid, deliberate motion that placed his body squarely between the merchant and Maithlee. His hands already on the hidden karambit. He wasn't a boy anymore in that moment. He was a barrier.

  He said nothing. His gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond the man's shoulder. But his presence was a clear, unyielding line.

  Maithlee, who had been about to retort, fell silent.

  She looked at the line of Ashva's back. At the new hemp band on his wrist.

  A flush crept up her neck. A complex bloom: annoyance at his protectiveness, and a deeper, more powerful warmth that softened the line of her mouth.

  She concluded her business with cool, professional efficiency, accepting the small pouch of silver and copper coins without another glance at the merchant.

  As they melted back into the tree line, Ashva finally looked at her.

  He said nothing. He didn't need to.

  But his hand, for just a moment, brushed against the hemp band on his wrist. Then he looked away.

  "He was filth."

  "They all are," Maithlee replied, her voice tight.

  But her hand, as she tucked the coin pouch away, trembled slightly.

  They still thought love was something the gods whispered to grown-ups, Neira thought, trotting after them.

  Turns out, the gods had been shouting it at them for years.

  In the present, Neira smiled at the memory, slow and quiet..

  One evening, the sky broke open. Rain fell not in a storm, but in a steady, whispering curtain that turned the world soft and grey.

  They sat together under the shelter they had built, its husk roof drumming a gentle, intimate rhythm. The air was cool and carried the scent of wet earth.

  Maithlee was mending a tear in her tunic, her needle flashing in the dim light of a single oil lamp. She was humming, an old, wandering tune she always returned to when her thoughts were far away.

  Ashva sat opposite her, sharpening his blade. The rhythmic scrape of stone on steel was a counterpoint to her melody.

  He glanced up from his work, his eyes finding her.

  For a long moment, he watched the tiny, distorted reflection of her in the polished metal of his knife. The curve of her neck. The fall of her hair.

  He didn't know why he did it.

  She paused in her sewing, her throat working as she swallowed. A slight, almost imperceptible dryness.

  Setting the blade and whetstone aside, he reached for the water-skin and filled a small, fired-clay cup. He held it out to her.

  Maithlee started, pulled from her reverie. She looked from the cup to his face, her brows knitting in soft confusion.

  "How did you… I was going to get it in a moment."

  "I know."

  His voice was quiet, roughened by the rain-hushed air.

  "I saw you working, not thinking of yourself. And I know you wouldn't ask. So I had to learn."

  Her confusion melted, replaced by a look of flustered amazement. She took the cup, her fingers brushing his. A deep blush spread across her cheeks, and she quickly looked down into the water as if it held some secret.

  She didn't thank him. She didn't need to. The quiet between them was fuller than any conversation.

  The rain in the memory faded, and Neira realized she'd been listening for it. The cave is dry. No rain here. Just the fire, and Ashva's breathing, and the smell of Bhairav's herbs.

  You know... I just remembered. Maithlee still has those flowers. Dried and carefully kept in a small wooden box that she thinks I don't know about.

  Neira was thinking of the cliff flowers.

  A few days before that rainy evening, Maithlee had idly mentioned a cluster of rare, starlike blue blossoms she'd seen clinging to a sheer, dangerous cliff face across the stream. It was just an observation. A piece of the forest's beauty.

  The next morning, Ashva was gone.

  He returned at noon, his tunic torn, his palms and forearms crisscrossed with angry red scratches, clutching a small, perfect bouquet of the celestial blue flowers.

  He said nothing. Simply held them out.

  Maithlee's face lit with a joy so pure and unguarded it was almost painful to see. She took the flowers as if they were made of glass. As if they were the last breath of a dying god.

  Maithlee stood up with the flowers in hand, with a smile. She walked towards the stream, her fingers brushing the petals.

  Well, Ashva… sometimes he just does the most unexpected things, Neira said with a laugh.

  "He was two steps ahead of us! Brought more flowers than he needed, gave Maithlee a whole bouquet, and then..."

  Neira cracked up, nearly choking on her words.

  "He brought another bunch with soil! Said he'd plant them later so he wouldn't have to climb that cliff again!"

  When asked, he said, "I heard about a wise man who poured buttermilk on the roots of a babool sapling."

  He continued, "The man said, 'Just avoiding a problem isn't the solution. A wise man identifies the problem, solves it, and doesn't stop until it's eliminated.'"

  After a deep, thoughtful second: "After climbing the cliff, I thought, why not take some with me? I can grow them. Eliminate the problem."

  He grinned. "Clever, isn't it, Neira?"

  Well, as I said, he does things that make him sound intelligent. Sometimes.

  And then there was the fruit tree.

  It stood at the edge of the clearing, its branches heavy with crimson plums that glowed like drops of sunset. Their scent lingered in the air, sweet and sharp and teasing. Each one hung just beyond reach.

  Maithlee jumped for them, her braid swinging through the light, a determined crease forming between her brows.

  Ashva appeared at the sound of her soft grumble, amusement flickering in his eyes as he, too, tried and failed to reach the fruit.

  For a heartbeat, they looked at each other, sharing that silent spark that needed no words.

  Then a thought lit Ashva's face.

  Without hesitation, he stepped closer, slid his arms under her knees, and lifted her as if she were weightless.

  She gasped, startled. Then laughed, bright and unrestrained, the sound ringing through the clearing like a melody that even the birds paused to hear.

  Balancing in his hold, she reached up, plucking the reddest, ripest plums, letting them tumble into the fold of her tunic she held like a basket.

  For a moment, everything went silent. Only the rustle of leaves and her laughter hung between them, soft and golden and new.

  "That night, all of us had desserts," Neira recalled, a wistful tone coloring her thoughts. "They were sweet. I don't know, maybe too sweet, because they were plucked by two lovers who loved each other yet didn't know it."

  She paused, a quiet amusement in her voice.

  "Sounds like I know more about these things than them."

  The peace, like all fragile things, was not built to last.

  At dawn, as mist curled like phantom snakes along the stream, Neira's nose twitched.

  She padded to the edge of the clearing, her senses sharpening, pushing aside the warm memories. She sniffed the mud where the stream bank softened.

  There.

  Fainter than the first, but unmistakable. A new track. Smaller, more recent. The scent was different. Younger than the first intruder.

  They were being watched. Not by a passing threat, but by a patient, recurring presence.

  But before she could growl a warning, a sound from the shelter broke the morning's hush.

  A soft, wet cough.

  Maithlee stood in its entrance, one hand braced against the bamboo frame for support. Her shoulders trembled with the effort. A fever-flush already painted her cheeks, a false, bright bloom against suddenly pale skin.

  The threat of the outside world narrowed, in an instant, to the unsteadiness of a single breath.

  The quiet fire of their growing love now faced a new wind. One of sickness. And a watcher in the woods, waiting.