Ashes of Dharma

Aarav felt the shift before the terrain changed.

The air grew thin.

Not in oxygen—but in noise. The whispers of the gates, the pressure of divine eyes, even the presence of the chained yogi—they all faded into a long, breathless pause.

Then, the ground rose into mountains of black stone, carved by time and fists. The trail was narrow. Every surface bore scars—not from erosion, but from training. From trial.

And at the pass stood a figure.

Still as sculpture.

Clad in stone-gray robes, barefoot on blades of rock, staff balanced on one shoulder. Her hair was braided with copper thread. Her eyes: silver fire.

The Sentinel of Nisthagarh.

"You carry breath," she said, without introduction.

Aarav bowed slightly. "I walk with it."

The Sentinel nodded. "Then walk through me."

She lowered her staff.

Not as a threat.

As a line.

The duel was not fast.

It was not flashy.

It was flawless.

She moved like shifting tectonics—slow until sudden, powerful without waste. Aarav responded with breath, with flow, with everything the gates had taught him.

But she was not testing his form.

She was testing his root.

One slip.

One breath held too long.

One thought out of sync—and her staff cracked his defense, dropped him to one knee.

But he didn't fall.

He exhaled.

Centered.

And stood again.

After the sixth clash, she stepped back.

Raised one hand.

"You don't fight to win."

"I fight to remember," Aarav said.

She smiled.

"Then remember this—Nisthagarh stands with you."

Behind her, the mountain opened.

And the fourth gate revealed itself.

Not carved.

But earned.