“Wow,” said the preta in the bracer as Svetavastra took in Mount Meru’s towering peaks with his mind’s eye.
“My my,” said the cosmic form.
“Majestic, isn’t it?” asked Manu as he looked at Svetavastra.
“It is,” said Svetavastra in awe.
The snow-capped peaks of Mount Meru loomed in the distance, rising like jagged blades from the earth and reaching into the wintry clouds. As they approached, Svetavastra’s eyes strained against the blinding white of the snow, the world narrowing to a harsh, unforgiving landscape. Shyena, the great mythical bird, flapped its powerful wings, cutting through the icy wind with a fierce grace. Every muscle in Svetavastra's body tensed, his fingers clamped tightly around Shyena’s feathers, as he felt the chill sink through his cloak and settle into his bones.
Beside him, Manu rode with a relaxed confidence, his gaze fixed forward, unflinching. He was utterly focused, one hand lightly gripping Shyena’s reins as though he were born to command the creature. Svetavastra stole a glance with his mind's eye at him and marvelled, not for the first time, at the way Manu—a mere human—seemed to wield control over Shyena with such ease. It was as if they were an extension of one another.
As they got nearer to the mountain out of nowhere they were enveloped by a snowstorm. Without warning, the storm thickened, snow flurries transforming into a furious torrent, blurring the world in shades of grey and white. Shyena let out a wild screech, thrown slightly off balance, and Svetavastra felt the mighty bird falter beneath them.
“Don’t use your powers,” said Manu, “it might alert Raktabija to this location.”
Svetavastra’s pulse quickened. How to get through without using either spiritual or cosmic powers? With the storm battering them like an enraged beast, that seemed impossible. He could already feel the magic humming under his skin, ready to surge forth and push back against the relentless onslaught. But he forced himself to hold back, trusting Manu’s judgment.
“Hold tight!” Manu’s voice cut through the roar of the wind. Svetavastra gripped the reins as tightly as he could, his heart pounding as Shyena began to spiral. His stomach dropped as they lost altitude, the ground rushing up beneath them. Manu leaned forward, his body moving in sync with Shyena’s, and with a firm pull on the reins, he righted the bird’s descent, bringing them back into control. Svetavastra let out a shaky breath, silently grateful for Manu’s command over Shyena.
Manu is a reliable ally, thought Svetavastra to himself.
“That was a close call,” commented the preta in the bracer.
“We are safe with Manu,” said the cosmic form.
But then Svetavastra noticed something strange—the snowstorm felt alive. The howling wind carried a strange undertone, like low whispers threading through the storm’s frenzy. Nebulous shapes flickered in his periphery, shifting and coiling through the snow, and he could have sworn he saw faint, fleeting faces within the flurries: eyes, mouths, twisted expressions that vanished as soon as he tried to focus on them. A shiver ran down his spine, and it wasn’t just from the cold.
“This storm… it’s not natural,” Svetavastra muttered, straining to be heard over the raging wind.
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“You’re right,” Manu replied, his voice grave. “This is Yaksha magic. The storm is a sentient illusion meant to safeguard the cardinal relic and hide its cosmic footprint.” His gaze was hard as he surveyed their surroundings.
“What… what do we do?” Svetavastra asked, teeth chattering.
“Treat it like a wild creature,” Manu said, his eyes focused and unwavering. “Align with it. Show it we mean no harm, like calming a wild horse. If we push back, it’ll push harder.”
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Svetavastra closed his eyes. He pictured the storm as an untamed beast, its spirit wild and powerful, but not without reason. In his mind, he approached it carefully, a gentle hand outstretched, showing respect rather than control. He steadied his breathing, trying to project calmness, and whispered softly into the storm, mentally reaching out with a feeling of peace, of understanding.
At first, there was no change. The winds howled like a thousand tortured souls, their icy fingers clawing at Svetavastra's face and tearing at his cloak. Snow lashed against him in relentless waves, each icy particle stinging his skin like a tiny needle, leaving his cheeks raw and numb. The cold seeped into his bones, turning his limbs leaden and his breath to frost. Svetavastra gritted his teeth, the taste of blood and ice on his tongue, as frustration burned in his chest. He could feel the storm's resistance in every gust, every swirl of snow that battered him, as if the very essence of the tempest was defying his will.
But he held firm, forcing his body to stillness even as the storm raged around him. He closed his eyes, shutting out the blinding white, and focused inward. Slowly, deliberately, he exhaled, the warmth of his breath a fleeting comfort against the biting cold. In his mind, he reached out to the storm, not as a conqueror, but as a friend. He thought of the tempest not as an enemy to be vanquished, but as an ally in need of trust, a wild thing that could be soothed with patience and understanding.
He spoke to the storm again, his thoughts a calm, steady pulse amidst the chaos. He pictured the snowstorm as a mighty, untamed horse, its mane whipping in the wind, its hooves thundering against the frozen earth. In his mind's eye, he approached the beast with reverence, his mental touch gentle and reassuring. He let his intentions flow forth, a silent promise of partnership, of respect. The image of his hands, steady and sure, reaching out to the horse's muzzle, offering comfort and connection, filled his thoughts.
Through the howling winds, Svetavastra whispered ancient words of peace, letting them carry on the currents of the storm. The syllables rolled off his tongue like a half-remembered lullaby, their power not in volume, but in the depth of their sincerity. He could taste the magic on his lips, a tingling warmth that contrasted sharply with the biting cold. The storm seemed to shudder around him as if caught off guard by his gentle approach.
Gradually, the wind began to ease. The relentless roar of the storm softened to a low murmur, and the snow flurries slowed, drifting almost lazily around them. Svetavastra opened his eyes. They were in the eye of the storm now, a vast, eerie calm surrounded by swirling walls of snow. He felt an odd sense of connection to the storm’s sentience, as if it acknowledged him, even respected him. A surge of relief mixed with pride filled his chest, and he felt a hint of a smile tug at his lips.
“You did well,” Manu said with a warm smile, giving him a nod. “It listened to you.”
Svetavastra nodded back, still catching his breath. As he looked around, he caught sight of a shadow in the distance—a dark, gaping cave entrance carved into the side of Mount Meru. The path to the relic. He could feel its pull, a faint but undeniable energy emanating from the depths.
But the moment of calm was deceptive. A faint tremor shook the ground, and Svetavastra sensed that the storm, though quelled for now, would not stay silent for long. He exchanged a glance with Manu, who gave him a grim nod.
“We move now,” Manu said. Shyena let out a low, rumbling squawk, as if in agreement, and the two men steered the mythical bird toward the cave’s mouth. As they descended, the walls of snow began to close in behind them, the storm gathering its strength once more. The mountain’s shadow swallowed them as they slipped into the cave, leaving the storm’s fury howling just outside like a predator waiting to strike.