Some scars are carved by blades.
Others are carved by memory.
And the deepest wounds are the ones that never stop waiting.

That night, they camped at the edge of the ruined foothills, where the trees gave way to broken stone and frost-bitten winds from Jayapatha Peak.

It was there that the tension between Bhima and Arjuna finally cracked.

Their voices broke the stillness like thunder.

“You let your emotions cloud your judgment!” Arjuna snapped across the firelight, his brow furrowed, his fists clenched. “You should’ve waited for the scouts. You rushed in blind!”

Bhima rose to his feet, towering, his voice like a war drum. “And you let your caution get people killed, Arjuna! You sat on your hands while people screamed for help! You call it strategy—I call it fear!”

“You think charging in with a blade solves everything?” Arjuna shot back, stepping forward. “You don’t listen. You never did. You act like you’re the only one who’s lost something!”

Bhima’s jaw tightened. “Don’t you dare. Don’t talk to me about loss like you know what it means.”

The fire between them crackled violently, wind catching sparks as the rest of the camp fell silent. Seth instinctively stepped forward, hand on his bow. Friedrich moved between them like a shield, eyes scanning both men. Klara glanced at Star, a subtle nod—Now.

Star stepped forward, calm but commanding. Her voice didn’t shout, but it cut through the tension.

“This isn’t the time,” she said, her eyes meeting both of theirs. “Not here. Not now. We can’t afford to be divided. Not when the Riftwalkers are still out there. Not when people are still counting on us.”

Her words weren’t just discipline—they were a plea. A reminder.

“You both want the same thing,” she added. “You just see different paths to get there. But we don’t have the luxury of choosing sides. We need each other.”

Bhima’s chest heaved. For a heartbeat, he looked ready to keep fighting. But then his gaze drifted to the ground, to the carving of the panther that peeked out from the folds of his pack. His fists loosened.

Arjuna’s shoulders dropped. He turned away, the anger still simmering beneath his skin, but silent now.

The firelight flickered between them.

Later, as the camp settled into uneasy rest, Bhima approached Star quietly, his steps heavy with thought. He held the panther in his calloused hand and extended it to her.

“For your memories,” he said, voice low. “So you remember what we’re fighting for. So you don’t forget the lives behind the ruins.”

Star took it gently. The carving was rough, scarred, but whole.

“I won’t forget,” she whispered.

Their eyes met—not just as comrades, but as two people who had seen too much burn, and still chose to fight.

As the night deepened and the fire dimmed, the resistance curled into their cloaks, their backs to the cold wind. They felt the weight of what they’d lost—but also the strength of what they still had.

Gandharva had burned.

But the fire in their hearts had not gone out.

Not yet.

The morning broke cold and colorless over Jayapatha Peak.

Mist clung to the ridges like ghosts, veiling the scorched horizon where Gandharva once stood. All that remained was a silence too deep for birdsong, too heavy for breath. Between rows of makeshift tents, the survivors stirred—slowly, cautiously—as if afraid to wake the memory of last night’s screams.

Star stood alone at the edge of the cliff, the panther carving in her hand. It was warm now, from her grasp or something older, she couldn’t tell. Below, smoke still trailed upward from distant ruins like prayers that had never been answered.

Behind her, footsteps crunched over frostbitten gravel.

Amara’s voice was soft, but carried weight. “They’ve come.”

Star turned to see her—shoulders squared, jaw set. Not the grieving princess from yesterday. A leader now. A flame reborn in ice.

“What is it?” Star asked.

Amara’s lips pressed into a line. “A messenger. From the capital. The king’s voice—Zepar’s voice—echoes across every region. He’s called us traitors.”

The words hung like ash in the air.

Before Star could speak, a shout echoed across the camp. Then another—urgent, alarmed.

Seth burst out from between the tents, bow slung over one shoulder, breath misting in the cold. “We’ve got movement on the western slope. Armor. Standard of the Black Sun.”

Arjuna was already moving, pushing past them. “Bhima’s camp. We have to—”

“We won’t make it in time,” Amara said, drawing her blade. “Not all of us.”

Star’s mind raced. One army from the king. One of the Riftwalkers. Two camps to defend. One sanctuary full of broken villagers.

Bhima and Arjuna were already gone, running downhill into the storm.

Star turned to Nakula, to Amara, to Klara and Friedrich. Her voice was steady.

“We hold the line here,” she said. “We protect the people. And then… we find out why they’re really coming for us.”

Across the frozen slopes of Jayapatha Peak, unseen eyes watched their campfires flicker in the dark.
And before dawn arrived…
orders were already being given.