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The trail climbed steeply through wet pine and stone.

Adi’s breath came in sharp pulls as he pushed upward through the mist. The monsoon clouds wrapped the mountain in a gray cocoon. He could see no more than a few hundred feet ahead.

He did not dare slow down.

He had to reach the others.

And he was not alone on the mountain.

He had lost them once already that afternoon.

Near the ruins of the old Golu Dévatā temple outside Almora, he had hidden among fallen stones until dusk swallowed the valley. Bhadramanu had told them this used to be a sacred place, alive with pilgrims and bells and smoke from incense.

Now it was a skeleton of rock and moss.

Adi had waited until the forest noises returned before slipping away.

Just as he reached the trailhead, he heard it.

A twig snapping.

He doubled back silently, circling the sound.

And saw him.

Black clothing. Black turban. Automatic rifle slung across his shoulder.

DAJ.