Chapter 17

The air smelled of smoke and blood as Hruaia staggered back toward the village. His arms burned from the weight of the wounded warrior he carried—Zaii, who had taken a musket ball to the shoulder during their retreat. Around them, the surviving villagers moved like shadows through the settling dust of battle, their faces hollow with exhaustion.

They had won.

The British forces had been routed, their numbers shattered against the cliffs. But the victory tasted bitter. Too many familiar faces were missing from the crowd.

Lianchhiari met them at the village edge, her hands already stained with blood from tending the injured. Her eyes flickered to Zaii's wound, then to Hruaia's face. "Bring him inside," she said.

Hruaia followed her to the healer's hut, where the wounded lay in rows. The air was thick with the scent of crushed herbs and the low, pained groans of the injured. He lowered Zaii onto a mat, then stepped back as Lianchhiari began her work.

Zaii gritted his teeth as she probed the wound. "Will I live?" he rasped.

Lianchhiari's fingers moved with practiced precision. "If you stop talking, you might."

Hruaia turned away, his own body aching. He had fought harder than he ever thought possible, but the battle had taken something from him—something he couldn't name.

Outside, the village was quiet. The survivors gathered in small clusters, speaking in hushed tones. Some wept. Others simply stared at the ground, their hands clenched around weapons still slick with blood.

Pu Thanga emerged from the elder's hut, his face grave. He moved slowly through the crowd, pausing to place a hand on shoulders, to murmur words of comfort. When he reached Hruaia, his dark eyes held a weight that made Hruaia's throat tighten.

"You fought well," the elder said.

Hruaia shook his head. "Not well enough."

Pu Thanga studied him. "Victory is never without cost. But because of you, our people still stand."

Hruaia wanted to believe him. But as he looked around at the wounded, the grieving, the empty spaces where friends had once been, he wondered: At what price?

A hand touched his arm. Lianchhiari stood beside him, her expression unreadable. "Come," she said softly. "There is something you must see."

She led him to the edge of the village, where the forest began. The sun was setting, painting the sky in hues of fire. And there, standing at the tree line, was the woman from his visions—the one who had reached for him as he fell.

Her form was clearer now, her features sharp against the fading light. She wore the traditional robes of a Mizo priestess, her hair woven with beads and feathers. And when she spoke, her voice was not a whisper, but clear as the wind through the pines.

"The time has come, Hruaia. You must choose."

Hruaia's breath caught. "Choose what?"

The woman's gaze was piercing. "To stay—or to return."

The words struck him like a blow. He had been so consumed by the fight, he had never stopped to ask: Could he go back?

Lianchhiari's fingers tightened around his wrist. "You don't have to answer yet," she murmured.

But the vision was already fading, dissolving into the twilight.

And Hruaia was left with a question that would shape the rest of his days.